“You’re trying to scare me,” Emily said. “Take a look around at this neighborhood and ask yourself if I scare easily. My age, my looks? Come on! You think he’s targeting me? You think I’m next?” She grinned and laughed. “Where do you get your material, Detective?”
“I’m not a detective,” Daphne clarified, for the sake of the tape recorder running in her pocket.
“But you said-”
“I told you that I’m working on the investigation. That’s true.”
“You told me you were a cop.”
“Also true. Just not a detective. Listen, my role is unimportant here. It’s your role that’s of concern to me. And yes, for all I know, he’s targeting you. We have no idea how he targets his victims, how he rigs the structures, how he gains access.” She hesitated. “Did you ever leave him alone in this room?”
All color drained from Emily’s face. She collected herself well enough not to allow her panic to filter into her voice, but Daphne saw it all over her: the rapid blinking, another attempt at a dry swallow, the twitch in her left eye. She had left the man alone.
Glancing around nervously, Daphne said, “I think it might be to our mutual advantages to work together.”
“You’re messing with me to get at-to get at the boy.” She had almost slipped and spoken his name aloud. Daphne wondered: If she had pushed a little harder would the name have come out? Everything was measured in degrees. She didn’t always guess right.
“Messing with you?” she questioned. “What I’m telling you is that we can’t protect you. That protection stuff works fine in the movies, but not in real life. You think we can afford the manpower to watch your place?” Daphne was hoping to confuse the woman. The truth was mixed: They could afford the surveillance, but witness protection on a local level was nonexistent. Daphne’s role was not to deliver the truth, nor did any regulation explicitly state she was obliged to. Suspects were routinely told falsehoods in order to win confessions; it was one of the techniques of interrogating, tricky at best, and a matter of pride for police entering the Box: The best liar wins. “At best you could hope for the bomb squad to do the two-step through here and try to sniff out any devices. We’d bring someone in like he was a client of yours, in case your place is being watched.”
“Shut up!” Emily threw her head back and forth, her hair whipping the air. “Stop it!”
“But I need the boy for that,” Daphne continued, knowing she had finally gotten through to the woman. “I have to show my sergeant that there’s some currency here, some give-and-take. You must understand that. On some level I know you do. Trust me. Let me work with you and the boy together-no warrants, no arrests. Just a little collaborative effort to put this guy Nick where he belongs.”
Emily’s face showed rage and resentment. Daphne wondered if the woman might strike out at her.
At the same time, Daphne hoped she had cracked the shell, hoped Emily might give her the benefit of the doubt, prayed for a shot at the boy. Child witnesses were among the best. Little kids and old ladies-Daphne knew the statistics. Juries and judges loved them. If the boy had seen something, if Daphne could get it on tape or in a statement, Boldt would be beside himself.
Suddenly, Daphne questioned her own motivations. Was this effort for the betterment of the investigation or to please Boldt? Was she trying to solve a crime or win points? Her belly knotted in pain, and she felt light-headed and weak in the knees.
“You’re lying to me,” said the woman in front of her, a woman as familiar as she was with reading body language. “We can have all the currency you want, but the boy is not in the equation.”
Daphne recovered nicely. “They have electronic sniffers. Have you seen one? A guy comes in here with a briefcase and he leaves, telling you if the place is rigged or not. Five, ten minutes. Peace of mind. Are you a target? I don’t know. I wish I could tell you that you weren’t.” The sniffers were for hydrocarbon accelerants and certain drugs. She’d never heard of one for rocket fuel. She didn’t share this. “Let us help you. Do this my way and it’s completely low-profile. Stonewall and you lose control. You strike me as a woman who wants to maintain control.”
The woman looked confused. Daphne didn’t like that. She anticipated Emily’s reaction before it ever came.
“Get out of here.” Emily stepped to within inches of Daphne’s face, strong and defiant. “You’re here uninvited, and you’re not welcome. I’ll file a complaint against you. Don’t think I wouldn’t.”
“You’re overreacting,” Daphne cautioned. “Take a minute to think about this.” She absolutely hated losing. There was nothing worse. Her job was about wins, about steering people away from some thoughts and toward others.
“Out!” Emily reduced the space farther, closing to where Daphne could feel the warmth of her breath across her face.
“I’m going,” Daphne conceded. She stormed out, more upset with herself than with the psychic.
The outside air was not cold, but it stung her face. She stood on the front steps for a moment, admiring the quirky six-foot metal sculpture of the world that sat on Emily’s front lawn. And then a frightening feeling overcame her: She was being watched. She glanced around-but casually, carefully-and saw no one.
She walked a little more quickly to her car, feeling unsafe and exposed. And as she drove away, a little faster than polite for a quiet neighborhood, she wondered who had been watching. The boy? Or was it the arsonist?
How much to tell Boldt and how much to keep to herself? How much was paranoia, how much real?
And how was she going to feel if and when Emily became the next victim?
30
Another poem. Garman had delivered it downtown while Boldt had been visiting Bear. Both his pager and cellular phone had sounded nearly simultaneously. He drove home to tell Liz in person that it was going to be a long night. He didn’t want to tell her by phone. The claw-foot tub was the first place he checked, placing his large hands against the side wall, searching for evidence of lingering warmth. Stone cold, like his heart. He felt an immediate pang of regret. Trust had been the cornerstone of their renewed attempt at marriage, and here he was, creeping around and feeling up bathtubs.
Together they put the kids to bed, Boldt looking for a chance to tell her he was going to leave her alone. Getting the kids down took longer than he expected. Things rarely went the way he expected. He finally sat down to a reheated dinner at a kitchen table cluttered with several days of mail-bills, mostly.
“You know,” she said, absentmindedly opening a piece of mail, “I was thinking that I might leave Miles with you and take another weekend up at the cabin.” The announcement-for that was what it was, an announcement, not a request-stunned him. She had never been a big fan of the cabin. What had changed? “Maybe this weekend.”
“By yourself?” he blurted out.
“No, with my lover,” she snapped sarcastically. Or was she using sarcasm to hide the truth? Would she, when he finally found out, remind him of this evening when she had mentioned a lover over the dinner table? “I’m whipped, Lou. Burned out. I could use a weekend by myself. I’ll take Sarah, of course. A good book.” She added, “Not away from you, just this.” She motioned around the room. He knew she meant him. She meant Miles, who at three and a half was a handful. Although a good mother-especially, he thought, for a working mother-she reached these tolerance points with Miles; it wasn’t the first time. More important, he thought, trying to see the positive, she trusted him to take good care of their son.
“It’s not the best time,” he answered honestly, aware that he had worked three seven-day weeks in a row. Aware he needed to get back downtown. “This case-”
“Oh, come on,” she complained. “Marina can help you. Besides, you can’t work every weekend. Phil won’t allow that. If he knew the schedule you were pulling he’d throw a fit.” Then she caught on and he winced before she voiced it. “You haven’t filed for the overtime, have you,” she stated incredulously. Liz
ran the household budget-being the banker in the family-and Boldt knew he had serious trouble with this discovery: unpaid time at work was time he could be with the kids, or working on the house, or spending time with her. This could provoke a firestorm.
“It isn’t as simple as that. I’m sort of on loan to the fire department. I’m essentially pulling double duty as it is; managing the squad and working these arsons.”
Her expression remained hard. “If you’re expecting violins, forget it. I need this time, Lou. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. If I could do it without Sarah-if I could express enough milk-I’d leave her with you too, but I can’t right now.”
Boldt went over to the sink to pour himself a glass of filtered water and noticed immediately that the view out the window was remarkably cleaner. He noticed this because cleaning the windows was his responsibility and he had let this duty slip, and it seemed inconceivable that Liz had washed them, which meant she had paid to have them washed, and this in turn helped him to understand her independent and somewhat foul mood: If he slacked off on his jobs around the house, she came in behind him and hired them done, and it annoyed her to no end. He asked, “Is it the windows? Is that it? You got them washed, didn’t you? Listen, I meant to.”
“No, it’s not the windows,” she countered.
“You got them washed,” he objected. He could see that they had been washed-and a good job at that. Professional. He even felt a little envious at how good a job it was.
“It was a mistake,” she said, clearly frustrated at his attempt to steer her away from the issue of the overtime pay. “The point is, if you’re not filing for over-”
“Getting the windows washed was a mistake? I don’t think so. They look great to me.” He hoped he might be able to press this toward humor and deflect her anger, because taken together the two added up to real trouble: He wasn’t charging the department for his overtime, and he wasn’t home enough to do his chores, so the overtime pay wasn’t there to cover the added expense of hiring people to pull his weight.
Speaking in a patronizing, condescending way in which she accented every syllable, she told him, “A mistake. The … wrong … house. I did not hire any window washer. You are the window washer. The guy was off by one street. It was a mistake … on … his … part.”
Boldt smelled a scam. “Did he try and charge you for-”
“No. We cleared it up. He packed up, and he took off. He was perfectly nice about it.” She lightened up a little. “In fact,” she said, “he did a pretty good job.”
“Better than that other guy you’ve got,” he said, meaning himself.
She came out of the chair then and, suppressing a slight grin, approached her husband and threw her arms around his neck and drew them close together. He felt like stealing a glance at his watch, but he didn’t. “Why is it I can’t stay mad at you?”
He felt better than he had in ages. He didn’t want to let go. He clasped his arms around her waist and squeezed tightly, and she got the message and squeezed back, and he could feel her breath beneath his ear, and he put his lips to her ear and said, “I miss you.”
“I need this weekend, Lou. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.” She added, “Please.”
He felt himself nod, although it wasn’t automatic; it was born of great reluctance and trepidation. He felt some fear along with his love, some suspicion, even some anger. He wanted to keep squeezing until the truth came out of her, but Liz took her time. She needed time to think; he understood this. Her return from the cabin would bring with it a request to talk with him alone. He knew this woman well enough to understand that a change was coming-a decision. The baths were part of it: isolation, a time to think; perhaps that was all they were about. He leaned back and looked at her; he thought her darkly handsome and intelligent-looking. She looked a little tired. Troubled. “You okay?” he asked.
She squinted. That meant don’t ask, so he didn’t push it. A pit of concern burned inside him.
“I’ll take Miles,” he conceded.
She hugged him thanks.
“And I’ll get the rest of the windows.”
She kissed him on the lips. “We’ll talk,” she said.
“I know we will.”
“It’s going to be okay.” She attempted to reassure him, but his years with her contradicted this; her tone of voice belied her message. It was not going to be okay, and this realization terrified him. He forced a smile, but he thought she probably saw it was forced. Their moment of peace was passing. They released their hug.
Boldt headed to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of milk.
He heard Miles calling from the nearby room. “Da-a-ddy.” It was not a cry of alarm but of longing-the father could easily discern the difference-and it caused a warm stirring in Boldt’s heart. He stopped at the kitchen doorway and turned toward his wife, the first nibble of concern beginning chew on the inside of his chest. “How old?” he asked.
Liz, who had poured the teakettle full of water and headed for the stove, replied, “What are you talking about?”
“How old?” he repeated, this time more strongly.
“What? Who?”
“The window washer,” Boldt answered, and by then his body had seized on the idea, and it infected him, from the center of his chest outward through his shoulders, groin, and into his limbs. He felt this flood of heat like a sudden fever. “A ladder?” he barked at his wife, passing along his alarm to her, for her head snapped up disapprovingly, and even to his son, whose nearby cry suddenly raised in pitch and severity.
Her hand trembling, she placed the kettle onto the stovetop, attempting to carry on as usual. She knew that tone of his. She detailed for him: “Midtwenties. Early thirties? Thin.”
“His face?”
“He was up the ladder. His face? I don’t know. I was over by the garage. He wore a sweatshirt up over his head. We said about five words. I went inside, and he was gone. Lou?” She reached down to turn the knob on the front of the gas stove. That knob was suddenly all that Boldt could see-it loomed huge in front of him, occupying his vision: a trigger.
“Don’t touch it!” Boldt shouted loudly.
Liz jumped back. Terror filled her face.
Miles cried out, the fright contagious. “Daddy!”
“Don’t touch anything!” he cautioned. “Don’t move, for that matter.”
“Lou?” she pleaded, anxiety dissolving her.
His mind racing, Boldt hurried outside, into a dark and gripping terror. A window washer. A ladder.
It was dark out, and as he ran down the back steps he headed directly to his car and retrieved the police-issue flashlight from the trunk. He hurried around the side of the house, the glaring white light fanning out across the grass and throwing moving shadows in its wake. Boldt glanced up at the kitchen window and saw Liz, wide-eyed with concern, looking directly out at him. Her expression told him not to bring this sort of thing into her home, her life, onto her children. In all his years of service, no physical threat or trouble had found its way across the threshold of his home. There had been phone calls once-even with the number unlisted-but these had been quickly handled. Never this close.
He inspected the grass bib alongside the narrow apron of foundation planting that surrounded the house. He could picture Liz in summer shorts and a scoop-necked T-shirt, toiling over the flower beds. Flooded by such memories, he felt a stopwatch running inside his head. He imagined flames, concave walls sucking the life out of everything within …
The light illuminated two parallel rectangles pressed down into the grass. The evidence-sensitive cop in Boldt prevented him from stepping forward and contaminating the area. He looked carefully for any boot or shoe impressions, cigarette butts, matches, any possible evidence, while his heart was tugging at him to step closer and check those ladder impressions for the telltale chevron pattern left at the two arsons. The two homicides, he reminded himself grimly.
Any grass lawn collected and concealed
evidence. As empty as it appeared under the glare of this light, the area of grass surrounding the ladder impressions was a potential gold mine to evidence technicians. Technically, he should have waited, but instead he stepped forward and trained the light down into the first of the impressions. Recognizing the chevron pattern, he cursed and ran toward the back of the house, Liz staring coldly at him through the freshly cleaned glass of the kitchen window.
“Get the kids!” Boldt ordered frantically, once inside. His imagination created an inescapable inferno at the center of the house, oxygen starved and impatient. He hurried toward their bedroom, where Sarah would be in her crib. “You get Miles,” he shouted. He reached inside the bedroom door for the light switch, but his mind’s eye suddenly enlarged the action to where he saw only a fingertip and the toggle of the switch, and as the two connected and Boldt was about to throw the switch, he caught himself. A trigger!
“Don’t touch anything!” he shouted as a panicked Liz sprinted past him. “Just get him and wait for me.”
He suddenly saw everything as a potential detonation device. Sarah, startled by her father’s voice, began to cry.
Liz stopped at the doorway to their room, held by the sound of her daughter’s crying. “Be gentle,” she said. Boldt turned around in time to see Liz reaching for the light switch.
“No!” he hollered, stopping her. “Touch nothing. Watch for wires. Anything that doesn’t look right.”
“A bomb?” she gasped, suddenly catching on.
“Get Miles, Liz. Quickly. We’ll go out the back door, not the front. We’ve both used the back door, right? So it’s okay. Just hurry.”
When residents panicked, they fled out their front doors regardless of their clothing or appearance-any cop, any ambulance driver, any fireman had experienced the half-naked family standing out on the front lawn, toward the psychological safety net of the neighborhood. But to Boldt, the front door could be the trigger.
Liz scooped up Miles. Boldt snagged his daughter, drawing her into his arms and pressing her warmth and her sweetly perfumed baby skin close to him. He was drenched in a nervous sweat. “Good girl,” he said, as she calmed in his embrace.
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