Beyond Recognition
Boldt [4]
Ridley Pearson
Hyperion (1998)
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Rating: ★★★☆☆
Tags: Mystery, Suspense, Thriller
Mysteryttt Suspensettt Thrillerttt
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Seattle police sergeant Lou Boldt is stunned when the local fire investigator presents him with frightening evidence in a series of fires that have occurred in the Seattle area. These white-hot fires burn so cleanly that even the ash disintegrates--leaving not a trace of its victims or any evidence of criminal activity. Only when Boldt is taunted by someone sending him pieces of melted green plastic--houses from a Monopoly board--does he realize that an arsonist is involving him in a deadly game. HBO has optioned.
### Amazon.com Review
Ridley Pearson manages to make high-tech crime-fighting more human and fascinating than anyone else in the field--witness such bestsellers as Chain of Evidence. Once again, Sgt. Lou Boldt, inspired and seemingly tireless forensic investigator for the Seattle police, zigs from the lab to the field--this time to find out why single mothers are being burned to death by flash fires fueled by an unknown, amazingly volatile fuel. The chief villain might remind you of recent headlines, but Pearson's research and writing skills create fiction more interesting than fact.
### From Publishers Weekly
A rag and a bone are literally all the Seattle PD has to work with after a violent fire consumes a home and its helpless female occupant, a divorced mother. When a second victim dies the same way, detective Lou Boldt (Chain of Evidence, etc.) and police psychologist Daphne Matthews (both Pearson regulars) begin the process of profiling a serial killer who uses rocket fuel to torch women because they resemble his mother. Elsewhere, a young boy named Ben, whose abusive stepfather has all but driven him into the street, has been befriended by a fraudulent "psychic" named Emily Richland, who hires Ben to scout her clients' vehicles while they're meeting with her. This task leads, in the novel's best scene, to Ben witnessing an exchange of cash for rocket fuel, a sighting that in turn eventually takes the police to their killer. Much of the plot teeters on the coincidental nature of all these connections, and on the unlikely bits of evidence used to corner the suspect (e.g., a ladder's impressions left on backyard grass). The intricate forensics that have driven so many of Pearson's novels are largely missing here, and secondary characters are sketched quickly and without depth. Even Boldt and Matthews have lost their shine, bickering a lot while insisting that they love one another, while Boldt's long-suffering wife, Liz, is discarded in cruel fashion. But no doubt the Boldt-Matthews team will be back, hopefully to solve cases less confusing and farfetched than this one. Major ad/promo; author tour.
Copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Praise
Praise for Beyond Recognition
“Patricia Cornwell could take lessons from Sergeant Lou Boldt and police psychologist Daphne Matthews … [Pearson] switches gears each time you think the story’s got to be winding down in this exhilarating entertainment.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Save this one for a weekend because you won’t put it down until you’ve reached the heart-pounding conclusion.”
—Playboy
“A must-read for thriller fans.”
—The Chicago Tribune
“You have to be a masochist to give in to a Pearson plot, but when you do, it hurts so good.”
—Booklist
Praise for Ridley Pearson
“One hell of a writer. He grabs, he twists, he tightens the screws until you’re drained by a superior read.”
—Clive Cussler
“The best thriller writer alive.”
—Booklist
“A thinking person’s Robert Ludlum.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Tells an irresistible tale.”
—The Los Angeles Times Book Review
“Excels at writing novels that grip the imagination.”
—People
Dedication
Beyond Recognition is dedicated to my parents, Betsy and Bob Pearson, for all the great years, past, present, and future, and to my wife, Marcelle, for her love and guidance.
Epigraph
The world, an entity out of everything, was created by neither gods nor men, but was, is, and will be eternally living fire, regularly becoming ignited and regularly becoming extinguished.
—Heraclitus, The Cosmic Fragments,
no. 20 (c. 480 B.C.)
We all live in a house on fire, no fire department to call; no way out, just the upstairs window to look out of while the fire burns the house down with us trapped, locked in it.
—Tennessee Williams, The Milk Train
Doesn’t Stop Here Anymore (1963)
Contents
Title Page
Praise
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Excerpt: The Pied Piper
About the Author
Also by Ridley Pearson
Copyright
IN MEMORY OF:
Susan Carol Hill
Detective Sergeant Portland Police Bureau
Lost on TWA Flight 800
July 17, 1996
Special thanks are due to:
Brian DeFiore, editor
Bob Pearson
Richard Hart
Lynette Westendorf
Karen Oswalt
Barge Levy
Walt Femling
Jerry Femling
Fletcher Brock
Callie Huttar
Steven Garman
Emily Dreyfuss
Ben Dreyfuss
Nexis-Lexis
William Martin
Maida Spaulding
Michael Youngblood
Pete Conrad
Andrew Hamilton
Donald Reay
C.D. and Hap Happle
Norm Prins
Christian Harris
Royal McClure
Donald Cameron
Bill Dietz
Paul Witt
Chris Wrede
Robert Gilson
Mary K. Peterson
Nancy Luff
Albert Zuckerman
1
The fire began at sunset.
It filled the house like a hot putrid breath, alive. It ran like a liquid through the place, stopping at nothing, feeding on everything in its path, irreverent and unforgiving. It raced like a phantom, room to room, eating the drapes, the rugs, the towels, sheets, and linens, the clothes, the shoes, and blankets in the closets, removing any and all evidence of things human. It invaded the various rooms like an unchecked virus raiding neighboring cells, contaminating, infecting, consuming. It devoured the wood of the doorjambs, swarmed the walls, fed off the paint, and blistered the ceiling. Lightbulbs vaporized, sounding like a string of Black Cat firecrackers. This was no simple fire.
It vaporized the small furniture, chairs, tables, dressers, all dissolving in its wake. It refinished and then devoured the desk she had bought at a weekend flea market, a desk she had stripped of its ugly green paint and lovingly resurfaced with a trans parent plastic coating guaranteed by the manufacturer to last thirty years.
Longer than she lasted.
For Dorothy Enwright, it was more like a camera’s flash popping in the dark. It began long before any clothes or rooms were claimed. It began as a strange growling sound deep within the walls. At first she imagined an earthquake. This was dispelled by the quick and surprisingly chilling spark on the far side of her eyelids. To her it began not as heat but as a flash of bone-numbing cold.
It burned off her hair, the skin on her face—and she went over backward, her throat seared, unable to scream. In a series of popping sounds, her bones exploded, brittle and fast, like pine needles dumped on a fire.
The toilets and sinks melted, a sudden flow of bubbling porcelain, running like lava.
Dorothy Enwright was dead within the first twenty seconds of the burn. But before she died she visited hell, a place that Dorothy Enwright did not belong. She had no business there, this woman. No business, given that a member of the fire department had received a threat eleven hours earlier, and the person receiving that threat had failed to act upon it.
By the time the fire hoses were through, little existed for Seattle’s Marshal Five fire inspector to discover or collect as evidence. Little existed of the truth. The truth, like the home of Dorothy Enwright and Dorothy herself, had gone up in smoke, destroyed beyond recognition.
2
The Boldts’ home phone rang at six-forty in the evening, September tenth, a Tuesday. Elizabeth, who would be forty in March, passed her husband the receiver and released a huge sigh to make a point of her disgust at the way his police work interfered with their lives.
Boldt croaked out a hello. He felt bone tired. He didn’t want Liz thrown into a mood.
They had seen their precious Sarah to sleep only moments before and had stretched out on their bed to take a fifteen-minute break. Miles was occupied by a set of blocks in the corner.
The bedding smelled of Liz, and he wished that the phone hadn’t rung because he hated to see her angry. She had every right to be angry because she’d been complaining about the phone being on her side of the bed for the past four years, and Boldt had never done a thing about it. He didn’t understand exactly why he hadn’t done anything about it; she mentioned it all the time, and replacing the phone cord with something longer wasn’t the most technically challenging job in the world. He reached over to touch her shoulder in apology, but caught himself and returned his hand to his side. No sense in making things worse.
Cupping the phone, he explained to her: “A fire.” Boldt was homicide, so it had to be a serious fire.
She sighed again, which meant she didn’t care much about the content of the phone call, only its duration.
“Keep your voice down,” Liz cautioned wisely. Sarah was a light sleeper, and the crib was only a few feet away, against the bedroom wall where Boldt’s dresser had once been.
The baby’s crying began immediately, as if on Liz’s cue. Boldt thought it was her mother’s voice that triggered it, not his, but he wasn’t about to argue the point.
Boldt took down the address and hung up.
Liz walked over to the crib and Boldt admired her. She kept herself trim and fit. The second time around, that had been a challenge. She looked ten years younger than other mothers the same age. As the cradled baby came eagerly to her mother’s breast, Lou Boldt felt his throat tighten with loving envy. There were unexpected moments in his life that would remain with him forever, seared into his consciousness like photographs, and this was one of them. He nearly forgot about the phone call.
Liz talked quietly to the baby. She glanced over at her husband. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she said.
“I’ll move the phone,” Boldt promised her.
“Sometime this decade would be nice,” she said. They grinned at each other, and their smiles widened, and Lou Boldt thought himself lucky to share his life with her, and he told her so, and she blushed. She lay back on the bed with the child at her breast. Miles was into creating the second story of his block fort. Maybe he’d grow up to be an architect, Boldt thought. Anything but a cop.
Lou Boldt smelled the fire before he ever reached it. Its ghost, spilled out like entrails, blanketed most of Wallingford, settling down onto Lake Union as a thin, wispy fog. It didn’t smell of death, more like wet charcoal. But if, as a sergeant of Crimes Against Persons, Boldt was being called to a fire, it was because a person or persons had perished and Marshal Five had already made a call of suspicious origin. Someone had torched a building. Someone else was dead.
There were a lot of fires in Seattle in any given year. Not so many homicides, not by national standards. The two seldom mixed, and when they did it was always—always, he emphasized to himself silently—one or more firefighters. The Pang fire had been the most recent and the worst: four firemen dead in an arson fire. Four years in the past, it was still vivid in the collective mind of the city. Boldt had worked that case as well. He didn’t want another one.
He had been off-duty at the time of the call. Rightfully speaking, the investigation belonged to a detective other than himself. Yet there he was, a little overweight, a little gray at the temples, feeling a little anxious, speeding the department-issue beat-up Chevy toward the address he had scribbled on a sheet of notepaper torn from a pad given to him as a Christmas stocking present. Duty bound is what he was. As the department’s “most veteran” homicide cop—a pleasant way of saying he was a little too old for the job—Boldt was assigned more than his fair share of the tough cases. In his line of work, success was its own penalty.
Many times he had considered the thought that Lieutenant Phil Shoswitz assigned him those more difficult cases in an effort to persuade him to apply for, and accept, a lieutenant’s desk. But Boldt was not easily moved from his position. He preferred people to paperwork.
Fire scenes instilled fear in him, even from a respectable distance. It wasn’t the flashing lights; he was long since accustomed to those. It wasn’t the tangle of the hoses, or the wet, glistening pavement, or the supernatural look of the behemoth firemen in their turnout gear, helmeted and masked. It was the damp musk smell, the smudged filth that accompanied any fire, and Boldt’s own active imagination that too easily invented a claustrophobic room entirely engulfed in flames and he, a fireman, smack in the middle of it, aiming a fire hose in revenge: the burning ceiling giving out, the floor breaking away underneath, a wall coming down. To die in fire had to be the worst.
Battalion Chief Witt, clad in his turnouts, met Boldt as the sergeant approached one of the pumpers, where the crew was busy packing up the rig. Witt had a florid face and bloodshot eyes. He reminded Boldt of an Irish drinker, the kind of guy to come across in a Boston pub. He shook hands firmly. “Marshal Five’s in there,” he said, indicating what remained of the house—precious little.
The September air was a pleasant temperature, even without the heat still radiating from the site. Boldt wore a khaki windbreaker, a cotton sweater, and khaki pants. He carried his hands in his pockets, but not to keep them warm. His posture reflected a tension, a tightness; the cables in his neck showed as his jaw muscles flexed into hard nuts.
“He called it in to our arson boys,” Boldt informed him. “Must have been mention of a body, because they called me.”
“No body found so far,” Witt explained. “A neighbor says he saw her in there, though. Saw her just a couple minutes before the flash.” He repeated, “Flash, not explosion,” as if this should hold significance for the sergeant. Boldt experienced a sinking feeling. He had a lot to learn, and all catch-up at that.
“Your department,” Boldt said honestly. “Or Marshal Five’s. My concern is the body.”
“If we ever find her.”
“Will we?” Boldt had to shout above the sound of the trucks’ mechanicals, the bark of the radios, and the shouting between firefighters still on the site. “Find her?” he finished.
Witt answered obliquely. “ME’s on the way.”
Dr. Ronald Dixon, one of Boldt’s closest friends and a fellow jazz enthusiast, was King County’s chief medical examiner. Boldt welcomed his participation.
Boldt asked, “What’s that mean? Is there a body or not?”
“This baby was one hot sucker, Sergeant. What started in there and what ended up in there are two different things, ya know? Two different animals.” Witt, too, shouted to be heard. “If she’s in there, there’s not much left. That’s what I’m saying. Hot,” he repeated ominously. “Like nothing I ever seen. Like nothing I want to see again, ya know? A real showy son-of-a-bitch, this one was.”
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