No Witnesses

by Ridley Pearson

Boldt shouted involuntarily. “What?”

  “In a basement we expect the presence of rodent poisons—anticoagulants, mostly. But strychnine has no business being down there, especially in the proximity of the workbench, which is where we detected it. We picked up traces in some of the ash samples—parts per million, mind you; trace amounts is all—but there was definitely strychnine in and around that area.”

  “Cholera?”

  “If it was there, the bacteria were sterilized by the fire. We’re pretty damn sure that what remained of the electrical gear we found could have fit the parameters of a light box of the kind Dr. Mann described to you, and we’ve detected abundant amounts of melted polymers, plastics specific to the manufacture of petri dishes.”

  “So it was a home lab,” Boldt stated.

  Lofgrin nodded. “Sure could be.” His eyeballs seemed to be on springs.

  “Why strychnine?” Boldt asked himself quietly, though Lofgrin answered.

  “Jim Jones’s Kool-Aid jamboree,” Lofgrin reminded. “The Guyana massacre. The Sudafed case here. The Tylenol tamperings. Poison of choice for tampering.” He explained, “Tasteless, odorless, easily blended.”

  “A mass poisoning?” Boldt questioned, reminded of the faxed threats.

  “With cholera,” Lofgrin said, “if it’s identified and treated properly, the patient stands a good chance of recovery. Not so with strychnine. It’s extremely fast—a few minutes is all. There’s your primary difference.”

  “A few minutes,” Boldt repeated, reminded of Caulfield’s threat to kill hundreds.

  Lofgrin’s phone rang. He turned down the music, answered the phone, grunted, and placed it back in the receiver.

  “Matthews,” he informed Boldt. “She says she’s got some good news for you.”

  “It’s about time someone did.”

  “Do we dare release the mug shot to the press?” Boldt asked, buoyed by MacNamara’s positive identification.

  Daphne told him, “I think not. If he sees his own photo on the news, two things are going to happen: One, he’s going to go underground—we lose any chance of catching him at the ATMs; two, he’ll feel betrayed and may attempt to deliver on his larger threat. Let me run this by Clements. He’ll have an opinion for us.”

  Boldt mentioned the strychnine, and they discussed possible psychological motives for a more deadly poison, and again she deferred to Dr. Clements. Leaving her, Boldt made himself a copy of the face and left the original with one of the civilian office workers, asking that it be photocopied and made available to all patrol personnel. A Be On Lookout was issued—Caulfield would be detained and brought downtown if spotted.

  Boldt spent the afternoon distributing copies to the ATM surveillance team, moving between the various locations where his people were in position. They had a face now, and Boldt considered it their first decent break.

  Kenny Fowler lived in a deluxe apartment managed by Inn At The Market, with maid and room service. He seemed both proud and embarrassed by it as he showed Boldt inside. Located directly above Campagne Restaurant, the corner view looked out over the red neon sign—PUBLIC MARKET CENTER—and across Elliott Bay and the slowly moving lights of Seattle’s commercial shipping traffic. The first room encountered housed a wet bar, two couches, a pair of overstuffed chairs, a coffee table, and a small dining table. Off of this was a studio kitchen, a single bedroom with a water view, and a luxurious bath that Boldt knew Liz would kill for.

  Boldt needed a favor, and he did not enjoy coming to Kenny Fowler with his hand out. He did not feel he could trust Fowler fully, for although they both wanted to see an end to the tampering, Fowler wanted credit, no doubt motivated by a corporate hierarchy that encouraged competition. He was also likely to want something in return for Boldt’s request, and Boldt could not be sure he could, or would, grant any such request.

  Facing the picture window, Fowler said, “Must be something important to bring the mountain to Mohammed.” Then he continued his nervous orbit of the room, pouring himself a gin and tonic and joining Boldt in the sitting area.

  “I need your help,” Boldt announced, once Fowler’s back was to him. It caught the security man by surprise, and he left his glass at the bar and returned to his seat without it.

  “I’m listening.”

  “One of my people is exhibiting some peculiar behavior. I need a background check, maybe some surveillance, and I don’t want to involve Internal Affairs.”

  Fowler nodded. “Puts you in a bad position.”

  “He’s on my squad, Kenny. It’s Chris Danielson.”

  “Danielson? Are you saying you think he’s involved in this somehow? Have you spoken to him?”

  “Not yet. I want this background check first.”

  “What exactly has he done?”

  “I need your help, Kenny. Maybe we should leave it at that.”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything you can get without it getting back to him that you’re interested.” The discussion made Boldt feel ugly and dirty at the same time. He knew this was not the way it was supposed to be done, and yet it seemed to him the most efficient use of manpower and time.

  “You think Chris Danielson is maybe drilling these soup cans?” Fowler became crimson, beside himself with confusion.

  “No, I don’t. But I’m a little short of explanations of how the extortionist is never near the ATMs we’re watching.”

  “Fucking A! Danielson’s giving out your surveillance information?”

  “I don’t know what he’s doing, but I want his dirty laundry if he’s got any. It’s that simple.”

  Fowler took some notes, saying aloud, “Finances. Travel. Big-ticket purchases.” He glanced up at Boldt, then returned his attention to the notepad. “Family background, maybe.”

  “Full background check. College record, all of it, as much as you can give me.”

  Fowler had that deer-in-the-headlights look about him.

  “What?” Boldt asked.

  Fowler nodded. “Am I to assume this conversation never took place? That I found out about Danielson poking around and decided to sit on him? ’Cause I can do that for you if you like. I got a shitty memory, Lou. That’s the truth.”

  “It won’t come to that. Let’s hope it’s all a big dead end.”

  “But if it does?”

  “If it does … I don’t want any lies.”

  “You sure?” Fowler tested. “It could mean your badge if it comes to that. You realize that, don’t you? I’m telling you, I got a bad memory.”

  “Save it for when you need it. I’ll make note of this meeting so that at least you’re covered. My idea. My responsibility.”

  “Whatever.”

  This felt like criminal behavior to Boldt, and he blamed the sensation in part on Fowler and his dramatics, because the man had a wormy quality to him. Technically, within certain parameters surveillance was not an illegal act, but the background check was, and both men knew it. The truth was that people in Fowler’s position were paid under the table for such background checks all the time. Boldt knew there was no new ground being broken.

  “I’m not comfortable asking you, Kenny. I’ve got to be up-front about that.”

  “I’m here, Lou. I’m part of this. I know how the department feels about the Kenny Fowlers of this world.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Of course it is. I steal a lot of your best people away from you. I offered you once, Lou, and you know that offer’s always open. Starting pay would be twice where you are with your three stripes—”

  “I know—” Boldt cut him off. He had no use for another Fowler recruitment pitch. “Thanks.”

  “Listen,” the man said honestly, “I shade a lot of the laws. There’s a reason police drive black-and-whites, you know. ’Kay? So, I live in the gray. So what? And I live better than any of you guys. And maybe there’s just a touch of resentment there. No triplicate forms. No bullshit. We do our job and we collect big paychecks for our
services. And maybe our job takes us a little outside the code. So what? Civil libertarians screwed the code up years ago, anyway. Am I right? ’Kay? Fucking sandbaggers have more rights than a badge does any day. So the system is set up to favor guys like Kenny Fowler. And now you need me. And I’m not going to bullshit you: It feels good, Lou. This is a day I’ll remember. But maybe not for the reasons you think. This just settles some of my own shit.”

  Boldt had feared this exact lecture, having to sit there and eat crow while Fowler gloated. And if he knew the man, the quid pro quo was right around the next corner.

  His piano, time with Miles, the lecturing, and now stepping outside the system he held dear despite his frustrations with it. Little pieces of Boldt’s life were slipping away. And the little pieces added up to the whole, and it terrified him where this might be headed. He worked on a pair of Maalox.

  “It’s expensive, what you’re asking,” Fowler said, reading Boldt’s mind, “although it’s Adler’s money, and he wants this thing wrapped up—obviously—so what the fuck? We can do it.”

  “I can’t help you there, Kenny. You know the way it is.”

  “I’m not talking about money, Lou. You know what I’m saying.”

  “I was hoping maybe Adler wasn’t the only one who wanted to see this thing wrapped,” Boldt tested. Fowler offered a wooden smile, and Boldt felt his bowels stir.

  “Sure. Sure,” he said. He carefully measured his words. “We would like to be part of the extortion surveillance, Lou. Adler, Taplin, me—we don’t like you guys being the only ones looking out for Mr. Adler’s money. You know how it is. We have access to some super technologies. Stuff that there’s no way you guys have. We can tie all your operatives together, restrict access, use GPS location devices—Adler’s pretty much given me a blank check these last couple years. We’ve got the latest shit, Lou.”

  “My hands are tied, Kenny, you know that. We don’t include privates in our surveillance work. It just doesn’t happen.”

  “That’s bullshit, Lou. Come on! Who you talking to? It’s me, Kenny. Shoswitz eats out of your hand—you’ve been all but running that department for years. You get what you ask for.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true. All I’m asking is to protect my client’s interests. ’Kay? To be kept up to speed. To help out. You include us in the surveillance, I can throw maybe ten guys your way. I can loan you guys access to my dispatch center. There’s any number of ways I could help out. You’ve gotta see that. You can’t tell me you got enough guys on this. Hell, you guys are still using open-channel radios—tell me you aren’t. I’m decades ahead of you on this. All our shit is digital, fully restricted, and encoded; we can help in a big way—I’m telling you!”

  Boldt suddenly understood the pitch. He felt stupid that he had missed it at first. “You’re already watching the ATMs, aren’t you?” Boldt inquired rhetorically. “Just the Pac-West machines, or others as well? You’re trying to avoid possible charges later by making yourself included. Am I reading this right?”

  “Lou …”

  “How many machines, Kenny? What kind of access to the system do you have?”

  Fowler would not look at Boldt. He rose, crossed the room, and finished pouring that drink for himself. To the mirror behind the wet bar, he said, “A list would do, Lou. Just the list of the ATMs you people are covering. No reason to have two guys playing second base. ’Kay? Spread out the team. I know you won’t let a private in on the surveillance. I accept that. But me and my people—my resources—can help out. We can cover the areas that you’re not. ’Kay? You see that, don’t you? Is that wrong? Or is that cooperation? Coordination? I want to help, and no one, including you, will fucking let me. What kind of fucking ass-backwards sense does that make? Am I talking nonsense here? Tell me. Am I?” The drink was mixed and he carried it over to his chair and sat down carefully so as not to spill it, because he had poured it tall. “My guys are good, Lou—you know some of them as well as I do. They were your guys not long ago: Hal Fredricks, Jonny Chi, Mac Mackensie—quality guys. With me and my guys working some of the ATMs, you get more coverage. Isn’t that what you want?” He met eyes with Boldt. “How about this? You supply me with a list of the ATMs, your guys are watching. Just the list, Lou. That’s all. So we don’t overlap.” He sipped the gin while Boldt considered the deal. “You keep me current on that list and I’ll give you Danielson’s deepest, darkest secrets.” He waited. “How ’bout it?”

  Boldt attempted to gain some air. The apartment, despite its substantial size, despite its stunning view, suddenly felt claustrophobic to him. He weighed his choices: If he wanted the book on Danielson, Fowler could have it for him nearly overnight. Was it so stupid to avoid duplicating surveillance of the ATMs? He clarified, “I need the background work on Danielson done quickly. I need the surveillance conducted without his or anyone else’s knowledge. No slipups. No risks that could jeopardize that.”

  “I understand, Lou, I understand.”

  “Fredricks, Chi, Mackensie—he’d recognize any of them.”

  Somewhat angrily Fowler said, “I can run a surveillance, friend. Would you be asking if I couldn’t? What the hell do you think we did in Major Crimes, eat pizza all day and talk sports?” It was a stab at the Fraud division, but Boldt let it pass.

  The sergeant asked, “Matthews was going to ask you for some help?”

  “Got her place wired up good and tight. Nice stuff. She won’t be having any more prowlers.” He added in a bellicose fashion, “We take care of our people. Someone has a problem, we fix it. That’s what we’re here for. It’s a lot simpler than wearing that badge of yours, believe me.”

  Boldt’s cell phone rang, and for a moment he did not know the sound was coming from his own pocket.

  “I think that’s you,” Fowler encouraged him.

  Boldt, feeling self-conscious, was not terribly comfortable with the device, and he thought that Fowler probably sensed this as he turned it on. His awkwardness seemed to lend weight to Fowler’s claim of technical superiority, and this bothered the sergeant.

  He spoke in blunt, terse acknowledgments. Grunts. As he did, Fowler’s phone rang, though the security man did not move. He watched Boldt intently, allowing an unseen answering machine to take the call. Boldt shut off the phone and said, “You want some involvement?” He was already out of his chair. “We’ve got an ATM hit going down.”

  There was no hope of catching the extortionist during this first withdrawal; but if this night were like the others, there would be a second hit. Boldt wanted to be there.

  He was on the phone with Lucille Guillard at Pac-West Bank by the time he ran the red light on First Avenue. Fowler secured his seat belt. They ran another light heading north toward Queen Anne and Ballard. The first withdrawal had been made in the U district; Lucille Guillard was playing percentages, believing a cluster of four banks on North Forty-fifth Street presented the next closest target. “How many people do you have in the field?” Fowler asked. The blue light of the dash-mounted police bubble played off his face, doing cruel things to his looks.

  “We have three roamers. KCP has loaned us another five—they’re at fixed locations.”

  “Eight people?” Fowler gasped. “Eight fucking people to cover every ATM in the city? You’re fucking kidding me?” Fowler confessed, “I have four stationaries. They are each within a two-block distance of three or more separate ATM locations. I have another four people on unmarked patrol, but with very definite territories. All told, I figure I’ve got somewhere around thirty-five of the fifty most active ATMs in the city covered. But I bet you’re covering some of the same ones.”

  Boldt withheld comment. Fowler was organized, well financed, and obviously had a reserve of manpower on which to draw. For someone in Boldt’s position, it was discouraging.

  The second ATM hit occurred at position 33, according to the police dispatcher whose constant running commentary and absurdly calm instructions could
be heard from beneath the dash. On the off-chance that a savvy reporter had figured a way to eavesdrop on this or any of the other secure radio frequencies, the surveillance team was utilizing these reference numbers. Fowler spread it open on his lap. He studied it a moment and said, “North Forty-fifth Street.”

  Boldt turned right, passing the Waiting for the Interurban sculpture, and Fowler said, “Nice system. Nice and private. I like it. Do you pretty much stick with this, or mix it up?”

  “We’re going to start mixing it up,” Boldt informed him.

  “This is all I need, Lou. You give me this map and at least we won’t be stepping on each other’s toes.”

  “Hang on!” Boldt interrupted, recognizing Adrian Walcott’s voice as he announced his location as North Forty-fifth and Latona.

  Boldt put his foot down hard and blew past traffic. He turned left on Stoneway, ran two lights while sounding his horn, and skidded the back end of the car through a yellow light at Forty-fifth, as Fowler pointed right.

  Walcott announced in a harried voice: “I’m stuck in traffic.”

  Fowler said to Boldt, “Friday night. Forty-fifth street—it’s a good place to disappear in a hurry if you have to. A good place to lose the cops.”

  The maximum amount of time Boldt could hope for was fifteen to twenty seconds per transaction. He estimated that this time was about up, confirmed when the dispatcher’s voice said, “Transaction is complete. Repeat: Transaction is complete.”

  “I’m going on foot,” announced an anxious-voiced Walcott. “Passing Meridian.”

  Three blocks to go, thought Boldt.

  “Are you there?” Lucille Guillard asked over the cell phone.

  “Right here.”

  “That’s twelve hundred. We could still see more.”

  From beneath the dash, a winded Adrian Walcott announced, “I’m at position thirty-three. There’s no one using the machines.”

  Boldt pulled over, slammed the car into Park, taking the key, and cut through the stalled westbound lane of traffic. Car horns sounded. Fowler cut to the right, increasing the distance between them.