“Lieutenant…”
“I’m not listening, Boldt. I don’t hear. I’m not going to have you pretend everything’s hunky-dory only to have you end up with a blade in your back. If you missed, and if by some flaw in the good Lord’s better judgment this guy survived that water temperature and actually swam to shore, there remains the possibility he’ll gun for you. And if that’s the case, then maybe, just maybe we get another chance at this dingdong and do what should have been done in the first place. We catch him! And you talk about SWAT messing things up.” He raised his hand as Boldt was about to interrupt. “I know. I know. You think that if he lived through it, then he’s left town by now. Same as Denver and Tucson. You’ve already told me that a dozen times. Fine for you to say, but you don’t know any goddamned more than I do—and don’t claim that you do. If I were him, I’d kill you. In his mind you’re the one who screwed everything up. You’re the one he has to thank. And right now, that’s all you’ve got to think about. I got your shield and your gun. You got a little instant holiday coming while this whole thing is under review. What we’re trying to do here—for your information—is prevent any surprises. I want you thinking like this guy is coming after you. That way it doesn’t get any messier than it already is. You follow that?”
“Then how about my gun back?” Boldt asked.
“You know the program, Boldt. You want a piece, go buy one like any other civilian. Register it, but keep it under your pillow. I catch you concealing a weapon on your person, and you’ll have hell to pay. No exceptions to any of than a gnat’s ass, and so’s the captain, and so’s half the goddamn city. Strictly aboveboard, all the way. You got that, Lou? Strictly aboveboard.”
“So what am I supposed to do, sit around and wait for this weirdo to come after me? I’m your bait, is that it? Dangle me out there and hope he comes after me. Is that what this is all about?”
“I thought you said you got him,” Shoswitz said, scratching his scalp and unleashing his dandruff. “What’s the big worry?”
64
But Lou Boldt did worry. The possibility that Royce was still alive clung to him like two strong hands around his throat. He did not eat well; he slept hardly at all. And when he did sleep he had horrible nightmares about a final, bloody confrontation with Royce.
Seven days after his suspension he found himself stepping into the bright hallway of the hospital’s intensive-care ward, so utterly exhausted and drained of energy that for a moment he believed himself in the middle of one of his dreams. In his mind, the ghostly faces gawking at him were, of course, not real, did not belong to real, living people, and so he could gawk back at them without concern. Which is exactly what he did.
The people walking the hallways of intensive care—people Lou Boldt believed imaginary—steered clear.
Daphne was lying in bed, various-sized tubes running into her limbs, mouth, and nostrils. A battery of electronic machines ticked, beeped, blinked, and pulsed, surrounding her: a gaggle of robotic nursemaids. The tracheotomy tube was still in place. Her eyes tracked Boldt as he entered the room, pulled up a chair, and sat down. He couldn’t find a way to position the chair so they could see one another. Obviously frustrated, he eventually abandoned the idea of sitting and stood alongside of her. He reached down and took her hand in his. Her skin was ivory-gray, and her usually full-bodied hair now scraggly and in need of a shampoo.
“They tell me you’re going to be able to speak. Good news,” he said, squeezing her hand. “And for once I get to talk to you without suffering all your grief.” He pointed to his own throat to indicate hers. “For once you can’t talk back.”
But she could talk back. Not in words but with her eyes. He thought she had the most expressive eyes he had ever known, for they spoke to him despite her silence. They had smiled when he had entered and now they teased him disapprovingly.
“Yes, sir,” he said, obviously nervous.
She looked him over.
“I know. I know,” he said. “Not looking too good at the moment.” He forced a smile. “Don’t you worry about me. Don’t you concern yourself with me. Not for a second. Not for one instant.” He looked around the room and then back to her. “It’s him. You know how that goes. I’ll get over it…. I ah… They searched both his places, you know, the one over on North Seventy-seventh, and they also found his place out on the island. A rental. He rented a place on Vashon, and they raided it, and they came up with some interesting stuff. They found the dry cleaning for one thing. The victims’ stuff—two of the dry-cleaning stubs missing. That’s what Fuller found evidently. They also found membership cards for all four health clubs.
“Don’t be worried. If he’s here… if he’s here in town, we’ll catch him. And if he’s not, then he’s not our worry anymore. FBI has all the stuff on him. There’s a three-state manhunt underway and Canadian authorities are on the alert; Coast Guard is still at it. If he’s around… if he lived, we’ll catch him.”
She squeezed his hand twice weakly.
“Me? You know how I am. Not a hell of a lot of sleep. That’s all. That’s the only reason I look like this. Honest. I’m gonna be fine. I look a lot worse than I feel. This is my ‘Miami Vice’ look, right?” he said, stroking his chin. “I’m gonna do a TV ad for razors.” He winked at her. “Nah. This is my jazz look. I’m playing again. Did I tell you? Yeah. I’m going to be playing a couple times a week. The old stuff for now. You know, getting my chops back. Bear—my friend Bear—he wants me back full-time.
“Hey. Listen, it’s great to hear your throat is going to be all right. That is great news. That’s the best news I could have heard.”
With each line he spoke her eyes seemed to change shapes and color under equally expressive brows. It didn’t even occur to him that he was the only one talking. It seemed to him they had a two-way conversation going. If he had thought about it he might have become self-conscious and clammed up. But he didn’t think about it. He looked into those eyes, was drawn into those eyes and rambled on, unaware of the singular sound of his own voice.
“Maybe you won’t be singing any opera, but who cares? Never could stand opera. Hey, maybe you’ll end up with one of those deep, husky, sexy voices, like you smoked a carton a day for most of your life. I love that kind of voice in a woman—rough and breathy and kind of from way down in here,” he said, patting his gut. “Ooo!” He wiggled his eyebrows and got her to smile. “Yeah… You’re gonna be fine, Daffy.” He squeezed her hand. “I knew you were a fighter. I told Shoswitz you were a fighter.” She closed her eyes slowly and he asked if she wanted him to leave, and her eyes told him no, and so he stayed. He looked around the room for another minute. There was nothing to look at except a few plants and some wilting white roses he had sent her a week ago. “You need some new flowers,” he told her, his voice suddenly more quiet and more like Lou Boldt. “That was kind of weird out there. On the ferry I mean. Wasn’t it? I was scared to death.”
Her eyes said, “Me too.”
Boldt disagreed. “No, you weren’t scared. You were the brave one. You were the one who kept it together. You were amazing,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Really amazing out there.” He hesitated before saying, “The thing of it is… he wasn’t the crazed animal I wanted him to be. He was like a kid, you know? Like a little kid. I actually felt sorry for him. I learned something out there… about myself, I mean. I can’t put it into words so great, but I finally got the message. You finally got through, Doc. Thick head,” he said, tapping his skull.
With great effort she lifted her hand and caught hold of his ear and twisted a lock of hair in her finger and then dragged her fingertips gently along his rough chin.
A teardrop had stained her pillowcase and he knew somehow that this was a tear of love, not of grief or pain, and he smiled broadly at her. He beamed at her. He saw the trace of a smile at the edges of her lips and he felt a sinking, heavy feeling. Like slipping on ice—that absolute knowledge of where you are headed. “You’re very
special to me,” he conceded. “Very special.” He placed her hand down gently and hurried from the room.
65
Bobbie Gaynes entered The Big Joke and joined Chuck Abrams and Doc Dixon at a table that bordered the modest dance floor. She ordered a drink from the college coed cocktail waitress and waved over at Lou Boldt, whose head nodded from the other side of the baby grand. From behind the piano, with a bright light aimed in his eyes, Boldt could not make out her face, only the candles on each table, glowing yellow, and the faceless people seated behind them. The crowd noise competed with his music—not exactly a listening club. The music business hadn’t changed much in the last fifteen years.
He hadn’t noticed the helium balloons Bobbie had carried in with her. When he was between songs, she went across the empty dance floor with them and tied them to the prop that held the piano’s top open. She leaned over and kissed Boldt on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Lou. I’ve missed you.”
He played two bars of the melody to “Happy Birthday” and winked at her. She rejoined the others. He had two more songs remaining in his set. Elizabeth arrived, looking radiant, carrying a present, and he realized it was a conspiracy. His hopes of letting his fortieth slip by unnoticed were dashed. He played “All the Things You Are” and “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” both for Elizabeth. He felt a lump in his throat when she looked over and smiled at him during the second chorus of “Rainbow.” Had these last few weeks ever happened? It’s all what you create, he thought.
The crowd was modest but supportive. As Boldt crossed the dance floor to the table where his friends sat, the club’s stereo came on playing Stevie Wonder.
“It’s not until tomorrow,” he complained, noticing that Abrams and Dixon both had presents for him too.
“You’re not playing tomorrow,” Dixon said.
He shook hands with both men and, sitting down next to Elizabeth, kissed her on the cheek.
“Look at the lovebirds,” said Abrams.
Boldt squeezed her hand below the table where no one could see. She squeezed it back.
“Long time,” he said to Bobbie.
She nodded.
“How do you feel?”
“Nothing physical.” She shrugged. “Still a little shaky, I guess.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” Elizabeth gasped.
“Agreed,” echoed Doc Dixon. “You’ll get over it,” he said paternally.
She grinned and then sobered. “It isn’t the aftershock of the attack. It isn’t that. It isn’t Lange at all.” She looked at them all, one by one. “It’s James… James Royce. I went out with him. Twice. And he was absolutely normal. Polite, charming, attractive, intelligent. To think what he did…” Her eyes glassed over. “See? It still gets me.”
Dixon stroked her back. “It gets us all, Bobbie. I worked with him for months.” He shook his head.
“It could have been me,” Bobbie said. “I could have been next. I probably owe you my life, Lou.”
“Nonsense. He wouldn’t have tried something like that. He was merely keeping tabs. And he had the added benefit of being with a pretty woman.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“So?” Doc Dixon said enthusiastically. “How’s it feel to be forty?”
“You tell me,” Boldt said.
“Me forty?” Dixon asked.
They laughed.
“No different,” Boldt said. He glanced at his wife’s profile. “Actually, quite different. It feels right for the first time in a long time.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Abrams said.
They all toasted. Boldt’s milk hadn’t arrived, so he pretended to be holding a glass.
No one could think what to say for a few minutes after that. Abrams sat staring and smiling at Elizabeth and Boldt. He finally asked Boldt, “Where does your review stand?”
“No idea. I hear they’re going to drag it out a few more weeks at least. Hanfield is filing criminal charges. Evidently I may have to go through that first.”
“Jerk,” Dixon said. “It used to be—in this free society of ours—that a man could get in a real good fistfight without being sued.”
“That’s progress,” Boldt joked.
“We can handle it,” Elizabeth said strongly.
“Do you miss it?” Bobbie asked him.
“What’s that?” Boldt wondered.
“Do you miss work?”
“I have work,” he said, looking Elizabeth in the eye and smiling, “despite a poor left hand.”
“The department, stupid,” she told him. Dixon grinned.
“The stupid department?” Boldt asked.
They all laughed.
“Sure I do,” he admitted. “I miss the long days, the bad coffee, the arguing. The phone calls at night, the cold food and sinks that won’t let the hot water stay on. I’m miserable, can’t you tell?”
“You’re a wiseass,” Bobbie said.
“You got that right,” Elizabeth echoed.
“Hey, no picking on the birthday boy,” Boldt complained.
“I thought it wasn’t until tomorrow,” Abrams teased.
“And speaking of tomorrow,” Dixon added. “That word comes up an awful lot when I bring up the idea of recording your albums.”
“It certainly does,” Abrams concurred.
Elizabeth intervened. “Tomorrow for lunch. Both of you. You too, Bobbie, if you can handle three old men gabbing like old maids about who played with whom when, where, and for how long. These three and jazz albums are like little boys with baseball cards.”
“No thanks,” Bobbie said.
“You’re on,” Abrams said, joined by a nod from Dixon. “If he cops out, we’re counting on you, Liz.”
“Deal,” she said.
Boldt said to Elizabeth, “You were supposed to bargain them down.”
“I’m an arbitrator, not an agent,” she explained.
“Did you hear about Kramer?” Bobbie asked.
“I’ve been wondering,” Boldt admitted.
“They’re going to nail him,” Abrams interrupted. “And he deserves no less, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Civil court,” Bobbie explained.
“He’s off the force?” Boldt asked.
“Done and gone,” said Dixon. “There’s even talk of a manslaughter charge for the Jergensen thing. It’s too bad, in a way, that it had to be John, but it’s about time they did something to show they mean business about stopping leaks. This stuff has been out of hand for years now.”
Elizabeth said, “Well, if Lou’s not going to ask, I am, because I’m just as curious as he is, if not more so. What about Lange? Are the papers right?”
“About plea bargaining?” Dixon asked rhetorically. “No. I don’t think so. What I’ve heard is that it’s a standard insanity plea. Standard defense.”
“So the confession holds?” Boldt asked.
“Absolutely,” Bobbie answered. “Confession held up in the prelim, as did the transcription of your interview.”
“We haven’t had a single piece of evidence thrown out,” Abrams said proudly. “He’ll end up in a hospital somewhere, hopefully for the rest of his life.”
“It was good police work,” Bobbie added.
“The best,” replied Elizabeth.
“Teamwork,” Boldt corrected.
Abrams sang a piece of a beer commercial sarcastically. They all laughed and raised glasses. Boldt hollered over for his milk. The woman behind the bar let out a loud moo.
“You’re not supposed to discuss the case with me, am I right?” Boldt asked all three friends.
“Bullshit to that,” Dixon announced. He looked at Abrams and then at Gaynes. Neither protested. “Whatever your little heart desires,” he told Boldt.
“Big heart,” Elizabeth corrected.
They squeezed hands again, unseen.
“Why did Lange stop killing after Jergensen?” Boldt asked. “That’s the only piece I don’t have. Was he institutionalized? Did we miss tha
t somehow?”
Dixon shrugged. “Out of my league.”
Abrams said, “I can answer that one.”
“Please do,” Boldt said.
“The video wasn’t rented by a woman. It was that simple. We’ve been over the lists a dozen times, LaMoia and I. Summer Knights wasn’t rented with a woman’s name on a delivery manifest until Croy and her boyfriend.”
Boldt nodded. He didn’t want to sound cocky by telling them that that was how he had figured it. “Thanks,” he said.
Bobbie said angrily, “I can’t see how they end up treating your case like a standard suspension. If you ask me, the whole thing is ridiculous. You caught two murderers, and they do this to you.”
“Not me. Not alone,” Boldt said modestly. “They gotta do what they gotta do; same as they’ve always done, and always will. I’d be less than honest if I told you I was sorry about any of it. Besides, the time off is good for me. We’re lucky in that the loss of income doesn’t hurt us too badly.” He looked at Elizabeth. He wondered why that had been so hard to say.
“But you’re coming back?” Bobbie asked anxiously. She joked: “How am I ever going to get a promotion to Homicide if you don’t come back?”
Abrams explained, “The rumor going around the office is that you’re not coming back.”
Boldt looked at his wife. “I wonder how a rumor like that might have gotten started.”
Elizabeth grinned. “I wonder.”
“It’s only a rumor, isn’t it, Lou?” Dixon asked his friend. In his voice was deep concern.
Before Boldt answered, Abrams’s pager sounded. Within seconds Dixon’s did the same.
“You’re both on call tonight?” Boldt asked them.
Both men threw the switches on the pagers, silencing them. A few heads in the crowd had turned toward them. “Needed an excuse to cut out on the shitty music,” Abrams said. They laughed.
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