“You really know how to pick ’em, su-gar.” Broole slapped the file down in front of her and then lit up a cigarette within yards of the sign forbidding the activity. His cliched coif was gelled into a ducktail. “We’ve had this loser in cuffs more times than his tailor. How’d you find him?”
“Library.”
“Ah yes, that font of public knowledge,” he said sarcastically.
“But it didn’t say anything about tattoos,” she said, reminding him of her earlier criteria.
“Yeah? Well this does. Have a look,” he said, leaning over from behind and opening the folder in front of her, using the effort to be physically close to her. Attached to the folder’s inside flap was a series of a half dozen mug shots. Below these were two other photographs, both of tattoos: an eagle on the man’s left forearm; a snake running down his leg to the right of his genitals that had been blacked out with marker. Her heart skipped a beat-they had a physical marking that could be offered as hard evidence-Roger Crowley was the Pied Piper.
Crowley’s various mug shots revealed a man skilled at cosmetics. Light hair, dark hair. Short hair, long. Acned skin, baby face. Warts, scars and wounds. Bright eyes, dull eyes; round eyes, almond. Crowley was all of these people and yet none of them, she realized. The real man behind the crimes lay buried somewhere back on Crowley’s personal time line. Daphne Matthews wanted a shot at that person-the one who remained hidden. She wanted into his mind, inside where others had not been.
As she sought an invention to convince Broole to wiretap Chavalier’s phone lines, Broole revealed his own agenda. “Is this the Pied Piper?” he asked, still leaning over her, his sour cigarette breath warm on her neck. “And before you hand me some discontinued merchandise and try to sell me on the life of its warranty, I beg you to consider the truth carefully because maybe, just maybe, su-gar, I possess something of even greater value to you.” He placed his left hand onto her shoulder and his long fingers dangled down her chest as he sucked on the cigarette from his right. A cold shiver pulsed through her. He quizzed her. “Now, I don’t want to speak it, su-gar, not aloud that is, but thunderstorms produce not only rain and lightning but another meteorological element.”
“Wind? Tornadoes?”
“Not aloud. Aloud is not allowed,” he said, amusing himself. He touched a finger to her lips. She was suddenly very much afraid of him. “But no, not wind, not tornadoes.” He took his finger away. “It is a hybrid of snow and rain, su-gar, this particular meteorological element-kind of rain and ice rolled into one. It is also something you might associate with a particular federal agency involved in law enforcement. It will benefit us both greatly if you do not speak his name aloud, for that will alter my own position greatly and put me in a difficult position where I am forced to take sides. And I don’t believe it would be revealing any secrets to tell you I would much prefer to be on your side.”
“Frozen rain,” she said, repeating what he had said.
“Precisement!”
Hail, she thought. Hale. Special Agent. “I’m with you,” she said.
“Which is more than any man could ever ask,” he said, maintaining the intimacy and stroking her collarbone. “Let me repeat,” he said, sparing no contact. “Is this the one you all are calling the Pied Piper?”
“He’s a suspect,” she conceded, wondering how much to give, how much to keep.
“And the connection to New Orleans, other than his past?”
“His past is what brought us here,” she told him. It was not an outright lie; the use of the 911 con had in part led them to Crowley.
“The connection, su-gar? Don’t play with me.” He sucked on the cigarette. Some ash brushed her arm as it tumbled to the floor.
“An attorney named Chevalier. We need a wiretap. We need to stay a step ahead of our federal friends.”
“Is the collar so all-important?”
“You like the Feds, you work with them,” she offered. “We need his office, his cell phone, and any pay phones for several blocks. My job is to win your cooperation.”
His fingers danced lower on her chest. “And what is it exactly that I get in return? Hmm? From you, I mean? What would such a favor be worth? I’ll need a warrant, su-gar. I’ll need a real good lie to convince a judge to give me one. What would all that be worth, do you think?”
“The lives of two little girls,” she answered bluntly. “If the Feds beat us to the suspect, we lose at least one of the girls.”
“And I’m all tears, you understand,” Broole said, “but it’s that night sky I’m thinking about. Some good company.”
“We could try for the attorney’s phone records without you,” she said, “but we’re a little out of our jurisdiction.”
“Maybe you aren’t listening.”
“Dinner tonight?” she said, weighing Sarah in the balance.
Broole picked up the phone and made two calls, Daphne listening in. He found his way to a woman named Emily who was either a past girlfriend or a blood relation. There was a brief discussion. When he hung up from the second call he said, “Phone records for office phone, home phone, fax line and cellular. They’ll be through on the fax in a matter of minutes.”
“I shouldn’t have told you what I did,” she admitted, having had time to reconsider.
“Look at it this way, su-gar. If you hadn’t, our meteorological friend would have been a step aheada you.”
“He has already IDed Crowley?” she gasped.
“He looked through our photo albums. He had a list of the state’s former guests with him. What he made of it all, he didn’t say, but he did not leave here in a jovial mood. Even so, I wouldn’t count a man like that out, if I was you. He seems bound and determined to make the most of his resources.”
“We’re not counting him out, no,” she said. The fax of Chevalier’s phone records arrived only minutes later.
CHAPTER 59
The phone records provided by Broole produced immediate results and instantly clarified Vincent Chevalier’s role. They also necessitated Daphne requesting a rain check for her dinner with Broole: She was heading out of town.
Awaiting his flight’s boarding call, Boldt told her for the third time, “I’ll call your cellular at eight o’clock Eastern, your batteries okay?”
She nodded. “You know the drill? Go easy with them, Lou. It’s doubtful they know the extent of what they’re involved in. If they go crying foul to Chevalier-”
“Got it,” he said brusquely, checking the overhead clock. It was her plan, not his. A part of Boldt resented that. But true to form, she had come up with something brilliant.
“There are moments in one’s life that are never forgotten,” she warned. “Weddings, deaths, traffic accidents. The space shuttle blowing up. Kennedy. Lady Di. Your visit to the Brehmers is one of those moments. Mine too, with the Hudsons. This evening their lives change forever. Remember that.”
“All our lives have changed forever,” Boldt reminded stoically. “Every moment-every decision-is one of those moments you’re talking about.”
“They’ll never forget our visits. We are walking into their living rooms and detonating a bomb. Go easy on them.”
“Message received.”
His flight was called. He glanced toward the developing line at the gate, back to the clock and finally to Daphne. They shared an awkward moment, not knowing how to part. They shook hands. Boldt felt right about that.
“Eight o’clock,” he repeated. He walked to the gate carrying only a briefcase.
Amelia and Morgan Hudson owned a sprawling horse farm on the outskirts of Lexington, Kentucky. Surrounded by a whitewashed board fence, acres of manicured bluegrass corrals interconnected like a patchwork quilt. With it too dark to see, Daphne imagined the ill-tempered stallions kicking and bucking, the complacent mare and foal pairs meandering the fence lines. She had been raised on a farm not unlike this one. Her parents lived not two hours away.
Having headed straight to the Hudson reside
nce from the airport, she turned the rental down the long drive, recalling a dozen memories from her childhood.
The enormous brick house ran off in a variety of directions. A white-faced Negro riding a black horse in an English saddle welcomed visitors with an electric lantern held out to the side.
Chevalier’s office and cellular phones carried a series of long distance calls to the Hudson household leading up to the date of the Shotz kidnapping. The day of the kidnapping, three separate calls had been placed. A week later, the calls suddenly stopped. Chevalier never called the couple again. Daphne knew what she would find inside-who she would find, though it did nothing to instill confidence in her. Her assignment was simple confirmation. Boldt had the more difficult task.
She dragged her briefcase heavily toward her. She had lied to the Hudsons three hours earlier in a call from the New Orleans airport. Now she had to reveal that lie and undo others. She double-checked that her weapon, concealed inside her purse, was loaded and working properly. She had no idea what kind of people she faced.
CHAPTER 60
Boldt toyed with LaMoia’s pick gun from the backseat of the rental. The Brehmers’ Houston, Texas, home showed no activity, as it had not for the last hour. Boldt had made a single call to it before leaving New Orleans. A woman’s southern drawl had answered, “This is Cindy.”
“Mrs. Evaston?” Boldt asked.
“This is Mrs. Brehmer speaking,” she corrected.
“Sorry, wrong number.” Boldt hung up. That was all he had needed to justify the trip, but now, from the backseat, he found himself having second thoughts. He was playing a solid hunch based on an attorney’s phone records, but the impatience of the desperate father in him, in constant conflict with the meticulous detective, refused to waste more than another fifteen minutes. He climbed out of the car and headed around the house to find the back door. He had the perfect excuse available to him if someone turned out to be home-the police shield in his coat pocket.
The house was deceptive. It reached back into the lot, framing a lap pool, and with a substantial cottage pressed up against the back fence. A great deal of care had been taken with the landscaping, hiding corners and breaking the structure’s more common lines.
Boldt walked up to the kitchen door and pounded sharply. He didn’t care if neighbors saw him; he had Sarah, Trudy and the others on his mind. He knocked again. No answer.
The security system, visible through the kitchen door, was manufactured by Brinks and was currently armed, a single red LED flashing. Boldt flipped open his cellular and called the house number again to make certain he had called the right home. The phone rang inside a moment later and also went unanswered.
The next call went to LaMoia.
“Yo!”
“It’s me.”
“Nothing here. Chevalier is a workaholic. Ordered a sandwich delivered.”
“I need every four-digit number that could possibly belong to the Brehmers, of 342 Magnolia. Cindy and Brad. Dates of birth. Cell phones. Social Security. Car registrations. Start there. Add anything else you can think of.”
“Hang on, I’m writing this down,” LaMoia said. “Cindy and Brad Brehmer.”
“How long?” Boldt asked.
“Six o’clock in Seattle? I can do this. Fifteen or twenty for the easy stuff: birthdays, cell phones, Social Security. I don’t know about the car registrations. I’ll try the local law. They might help if I press them.”
“Hurry,” Boldt said.
“You on your cellular?”
“Right here,” Boldt said. He disconnected. Boldt never questioned LaMoia’s contacts, his ability to obtain information. Some said it was all the women he had been with. Others claimed he had once held a position in Army Intelligence, something Boldt knew to be untrue. Whatever the case, he would have made a better Intelligence officer than Boldt; he had contacts everywhere and at all levels.
Twenty minutes later Boldt’s cellular vibrated at his side. LaMoia provided him with two Social Security numbers, one cellular phone number, and the vanity plates from two cars: FNDRAZN and BRADH. He also had two other phone numbers for the same address, both unpublished. Boldt took these down as well, believing them to be the office phone and data line-both decent candidates for the home code.
Boldt asked, “How many retries on a Brinks home security system?”
“We’re talking password entry?”
“Right.”
“The system times out is all. User programmed. Ten-second intervals. Default is thirty seconds on most systems.”
“That’s true for Brinks? Do you know that for a fact?”
“Doesn’t matter the make, only the commercial models limit the number of retries as far as I know. Home models use timers.” He asked, “You going inside, Sarge?”
“The last plane out is at ten. I can’t wait around if I’m wrong.”
“And if you’re right?”
“Then Matthews has a flight to book.”
Boldt wrote out the numbers he’d been given as a list on a piece of notepaper. He timed himself, and using his cellular phone’s numeric pad, practiced entering the various combinations of numbers. Within minutes, he determined he could not key in all the numbers provided him. He had to make selections. He reduced both Social Security numbers to their last four digits and he did the same to all the phone numbers. The birthdays were more troublesome, both containing six digits. He divided each into two sets of four digits: 12/24/59 became both 1224 and 2459. Boldt’s edited list amounted to ten sets of four digits. After six practice runs it became clear to Boldt he would be physically unable to enter more than eight sets of numbers in the thirty-second window. He removed the home phone number-too obvious-and the first half of the wife’s birthday, 1224; husbands were not the best at remembering their wife’s birthday.
He started the rental’s engine and left it running so that if he failed inputting the code, he would be in the car and out of there in a matter of seconds: no running lights, no stopping for the stop sign at the end of the short street, just a dark blur. He knew that the alarm signal first passed to the private security firm; then, if and when the security firm failed to reach the residents by phone, it would be handed off to the local police, who could not possibly dispatch a cruiser any sooner than five, and more likely forty, minutes from the time of notice. As long as he didn’t panic, Boldt had little to worry about in the way of being caught. As an added precaution, he donned a pair of disposable crime scene gloves, his transformation to criminal complete.
He stood at the home’s back door for several seconds mentally rehearsing his every movement, well aware that from the moment he keyed the door with LaMoia’s pick gun, the thirty-second timer would be running. He donned his reading glasses, placed the pick gun in the lock, squeezed the trigger and turned. The door unlocked, but he did not open it. His heart sounded in small explosions radiating jolts of anxiety throughout his system.
By opening the door, he would sever his ties with law enforcement, would cross boundaries that separated cop from criminal-the legendary Blue Line. He knew absolutely that such actions inevitably and irrevocably brought one down, and yet he turned the doorknob, pushed open the door and stepped inside. Once committed, forever committed. Sarah was coming home.
The security device immediately sounded a high-pitched warning tone alerting the resident to disarm it. Using his list, Boldt keyed in the first four-digit numeral. The device’s keypad light went dark and the beeping stopped, though only briefly. Then the light came back on and the beeping began anew. INVALID CODE flashed across the small display. Boldt keyed in the next number: INVALID CODE. Ten seconds. Another attempt, thirteen seconds. INVALID CODE. Fifteen seconds. Another: INVALID CODE. Eighteen seconds. The display flashed, the beeping stopped, and the red LED was replaced by one green. Boldt hesitated there, his finger outstretched. The device remained silent. He was inside.
He closed and locked the back door, briefly studying the security device in order
to rearm it quickly, if necessary. Below the number 9 was printed ARM ALL; below the 0, ARM PART. He circled the fifth number on his list. Preparations complete, he began what he intended to be a thorough search in order to determine the Brehmers’ relationship to the New Orleans attorney. It took him all of five minutes to locate the empty nursery down the hall.
CHAPTER 61
Boldt picked up Daphne at the door to baggage claim at 11:15 P.M., Central Time. She carried a hanging bag, a purse and a leather briefcase.
Boldt drove.
“I never want to go through that again,” she said. “I’m not a very good liar.”
“It worked?” he asked.
“They believed me. They bought into it. They trusted me.” She glanced over at him, the oncoming headlights pulsing across her face. “Has it occurred to you that we’ve stooped to being exactly like them, like the Crowleys? You and me. We’re con artists. We lie to people. We cheat them. I threw up during the flight. It wasn’t air sickness.”
Cars cried past in a whine of rubber and engine.
“But they bought it?” he asked, repeating himself. He wanted every detail.
“I walked into their home, flashed my badge too quickly for them to get a look and reintroduced myself as being with Health and Welfare. I visited their child asleep in the nursery. It was Rhonda Shotz.”
Boldt glanced over at her, and back to the highway.
“I inspected the house, including their bedroom, the kitchen, the garage-even the child seat. I played my role.”
“Paperwork?” he asked.
“Chevalier brokers the adoptions. My guess is that the Hudsons have no idea what they’re into. They think they bought off an attorney to move them up a list. I worked the money issue. They were well rehearsed. I was shown a single check made out to one Gloria Afferton in the amount of her medical expenses: nine thousand and change. A second to Chevalier for services rendered: five thousand, the maximum allowed for a private adoption in Kentucky. I suppose the rest was cash or stocks or bonds. Who knows?”
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