“Nice job you have.”
“It has its moments.” He returned to his seat. He carried his size casually. His eyes and his voice still held the tenderness of a young boy, but he had the intensity and the intelligence of a top doctor. He was the kind of man Boldt had always thought would make the best possible friend because he was so sincere. He was even-tempered and respected for the quality of his work.
“When do we get to Jane Doe?”
“We’re cleaning her up for the autopsy. Shouldn’t be long.”
“How long had she been in the water?”
“I’d say two weeks, give or take a week. It depends how deep she went, how cold the water was. At least a couple of weeks. It takes sea life a while to strip them down to the bone like that.”
“How would she have sunk with a wetsuit on? That doesn’t seem right.”
“Have to check with someone else on that. I’ve got a buddy I can refer you to. But this is one of the real thin suits. They aren’t as buoyant as some of the others. But I see what you’re chasing, Lou. My guess is that once she became water-heavy she went down. It would have been up to water temperature and currents then. At some point she touched bottom long enough for the crabs to get to her extremities. And to pick up that mud.”
“Can the mud help us?”
“I doubt it,” Dixon said, adding, “It’s possible, I suppose.”
“Can we hold on to some of it?”
“Sure.” Dixon left the office and returned a few minutes later. “Too late for any kind of good sample. She’s washed clean, almost ready for us. But we’ve got the swimsuit, and it’s impregnated with the mud in places. For that kind of thing your best bet is to speak with Byron Rutledge over at the University. He’s been studying the sound for years. Friend of mine. If anybody will know where her body has been, Rutledge will.” After taking some coffee Dixon asked, “So what do you think? Am I wasting your time?”
“I appreciate the tip. Let’s see it out.”
“The lack of flesh on her wrists and ankles would keep us from seeing any bruises from ligatures. All we have is the damage to her throat, and those receipts. Sent them off, by the way. Know more after the autopsy.”
Boldt explained. “If this is his work, then it’s a whole new program. Two weeks ago he does this one and dumps her in the water. A week later he does DeHavelin. In between he does a clean job with Croy. Who knows what we’ll see next? If it isn’t him, then maybe there’s no connection at all.”
“I can hear it coming.”
“What’s that?”
“The copycat. I wouldn’t bet too strongly on that.”
“It’s a possibility, Dixie. What we’re doing here is considering possibilities.”
“I’d like to have her out of here as soon as possible, Lou. We’ve been busy—ten guests last week—and there’s no more room at the inn.”
“How long will you hold her?”
“Ninety days, or until we know who she is and have someplace to send her. We’ll need dental records, if you come up with a likely candidate. Without that, identification won’t be easy. Which brings me to a delicate matter.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s about your Miss Gaynes. Before you arrived at Alki, I had the opportunity to meet her. Don’t misunderstand me, she’s charming, attractive, and obviously quite bright.”
“But…”
“She’s a little overeager, don’t you think? She evidently called in while we were still on our way over here and asked for the cadaver’s exact measurements. Now you and I both know, Lou, that measurements—as close as we can get them—are part of every report. We also know that after two weeks in the soup, we couldn’t give you exact measurements, even if she was in perfect shape, which she isn’t. You know what gases do to a body. We’ll be lucky to even get close. My point is, we’re plenty busy around here without redundant requests from Miss Gaynes. I’d prefer all requests come through you and that you filter whatever you can for us.”
“Agreed.”
“Thanks. I don’t mean to be an old fart on this—”
“No problem.”
“Okay,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “okay, Lou, fine.”
Royce knocked and entered. “She’s all cleaned up, Doc. Should I set her up in room one?”
“Please. We’ll be there in a minute.”
Boldt heard Doc Dixon’s use of “we” and he began to calculate how he could avoid the autopsy. He would never get used to them. He stood, slapped Royce on the arm, and said, “Keep up the good work.” He left the office quickly. Two hours with a faceless corpse he didn’t need.
Especially before lunch.
17
Boldt returned to the woods where Kate DeHavelin’s body had been found. He had too many questions to answer, and the solitude here would help him. How had DeHavelin managed to get away, even briefly, when none of the others apparently had? And why had the killer taped DeHavelin’s mouth shut, yet apparently none of the others?
He spent several minutes trying to figure out what the killer had done after the kill. Had he returned to her house, or had he cut through the woods? If Boldt could determine this, he might be able to reverse the strategy and determine how he had approached the house. At Croy’s, the killer had approached from the backyard, but had gone around front before entering the house—this according to eyewitness Justin Levitt. He had been carrying something. But what? Women’s clothes, including a hat with starched red fibers? Boldt no longer gave much credence to the transvestite theory. Justin Levitt had seen a man in blue jeans, and by the timing of events, how could the killer have had enough time to change his clothes? So he’d been carrying something. A hat? A bonnet?
He could find no additional evidence, other than the one print of the Rockport shoe. Toward the lake, where the earth in the woods was muddy and would have definitely shown footprints, none were to be found. Had the killer come through the dense woods? How had he left the area?
He searched the entire two-block area for tire tracks, hoping to connect the tracks behind Croy’s to this kill, but again found no evidence. He wondered if the van spotted behind Croy’s was as important to this investigation as it seemed to be. How many thousands of vans were there in the greater Seattle area?
Since his discussion with Daphne about the possible motives of a copycat killer, Boldt kept picturing a fellow cop lurking in the background. Looking over his shoulder. Angry. Jealous of him. The idea seemed absurd, but nothing could be completely ruled out. The only person Boldt knew was innocent of the crime was himself.
***
He drove back downtown, his mind still whirring. As he crested the hill on Aurora he saw the city below him. To his left, Interstate 5 was crammed with automobiles. Today he didn’t notice the cheesy plastic signs. He saw instead the dockyards along the canal, the rust-colored hulls of fishing vessels languishing in the black water.
A few minutes later he parked in front of Bear Berensen’s comedy bar, The Big Joke, and went inside. The windows needed cleaning and the sidewalk needed sweeping. A few construction types were eating clam baskets at the bar, drinking beer, and watching a silent music video on the overhead television. Boldt didn’t recognize the bartender. It was like going home and finding a different mother in your kitchen. The bartender, a birdlike woman in her early forties, looked at him curiously. “Bear around?” he asked.
She had a husky voice and a wide, unattractive mouth. He found himself comparing her to Daphne—not Elizabeth—and a pang of guilt twitched somewhere inside him. “In the office,” she tried to say politely.
“Tell him Monk’s here, would you please?”
“Monk? As in Thelonious?”
“As in.”
She shook her head in annoyance and picked up the phone.
Boldt lifted the keyboard cover on the baby grand and lovingly looked down at the ivories as a father looks into the cradle. He heard her mention “Monk,” and heard her hang up the phone, but d
idn’t take his eyes off the keyboard until she said, “Go ahead. One song is all, unless you’re any good.”
“Rusty,” he said into her squinty eyes.
“That your real name?”
“No,” he told her, giving up on conversation. The bench was wobbly and needed attention. The plastic on the low F had been chipped off. High C and high E showed cigarette scars. Inexcusable. He walked his fingers through the opening riff of “Blue Monk” and dropped a chord in with his left hand as a cushion. He closed his eyes, missed a note, and glanced back down at the keys to avoid butchering his attempt any further.
The melody brought back a flood of memories, as melodies often do. He could feel himself in a dozen different bars all at once. He could remember a few faces, and even one wild night with a redhead from somewhere in Nebraska.
The Bear had always been a little loud and a lot funny. He was one of these people who was too bright for his own good, far too sophisticated for Yakima High, and far too unworldly for the rest of the world. He and Boldt had teethed on jazz together and had both come over to college here, seeking fame, fortune, and women. Boldt had started out in agricultural sciences, having worked on plenty of orchards and thinking he had an understanding of farmers’ problems. But his freshman year psych class had gotten him interested in the human mind. This, in turn, had led him into a course on criminal behavior. Then criminal sciences. And then he was hooked.
Bear dropped out of school, enlisting in the Army. Within six months he left for his first and only tour of Vietnam. He stepped on a land mine while sneaking off a trail to take a crap, and blew a piece of his right foot off and took shrapnel in his left arm. They sewed most of his foot back on, but were unable to find two of his toes, so Bear was discharged and mailed a check every month of his life for his disability. He claimed to have gained quite a reputation as a comedian while overseas, though Boldt thought the availability of strong pot had had something to do with that. The last time he saw the Bear, the man was still chain-smoking joints and guffawing at horrible jokes from the back of his club. Still, the Bear had carved out a scene for himself. He had a strong club that the college kids were willing to travel downtown for, and a loyal lunch crowd that helped cover costs. He leaned his weight on the piano and said, “I’ll be damned. If it isn’t Dick Tracy. You’ve been getting more press than a pair of cotton slacks. How’s the witch-hunt going?”
Bear had grown a beard that made him look tired and older. He still had his penetrating brown eyes and black, bushy eyebrows, of course, but his teeth weren’t as white as they had once been, and his eyes remained permanently bloodshot. “Hey, Bear.”
“What brings you by, Monk?”
“I miss the keys,” he said, continuing to play.
“They’ve missed you. We all have. Check with me before you go. I’ll be the guy in the corner with the good buzz on.” Bear nodded and turned away, making a slow limping trip through the bar. He must have signaled the bartender for a milk, because a minute later one appeared on the piano. Boldt played for forty-five minutes, ordered a clam basket, and when it arrived joined Bear at a corner table away from the scene.
“You want your old job back? I could use someone for Happy Hour.”
Boldt found himself toying with the idea for a moment. “Can I take a raincheck?”
“Offer stands.”
They stared at each other for a minute. Boldt went back to the clam basket. “Good fries,” he said.
“Got to change the oil regularly. Tricks of the trade,” Bear said with a touch of self-pity in his voice.
Boldt couldn’t imagine what it would be like to keep this place going, day in and day out. Nights until two or three. Days starting at nine or ten. Employees trying to cheat you. Customers trying to cheat you. Living your life in a place that smelled like stale beer and old cigars, where windows to the outside world were considered an intrusion, and conversation was tedious. No thanks. It made his life look pretty damn good.
That’s what I came here for, he thought. This happens every time.
“How’s your who-done-it going?” Bear wondered.
“Still don’t know who-done-it.”
“Why do they pay you?”
“Because nobody else took the job.”
“Makes sense.”
“We’ve got a crazy on our hands. Likes to tie up women.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“I left Elizabeth,” Boldt told him. It took a moment to register.
“You what?”
Boldt nodded.
“Oh, Christ. That’s a hell of a note.”
“Speaking of notes, your piano needs tuning.”
“Don’t go changing subjects on me. You want to talk about it?”
“The piano or Elizabeth?”
“Don’t turn this into an audition. I’m serious. You want to talk?”
“No.”
“Oh. You came down on account of the good food.”
“Sorry. Not much to talk about. She’s been on my case for months. We lost total track of one another. She’s into money. I don’t know what I’m into. My job, I guess. Finding shooters. She wants to work her way up until she has a house in Broadmoor and a yacht at Shilshole.”
“So what’s wrong with that? A person could have worse dreams.”
“She’s been screwing a guy.”
“Oh.”
“At the Four Seasons, no less.”
“Why not? The guy probably writes it off.” Bear looked over, hoping to get a rise out of his buddy, but realized he had failed. “I used to be funny,” he said.
“So, there you are.”
“And where are you?”
“I’m renting on Interlake—over by Stone Way—behind the Allied Van place. Little two-bedroom house tucked back in behind an overgrown hedge. Porch smells like cat piss. Know anything you can do about that?”
“Burn it down.” Failed again.
Boldt nodded. “I’m in the thirty-five hundred block if you’re in the neighborhood. It’s the only house you can’t see from the road. Look for the jungle. That’s me.”
“Tarzan.”
“Right.”
“Sorry about Liz.”
“Me too.”
“Is it reconcilable?”
“I don’t know. I love her. I must still love her, or I wouldn’t hurt so much. I suppose most anything is reconcilable if you have the desire to make it right. I seem to be lacking in desire at the moment. It’s only been a few days. That could change.”
“Damn right. Go get yourself laid. That’ll make you feel nice and guilty and then you’ll be less angry with her.”
Boldt smiled. “Is that how it works?”
“Damn right.”
“I haven’t been so good in that department lately. Know any remedies?”
“Kathleen Turner always does it for me. Her and the opening credits to the old James Bond flicks with Sean Connery. Naked fluffs swimming around with lights behind them. Rent yourself a couple of movies, and buy some sesame oil, the rest will come naturally. Try your left hand for a change.”
“You’re disgusting sometimes, you know that?”
“What do think pays the bills? Kathleen Turner in Body Heat. I’m telling you, she can wake up the dead in all of us.”
Boldt couldn’t resist chuckling. Bear would remain forever fifteen.
“You own a VCR?”
“No. I mean yes, but not any longer.”
“So rent one. Body Heat, I’m telling you.”
Boldt pulled out his wallet, but Bear stopped him, insisting he put it away. “One set of music equals one clam basket and a milk. We’re even.”
“Is that how you’re paying these days?”
“Happy Hour. Five to seven-thirty. Twenty bucks a set and all the milk you can drink. Keep me in mind.”
Boldt was standing. “I do that anyway, Bear. But I’ll consider the gig.”
Without getting up, Bear reached out and the two shook hands. They
held each other’s hand and then let go. “Good to see you, Monk. Make it more often.”
“Now that I’m single, I’ll probably live here.”
“Make a habit of it.”
On the way to the door Boldt closed the keyboard cover and rubbed the smooth surface of the piano’s finish gently and thoughtfully, pausing briefly. Then he walked out.
18
Boldt phoned the office. Nothing cooking. A moment later he was patched through to Bobbie Gaynes, who asked him to meet her at a pastry shop on Northwest Market in Ballard.
She wore no raincoat today. She was dressed in black tapered slacks and a maroon-and-black—checked shirt with padded shoulders. She carried a big bag of a purse slung heavily over her shoulder and a black sweater over her arm. Her thick blond hair had an intentionally ruffled look about it. She was somehow sensual without that dazzling, synthetic beauty—the kind of woman to have a large appetite, a loud voice, and, judging by her walk, unerring self-confidence. She climbed onto the stool next to Boldt and wiggled to get comfortable.
Boldt felt himself stir. An encouraging sensation.
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