“They ask too much of us,” she said, her lips tight as if fighting off her emotions. “We give too much, and we get so little back. The media tears us to pieces. The sixth floor rains hell on us. And all for what?”
“Cold pizza and Maalox,” Boldt answered.
She sputtered a laugh. “Yeah. Job benefits.”
“Right.”
The wind blew across the water like a shadow, and sand swirled in the air, and the people playing volleyball shielded their eyes from it.
“As a teenager, like all teenage girls, I wanted to be a movie star. I thought it looked so easy. ‘Be careful what you wish for. Someday it may be yours,’ or however that goes.”
“You have to do this willingly; it’s not something that will work if you feel pressured into doing it. You have to sell him on the idea that everything you say, everything that goes on at that houseboat is for real.”
“Business as usual,” she said spitefully.
He was not going to touch that comment.
“I’m in,” she announced. Facing him with hard eyes she said, “But for my own reasons, Lou. For my own damn reasons.”
Everyone called the man Watson, and he ran Tech Services as if it were his own department, which it was not. He had been called Watson for so many years that Boldt did not remember his real name. He was a bald man with glasses and thick red lips, and was commonly mistaken for Bernie Lofgrin’s younger brother. If it ran on electricity, then Watson could build it, modify it, copy it, or compromise it.
Watson and his prize technician, a man named Moulder, spent two consecutive days in a cabin cruiser anchored off of the Lake Union houseboats, alternating between running the gear and fishing off the stern—this “to keep up appearances.” They were the envy of the entire department that week.
The two most difficult performances were turned in by Daphne Matthews and Owen Adler, who did everything short of making love for the cameras. According to script, they discussed the Uli case on occasion, with Daphne implying that the suspect was getting closer and closer to cooperating with the authorities. Daphne showered, shaved her legs, and brushed her teeth as usual, and Watson followed procedure to the letter, never connecting monitors to the cameras in the bedroom and bath.
The technology behind the ruse was explained to Boldt in layman’s terms. Fowler’s surveillance system worked off of infrared and radio-frequency transmission as opposed to hard wiring, which necessitated cables. The signals from the microphones and fiber optic cameras were transmitted via the airwaves to a remote location that Watson estimated was within a quarter-mile of the houseboat. Another houseboat or a nearby condominium seemed the most likely location for this remote, but a vehicle or boat was a possibility. It was suspected that the incoming signals were recorded and videotaped at the remote site, although it was also possible that the signals were relayed over telephone lines from the remote to either the security room at Adler Foods or Fowler’s apartment—they would not be able confirm this until they conducted a physical search of the various premises. It was no different from the surveillance techniques the police themselves used, except that Fowler was more thorough in his coverage of the houseboat, and he incorporated a state-of-the-art digital technology that required Watson to borrow some equipment from the FBI.
Watson and his people spent twenty-some hours identifying the various frequencies being used, and stealing onto the signals. Now, what Fowler was listening to and watching was also being recorded on the anchored cabin cruiser that housed two of the world’s worst fishermen. More important, when directed to do so, Watson was prepared to jam Fowler’s outgoing signals from the houseboat and transmit his own from videotape, leaving Fowler with false images of an empty houseboat, when in fact it would be bustling with activity. This deception had been the key element for Boldt’s plan to work, and it took nearly seventy-two hours before Watson believed he was ready. No one could guarantee it would work.
On day four of the ruse, the morning headlines and broadcasts led with the story that Cornelia Uli had agreed to turn state’s witness and to reveal to a grand jury the identity of the man who had run the ATM extortion of Adler Foods. Deputy prosecuting attorney Penelope Smyth was quoted as saying that with Uli’s testimony, the state believed it had an airtight case, and that for “security reasons” the witness was being placed into hiding so that nothing could jeopardize her testimony—or the state’s case.
At one-thirty in the morning the night before—well before the story hit the press—an unmarked dark-blue sedan pulled up in front of the dock that led to Daphne’s houseboat, and two plainclothes policemen climbed out and walked the area for five minutes before returning to the car and giving the all-clear. The car’s back door opened, and a figure small in stature, accompanied by a big bear of a man, walked quickly toward Daphne’s home. The front door swung open and admitted these two without a knock or introduction. Moments later, the blue car sped away.
Daphne closed the door and locked it. “Everything go okay?”
“Fine,” Boldt answered.
Cornelia Uli pulled back the hood to the sweatshirt and shook her hair free. “I thought we were going to a hotel,” she complained.
“So will everyone else,” Boldt said. “The press will be searching every hotel, motel, and inn within an hour’s drive of the courthouse. A houseboat on Lake Union, five minutes from downtown? You’re safer here than in any hotel. It has a brand-new security system, and—”
“A policewoman to look after you and take care of you.”
“What about television?”
“There’s a television in the bedroom, and the bedroom is yours until this is over.”
“Okay, fine.” Cornelia Uli strolled the houseboat looking it over, touching some of the furniture, inspecting the view. “It’s killer,” she said.
“Let’s hope not,” Daphne answered. “And let’s get one thing straight: I am not your housemaid. We share dish duty, cooking, and cleaning.”
“Forget it.”
“This is nonnegotiable. You can go back to county lockup and take your chances, if you’d prefer.”
Boldt began drawing the curtains and lowering shades.
“And you can’t go outside,” Daphne stated emphatically. “This is a small, closed neighborhood. We decided against putting any of our people around the area because we thought it would cause too much suspicion and probably force us to move you. We don’t want to move you. We were also worried about leaks. Only a handful of people know you’re here, all of whom can be trusted.” Boldt continued with the shades. “You won’t go outside, you won’t use the phone, and you won’t open any of the shades. We’re taking no chances that you might be randomly spotted. And remember, this is for you, not us.”
“Bullshit,” the woman protested. “This is so I’ll squeal. This is so Kenny Fowler goes to jail. Don’t give me any of that shit.”
Cornelia Uli had been told nothing of Boldt’s ruse, and Boldt delighted in the fact that unwittingly she, too, played her role out to perfection.
For a day and a half, the two women lived side by side—sometimes combative, sometimes in harmony, but with Daphne either wearing her weapon at her side or leaving it within plain reach.
Boldt and his team were equipped with some of the same digital communication technology used in the ATM sting, preventing any possibility of electronic eavesdropping. Officially, the police were completely out of this. In fact, an elite team of individuals including Gaynes and LaMoia were following a carefully choreographed script in which Cornelia Uli was the only unwitting participant. For the sake of possible surveillance, it had long since been decided that the trap would be baited after dark.
On the second evening of Uli’s confinement, Daphne sat waiting for the woman to take a bathroom break. As usual, she wore a radio and earpiece.
Uli was a television addict, and remained virtually glued to the set in the bedroom during waking hours. Boldt used this against her in his plan: The diuretic
slipped into the evening meal guaranteed frequent bathroom calls; at some point she would come down to the head—essential to the success of the ruse. More important, she would immediately return upstairs to her shows, where, true to form, she would remain. She would not be hanging around downstairs, checking coat closets. Crucial, because on this night, the closets would have more than coats inside of them.
But for Daphne the time seemed to stretch on forever. Finally Uli did come down from the bedroom, the sound of the television behind her, and crossed the room toward the head. Daphne, as per instructions, sprang into action.
She walked quickly to the front door and unlocked it. At the same time she keyed in the security code, deactivating the system, she also flashed a signal of three pops of the transmission button to her radio. Then she hurried to the back door, which she unlocked as well. All of this required only seconds to accomplish.
Thankfully, Uli always washed her hands after using the toilet. The running water was to serve as Daphne’s warning signal.
Outside the houseboat, the three quick pops over the radio were the awaited signal. Boldt, LaMoia, and Gaynes, all dressed in dark clothing, hurried from the back of a panel truck and down the short dock toward the farthest houseboat, while through an earpiece Boldt monitored the monotonous drone of the dispatcher’s voice tracking Kenny Fowler’s every move. At present, Fowler was holed up in his water-view apartment across town.
On board the cabin cruiser, Daphne’s radio signal instructed Watson to jam several of Fowler’s transmission frequencies and to start the prerecorded videotapes playing. It was for this reason that Daphne remained standing close to the back door—there were no hidden surveillance cameras watching this back area of the house. One moment the hidden cameras were showing the real-time activity inside the houseboat; the next, only the camera and microphone showing Cornelia Uli urinating were live. The rest briefly displayed the images and sounds of empty rooms.
It was during these few precious moments of illusion that Boldt and his team slipped quietly inside the houseboat—Boldt and Gaynes through the front door, locking it behind them, and seconds later LaMoia through the back.
LaMoia took up position in the back coat closet.
Boldt stuffed himself into the front coat closet.
Bobbie Gaynes raced up the ladder and concealed herself on the small deck outside the bedroom.
Daphne heard the bathroom water running.
She rekeyed the security code and the light flashed red.
She glanced into the living room. Boldt’s jacket was caught in the closet door, cracking it open. He did not seem to notice.
No time. Watson had warned her that for the video to play correctly once the jamming was removed, she had to walk “on screen” from the same location where she had walked off. She could not suddenly appear in the middle of a room when the cameras went live.
Desperate to correct Boldt’s coat, she had no choice but to return to her screened position at the back door, while at the same time clicking her radio three times successively. Click, click, click.
On the cabin cruiser, sweat clinging to his brow, Watson stood alongside his assistant, Moulder, each with fingers from both hands occupied, awaiting the signal. The radio sparked three times. Watson said, “Ready?” Moulder nodded. “One, two, three!”
In a synchronized movement, the men depressed the buttons simultaneously. The video of the houseboat was once again live. But now, there were three police inside.
Watson spoke calmly into the radio, “You’re live.”
Uli came out of the bathroom at the same time Daphne heard Watson’s confirmation and crossed back onto a video screen somewhere in the city. The psychologist’s heart was pounding ferociously. She had not realized how tense this would make her.
On cue, the phone rang, and Daphne answered it in her same bored manner with which she always answered a phone, fully aware of the electronic device listening to her every word.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” said Lieutenant Phil Shoswitz. “We need you downtown. It’s urgent—the grand jury has advanced the schedule. They’ve decided to hear her testimony tomorrow morning. Smyth wants to talk to you.”
“But I—”
“Twenty minutes is all. I know you’ll be leaving her, but it’s better than us sending a replacement and making a scene. Lock it up tight and key in the security. You’ve done it before. She’ll be fine.”
“But I really don’t think—”
“If we don’t handle this tonight, we’ve got major problems in the morning. Get your butt down here.” He added, “No one can bust in there without us knowing. I’m putting an unmarked car up on Fairview. They’ll respond if needed, but I don’t want them any closer than that.”
“Yes, sir.”
She hung up and told Uli, “I have to go downtown.”
“Bullshit.”
“I have to go. You’ll be fine. I’ll lock up and you’ll rekey the security behind me. I won’t be more than a half hour.” She added, “I’ve gone out for food before.” She turned around, and there peering from the closet was Boldt’s eye, wide with urgency. Shocked, she quickly collected herself. Boldt could not spin around in the tiny space and free his coat without making noise. Nor could he pull the closet door shut without risking being heard.
“But not at night,” Uli complained.
“It’s orders. I have to go.”
“A half hour, that’s all,” Uli stated as a requirement.
“I thought you didn’t like cops,” Daphne reminded her. She edged toward the closet.
“I like your gun. I don’t suppose you would leave me that.”
“You’ll be fine.” She reminded her of the code, although Uli had used the system before. “Lock up behind me.”
“No,” the woman snapped sarcastically, “I think I’ll leave it open so Fowler can just walk right in.”
Daphne stepped up to the closet door and said, “Oh hell, I don’t need a coat,” and smacked the door firmly, pushing it shut. A small triangle of Boldt’s sport coat stuck out by the hinge like a tiny flag.
Boldt was not big on claustrophobic environments. He was large enough that even the front seat of a car seemed tight to him. The minutes ticked by interminably long. He monitored the time by pushing the button that lit the display on his Casio watch.
Four minutes after Daphne’s departure, Boldt heard softly in his ear, “Suspect is departing his domicile. Repeat: Suspect departing.” They had intentionally given Fowler only a few minutes in which to react, because they knew their operatives could not stand inside a coat closet remaining absolutely silent for more than thirty minutes, and because they hoped to force an urgency upon him that would require a quick, perhaps irrational, decision to act. This also accounted for Shoswitz’s announcing to Daphne an advanced trial date.
“Suspect headed east on Denny Way,” Boldt heard in his ear.
Boards creaked overhead—Uli was in the bedroom watching television, unaware of Bobbie Gaynes lurking in the shadows only several feet away.
The surveillance traffic crackled in Boldt’s ear. Fowler drew progressively closer, and when he eventually turned north toward the lake, Boldt knew he was headed here. Seven minutes.
“Suspect has arrived at destination,” came the dispatcher’s bland voice. Boldt could not stand the lack of air another minute. He tugged on the closet door and cracked it open again, delivering fresh air, and leaving him a tiny slit through which he could see.
Somewhere around three minutes later, the back door came open, Kenny Fowler using a master key for locks that his own people had installed. He punched in an override code that circumvented a customer’s PIN—supplied to alarm companies by the manufacturer in case a customer forgot his or her security PIN. Then he shut the door and reset the alarm.
Cornelia Uli’s ears were aided by the fact that she had muted a commercial, and because Fowler proceeded to step on the same noisy board that had gotten him into
trouble with Daphne. Uli came charging down the ladder calling out, “Changed your mind?”
Boldt watched as Fowler came into view. He wore a dark-green oilskin jacket. Bold could not see Uli.
“Oh shit!” Uli barked out, seeing him.
“Relax! I’m not here to kill you.” He sounded emotionally drained.
“Bullshit.”
“No shit.” He produced a fan of cash—twenty-dollar bills. “We’re getting you out of here.”
“What are you talking about, out of here?”
“I’m giving you a choice,” he said calmly. “You can take a plane ticket and three thousand bucks right now, or you can get on that stand tomorrow morning—”
“It’s not tomorrow morn—”
“Shut up! There’s no time, Corny.” Fowler evidently cared for the woman. Boldt had not anticipated this. “You get on the stand and you lose your memory. No ATMs. No Kenny Fowler. No testimony. It was all your idea. I can tell you how to make it sound convincing. You do that, and I’ll give you thirty thousand when you get out.”
“I’ll never get out.”
“Four years, maybe six. And thirty thousand at the other end. I’ll deposit half in your name before you get on that stand.”
“I take the fall for you.”
“Something like that.”
“Jesus,” she said. Boldt realized she was actually considering it.
Boldt reached down and depressed the radio’s call button twice: Click, click. Overhead, he heard Gaynes move. He saw Fowler turn as he must have heard LaMoia. Boldt swung open the door, his weapon already drawn.
Cornelia Uli screamed.
Fowler scrambled for his weapon, completely caught off-guard.
“Three of us, Kenny! Drop it!” Boldt announced.
“Hands high!” LaMoia warned from behind.
Gaynes leapt down the ladder and tackled Uli, shielding her.
Fowler shook his head. He sat down slowly onto the floor, only inches from the post where Daphne had struck her head. “But how?” he said, glancing toward the wall and one of his hidden cameras.
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