Undercurrents

by Ridley Pearson

  “I promise you, Abe. This is how we found it.”

  “Good.”

  “One other thing,” Boldt said. “I found something in a burn barrel out back. Can we bag it?”

  “Anything outside the buildings we’re okay on. It’s ‘crossing the threshold’ we’re concerned about,” Abrams explained. “If I can match these shoe prints to the ones at DeHavelin’s, we’ve got a different story. But that’ll have to be done in the shop. Until then we don’t touch anything inside the garage and we don’t kick the house. There’s more than one pair of Rockports in Seattle. That’s the point, Lou. We can’t go kicking a place because some guy wears Rockports.”

  Abrams had his bag open. He placed a piece of white tape along the bottom of a metal ruler. “What’s the case number?” Boldt had Bobbie retrieve her paperwork from the car and give Abrams the number. The man wrote the number on the tape. “I’ll shoot these and blow ’em up one-to-one. Then we’ll compare ’em with the plaster we took from the DeHavelin site.”

  Abrams spent fifteen minutes taking the photographs, after which Boldt led him back to the burn barrel. Abrams dug down below the burned cardboard. “You’re right,” he said. “It might be clothing. But people often use old clothing for rags. Don’t forget that.”

  “But not synthetics, right? They don’t hold the dust.”

  “Right. State lab should be able to tell you what kind of fabrics these were. You’re thinking maybe you found a specific piece of clothing? You’re thinking that shoe impression will match the one we found at DeHavelin’s—not that my opinion’s worth a damn.” Abrams had a habit of putting himself down. His opinion was worth plenty. Many a time his testimony alone had swayed a jury. He started to fill another bag. “Those shoe prints are a different story. We haven’t got much there. No full prints, that is. But we can probably give you a size, and by the lack of definition on the letters—that indicates wear—we may be able to tie them to the ones my people casted at the DeHavelin site. That would be nice, right?”

  Boldt was aware that some detectives in the department occasionally made it clear to Abrams what they needed from I.D., in hopes of expediting their findings. Abrams was on record as being annoyed by such practices. “I want whatever you find. Let’s put it that way.”

  “Good.”

  “And you found prints on the paper plates in the trash?”

  “Yeah, and on the barbecue tongs, too. We dusted the shit out of that cooker and the handles on the glass doors, but they were clean. Maybe too clean, if you hear what I’m saying.”

  He finished bagging the ashes and dug down further. “That’s it. Anything else?”

  “Sooner than later would be nice.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Bobbie was standing by the corner of the building. Boldt hadn’t noticed her. “You want to talk with the boyfriend? He filed the report.”

  “Set it up,” he said to her. As he reached her, he patted her on the back and told her, “Nice work, Detective. You’re right on top of things.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant,” she said.

  “How about calling me Lou?”

  “How ’bout it?” she asked, crossing in front of the car and looking over at him with a grin.

  20

  On Monday morning, Boldt and Gaynes interviewed David Montrose. He was a French-Canadian linguistics expert on loan to the University through some kind of cultural exchange that he explained but Boldt tuned out. His teeth resembled headstones in a poorly maintained graveyard, twisted and leaning and of different heights. Unlike some irregular sets of teeth, his served to enhance his character and give him a kind of swarthy look that worked well with his wild hair and fiercely blue eyes. He had a soothing, hypnotic accent and manner of speaking—he professionally avoided inverting his prepositional phrases and misplacing his modifiers—and Boldt noticed that his young detective couldn’t keep her eyes off him. Boldt distrusted him immediately, for he was far too sure of himself and was well practiced in first-impression performances.

  “It is true. I filled out the report for the police. But please, do not jump to any conclusions,” Montrose looked at Bobbie and glowed. “Our romance was all but over. If I may speak frankly: she is the kind of woman who does not accept rejection well. She has too much money and has had her way for far too long. Mind you, I did not see this at first, but this is exactly the way it is. We had a fight, and so I spent the night alone.”

  “What night was that?” Bobbie interrupted.

  Montrose thought about it. “Friday.”

  “The date?” Boldt asked.

  “Two weeks ago, last Friday.”

  Boldt looked to Bobbie, who said, “September thirtieth.”

  Montrose continued, “However, this was not the first time such a thing had happened, and she would, most often, call the next morning and apologize. Call it intuition. Perhaps it is more the male ego.” He looked over at Boldt. “When I did not hear from her I telephoned and was unable to make a connection. I tried again a few evenings later—that would have been Tuesday, I think—and then drove my automobile to her house and waited for her. Her board-sailing equipment was absent from the garage as was her minivan and so I presumed she had gone sailing, though I must admit this surprised me some.”

  “Why’s that?” Boldt interrupted. Montrose struck him as the kind of man who never stops talking. He was impressed with himself and would be comfortable dominating a conversation for hours. It was fine for a professor of linguistics, but not ideal for police questioning. Boldt was glad they were standing, thinking it might have turned into a filibuster had they been seated.

  Montrose was annoyed by the interruption. “She is something of a fitness fanatic. Yes? Aerobics, weightlifting, this sort of thing. But the board-sailing most of all! This is her love.”

  “You said it surprised you.” Boldt cut him off again and gave him a look that said he meant business. He nodded for the man to continue.

  “She’s had a bad elbow for quite some time. From the board-sailing, I think.”

  “Was she seeing a doctor about it?”

  “Yes. A bone doctor.” He glanced at the ceiling for help. “The term is…”

  “Orthopedics,” Bobbie filled in.

  He smiled, flashing those ragged teeth. “Yes, thank you. I do not know his name.”

  Boldt made a note of it. Montrose had unusually short feet and was wearing black leather Italian shoes. Even so, Boldt asked him if he owned a pair of Rockports. Montrose appeared insulted by the question. He looked himself over. He said, “Please, Lieutenant. Do I look like I would own a pair of Rockports?”

  Boldt then asked him for a brief history of their friendship, and Montrose claimed to have met her while pumping iron at The Body Shop, that they had initially enjoyed a casual relationship together that eventually developed into something more “dynamic,” and that until a few weeks ago he had been seeing her “regularly.”

  Mention of The Body Shop grabbed Boldt’s interest. LaMoia had mentioned health clubs when listing places the victims had frequented prior to their murders. There was no room for coincidence in police work. At least not in Lou Boldt’s opinion. A health club would make as good a place as any to spot a victim.

  Bobbie asked, “What would she have worn windsurfing, and where would she have gone?”

  Montrose grinned and touched the edge of his lip as if a mustache were growing there. Or was he hiding his teeth? “She wears a wetsuit, Miss Gaynes.”

  “What style swimsuit?” she asked.

  “No, I do not think you understand me, Miss Gaynes. A wetsuit. That is all. No swimming suit.” He looked to Boldt and explained, “She likes the way such a suit feels against her… skin. Yes? No suit.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, puzzled by the contradiction.

  “Listen, this is something I should know about. Is it not? For instance, she sometimes works out in one of those plastic suits—nothing underneath. Nothing at all. She likes this ve
ry much. Other things too. Take my word for it. She is very unconventional in most every way. She does these things to be different, to pretend she is not the spoiled rich girl she is. I think she will outgrow these things in time. Some day. Inside of the child there exists a delicate, tender woman waiting to blossom. You have met similar people?”

  “She wouldn’t go windsurfing in a Speedo?”

  He shook his head. “Are you listening?” He looked at them both. “A leotard for working out, certainly. Sailing? Never. Take my word for it. This was one reason for buying the minivan, I think. She would drive over to Lake Washington, park, and change into the wetsuit in the back of the van.”

  “What color was the van?” Boldt asked.

  “Dark blue,” Montrose answered.

  “Why Lake Washington?” Boldt wondered. “Why not the sound?”

  The man shrugged. “I do not think she sails the sound. What exactly is this about, Detective?”

  Boldt didn’t answer. Instead he asked him to further describe the van. Montrose did so in detail, down to the antenna that had been torn off by a vandal. Bobbie took notes. Montrose sounded like a used-car salesman in need of a commission. Boldt’s initial distrust subsided. It wasn’t distrust now so much as dislike. Montrose was full of himself. It didn’t surprise Boldt that a woman would look elsewhere after a few months with him; yet at the same time, he could understand the attraction. Montrose had the frenzied look of a Left Bank artist, that cool soothing accent, and a hard body he packed into designer clothes. He was a Canadian who fancied himself a Continental European. He moved over to the wall, obviously expecting the detectives to follow, tugged open a window, and lit up a nonfilter cigarette. He inhaled so deeply on his first drag that no smoke escaped when he said, “She has a very good tan. She spends a few minutes every day beneath the lights—you know, one of those machines. She bought one for herself, put it in the downstairs workout room.”

  Boldt recalled the lower-level room with the curtains pulled and asked if that was what he was referring to, and it was.

  Was this another opportunity for a voyeur to spot a potential victim? Boldt wondered. Croy with her midnight snack, Norvak with her tanning machine. This pattern of voyeurism seemed to fit the most recent killings. DeHavelin was the exception. She and her roommates had kept their bedroom shades pulled at all times because of a blindingly bright streetlamp, and had no known habits that would have had allowed a voyeur an opportunity to peep. But of course there were always opportunities. In a city, no life was perfectly private.

  Haller Lake was far from Green Lake, yet within the BSU’s three-mile radius. His heart sank, once again reminded of what a huge job it was. There had to be tens of thousands of people in that three-mile radius. Only one was the Cross Killer.

  “You said your relationship was… isn’t working out. Or did I misunderstand?” Bobbie Gaynes asked him.

  “Betsy is a flirt. A tease. All the time I find her at The Body Shop, wearing next to nothing, showing herself off. What am I to do? These places… You see what I mean? Men go there to find the women. Women to find the men. I am afraid I do not appreciate a woman throwing her affections about in such obvious ways. You offer the correct bait, the fish will bite every time. Is it not so?” He pinched the cigarette between his lips and brushed his hands together. “Let her flirt all she wants now,” he said maliciously, the cigarette bobbing, and then he sucked down more of the smoke. “She is nothing to me.”

  The interview continued for another fifteen minutes. Montrose explained that because of her financial independence, Norvak did not work. She was the daughter of a Philadelphian banker and had no family west of Chicago. He provided the detectives with a rough schedule of her typical day, which consisted mostly of windsurfing and workouts at The Body Shop. She had three close friends that he knew well. Bobbie took down their names, assuming Boldt would have her contact them and arrange interviews. Boldt questioned if Norvak would continue to windsurf, given the cool fall weather; but Montrose said the wind was terrific this time of year and that the “sailboarding addicts” sailed whenever the wind was good.

  ***

  “It doesn’t match,” Bobbie said when they were back in the car. The sidewalks were cluttered with the usual variety: young girls trying to look older, tenured professors trying to look younger. For the most part they traveled in pairs and trios, talking furiously and shifting stacks of books from one arm to the other. A double-section bus took the corner in front of them, bending in the middle, moving like an inchworm. The billboard on its side advertised Boldt’s favorite jazz station. He switched on the radio, and turned the volume down. She continued, “If Montrose is right about her wearing nothing underneath the wetsuit, then Jane Doe probably isn’t Betsy Norvak either.” She hesitated. “You want me to start all over with missing-person reports? I swear to God I went through those things carefully, but I’ll try again if you want me to.”

  “I think he was talking through his hat. I don’t think we can go strictly on what he said. We have shoe prints in her garage that may match a Cross Killer site. We have some burned clothing. No car. We keep going on Norvak despite Montrose. You want to go through the files again, that’s fine, probably a good idea. But I want you to check out Jane Doe’s wetsuit also—whether or not it’s a rental.”

  “I thought you weren’t interested in that.” She suppressed a smirk.

  “Don’t start with me,” he said. “I want to find that minivan, too.”

  “You didn’t ask him if he had had a barbecue with her.”

  “No. I thought it better to wait. Abrams lifted a thumbprint from the paper plate.” He paused, giving her a chance to see the connection, then said, “You remember when I handed Montrose my I.D.?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you recall how he took hold of it?”

  She appeared puzzled.

  “He placed his thumb directly on top of the plastic window.”

  “So you have a thumbprint.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I saw you fooling around with that on the way over—wiping it with your handkerchief—and I didn’t get what you were up to.”

  “Now we have something to match against the print on the plates. We don’t even know if the paper plates are significant. We may not have to involve Mr. Montrose at all, depending on what we find.”

  “Are you always this devious?”

  “I don’t consider it devious. It saves I.D. time and it saves Mr. Montrose time, and it saves the taxpayer money. We also don’t have to tell Montrose more than we want to. I prefer to call it efficient.”

  “What about the health club? The Body Shop?” she asked.

  “You think like a detective, Detective. That’s good.”

  “You want me to look into it?”

  “No. I want you to find her minivan. I’ll drop you back at your car and you can try Lake Washington first. Call it in downtown and get her plates. See if it’s been cited or ticketed in the last two weeks. See if it’s been impounded.”

  “Lake Washington? We found her in the sound.”

  “Check the hot spots on Lake Washington first. Windsurfers are cliquish; someone may know her. They may be able to tell you where the good spots on the sound are. Or you could check the stores. Maybe they know her. That would give you a chance to nose around about wetsuit rentals. I don’t care how you do it. Check Alki first if you want. Her van is our top priority, that’s all.”

  “We’re looking for a pile of clothes in the back. Something like that.”

  “When you find it,” he said, trying Daphne’s technique of implying success. “Look, but don’t touch. We’ll want I.D. to go over it.”

  “What’s going on, Lou? Norvak’s not Jane Doe, nothing matches.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on. I want a positive I.D. on Jane Doe. I want to know who she is. That’s where we start. But I’m not giving up on Norvak, not until Abe tells me there’s no connection.”

  “What about
The Body Shop?”

  “I’ll handle that,” he told her.

  21

  Daphne met him by the elevator. She was sitting on a bench in the hallway and she jumped up when she saw him. Her hair was full and lightly curled and her eyes intense. He didn’t need to ask if something was up, because she rushed across the sterile corridor to intercept him. “Lou,” she said, and he realized that somewhere, a week or so ago, she had stopped calling him by his last name. He considered that progress, though he didn’t know toward what. His gut hurt and he resisted his Napoleonic stance as she continued, “He’s here. The Levitt boy. He and his mother.” She was excited, and like everything with Daphne it was contagious. He felt his skin prickle and his stomach turn again, and he had to lay a hand on his belly now because if he didn’t, whatever was crawling around in there was going to bore a hole through and stain his new shirt. “He evidently remembers something about the killer and wants to tell you. John tried to help out…”

  “Kramer?”

  “Yes, Shoswitz pulled him off. The boy is obviously in a fragile condition. I would have questioned him, but it’s you who should see him. You’ve established a bond with him and he wants to speak with you.”

  “How about the mother?”

  “Extremely cooperative. Not at all the person you described. I gave them my office because it was quieter and I have that television, and he has an afternoon show he likes to watch, so that’s what he’s doing.” She checked her watch, and then ran her fingers through her hair nervously. “The show ends in ten minutes. It’s best if you let it finish and then speak with him. You can use my office. I’ll keep the mother busy. Bad, huh?” she asked, noticing his hand on his abdomen. “You really should get that looked at.”

  “Bad doesn’t begin to describe it,” he said.

  They both went back down in the elevator and he got a cup of coffee at the stand at the back of the building—just what his stomach needed—and then returned to the office and sat down at his desk, awaiting the end of the damn television show. Seven minutes had never dragged on so long.