Bang! the freight elevator stopped. Daphne briefly quit what she was doing and listened. The sound of the metal grate coming open. It was definitely on this floor!
Furiously, she returned to her task, abandoning making any edges straight, and instead, cramming the paperwork into the box as if it were a trash can. She thought she had them all. She thought that was it. She forced the flimsy top back on, banging all four corners and crushing one.
Footsteps!
There was no time to climb the ladder, to return the box to its proper place. Instead, she shoved it into a vacant spot on the bottom shelf, freed the locked wheels, and ran the ladder down the aisle. She failed to look behind her, to where she had left the Fowler papers she had set aside—on top of a box in the shelves opposite 1985.
A key in the door. No voices … It wasn’t the talkative guard; it was either Taplin or some other Adler employee.
Think!
She negotiated the huge rig around the corner to aisle 2, locked the wheels, and scrambled up the loader’s ladder, yanking the first box onto the platform and opening it, while attempting to contain her frantic breathing. The box was dated 1988. It appeared to be engineering specs and floor plan blueprints. She would have to think of something fast if she were to explain her interest in this.
The door pushed open, grabbing Daphne’s attention.
Boldt stepped inside and shut the door hastily. “We’ve got to hurry,” he said anxiously. “Owen Adler saved our butts. He called downtown in a panic. You evidently tripped a security device. Taplin and Fowler are both on their way over.”
Only then did she take notice of the box with the flashing light behind the door. She hurried over to it, keyed in the same number she had used at the Mansion, and the code took. “Damn it!” she said.
“We’re out of here,” Boldt said.
She understood that determined look of his. As she ran back toward 1985 and the New Leaf files, she said, “You believe me, don’t you?”
Following her, Boldt said, “About Longview being part of this? Yes. And I’d just as soon no one be wise to that except Adler himself. I think we want to contain this thing as much as possible. Let’s get out of here.”
In her excitement she had forgotten about the letters she had set aside, and began searching the box she had stuffed impatiently, missing sight of them entirely.
Boldt rattled the keys attracting her attention. “I’ve got to get these back to Frankie.”
“Frankie?”
“We’re on a first-name basis. He’s big on cop shows. He promised to keep our visit quiet, but only if I got his keys back to him.”
Pop! The elevator could be heard descending.
Boldt snapped his head in that direction. “Let’s go!”
“The lab report!” Daphne said, running down the aisle. “Help me with this.”
“No time,” he objected.
“Help me!” she leaned her weight into the loader and heaved. She glared at him. Together, they wrestled the loader around the corner and raced it down the aisle, the hum of the descending elevator pressing them on.
“I think we should leave it,” Boldt said nervously. “Technically, we should have a warrant.”
“We have Owen’s approval,” she reminded him, scrambling up the ladder to a line of boxes marked NLF-Legal.
“Even so,” Boldt said.
The boxes were alphabetized, and Daphne was forced to make a choice C for Contamination? L for Lawsuit? S for State Health? She chose S-Z, tearing the lid off the box and searching its contents.
The hum of the elevator grew distant. It was nearly down.
“Leave it,” Boldt encouraged.
“No way.” She clicked her index finger along the file tabs, and there it was: State Health. She yanked the entire file, returned the box, and skipped steps coming down the ladder.
The elevator stopped. Its opening grate echoed up the shaft, and pop! it began its ascent.
“Give me the keys,” Daphne demanded of him. She snared them in one quick swipe. “Get this back around the corner and then get out of here. Meet you at the bottom of the stairs.”
Without further explanation Daphne ran out of the room, crossed the hall, pushed through the exit door, and descended the stairs two at a time, determined to keep Taplin from knowing about her search of the files.
This being a three-story building, she had only the one floor—the second—to pass the keys. The elevator opened from either side, and she knew from her ride up that after entering it, the passengers stood facing away from the gate that accessed the room to the Adler archives.
She cracked open the door to the second-floor hallway and peered out. The elevator was just reaching this level. At first she saw the backs of three heads: Frankie, the security guard, Taplin, and Fowler. Now their shoulders. The elevator climbed. Pressed against the wall, she hurried toward them.
The elevator was moving too fast to offer her more than one attempt. She closed the distance. Fifteen feet … Ten … Five …
Their waists. The backs of their legs. The elevator was dead even with the second floor. It continued to climb.
Daphne reached the stationary floor gate, diamonds of accordion steel. By contrast, the elevator’s gate was slanted slats of wood. In order to pass the keys into the elevator, Daphne would have to negotiate both patterns at once. Her plan was to toss them inside and duck out of sight, at which point Frankie could claim he dropped them.
The floor of the elevator ascended past her ankles.
She held the keys, debating when to throw them. Started to, but stopped. Lifted her arm.
Frankie turned and looked right into her eyes. He must have sensed her, for his attention fell immediately to her hand—the keys—and without thinking, she lunged her arm through the steel grate attempting to pass them.
For Daphne, all motion slowed.
“Hell of a rain,” Frankie said to Taplin’s bald spot, taking a step back, his fingers twitching behind him for the outstretched keys. “Give me them!” this hand seemed to say. But as the elevator continued its steady rise, the pass became impossible, and worse, Daphne suddenly realized her arm was in too far: the bottom lip of the elevator could take off her hand at the wrist like a paper cutter.
Taplin’s bald spot moved, as he swung his head to speak to Frankie.
Daphne ducked from sight, her arm high overhead, the steel lip of the elevator heading for her forearm like a butcher’s cleaver. Her watch caught on the diamond steel gate, trapping her hand. Inches to go!
She tossed the keys, jerked her hand hard, and broke her watchband.
The keys splashed to the floor of the elevator.
Daphne flattened onto the floor.
Something thumped softly onto her back. Her watch. Frankie had kicked it out of the elevator while bending to retrieve his keys.
“Man, but I’m clumsy,” she heard Frankie say, his voice rising with the elevator. “Damn near lost these.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Taplin said. “I’ve got my key with me.”
All for nothing! Daphne realized, heading back to the stairs and descending quickly. Boldt had the file, and she was anxious to see what it contained.
When she reached her car she leafed through the file quickly, nervously, eyes alert for the document that had become so familiar to her. Buried in the middle, she found it: the State Health lab report—and by the look of it, this was no copy.
SIXTEEN
The hours passed slowly while they awaited the initial results of the lab tests on the State Health document. The interviews with the Foodland customers dragged out, and those reports Boldt did receive suggested to him that too much time had passed. People simply did not remember much about grocery shopping.
Several calls placed to Sheriff Turner Bramm went unanswered and unreturned, infuriating Boldt. As Boldt’s shift came to an end, replaced by DeAngelo’s squad, there was a good deal of mumbling about what Boldt was really up to. Danielson had cleared a hi
t-and-run and they had leads in a liquor store assault, but it was clear to all from looking at the Book that most of Boldt’s squad was, admittedly or not, detailed to whatever consumed Sergeant Boldt. Danielson was running a one-man show; Lou Boldt, in effect, was running a small task force.
On Friday morning, with the discovery of three hospitalizations in Portland that matched the symptoms of cholera-395, Boldt flew down for an eleven o’clock meeting with the Portland Police Department. At the same time, because the crime had now crossed state lines, the local field office of the FBI was alerted, and two Special Agents attended this meeting. Fortunately for Boldt and the investigation, he knew both agents personally and there was a good deal of mutual respect between them.
In an act of cooperation, the FBI field office deferred to Boldt’s request for advice and assistance but not intervention. For the time being, the Bureau agreed to stay on the sidelines, offering its services but not its leadership. The SPD would continue to run the investigation with the PPD and the FBI as silent partners. The FBI’s Hoover Building lab was made available, and Boldt passed along Daphne’s request that the Bureau’s behavioral psychiatrist, Dr. Richard Clements, contribute to a psychological profile. This was met with enthusiasm.
By four o’clock that Friday afternoon, some of the energy and urgency of the Tin Man investigation had begun to dissipate because of general inactivity and a lack of leads. Shoswitz settled back into his normal routine and left for home with the shift change. Lou Boldt did not.
Once again he telephoned the office first and then the residence of Sasquaw’s sheriff, Turner Bramm. On the sixth ring the man’s wife answered. Boldt had a brief conversation and hung up. He felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him.
Detective John LaMoia entered Boldt’s office cubicle saying, “Narc, narc, anybody home? Feel like a pizza?”
LaMoia, in his late thirties, was a twelve-year SPD veteran, and had spent six years on Boldt’s homicide squad. He stood six feet one with curly brown hair, a mustache, and had a drawn face, high cheekbones, and large brown eyes. He wore pressed blue jeans that carried a heavy crease down the center of both pant legs; he worked out and had a reputation for being a womanizer. Everyone liked LaMoia—from the meter readers to Captain Rankin. He brought humor and sparkle with him, and he effortlessly crossed the line between the uniforms and the detectives.
“Sarge?” LaMoia was one of the more observant detectives.
“He never came home last night,” Boldt mumbled.
“Who’s that?”
Boldt said, “I’ll pull the car around. You call KCP and let them know we’re heading out to Sasquaw. If they’ve got somebody in the area, we may want backup.”
“Backup?” LaMoia asked curiously.
But Boldt did not answer him. He was already off across the fifth floor at an all-out run.
By the time Boldt found the farm, it was dusk. They had become lost twice, and LaMoia had demanded they drive through a McDonald’s. Using the cell phone, Boldt obtained a telephone warrant from deputy prosecuting attorney Michael Striker and district judge Myron Banks, giving him authority to search the premises. His mouth full of hamburger, LaMoia said, “You’re starting to worry me, Sarge.”
Boldt answered, “I’d double-check my piece if I were you.” LaMoia tended to his weapon immediately.
A group of farm buildings spread out below the county road, barely visible in a determined starlight.
LaMoia switched on a flashlight, aimed it directly at Boldt, and said, “You should have eaten something. You look like shit.”
“I sent a local sheriff here to nose around,” Boldt explained. “He hasn’t been seen since.”
LaMoia switched off the light. In the silence they could hear the hum of the overhead power line.
The two hung their shields around their necks on thin black strings, and LaMoia crossed himself, and no one made any jokes. Boldt thought of Miles and that if he never saw him again, there would be no way to explain the reason a cop had kicked in a door in the middle of nowhere; and then he thought of Sheriff Turner Bramm’s wife—the fear he had heard in her voice—and he opened his car door and headed toward the farmhouse.
The two men walked in silence, their city shoes juicy in the mud but neither complaining. They walked to the Powder River gate and LaMoia opened it, quietly closing it again behind them. There were no lights on in the house, though it didn’t mean anything: The driveway showed signs of recent use. A mercury light filled the distance between the house and outbuildings with a garish glare that seemed brighter than Arizona sunshine. With the shades up, there would be plenty of light inside with which to see. They were sitting ducks out here.
Boldt threw a hand signal at LaMoia indicating the dark side of the house, and the detective squatted and slid off into shadow where only the owls could see him. Deafened by the pulsing in his ears, Boldt slowed his advance, buying LaMoia a few needed seconds and forcing himself to think this through once again. A missing sheriff. A deserted farmhouse. His two-year-old son waiting at home. He withdrew the weapon from his holster, engaged the recoil and the safety, and gripped the stock between both hands. A bead of sweat trickled down his chin. His mouth was dry. So maybe Liz was right about a desk job. So what? There was nothing to do about it now. His police vest was in the trunk; he should have thought to put it on.
He walked faster now, his system charged with adrenaline, cutting quickly across the brilliantly lit farmyard and reaching the door to the farmhouse, a building in total disrepair. The white paint was coming off like sunburned skin, the windows were gray with grime, and the brown-bristle welcome mat had disintegrated at the center, leaving a frayed rope-weave underpinning.
Boldt held his breath to allow him to hear the slightest sound, then knocked loudly, paused, and knocked again. The wind blew high in the cedars and the mercury light hummed, sounding like a huge bug. Boldt peered through the gray glass at the inside of a cluttered kitchen. Although clearly well used, this was the back door. He circled the house, locating another door and knowing LaMoia would be keeping him in sight.
He knocked. Waited. Nothing.
A wave of the hand brought LaMoia out of the dark. They checked the ground floor thoroughly, and found it tightly locked up. “We could kick it,” LaMoia suggested. “Not without a damned good reason,” Boldt clarified. “Not outside our jurisdiction.” Boldt turned around and faced the five outbuildings. A series of muddy tire ruts led into the compound, some of them made recently.
“Try them first?” LaMoia inquired.
“Yup,” Boldt said.
They crossed the farmyard to the first building.
LaMoia pushed open a huge steel door that ran on rollers. Boldt switched on the flashlight and scanned the interior. A long, narrow corridor faced them, hundreds of tiny wire cages stacked floor-to-ceiling on either side of the wide aisle. It smelled dusty. There were white, yellow, and brown feathers everywhere. Boldt experienced a similar nausea familiar to some homicide crime scenes. “You feel it?” he hissed hoarsely, his throat dry.
LaMoia nodded gravely. He pulled the door shut again. “Maybe we should call in that backup.”
But they did not. They walked side by side silently through a patch of weeds that invaded Boldt’s socks, prickling him. The air smelled sour and then suddenly sweet. They stopped in front of the second building, a modified Quonset hut.
“You okay?” LaMoia asked.
“No.”
“Open it?”
“Go ahead.”
The door squeaked on its hinges. Boldt painted the inside with the harsh beam of the flashlight. More of the same: hundreds of poultry cages; several rows of high-intensity lights hung from the ceiling.
Studying the coop, LaMoia said, “This must be the laying coop. They use the lights to trick the birds into producing more.”
“Feels kind of like a ghost town,” Boldt said.
“I know what you mean.” They moved on.
By it
s outward appearance, the third structure suggested a different use—a tool shed or equipment barn. As they neared its double-door entrance, Boldt stuck out his arm and blocked LaMoia before he stepped on the disturbance in the mud: activity, boot prints, and a series of tire tracks.
“Pretty recent,” Boldt said, observing their clarity. The summer rains of the past week would have softened the impressions.
They avoided the disturbed area, cutting around the side of the structure, Boldt leading them with the light. He was already thinking ahead to lab crews and photographers, plaster casts of the boot and tire impressions. Go with your instincts, he had told the students in the lecture hall. His own told him that Daphne was right about a connection between Longview Farms and the Adler threats. He had nothing more than a sour spot in his gut and a few unexplained tire tracks upon which to make this bet. But if challenged, he was prepared to bet it all.
There was no entrance on the side, but at the far end they found a locked door and a reinforced glass window that had been spray-painted from the inside. They teamed up, Boldt training the flashlight under the crack in the door and LaMoia searching out irregularities in the hasty paint job, his face pressed to the glass. “To the right. More …,” he directed. “There!” he said. It took several blows with a length of scrap iron to punch a hole in the reinforced glass.
As they stepped inside, Boldt asked, “Do you know that smell?”
“A nose like yours, you oughta be in perfume.”
“Smell it?”
“I do know that smell,” LaMoia admitted. “That’s paint.”
“That’s right.”
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