“Do it,” Boldt said, thinking back to Daphne’s comment and the need to pursue absolutely every speck of evidence, every lead.
LaMoia had a devilish look. He said, “Or I can cut to the chase without involving the fruit salad boys. I kiss a few butts and see what I can get for us. Press some flesh. You’d be surprised what a bottle of Stoli and a night of lap-dancing can get you. Most of these MPs guarding the bases are just kids in uniforms. I flash my badge, they think I’m straight off the tube. You get these kids lip-walking drunk with some topless nineteen-year-old coed doing the Watusi in nothing but a thong, about an inch over their woodies, and they don’t remember nothing about confidential.” He said sarcastically, “I hate this work, Sergeant, you know that. But as long as I’m helping out, I’m there for the betterment of this investigation.”
“Just exploratory,” Boldt suggested. “A factfinding mission.”
“If the facts play out,” LaMoia said, “then we obtain the necessary paperwork and we go through the front gate, nice and proper.” Similar techniques were used in every investigation. It saved the investigator from the paperwork of pursuing any dead leads.
LaMoia sat uncharacteristically quiet for a moment.
“What?” Boldt asked.
The detective said, “Sarge, if you need it, you can hang in my crib for a while. I can make myself scarce over to a friend’s.”
“Who said anything about that?”
“Just if you need it,” LaMoia offered.
Boldt saw that LaMoia meant it. A rare moment of outward compassion from the king of one-liners. Boldt thanked him and asked what they had on the movements of Enwright and Heifitz on the days of their murders.
LaMoia informed him they had credit card records and bank statements. He would check them out as well.
Boldt studied the detective. He looked exhausted and haggard. Boldt returned the concern: “What about you, John. Are you holding up?”
LaMoia didn’t answer directly. His voice cracking with emotion, he said, “Just so you know, Sarge. If anything should happen to you, I will personally whack this guy. This is a promise that I swear on. So help me God, I’ll kill him dead.”
Boldt had no words. He reached out and briefly took the other’s hand in his own. LaMoia had tears in his eyes. It was the first time Boldt had seen him cry.
33
Boldt had not stopped thinking about the runaway boy who had called in the homicide. He had been distracted, first by Bear’s discovery of the Monopoly piece, then by the arsonist’s targeting of his home, but each time he climbed into his car and drove the streets, he thought of the boy.
He was reminded of him again when Dixie’s preliminary report on the crime scene arrived on Boldt’s desk. A body discovered in a crawl space was not an everyday occurrence. The papers had run the story; a radio show had somehow gotten hold of the boy’s 911 call and played it. There was an outcry from a domestic abuse group that too many women disappeared and too few of the disappearances were investigated thoroughly. The group, jumping to conclusions ahead of the medical examiner’s report, pointed to the fact that the woman victim had been found in the crawl space of her own home.
The lead detective was typically present at an autopsy, but Dixie requested that Boldt attend as well since the investigation was being conducted by his squad. A press conference was anticipated; Dixie wanted a senior cop present.
When Tina Zyslanski showed up at the door to Homicide requesting Boldt, he agreed to an impromptu meeting despite his schedule, not because Zyslanski was a Community Service Officer but because the woman she was with, Susan Prescott, worked for Human Services and wanted to discuss the “crawl space murder,” as Zyslanski put it. The boy! Boldt thought.
He walked them down to the conference room, Zyslanski making small talk along the way. She was an anorexic-looking woman with thin, lifeless hair and a nervous disposition. She hadn’t seen the sun in too long; her skin was jaundiced and onionskin thin. Susan Prescott was a cream-color black, broad-shouldered and slight-chested, hourglass waist and legs to the ceiling. She wore large gold hoop earrings that nearly touched her shoulders and walked like a woman who had worked the fashion ramps. She held her chin high, her neck stretched. She carried an air of indifference and alarming self-confidence. Boldt kept his eye on her. He held a chair for her as she sat.
She thanked him and said, “It’s my job to do everything I can to find this boy, the one who called in the nine-eleven. It’s your job to sort out the evidence. My hope is that maybe that evidence will point to where we might find the boy. I understand that he’s a possible homicide witness and that’s fine. I want him because he’s likely to be traumatized, alone and scared. Every day he is outside of adult supervision is another chance he’ll be swallowed by this city. The homeless. The child pornography rings. Drugs.” She leaned on the word. “We would like to avoid that at all costs.”
“I have a son, Ms. Prescott. I’m as anxious about this as you are.”
“Then perhaps you will allow me into the home,” she said, in a tone that sounded like a complaint.
Zyslanski explained. “The home is sealed with police tape and warnings. Human Services is requesting access to your crime scene.”
“You are aware, are you not,” asked Prescott, “that your primary suspect required outpatient hospital attention prior to his detention?”
Boldt had not studied the case carefully. He had left the case to the lead detective, focusing his own concerns on the kid’s whereabouts. He didn’t dare explain that. It wouldn’t come out right.
When he failed to answer quickly, Prescott said, “From what I’ve been told of the injuries, from what I was able to see through the windows of that house, your suspect was certainly not beat up by a child. That implies the presence of a third party, and we at HS are concerned about the child’s safety.”
“The possibility of an abduction,” Zyslanski explained.
“I have no problem with you entering that house. The lead detective on the case will want to join you, I would think, just to—”
“Keep an eye on me,” Prescott answered, interrupting. “That’s fine.” She sounded dissatisfied.
“To protect the chain of custody,” Boldt clarified. “It’s a technicality, is all.”
“It’s the drug connection that has us most concerned. They use everything from five- and six-year-olds up to seventeen-year-olds to run their drugs. I don’t need to tell you that.”
“Drug running is certainly pervasive, yes. But I would hope—”
Prescott cut him off sharply. “It’s not a word I can live with. One loses hope quite quickly in my job. One substitutes hard work, believing that in the occasional case it will make a difference. It doesn’t very often, just for your information. But maybe this time, right? That’s how you start every case.”
“Maybe this time,” Boldt agreed. He didn’t need this woman soapboxing to him.
She inquired, “You are aware of the earlier nine-eleven call, Sergeant, aren’t you?”
“I don’t believe I am,” Boldt admitted.
“I thought something was wrong here,” Prescott said to her escort, Zyslanski. To an even more angry Boldt she said, “There was an earlier nine-eleven call, placed October fifth of this year. The Communications Center identified the number making the call and the address from which it was made. The report was made by a young boy who remained anonymous. It was believed a hoax but was passed on to us, as is required. The address of that first call is the same address where the body was found. The boy is the same boy,” she explained. “But that earlier call is especially troubling to us, given the horrible condition your suspect was found in. Pretty tough stuff going on in that house. We assume it was a drug deal gone bad.”
“A drug deal?”
“That first call?” she asked rhetorically. “It wasn’t a hoax, as the dispatcher thought. The boy was trying to report a drug deal he had witnessed at the airport.”
“Airpor
t?” Alarms sounded inside Boldt’s head. In a rare inability to control his emotions, he came out of his chair and he shouted, driving Prescott back from the table, “The airport? A drug deal at the airport?” Daphne’s write-up of her second interview with the psychic had reported a drug deal at Sea-Tac involving the man with the burned hand. There were no coincidences in Boldt’s world; everything could be explained.
“Ms. Prescott,” Boldt said more calmly, regaining control, “I think you may have just found your runaway.”
34
There were many times in the course of a day that Daphne wondered what she was doing with her life. Engaged to a man she was finding hard to love; loving an unavailable man; pressed between uniforms and suits, one of a handful of women above the rank of patrol; volunteering a few nights a week at a homeless shelter for kids who had seen too much and lived too little; a scientist longing for the spiritual; a loner longing for a partner.
Her car was parked in front of and across from the purple house with the neon sign and the giant globe in the front lawn. At exactly 3:07 P.M. a small boy came walking down the sidewalk and turned into the driveway. He walked around to the back of the house and was not seen again, presumably having gone inside.
Daphne glanced over at Susan Prescott sitting alongside her and said, “Are you ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” answered the woman.
Daphne climbed out of the car. It was colder than earlier. She shoved her hands into her pockets, still searching for alternatives. She hated the idea of separating the boy from Emily, only to put him in the custody of a public agency. She had paid plenty of visits to the King County Youth Detention Facility on Spruce. What if he somehow ended up there? Who was to blame then? It was all about pressure. It was about bringing Boldt a witness. It was about forcing Emily Richland to deliver.
She stayed as far to the edge of the property as possible, not wanting to be seen. Susan would wait to knock on the front door.
Daphne felt heavy and sad. The gray and the drizzle weighed her down that day. She wanted out. She wanted to be somebody else—a woman with a different past, a different job, a different life. Mrs. Owen Adler? She wasn’t sure anymore, and one had to be sure. She was sick of herself, of the predictability of things.
Take a boy from someone willing to love and protect him and turn him over to the custody of the state? Life sucked. Susan knocked loudly. The sound bounced off the trees like gunshot reports. Daphne tensed, pulled her hands from her pockets, and climbed the back porch, placing herself immediately before the door. Pressure. It could be used to drill tunnels through mountains of solid rock; it could push people out backdoors.
She heard the muted sounds of a heated conversation between Susan and Emily. It started low but quickly grew to shouting. It was strange how, without hearing the actual words spoken, Daphne nonetheless could predict the conversation down to the punctuation. Susan represented herself as the authority that she was: City of Seattle Human Services, Child Custody. Emily mounted a quick but useless defense, objecting, interrupting, raising her anguish and decibel level to the point that Daphne clearly distinguished the words, “You cannot take him!”
Daphne spread her feet apart a little wider, like a boxer in a stance, braced for the collision that seemed imminent. She had mild cramps. She hadn’t eaten anything all day. The two cups of morning tea sat in her stomach like a pool of acid. She had her period. A little nausea. It was a day to be in bed with the covers pulled up, or in a hot bath with some music playing. She decided she had been spending too much time at Owen’s, not enough time on the houseboat; her priorities were all screwed up. Flat out hated herself. Bad time to be doing business.
“So there I was,” Daphne said. “He came through the back door like a train running downhill, head down and hell bent.”
Stretched out on the bed in Boldt’s hotel room, Daphne was into her second beer. The room wasn’t much—paid for by the city until Boldt was allowed to return to his house. He wanted back badly. He didn’t feel right about Daphne stretched out like that. She wore tight black jeans and a white button-down shirt. She toyed with her watchband, spinning it around and around.
“I caught him in my arms, and he squirmed like … I don’t know, a fish or something. Fought like hell. Poor kid. And of course she couldn’t prove he was hers—because he isn’t—which was all Susan required in order to take him. And now it has backfired. We know exactly who he is, but he won’t say one word to us. So … you know ….” Her voice trailed off.
“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” he advised. He was staying pretty much in the room’s pullman kitchen, keeping his distance.
“Listen, if you’d been there,” she said. “He was crying for her. She was crying too—begging us. It was awful.”
“You’re killing yourself over this,” he said.
“It backfired,” she repeated. She was beginning to sound a little drunk, to slur her words. “You want to stay out of trouble, don’t mess with kids.”
Boldt leaned forward.
“Don’t lecture me,” she cautioned, anticipating him. “I’m a big girl, and I want another beer.”
“You drink it, and I’m driving you home.”
“Promises, promises,” she said. “Maybe I’ll just sleep right here.” She asked too loudly, “What are those?”
Boldt felt caught. He’d been about to attempt to talk her out of a third beer. She patted the edge of the bed, for him to sit closer, but he declined.
“Dorothy Enwright bought this from a hardware store the day of the fire. John pieced it together.” It was a can of compressed air, a roll of silver tape, a can of Drano and a pair of rubber gloves.
“Susan’s letting let him stay with me—the boy,” she stated.
“A hardware store,” Boldt said, not wanting to look at her. “Might be a connection.”
“It’s that or some halfway house till things are sorted out, and I just can’t do that to him. They have this thing called a Big Sister sponsorship. Susan has to bend the rules a little, but by tomorrow afternoon he’s mine. And he won’t run away, because we’ve told him that if he does, Emily Richland goes out of business, maybe to jail. He won’t do that to her. See how good I am at my job? I thought you’d be proud. It’s down to threatening twelve-year-olds.”
“It’s never easy,” he answered. “Especially where kids are involved. Remember Justin Levitt?”
“They look so innocent. That’s the thing. It’s hard to get around the way they look at you.” She added, “You miss them, don’t you? Your kids?”
“Sure I do.”
“She’s got you forever. That’s the thing. The day Miles was born I knew I’d lost you forever.”
This was exactly where he didn’t want the conversation straying. “What will Owen think about the boy?”
“I’ll stay at the houseboat,” she answered. “Owen and I …” she didn’t finish, electing to drink the beer instead. “Really quite good,” she said.
“You haven’t lost me,” he said.
“Of course I have.” She wouldn’t look at him. “We had our chance,” she reminded him. “I’m not sour grapes.” She said thoughtfully, “Maybe it wouldn’t have worked with us. Who knows?”
They both knew better, he thought; it would have worked. It had always worked between them. He was thinking that, but he said, “I was separated at the time. Married.”
“Don’t remind me. Believe me, I remember that night well. Funny, what sticks with you and what doesn’t. I’m the one who’s supposed to be able to explain all that, right? All this training. But when it’s my life? Forget it. That’s the thing: objective, subjective. ‘Tangled up in blue.’ Was that Dylan or Joni Mitchell? Probably both. Hey,” she added playfully, “did you grow up liking jazz, or was there a transition period? Folk rock? Rock? Or were you jazz right from the crib?”
“There may come a day when we’re old, and our spouses have died off. For us, I mean.” He wasn’t sure
why he was saying any of this.
“Like Love in the Time of Cholera, you mean?”
“Never read it.”
“Your loss.” She said dreamily, “That’s us, I suppose. Maybe you’re right.” She added, “It’s a little morbid, though.”
“The thing of it is,” he said, changing the subject, “the boy may break this open.”
The way she positioned herself on the bed—rolled up on one hip, her legs split, up on an elbow with her hand supporting her head—was too much. That lush hair, eyes a little drunk and dreamy. She said, “I wonder why I’m so hung up on you.”
“You’re not.”
“Oh, but I am. We both know it.”
“We’ll place Richland under surveillance,” Boldt said. “Garman also, I think.”
She added, “I see the way you look at me sometimes. You don’t think I feel that same stuff? Right down to my … bones,” she said.
“She’ll call us if he shows up?” he stated.
Without missing a beat, Daphne answered, “As long as we have the boy, she will. If I’m her, my big worry is that the state gets him in their system and never lets him out.”
“Will Human Services ever let him go back to her?” Boldt inquired dubiously. “There’s no blood relation, is there?”
“He loves her,” Daphne said painfully. “And she him. Does it really matter?”
A cellular phone rang. Boldt stood and reached for his, but it was hers, coming from her purse. She answered and listened. She mumbled, “Yes, I heard you.” She flipped the phone shut. To Boldt she said, “We used the last name of the crawl space suspect. Susan cross-checked school enrollment. We know the boy’s name: It’s Benjamin Santori.” She misted. “Nice name, isn’t it?”
Boldt - 04 - Beyond Recognition Page 24