Undercurrents

by Ridley Pearson

  “No kidding?”

  He had the boy now. “It feels better, doesn’t it? You feel better, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think you better apologize to your mother.”

  The kid took off across the schoolyard at a run. He was swallowed up in his mother’s forgiving arms. When Boldt finally reached her, Mrs. Levitt forced an apology through tears, Justin still clinging to her. “Forgive me,” she said.

  Boldt nodded. “Likewise,” he said, and then escorted them to their car.

  13

  Later that day, following a two-hour session with Justin Levitt, armed with the boy’s description of the killer’s approach, Boldt returned to the home of Cheryl Croy and scrutinized the property once more. He stood at the backyard fence wondering how the killer might have approached. If Justin was right, the killer must have vaulted the fence, entered the backyard, and then cut around to the front of Croy’s house. Boldt avoided touching the posts that supported the low chain-link fence—he would have I.D. print them later—and vaulted over. The nearest building was a locked garage. He tried the house, but no one answered. He walked around the house, wondering if the killer could have parked on the street and come down this drive-way. Too risky, he thought. A FOR SALE sign called out from his left. It was planted in the tiny overgrown front-lawn yard of the adjacent house. On the far side of this next house over, he came upon a carport conveniently shielded from view of any neighbors. If you were to cut your lights out on the street as you rounded the corner and pull in here quickly enough, your chances of being spotted were low.

  Although the recent rain had washed any tracks from the sand-and-gravel driveway, the area under the carport held two clear tire impressions. A few feet back from where the tire tracks stopped, Boldt found a single paper match, half-burned and curled at the end. He did not touch it. Leading away from the tracks, headed directly for where Boldt had just come from, were two near-perfect impressions from basketball sneakers, one headed away from where the car had been parked, one returning. He realized he’d been holding his breath only when he exhaled forcibly. Sneakers had been mentioned in the BSU profile. The Cross Killer had been right here.

  When he left the carport Boldt noticed the commotion up the street at the Levitts’, and knew immediately its cause. There had been a leak, and Justin’s story had made the papers. He shook his head in disgust but compelled himself not to enter into their problems just yet. This was more important.

  He placed a phone call from Croy’s and directed his people to park between Seventy-third and Seventy-fourth so the press wouldn’t see them. Twenty-five agonizing minutes later he finally had the charred match in a paper bag on the way to the state lab, and a group taking photographs of the tire tracks and sneaker prints. The exact distance to her house was measured twice. Boldt timed himself both walking normally and walking quickly: no less than two minutes, no more than four.

  Boldt theorized the killer might have waited to put on the latex gloves until inside the house, so he made the print team busy. An hour later the crew lifted a partial palm print from the corner fencepost. There was much celebration among the men for this was their first hard evidence—evidence that could be used in court to link a specific individual to the scene of the crime.

  Boldt purposely avoided the Levitt house. There was nothing he could do there, and in all likelihood he might be put in an embarrassing situation by being asked questions he didn’t want to answer. He had the on-duty officer at headquarters dispatch a patrol team to keep the press from trespassing and tried to reach the Levitts to apologize, but the line was busy—off the hook, he was told.

  Back at the office, he left one of his detectives to begin a search of all citations and parking tickets issued on the night of Croy’s killing, hoping for some good luck. Luck and chance often turned the tide of an investigation.

  Nothing materialized. He ate a turkey sandwich at a deli on Second Avenue and was beginning a cup of coffee when Shoswitz caught up to him. The two men discussed the newly discovered evidence and then Boldt said, “I think we should protect the kid from the press. This is horrible for him.”

  “In a couple of days the press will have forgotten all about him. They can’t milk this for much more than they already have. From what I’ve heard he and the family are sticking to their earlier promise. They aren’t telling anyone anything.”

  “Still—”

  “You’ve done good work, Lou. We’re starting to make some real progress. Finally! And Kramer, too. He worked up a darn good list of institutional releases. None of them appear to fit the profile. But we haven’t given up on that. LaMoia has pieced together a good look at where the victims shopped on the days before their deaths. We know more about these women now than ever. It’s all being fed into the computer. With any luck at all the computer may kick out something we’ve overlooked.”

  Boldt’s pager sounded. He reached down and silenced it. He normally would call in, but being only a few blocks away he decided to go back to the office. He waited for Shoswitz to get a coffee to go—the office coffee this time of night was strong and bitter.

  The two men walked sluggishly, both overtired. They trudged up the hill, crossed the street, and entered the Public Safety building. They rode the elevator in silence. As they entered the offices Shoswitz said, “Use Interrogation. It’ll give you some privacy.”

  Boldt had been so dazed he didn’t understand what the lieutenant was talking about until his eyes changed focus and he saw Elizabeth sitting in a chair by his desk, looking at him angrily. He felt panicked by the sight of her. What a strange sensation—panicked by the sight of his own wife!

  There had been a time when Lou Boldt couldn’t wait to get home and see her. She had always been a strong and handsome woman, and in their early years, while she worked on her masters and he paid his dues as a detective, they had shared a strong, physical attraction to one another. He had made every effort to switch shifts and change schedules in order to find free time to be with her. She had done the same, often studying well past midnight and into the wee hours of the morning in order to accommodate the ill fit of their lifestyles. In those early years of their marriage most of their free time had been spent in bed, or any other convenient place they could find themselves in each other’s arms. Their moments of passion often gave way to a blissful physical fatigue that made for the deepest rest. These “naps” had sustained each of them and the word had become a code to use when they wished to skip out on a social engagement early and get back between the sheets. Elizabeth had been a sensual, attractive woman who demanded and returned an enormous amount of physical love. He recalled the dozens of times she had initiated their lovemaking, keeping the honeymoon alive years into their marriage.

  Then graduation, the bank job, the promotions, and the slow change in her personality. She began to dress up for any occasion, spending thirty to forty minutes in the bathroom each and every morning putting on her face, a face that only hid the true Elizabeth he had grown to care for and to love.

  ***

  The interrogation room smelled of cigarette smoke. Smoking wasn’t allowed in here, but no one ever obeyed the rule. Elizabeth fanned the air and pulled a seat from the bare table, quickly locking her fine legs and tugging her tight skirt. She looked even better now than she had a week earlier when she entered the Four Seasons Hotel wearing her lavender dress and tan raincoat. She had her dark hair pulled back sharply. Her mouth was pouty, with soft kissable lips.

  He noticed her jaw muscles flex and he knew this mood. If they had been at home he would have made up an excuse and left the room for a few minutes to allow her time to cool off.

  How can I feel this way, he wondered, when it’s she who is at fault? Why do I still let her do this to me? Is she feeling as smug as she appears, or is she scared to death, frightened and alone and fearful of me?

  “For a few days I allowed myself to believe you were still at the seminar. I read about Croy in the paper,
wondering if you were still handling the case.” She looked away for effect. “Then I thought maybe you had tried to call and the machine had screwed up. You were out of town—Washington, something like that. Tell me you tried to call, Lou.”

  He was silent.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  He debated a number of different angles, but his mouth beat him to it. “I followed you last Monday. Lunchtime. I’ve been staying at a downtown motel ever since.”

  “On your salary?” She glared at him and then laughed, though it was forced and sad. “It would help if I knew what you were talking about,” she said.

  “The Four Seasons.”

  “That?” He could see her mind whirring—could almost hear it. “That was a business meeting! Is that all? You think… Oh, God, Lou, grow up! You think I’m sleeping with someone on my lunch hours? You think this is ‘Dallas’ or something? You’re just jealous. You never have understood my career, have you? Business meetings take place in hotels all the time, for your information.”

  He crossed his arms, sighed, and stared at her, obviously waiting. If she hadn’t looked so absolutely stunning he might not have been so mad, but he was jealous—she was absolutely right. He hated it when she was right. She spread her hand out on the table and he noticed her gold watch and the ring she wore in place of the one he had given her a long time ago.

  “Is that all?” she tried again.

  “Yes. That’s all,” he echoed, altering the meaning with his tone of voice.

  She winced and her eyes became glassy. “I don’t believe you!”

  “Try.”

  Elizabeth forced another laugh and pried inquisitively with her eyes. “You thought I was sleeping with someone?”

  “I didn’t think you were sleeping with someone,” he corrected. “I assumed you were fucking the guy. I know you were fucking that guy. I’ve lived with you for ten years, babe. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how you look after an orgasm. Granted, I’ve failed you in that department lately. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. But I am. Surprised, hurt, and even humiliated. I want to blame it entirely on you, but I suppose I’m responsible too. I didn’t fully understand that until I saw you tonight. I wanted to hate you. For the last week I’ve tried really hard to hate you, but I can’t. I feel sorry for you, I think. And for me.”

  Her face tightened. “You want it over, don’t you? Jesus.” She rose and began to pace, touching the edges of her eyes with her index finger.

  Was she crying, or just pretending? Her accusation stung him. He hadn’t considered this possibility, but the more he did, the more he knew she might be right. “I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

  “No, I didn’t think you had.”

  The interrogation room, he thought. Here I am in the interrogation room doing a melodramatic imitation of what I’m usually very good at. You know how to make me impotent in everything, babe. “How many have there been?”

  “Oh, really!”

  “Well?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Let me put it another way: Do you love him?”

  She glared. She started to speak but stopped herself.

  A few years ago she would have spoken her mind, not considered the repercussions. He liked the old her. He loved the old her. But she had changed. Or had he?

  “You don’t get it, do you?” she asked. “I messed up. I see that now, okay? I messed up. But do we let it wreck everything?”

  “What is there left to wreck?”

  “It’s children, isn’t it? That’s not my fault. You had your chance!”

  “That’s part of it, I admit. But it isn’t any one thing, Elizabeth. It’s the whole mess we’ve made of it. When I saw that glow on your face something snapped. That was something dear to me. I couldn’t go home after that.”

  “Oh, Christ. You make it sound so permanent.” She was crying now. Real tears.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It feels permanent to me. I don’t know you.”

  She crossed her arms tightly and tucked her chin in, spinning away from him.

  Her shoulders shook and he felt tempted to comfort her. It had been a long time since he had held her. “Maybe we can work it out,” he offered.

  “I don’t hear that in your voice.”

  “Right now is not a good time for me. This isn’t the best time.”

  “Terrific, Lou. Really great,” she snapped. “Let me know when it’s convenient.” She snatched up her purse and hurried from the room.

  Boldt drummed his fingers on the desk imagining himself at a piano. Up until now he hadn’t fully faced what a separation or a divorce—is that where they were headed?—would mean to him. He tried to stop thinking about it. Now wasn’t the time. Right now he needed an escape.

  He found temporary escape in the washroom, where he spent five minutes splashing cold water on his face, talking to himself, and looking at himself in the mirror. He reviewed their discussion, reflecting on how he might have approached it differently, much as he often used hindsight to review a case. His heart was still pounding, and that ache lingered. He still had a great deal to work out.

  He reached his desk and placed a call to Carl Berensen. The Bear was one of the only reminders of Yakima here. He and Boldt had been high-school buddies together. Bear had started a comedy club nearly fifteen years ago. It had grown in popularity and had expanded twice since then, once in ’74 and again in ’81 after Bear’s mother died and left him some money. But the bar still had the same cigarette-scarred, Yamaha baby grand in the corner, from which Bear occasionally entertained customers. It was the only piano available Boldt could think of, except for the ones over at the University, and they weren’t accessible this time of night.

  As he picked up his phone to dial Berensen, another line rang. He punched a button and said, “Yeah?”

  “Sergeant Boldt, please.”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Bill Yates calling back about your Neighborhood Watch inquiry.”

  Boldt had placed an earlier call to the leader of the community patrol program in the upper Green Lake area, inquiring about the night of Croy’s murder. “Oh, yes, Mr. Yates. Any luck?”

  “I think we may have something for you. Ned Farley remembers seeing a yellow van at the Fairmont home. It’s up for sale, so real-estate people are always in and out, and the guys have gotten kind of lazy about writing anything down, but Ned swears he remembers seeing a yellow van that night. I just got off the phone with the man who owns the real-estate company and he says none of his people owns a yellow van. Sorry it took so long, but I had trouble reaching him. He volunteers his Monday nights to the Boy Scouts. That do you any good?”

  “Lots of good. Did your people see anyone?”

  “Not a soul.”

  “Nothing unusual?”

  “Nothing. I have a hunch Ned wouldn’t have seen it at all, except you got lucky. The Fairmont house, being empty and all, is on what we call our hot list. Vacant houses, people who are on vacation, anyone with recent trouble—they all go on our hot list and we try to pay particular attention to them. That’s all I’ve got. No plates. Sorry about that. Ned should have written down the plates. That’s part of his duty as shotgun rider.”

  “Time of day?”

  “Oh yeah, got that too. Ned’s sure it was before ten because they were listening to the Mariners game on the radio, and the game ended just after ten.”

  “Before ten. Got it. And what time did his patrol start, just so I can put a time on the other end of this?”

  “Evening patrol begins at eight and runs until eleven. But they start in the Seventy block and work their way up to Eighty-five. A patrol consists of two full passes, and it must have been on the second pass because it was nearing the end of their shift, so that would make it what, around nine-thirty? Say, that’s a little closer than we had it, isn’t it?”

  Boldt took down Ned Farley’s phone number, and thanked Yates for calling back. It wasn�
�t the first time a simple nudge to a person’s reasoning powers had netted results. People were often amazed at what they could remember or deduce when given the chance. Encouraging a person to remember only made him forget all the quicker.

  He phoned Ned Farley and pried him away from the National League playoff game that ran loudly in the background. The man offered no more than what Yates had relayed to Boldt: yellow van under the carport; he hadn’t written down the plates.

  “Were the lights on in the house?” Boldt asked. He waited through a long pause as Ned Farley thought about it.

  The man finally said, “I’d like to tell you one way or the other, Mr. Boldt, but the fact of the matter is, I just don’t remember. The van being there didn’t strike me as odd at the time. I just plain didn’t pay much attention.”

  Boldt left him his direct number—in case he remembered anything—and hung up. So close… he thought.

  He was dialing his friend Berensen when Shoswitz called him into his office area. Boldt’s mood was still sour. Like his stomach. He passed on the information Yates had given him and the lieutenant agreed to make note of it at tomorrow’s roll call. Shoswitz said, “Take a day off tomorrow. I think you could use it, and God knows you deserve it.”

  “No thanks. I’ll be in at seven. I’m scheduled for seven.”

  “You need the rest, Lou. You’re the only one who doesn’t seem to realize it.”

  “Too much breaking too quick. A day off would only frustrate me.”

  “How’s Elizabeth?”

  Boldt shrugged.

  “Problems?” He awaited an answer and then said, “I’m gonna be honest with you.”

  “Good. I could use a little honesty.”

  “We talked about your appearance the other day. And I don’t see a whole hell of a lot of improvement. You don’t look so good, Lou. In fact, you look sick. You’re working too hard. If that’s why Elizabeth—”

  “It’s not.”

  “I know this case has been hard on all of us—especially you—and it’s not likely to get much easier. We’re public servants, Lou. I’m not going to harp on that, but you get my message. I appreciate the long hours, the extra effort you’ve been giving this. I checked your card. I know you aren’t applying for half the overtime you’ve worked. I thought you were trying to hold down the costs at first, but then I realized it wasn’t for that reason. You’re filling out your cards that way so you won’t be caught turning in seven eighteen-hour days in a row. I don’t need a basket case, right? I need you to be thinking clearly. You’re my starter, Lou, and I don’t have much in the bull pen.”