“I know I haven’t got a shred of proof,” she said, reading his thoughts.
“You confronted the guy on the monorail?”
“Yes.”
“And what did your feelings tell you then?”
“I’d like to tell you that I felt as if I were looking into the eyes of Jack the Ripper—because I’ve seen those eyes before; I know that look, and there is often a look. But truthfully, there wasn’t in this one. He seemed embarrassed, put on the spot. Weird thing is, for a moment there I even felt as if I knew him, as if we’d met. But that’s the thing about a stalker, you see—about the good ones, the Ted Bundys—they know how to project that air of safety. Old friends. Good buddies. Hop in the back of my van and I’ll rape and murder you. I’ll tear your liver out and eat it for dinner, good friend.”
“You know what Shoswitz would ask?” Boldt said.
“Am I overworked? Under stress? Sure. I know. And if it wasn’t me, I’d be sent to me for a little chat to see what’s up. But it is me. And I am under stress, and I am overworked. But no, I honestly believe it has nothing to do with that. Good enough?”
“For me it is.”
Daphne said, “Probably not for him, I know. But it’s you I care about anyway.”
Boldt asked, “Do we talk about what neither of us is comfortable talking about? That this may be related to your New Leaf work?”
“I want another glass of wine, but if I have one I’m likely to start belly dancing in the living room, or maybe I’ll just pass out. Ever carried a woman up a ladder?”
“I’ll leave you on the couch,” he said, standing and bringing the bottle of wine over for her. “Anesthesia. You’re allowed this once in a while.” He poured.
“It really sucks that I’m not allowed to see Owen.”
“I feel real sorry for you,” he said sarcastically.
“Jealous?”
“Maybe I am just a little.”
Her eyes warmed, those flecks sparkled, and she was about to say something but she caught herself. He wanted to hear it, but he knew it was better that he did not. He felt no confusion about his emotions or desires, but that did not mean he could not love this woman just a little more than was acceptable—not as long as he kept it to himself. And maybe she kept it to herself, too.
He reminded: “You first sensed this three or four days ago, you said. To both of us, that feels more like a week. Do you remember back three or four days ago? Can you separate it out?”
“We’re going to talk about it,” she said, their exchanges suddenly quicker.
“Yes,” he affirmed, “we are.”
“You think it’s connected to my work on New Leaf?”
“I think it may be. I think it’s worth exploring.”
She ran her hand through her hair in a nervous manner. “Someone knows what I’m up to and doesn’t like it. Is that it? Is that how it goes?”
“Several people know what you’re up to. Many more may suspect it. Maybe that guard at the archives said something. Maybe Kenny or Taplin saw you pass those keys, but hasn’t said anything. Maybe there’s an employee who figured it out.”
“An employee involved in the original fraud.”
“It’s serious stuff what you’re suggesting. People would have positions to protect—”
“Do not bring Owen into this!”
“I didn’t say anything,” he protested. He waited a second and said what he had to say, what had been on his mind for several days now: “Was Adler in on it? Has he said anything to you?”
She gasped, and the warmth in her eyes froze over. She stiffened and nearly spit at him, “Some things need not be asked!” She averted her eyes and said, “Do you think I would keep something like that from you? How can you possibly think that?”
“I think it would put you in a difficult position. You wouldn’t indict him without some damn good proof—not if you’re human. And maybe you’d look elsewhere for the proof, if things got a little too warm where you were looking. And maybe—just maybe is all—you would ask him at some point and he would say that he’d rather you didn’t, and what then? Where does that leave you?”
She softened some. “Well, it hasn’t happened like that.”
“It’s Longview Farms I’m focused on,” he confessed. “The New Leaf situation is of interest to me only insofar as that if it proves true—that State Health or someone at New Leaf deliberately altered records to throw blame onto Longview—then there’s all sorts of places I can run with that. We’ve talked about it. And what happened out there yesterday bears it out, I think. And maybe—just maybe—whoever was involved in document tampering at either State Health or New Leaf, if anyone, is also involved in this present situation. Crime makes strange bedfellows—we both know that.”
“More than one person?”
“There’s a woman involved. We’ve all but confirmed that. Is she alone in this? Is she working with a boyfriend? A lover?”
“The sheriff,” said the psychologist.
“I just don’t think a woman would have done that. Not what I saw.”
“Those burns,” she said. He nodded. “His genitals?”
“No.”
“His face?”
“Yes.”
She considered this. “The face? I don’t like that. Not for a woman, I’d have to agree. You may be right. Where the hell does that leave us?”
“I can put someone on you,” he offered, changing the subject. “Watch for someone watching.”
She said sarcastically, “With the dozens of people at your disposal you have to spare. Who do you have in mind, Sergeant?”
“Or maybe Fowler could. If you asked Adler—”
“He’d do it,” she finished for him. “Is that what you think? You’re probably right,” she admitted. “But they’re rent-a-cops for the most part. If there is someone watching me—and mind you, I hate that idea—and we scare him or her off, then we’ve lost whatever we had.”
“But on the other hand,” he countered, “if they caught the person and we could have a little chat, we might be light-years ahead.”
“Point taken,” she said. “I could fax Owen and ask.”
He offered her an expression that said, “I would if I were you.”
“And meanwhile, Sergeant?”
“We tear into Longview Farms. Physically, we already have: The lab is busy on a dozen fronts. But I mean historically. We find the wife. We find the people who worked there. We chat up the neighbors, the meat inspectors, the UPS driver. Anyone and everyone. My bet is that that’s where we’re going to find our boy.”
“Boy?”
He mocked, “You get this feeling when you’re a homicide dick.”
“And New Leaf?”
“Yes. I think we keep going … you keep going. If you’re up to it. We want that connection, if it’s there. From where I’m sitting, we want whatever the hell we can come up with.”
“The sheriff,” she said, coming back to Boldt’s nightmare. “Police involvement.”
“He warned us, and I blew it.”
“You didn’t blow anything.”
He gave her a look. Enough was enough. He knew what he knew. “You okay?” he asked, coming off the stool.
“Fine. Get out of here,” she teased.
“You sure?”
“Go.”
He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She blew him one back.
She stopped him when he reached the door. “Just one thing, Sergeant.”
He turned to her.
“You might want to take that hat off before someone sees you.”
He felt up there, realizing he had been wearing it—looking stupid—for the better part of two hours. “Jesus,” he said, throwing it at the rocking chair. “You could have said something.”
“Yes, I could have,” she admitted, laughing, and wincing with the pain.
TWENTY
On Wednesday morning, two weeks since Daphne had involved him in the case, Bold
t was in the midst of dealing with the first ATM withdrawal when LaMoia arrived and made his announcement. This first hit had come at eleven-thirty the night before: Twelve hundred dollars had been withdrawn in three consecutive transactions. The nearest surveillance personnel had been eleven blocks away. By the time this undercover cop reached the first ATM, a second machine was hit, this time another ten blocks away. The dance had continued for ninety minutes, at the end of which thirty-six hundred dollars had been withdrawn, the police never anywhere near a transaction. It was an embarrassing display of Boldt’s lack of manpower; Shoswitz was chewed out by Captain Rankin, and in turn spoke his mind to Boldt: They would have to do better …
Boldt thought one answer might be the ATM card’s PIN number. Lucille Guillard, the Pac-West bank executive, had informed him that the PIN number had indeed been requested by the account holder. People requested specific numbers because they were easier to remember; and they were easier to remember because they held some significance to the account holder.
Therefore, Boldt reasoned, this number—8165—held some significance to the killer. It was a piece of evidence that Boldt intended to follow.
Data processing was presently searching these four digits against phone numbers, driver’s licenses, vehicle registration numbers, Social Security numbers, other credit card PINs, active credit card account numbers, and bank account numbers. He even went so far as to request a list from the Washington State Department of Revenue for all individuals born on August 1, 1965, or January 8, 1965. The Postal Service was to provide the names of any individuals owning post office box number 8165. He used the tax assessor’s office to generate the names of residents at any addresses that included 8165. Somehow this number meant something to the killer, and Boldt was pursuing every possibility.
LaMoia charged through the security door that accessed the fifth floor’s Homicide unit, looked around quickly, and shouted to Boldt, “I found a witness!”
Boldt led him around the corner and into the privacy of a tiny interrogation room that smelled like sweat and cigarettes. When LaMoia became excited, his brown eyes grew large, his face thinned, and his voice cracked.
“Okay, so here’s the thing. I’m doing an interview, right? I mean typical WASP housewife: Volvo. Hardwood floors. You know the type. And when I introduce myself at the door, she kind of sags, right? Like she’s seen cops before. Maybe too often. I’m thinking her husband’s a drunk, or a gambler, or is a regular at Vice. Or maybe he’s using or dealing or something, and she’s worried sick. We get talking about Foodland—because she’s one of the ones shopping—one of the ones on the list of thirty-four—and she’s noticeably upset, right? And she is a major strikeout. I mean, before I can ask her the question, this one is already shaking her head at me and glancing toward the door. You know the kind? She wants me gone. I’m thinking maybe the husband is expected home early. Then I’m thinking maybe it’s her—maybe she’s getting some on the side. What do I know? But she’s a mess. And then I hear the back door, and the mother practically does an Exorcist thing with her neck—like an owl—trying to cop a look into the kitchen, but I beat her to it, right? and who do I see but her?”
“Her?” Boldt inquired.
“Our vidqueen, Miss Foodland. The one with the floppy hat and the pierced ears.”
“Her?” Boldt repeated, excited now.
“You’re thinking there’s no way I could make her considering we hardly got a look at her in that video—but what I’m telling you: You know me, right? I know women. What can I say? We’ve all watched that video how many times? And this MacNamara girl had the exact same moves. Right down to the way she turned her head when she saw her mother talking to me. And another thing: She knew I was a cop. You know what I’m saying? You can feel it. She knew—and she wasn’t sticking around to small talk.”
“Did you interview her?”
“Hell no. A minor. The mother seeming the protective type, figured you’d want to maybe try for a warrant. See if we could turn up the clothes we saw in the video.”
“We’d never get a warrant,” Boldt said.
The detective reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Striker took care of it. Said because she’s a minor and we’d never get a look at her record without someone like him requesting it.”
“Her record? A minor?” Boldt asked.
“She’s a klepto. Seven arrests for shoplifting in the last six months. And I mean klepto! Drugstores, department stores, hardware stores—you name it. Big-ticket items. Stuff it’s damn near impossible to get out of a store without getting caught. So maybe it’s a game for her.”
“But if she’s a kleptomaniac—” Boldt began.
“Then chances are she was lifting, not putting poisoned soup onto the shelves.”
“Which means she’s not our suspect. But she may have seen him. The timing is right, after all. There’s only a seven-second envelope during which someone put those five cans of soup onto the shelf.”
“When can we interview her?”
“Do we know that the girl will be home?”
“She’s on a juvenile home-release program. Summer school and not much more. Comes home from school and stays put. At least, she’s supposed to. That Foodland tape is time-stamped. Holly was a bad girl; she wasn’t supposed to be in that store.”
Boldt explained, “If she’s been picked up for shoplifting this many times, a quiet chat in her mother’s living room is not going to get us anywhere.”
“You’re probably right,” LaMoia agreed.
“What I’d like to do is hit the house hard. A really thorough search—something to shake her up. Something she hasn’t seen. And I want her watching. I want her there. Then we bring her up here to the box and let Razor read her the gospel. Then I chat her up and hopefully she sits up and flies straight. And if she doesn’t, we book her on violation of home release; we print her and strip-search her and toss her into a jumpsuit and let her spend the night in the juvenile pen. Then,” Boldt said, “we go at her again.”
“You’re certainly in a charitable mood,” LaMoia replied.
Within the hour, Boldt sat down with one Mildred MacNamara, mother of their possible witness.
Boldt held up the large, clear plastic bags containing her daughter’s clothing, and if the mother had herself been a detective assigned to the fifth floor, she might have also noticed that the various labeling of the bags lacked a case number—this because the Adler blackmail was still not in the Book, was still in many bureaucratic ways an unofficial case. “This hat and jacket were found in your daughter’s wardrobe.”
“Why aren’t we on the juvenile floor?” she asked.
“Because I’m Homicide, and I’m running this case. And your daughter is a possible suspect.”
“Dear Lord …” She broke down. Boldt slid a box of tissue in front of her. “What about her attorney?”
“As lead detective, I’m in a pretty unique position, Ms. MacNamara. What I say goes—pretty much, anyway. Which means that if I say Holly walks out of here with no charges, then that’s what happens.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I need to talk to your daughter, as an adult, on her own. Have you ever known an attorney to simplify a situation? Think about that: They may help you, but they always complicate matters. In matters of juvenile crime, there are so many gray areas right now—legalistically—that if we bring in the attorneys, we’re both going to be here for a month of Sundays, and chances are I’m going to be required to charge your daughter just in order to speak to her. I don’t want that; Holly doesn’t want another charge on her pink sheet, and I have a hard time believing you would either.”
“Of course not! But how—?”
“Holly violated the terms of her most recent sentencing. We have proof of that. And as I’ve read it, that was pretty much a last shot for her.” The woman confirmed this with a nod. “So basically all I have to do is charge her and eventually I’ll get my int
erview with her. But, cards out on the table, I can’t wait until ‘eventually.’
“So what I’m asking for is written permission from you for me and some of my colleagues to ask her a few questions. It isn’t much, from your side of this—I know that. All I can do, as a parent, is give you my word that if there’s any way to avoid charging her, then that’s the way it’ll work out. But there are no guarantees,” he added reluctantly. Honestly came at a price.
There was no need to tell her that the search of her daughter’s belongings—an exhaustive one—had offered no proof of any connection to Pac-West Bank or an ATM account. The search had, however, uncovered a hidden stash of stolen goods from CDs to jewelry—the knowledge of which Boldt kept to himself, to be used as a crushing blow should he need it. This single lack of discovery seemed to support LaMoia’s theory that Holly MacNamara had been in that aisle within seconds of the drop having taken place, but was not herself responsible.
“May I call my husband?”
Boldt told her she could do whatever she pleased, but repeated to her what he had told Betty Lowry two weeks earlier, that the husband might overreact, and if so, Holly’s chances for clemency were lost.
“I don’t know …,” she gasped, and broke into tears again. Boldt found room to really hate himself. He waited her out, and when he saw the faintest of nods, slid the minor’s consent form in front of her and asked her to press hard. “It’s in triplicate,” he said, “like everything else around here,” hoping to win back a smile, but admitting to himself—correctly, as it turned out—that there was little hope of this.
“I don’t like you, Sergeant. And if you’ve lied to me, if you’ve tricked me,” she said pushing the form toward him, “then you’re no better than the people you go after.”
Boldt took the form and hurried from the room.
Holly MacNamara sat quietly with Daphne on the other side of the cigarette-scarred table in interrogation room A. Boldt and LaMoia faced them, and everyone sat in uncomfortable straight-back metal chairs. The large plastic bags containing the hat and the dark coat with the hidden pockets sewn into its hem were in full view, like a Thanksgiving turkey.
No Witnesses Page 18