“Point taken.” He hesitated. “Do I want to know what that skirmish was all about?”
“Do you?”
“I think I do.”
“He was listening in again. He overheard me say the kid had seen our boy’s face and he broadcast it to half the floor.” Boldt thought twice and then said, “He’s a liability, Phil. I don’t trust him.”
“He’s well organized and he’s good at paperwork. You and I suck in that department. When was the last time you filled out a proper report? I pinch-hit for you all the time with records. He’s good at what he does. We need him.”
“He’s jealous of the fieldwork. He tries to involve himself in places he shouldn’t. A secretary can handle the paperwork. LaMoia’s twice the detective he is. If his father hadn’t been—”
“Enough!” Shoswitz interrupted. “We’re not breaking any new ground here.”
“That’s just the point, isn’t it?” He turned and left the man’s office.
22
The young lab technician wore wire-rim glasses and a white coat. He spoke in a low voice and kept his eyes trained intensely on Boldt. “We used the same procedure with these receipts that is used on valuable paperwork that has suffered water damage resulting from fighting a fire. The technique is to freeze-dry them, which removes all the moisture. We aren’t equipped for that here, which is why this took awhile. Had to contract it out to an independent in San Francisco.”
He led Boldt over to the counter where the two receipts were sealed between thick, clear plastic. “This particular paper—recycled—is air-sensitive following this procedure, so they’ve been hermetically sealed for protection.”
“What are they?”
“We ran them through the mill, Detective. The paper of this one is recycled by Westvaco here in Washington. This stock is used as a carbonless insert in retail receipts. Unfortunately, the chemicals embedded in the carbonless paper are somewhat self-destructive, and in this case the ink has been nearly lost completely. We were able to pull a printed invoice number from the upper right-hand corner”—he pointed to a blank corner—“and the name of the company from here,” he said, drawing an imaginary circle around another equally blank area. “The invoice is 1786 dash 45 and the company is Speedy Bee Dry Clean over on Fourth Ave. All the pertinent information is on here,” he said, handing Boldt a typed piece of paper. “We lost any chance at a name or items cleaned, I’m afraid, because of the ink, but, as you can see, we picked up the first half of the date: July seventh. No year. Got that from reading impressions.”
He pointed to the second piece of enclosed paper. It was torn and damaged. “This did not fare nearly as well. It’s a cheaper grade of paper, from somewhere in South America—we can’t be sure which country, but we know from its composition that it’s foreign stock—also packaged and sold as multiple receipts. Despite the apparent damage, we actually had better luck here, because the paper, though cheaper, is not embedded with inks. We don’t know the store—but it’s clearly not the same one. We lost the upper third of the receipt in the drying process. That’s a fairly common problem. So we don’t have a date or name for you, but we do have the item, a blouse, and a cost and tax.” He pointed to the piece of paper Boldt was holding. “The blouse cost a dollar seventy-five to clean and press, two dollars apiece for repairing two buttonholes. I know it isn’t much, but this quality paper just doesn’t hold up in saltwater. We were lucky to get anything.”
“Have we exhausted all our possibilities?”
“I’m afraid so. What you have there is as much as these things are going to tell us.”
Boldt thanked the man and requested that the receipts and reports be sent to the evidence room downtown, as always. He proceeded directly to Speedy Bee Dry Cleaning.
***
The man behind the counter was Vietnamese and spoke good English. It took him ten minutes to locate the store’s copy of the receipt. The name on the invoice read Johnson. No address. The only item listed was a cotton sweater.
“What’s this ‘two’ for? Two dollars?” Boldt asked.
The small man turned the receipt around so he could read it. He looked up at Boldt. “Two stains,” he said.
“What kind of stains? Any way to know?”
The man pursed his lips and shook his head.
Boldt took the receipt as evidence with no complaints from the man.
For the hell of it he stopped at a pay phone before getting back in his car and leafed through the white pages. The listings for Johnson were a mile long. He slapped the big book shut and left it swinging below the phone.
23
The Body Shop had once been an icehouse, used to supply commercial fishing boats with block ice for refrigeration at sea. In the early forties it had been duplexed, one half converted into a ballet studio, the other half into a furniture showroom. Now it was a three-story brick building with recently added Jeffersonian windows overlooking the harbor. The staircase leading to the desk was oak with a sturdy brass rail, Boston ferns overhead dangling their branches like green tentacles. Lionel Richie was pounding out “All Night Long” through small stereo speakers. A foxy woman wearing a turquoise Lycra body suit passed Boldt and smiled. The suit clung to her so tightly she might as well have been naked. Boldt stopped on the stairway stunned, and watched her ass shift back and forth as she continued down.
The woman at the desk had frosted blond hair, a drawn face, and a jutting chin. She wore a gymnasium-gray T-shirt torn above her navel, Body Shop silk-screened across small breasts. Her abdomen was a mahogany brown, flat and hard, and she wore pink, snugly fitting French-cut shorts that rode very high on her flank. “Hi, guy,” she said in a slightly squeaky voice, straightening her already rigid posture so that her gray T-shirt nearly lifted off her.
“I’m considering membership,” he explained. “I wondered if I might have a look around?”
“Sure!” she beamed. “I’d take you on a tour but Jan’s sick with the flu and I’m stuck here alone at the moment.” She looked at the wall clock. “It’s almost six-thirty. I can show you around at seven, or you’re welcome to just wander, or, if you’d like to work out you can pay a small visitor’s fee and have full use of the facilities.”
“I’ll just look… look around, I think.”
“Sure thing.” She pointed, explaining that the lap pool and tanning salon were downstairs along with four Jacuzzis: men and women’s privates, and two coeds. This floor boasted three Nautilus rooms, one with a complete video setup—“all the latest stuff”—and a health bar. He was told he would find two aerobics rooms, personal trainer offices, a masseuse, and administration on the third floor. She handed him a brochure. “Everyone’s real friendly. If you have any questions just ask.”
He inquired about a rate schedule and she apologized, explaining that as a matter of policy, rate schedules were only made available after a tour.
A moment later Boldt saw why. He started out on the third floor where an aerobics class was underway. He could hear the thumping rock music through the glass and there were no speakers broadcasting Lionel in the halls up here, thank God. Nothing irritated him quite as much as the sound of two pieces of music playing simultaneously—except maybe cocktail parties, where ten people spoke at once. The thought of cocktail parties reminded him of Elizabeth, as everything seemed to these days. As her career had progressed, so had the necessity to attend cocktail parties. Boldt had avoided these affairs at every turn, often using his work as an excuse. No wonder she hated his work: it was always his most handy excuse. With each passing day he was feeling more responsible for the failure of their relationship. It takes two to tangle. A few days earlier it had seemed so blatantly her fault—she was screwing another man, for Christ’s sake. But more recently he had begun to see things in terms of motivation—people do things for a reason—psychotics kill because they hear voices; psychopaths kill because they enjoy it; a wife finds a lover because she’s lost one at home.
The sigh
t of the aerobics class brought her to mind. In the early years of their marriage Elizabeth spent her mornings, seven days a week, working out to a television fitness show. Looking back on it, he realized how rough he had been on her, often not calling home at all, leaving her waiting for hours on end without word. In his particular occupation, lack of communication often meant trouble. Officer down—words they both feared. She had doted on Boldt like a worried mother, bending to the demands of his schedule, rarely complaining.
She was an intelligent, attractive, considerate, loving woman. All she had ever asked from him was a normal life—a home, maybe a family. But she had married into an abnormal life, a policeman’s life. When he denied her these wishes, by virtually living at the office, she had eventually sought out a new life as a career woman. It all seemed much clearer now that they were apart. He had resisted any change in her, not overtly, but certainly subconsciously. He had grown accustomed to her waiting at home for him, focusing her world around him, as he focused his around the department. He took her growing interest in her career as a lack of interest in him. A threat. He sniped at her and cut her down in subtle ways, attempting to retain the control of her he had once had. He began to see another woman in her, and yet he wondered now if that woman had been real or simply a woman he had wanted to see. Had he only imagined the change in her?
These realizations came painfully to him. He could not put out of his mind the image of her flushed neck as she left the Four Seasons. Nor the various images of how that flush had gotten there. He knew only too well what she was like in bed—enthusiastic, hungry, eager. The controlled, demure housewife was someone, something, altogether different in the throes of her own pleasure. She threw herself into sex with a kind of limitless, wonderful abandon that he had always treasured as his own. Eager to find satisfaction, desperate for completion. And now she had shared it with another man, and he hated her for it. Absolutely hated her.
The thirty men and women who comprised the aerobics class were pumping, flexing, running, and leaping in unison to the sensual, thumping beat of the music. Boldt moved away from the window.
The other workout room was empty. He reached administration but the door was locked and business hours were posted as ten to five, Monday through Saturday.
The main floor’s three rooms were filled with weightlifting equipment, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, indoor-outdoor carpet, and the bittersweet smell of physical activity. Grunting seemed to be an acceptable, if not desirable attribute, as did grimacing. No modesty here.
He had heard a lot of jokes about athletic clubs but had never bothered to visit one. Now he knew why. These kinds of body positions were meant for the privacy of one’s home, or at the very least, in the sole company of one’s own sex. It was too much for a bachelor. On a bench, not ten feet away, a frighteningly beautiful black woman was lying on her back, holding on to handlebars above her head and humping the air with severe pelvic thrusts, legs spread wide, feet flat on the floor. Boldt caught himself staring and moved on to the next room.
He caught sight of a hand waving at him. Mike Sharff, one of Doctor Dixon’s autopsy assistants, motioned for him to come inside and join him. Sharff was balding and a few pounds heavy. He blinked a lot. Boldt weaved his way through the undulating bodies. Several women smiled at him, mid-flex. Boldt smiled back. He felt overdressed and out of place.
“What brings you here, Sergeant?” Sharff asked, his T-shirt soaked at the armpits. “Never seen you around before.”
“A case, actually.”
“No kidding?” Sharff pulled Boldt away from the lifting machine, allowing a heavyset man to take his place. They stood near a mirror, and Boldt could see all the reversed action over Sharff’s shoulder.
“Mike, would you spot for me, please?” A petite woman in a burgundy leotard had sneaked up behind them. “I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly connecting Boldt with Sharff.
“No problem,” insisted Sharff, introducing her to Boldt. Tina, he explained, was one of five people from the ME’s office who belonged to The Body Shop. She lay down between them—it was disconcerting to Boldt—and Sharff kept his hands ready to catch the weight bar she was pressing. Sharff explained that as a promo effort, the club had offered offices group plans for five or more, and the ME’s office had signed up. “A bunch of your guys and gals work out here too,” he added. Boldt had wondered why the name had seemed familiar, and now he vaguely remembered a flyer crossing his desk last summer, and told Sharff so.
“Do either of you know a woman named Betsy Norvak?” Boldt asked. “Five-foot-ten, blond hair?”
Sharff shook his head, “‘Betsy’ doesn’t ring any bells with me.” He glanced down at Tina’s sweating face. “How about you?”
She paused and looked up into Boldt’s eyes. It seemed to him the only time he looked down into a woman’s eyes like this was when he was making love with Elizabeth, and the effect was both disarming and unsettling. Tina explained, “You don’t hear a lot of last names around here, but I know a Betsy from aerobics. You know, Mike, she’s the one with the curly hair who wears the plastic jumpsuits.”
“That’s her,” Boldt said, remembering his conversation with Montrose.
Tina told him, “A strange one, she is. Real serious about her routine. She’s a competition windsurfer.”
“Sure,” Sharff said, nodding. “Sure,” repeating himself, “I know who you mean.”
“Have you seen her around lately?”
“Not lately,” Tina replied.
“She have any close friends here that you’re aware of?” Boldt asked them both.
Tina paused. “I think Sam’s her personal trainer, isn’t he?”
Sharff shrugged.
“Sam?” Boldt asked.
“Sam DeVito,” she said. “If you can afford it,” she explained, straining, “you hire a personal trainer. Betsy can afford anything.” Her strained voice reminded Boldt of Elizabeth, when she tried to speak during their lovemaking. He wondered if he’d ever get Elizabeth off the brain. Did it mean he loved her, or had he simply developed a habit he now found difficult to break?
“DeVito is our resident stud,” Sharff explained. “Chances are if he was her personal trainer he was probably more than that. You might want to speak with him.”
“Mike!” Tina scolded.
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
“Sam’s a perfectly nice guy.”
“And he jumps on anyone who looks good in a leotard,” Sharff commented. Tina laughed, blushed, and shook her head. “Don’t listen to him,” she suggested. “All the guys are jealous of Sam.”
“Jealous?” Sharff teased, though he appeared somewhat angry. “Not on your life.”
“Where might I find this Sam?”
Sharff answered, “Personal trainer offices are on the third floor, but this time of night he probably is with a client. Try the next room over, or the lap pool. You can’t miss him. He’s a body builder—I mean a body builder. He trains all the serious body builders. He wears a red muscle shirt, gray full-length gymnastic pants, and a stopwatch around his neck. He has Frankie Avalon hair and a jaw that could take a baseball bat across it. Can’t miss him.”
He also had beady dark eyes and a nose that had been hammered on a few times. Boldt found him in the humid, chlorinated room with the long, narrow pool. He was staring at the stopwatch. A gazelle of a woman was frantically swimming freestyle upstream against powerful jets that wouldn’t allow her any progress. Her slight suit had slipped into the crack of her buttocks, exposing two finely tuned, glistening flanks. Sam studied the stopwatch. Boldt studied the woman. “Harder,” Sam yelled over the roar, and turned toward the wall, noticing Boldt for the first time and passing him to reach a panel there. He fiddled with a control and the jets suddenly roared more loudly. The lean woman lost some distance and then swam harder to keep up.
Boldt had to raise his voice to be heard. “Sam DeVito?” The trainer nodded. “Sergeant Boldt,” he showed his I.D. �
�SPD, Homicide,” he added for effect. He seldom mentioned his division, but it worked well if you wanted a person’s attention. It had that effect on Sam. He forgot all about the stopwatch and directed his agate glare at Boldt.
“So what?” he said, his arms flexing instinctively.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Later.” Sam returned his attention to the watch and screamed, “Faster,” at the woman. “You want to develop or not?!”
“Now!” Boldt corrected loudly, “Not later.”
DeVito frowned at him, shoved out his jaw, and clicked the stopwatch defiantly. He went over to the panel and shut the machine down. The water stopped moving and the woman stood, adjusting her suit absentmindedly. “What’s the deal?” she complained, nipples hard, pubic hair wildly escaping her crotch.
“Gimme fifty sit-ups,” he said to her. She groaned. “Back in a minute. Out here,” he told Boldt.
He was short, maybe five-eight, but probably weighed close to two-twenty, and none of it fat. He had twenty-two-inch arms and equally developed thighs. He was disgusting. “I’m paid by the hour,” he informed Boldt, “and I got a busy schedule.”
Boldt recognized the accent as East Coast, maybe New Jersey. He’d met a couple FBI men with accents like that. He hadn’t noticed it in the roar of the water jets. “Betsy Norvak,” he said, and noticed DeVito’s jaw muscles harden.
“What about her?”
“She’s missing.”
“You telling me? She’s missed three sessions with me. Didn’t bother to cancel. You know what that does to my bottom line?”
“Know where she might be?”
“Listen, pal. I got twelve regulars. Eighteen part-times this month. That leaves me just enough time to take a crap and tie my shoes in the morning. I’m not their nannies, though God knows I feel like it sometimes. They miss a scheduled appointment without canceling, I charge them half rate. That covers the house percentage and that’s about all. Leaves me fucked, with an hour dead time, and no way to capitalize on it. You find Betsy, you tell her Sam is one pissed-off dude and that if she misses one more session she can find herself another P.T.”
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