By five-thirty that afternoon, over one hundred cars had filled the lower parking area of the Broadmoor Golf Club. Mercedes, BMWS, Acuras, the occasional Cadillac and Olds. A spectacular turnout. in one corner of the enormous walled party tent, high-spirited kids dressed in Ralph Lauren's finest took turns, blindfolded, swinging a Louisville Slugger at a yellowand-black phiata in the shape of a toucan. Heaters hummed softly, the champagne flowed, and the conversation reached a feverish pitch that all but drowned out the announcer's running commentary on the dog show taking place just off the practice putting green. A string quartet was all set up on a small platform stage at the far end of the tent, the musicians, in their formal wear, sampling the buffet as they awaited the "special guest" and a cue from their hostess.
Dr. Elden Tegg moved through his guests agreeably, if not comfortably, taking their hands, making small talk-charming, flattering. He wore a navy blue cashmere sport coat, a turquoise Polo shirt, khakis, and brand new leather deck shoes. He glanced over at his wife, Peggy, and offered a soft, appreciative smile-everything was going well. Two weeks earlier, Peggy had turned forty; to look at her, you might have guessed thirty. She was in her element here, mingling with the top of the heap, rubbing elbows with the real power of the city.
The banner behind the buffet read: 3rd Annual Friends of Animals Benefit Tegg mentally ran down the list of the day's events: the dog trials, a small wine auction, an awards presentation, and then the special entertainment Peggy had arranged. A few of the members of the opera's board of directors were already here.
All of them had been invited. Tegg spotted James Hall and his wife, Julie, and crossed over to them. "This is a better turnout than even last year," Jim Hall said, shaking Tegg's hand. "You'll raise a fortune."
"You must stay for the entertainment, James." To his wife the man said, "The mystery musical guest. I've been hearing about this all week."
"Peggy's trying awfully hard to curry favor with the board, Elden. Don't you think?" Julie asked. She had a way of speaking her mind, of speaking the truth, that put you on the spot. "How's the art world?" Tegg asked her, attempting to steer her clear of his wife's ambitions. "Dodging the question, are we?" she replied.
One of the kids broke open the pfflata right then, sparing Tegg an embarrassing moment. Peggy most certainly was trying to win favor with the board. Julie knew it. Everyone knew it. But it wasn't the type of thing you talked about! He had personally paid to fly in the winner of the Milano Festival to sing two arias here today. The string quartet, also brought in specially, had wowed Aspen last August. It had cost him a fortune! If this didn't impress the board, nothing would, except perhaps the donation he was planning to make.
With the prospect of the heart harvest now on the immediate horizon, Tegg faced the difficult decision of what to do with the enormous sum of money it would generate. He could "buy" his wife a seat on the opera board, or he could "buy" himself a transplant practice in Brazil. He knew whom to pay off; he knew which wheels to grease. Elden Tegg, M.D., F.A.C.S. Her dream or his? Could he leave all this behind?
He excused himself and hurried over to the children who were collecting the candy that had spilled. His son, Albert, and his daughter, Britany, ran up to show him their take, offering it like pirates' treasure. A bunch of the children gathered at his feet, excited eyes sparkling. They wanted another pihata, another game. It gave him great pleasure to bring the children this kind of joy, to include them in the event this way. How could you possibly benefit animals without involving children? The two seemed fundamentally linked.
Tegg signaled his veterinary assistant, the plump d officious Pamela Chase, and turned the children over to her. Pin the Tail on the Zebra was next. Last Year some Democrats had complained about using a donkey.
Everywhere he went people called out softly, "Wonderful party!"
"Terrific event!"
"Having a great time, Elden!" He felt like Santa Claus, pleasing so many people at once.
He glanced out the door in time to see a collieelsie was her name-paraded on leash around the circle. As Dr. Elden Tegg, he had healed a gunshot wound to Elsie's humerus. Scanning the field of contestants, he recognized several animals as patients of his. He knew each by name, knew each case history in detail; in a way, he regarded them as members of his own family. He hoped that Elsie won something-if for no other reason than to prove his own expertise with a scalpel. In another vet's hands, she would have been a three-legged dog today.
His wife's nervous voice came from behind him. "It's going beautifully, don't you think?" He turned and kissed her. "Splendidly. The food is excellent. You've done a wonderful job."
"We might consider using these same caterers at our party next week. If we could get them. What do you think?"
I/Itts a great idea." This, he knew from the hopeful glint in her eye, was what she wanted to hear, so this was what he told her.
She kissed him lightly, as an excuse to whisper into his ear.
"Be nice to the Feldsteins. He's had prostate cancer, you know?"
"Alan has?" He relied on Peggy to keep him up on such things. How she kept it all straight was anybody's guess.
She reminded, "Alan is very close with Byron. He has his ear."
The aging Byron Endicott, who ran a multinational shipping company, was City Opera's chairman and someone Peggy would have to win over in order to be invited onto the board. "So, basically, what you're saying," he teased, "is I should avoid asking Alan what it feels like to be reamed with something slightly larger than a penlight."
She winced and chased a waving hand aimed at her from the crowd.
Tegg headed straight to Alan Feldstein. "Feeling better, Alan?
Hmm?"
"They got it all, I'm told. Nothing like the big C to get you thinking, I'll tell you that." He studied Tegg and said confidentially, "You're a doctor. How much of what you tell your patients is B.S.? I don't believe half of what my doctor tells me."
"my patients have four legs. We don't enter into a lot of conversation."
"I suppose not."
"Have you seen Byron this afternoon?"
"I don't believe he's here," Alan Feldstein said, stretching his neck. He added, "if you had a wife that young, would you be here?"
"Well, at least we know your operation was successful," Tegg whispered quietly to the man. Feldstein grinned. Tegg bailed out while he was still ahead.
He was on his way to check how Pamela was handling Pin the Tail on the Zebra when he spotted a leather jacket out of the corner of his eye. Maybeck pretending to be one of the public spectators of K dog show.
Tegg did his best to contain his anger. He brushed off several attempts to snag him, cut outside the tent, and walked over to stand beside the man, facing in the direction of the dog show. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "Connie found an AB-NEGATIVE in the database," Maybeck said softly, screening those horrible teeth from sight with his hand. "Ninety-five pounds. Single. She ain't been an active donor in over two years, but she's in the phone book-lives in Wallingford.Tegg experienced that weightless feeling in his stomach of being in an elevator that was falling too quickly. It was one thing to consider performing a heart harvest, another thing entirely to actually set it in motion. "Can you deliver?" Tegg inquired. They had never attempted a kidnapping. "This ain't pizza we're talking about."
"Don't toy with me, Donald," Tegg said, knowing how the man disliked the use of his proper name. "Are there any other AB-negs?" Tegg asked rhetorically, knowing AB-negative accounted for less than four percent of the population. He was one himself. They were extremely lucky to have found even a single match. "None.'/ "Age?"
"She'd be. Maybeck attempted to add in his head. It bothered Tegg it should take him so long. "About twenty-six."
"That's very good."
"Why you think I'm here? I know it's good."
"Look into it. Find out if it can be done."
"We can do it. I already got it figured. I been watching her plac
e. Back door is fucking perfect for this."
Tegg didn't trust his assessment. Maybeck was more than likely blinded by the possible money. What wouldn't he risk for that? "But I'm gonna need your help."
"My help?" Tegg asked.
"You're the one who's going to get her to open the door for us."
Us? Tegg was thinking. Their relationship was symbiotic: Tegg needed a flunky, a go-between with the runaways and with Connie Chi at Bloodlines; Maybeck liked the idea of large amounts of cash for relatively little work. But us? Tegg seldom thought of them as any kind of team. It was an arrangement, was all often an unpleasant one at that. "I'm telling you, Doc. I got it all worked out. We go for it tomorrow morning."
Tomorrow? Tegg wanted this chance at a heart. But how badly?
How far was he willing to go? He glanced at his watch; he would have to make arrangements with Wong Kei. Could he arrange a meeting for later tonight?
it started to sprinkle. Rain would put a quick end to the dog show.
Maybeck said, "One phone call from you to this girl, Doc, and she's not only going to let us into her home, but she's going to make sure no one else is there. You want me to tell you about it?"
Tomorrow? Tegg was still thinking. "I'll call you," he said, turning and walking away. Then he changed his mind and headed toward his Trooper parked alongside the Pro Shop. He could use the cellular to call Wong Kei.
He could put this in motion immediately.
Dr. Ronald Dixon had something to tell him, and it pertained to Daphne's investigation-Boldt knew that much from the way Dixie had phrased the unexpected invitation to this dinner show.
The entrance to Dimiti's jazz Alley is, appropriately enough, down an alley, opposite a parking garage. Boldt parked his seven-year-old Toyota and crossed the alley, feeling out of place. He was accustomed to The Big joke's sticky floors and chairs with uneven legs. This place was aimed more at the BMW crowd.
Dixie's wife had allegedly been called to an emergency session of the local Girl Scout chapter, freeing the ticket he now handed to Boldt as the two met at the front door. Boldt didn't believe the story for a minute. Nancy Dixon didn't like clubs. That was just Dixie's way of sparing Boldt the fifteen-dollar ticket. Dixie confirmed his status as a regular when the two men were greeted warmly by the host and shown immediately to one of the best tables. Dixon placed a flight bag on the floor but kept it within reach. He could have checked it upstairs along with their coats. Why hadn't he?
Boldt ordered a glass of milk from the waiter who delivered a Scotch for Dixie-they knew his drink. The house began to fill. Good-looking women with good-looking guys. Computer whiz kids and aerospace experts. Older couples who remembered 78s and Big Noise From Winnetka-false teeth, false hair, but real lives. A couple of smokers relegated to the distant seats under the air vents. Bread roll baskets passing by in a blur. Nylons. Even a few spike heels. God, it was good to get out now and then, good to be out with Dixie again. "I bet it's been a year since I've been here," Boldt said. "Kids do that. it'll change."
"I hope not. I like things the way they are." Some part of Boldt, in spite of his rampant curiosity, wanted Dixie to leave that bag on the floor, wanted to keep the conversation personal, and off whatever that bag contained. "I want to tell you a story," Dixie announced. Boldt's skin prickled with anticipation.
"What happens in my line of work as in yours is that cases come and go. Some are solved, some are filed. Some go dormant, though they never quite leave your mind." He sampled the Scotch and clearly approved. "Every now and then something triggers you, something goes off in your brain, and you think: "I've seen this before." or "Didn't I hear somebody talking about something like this?" or "I know this is familiar to me." You know what I'm talking about. It happens to all of us."
Boldt nodded. He felt impatient and restless. "Cases overlap," he went on. Boldt fidgeted with his spoon, barely containing himself. "It happens all the time-more often than seems possible. There are reasons for such overlaps: There are only a limited number of murderers in King County at any one time-at least we hope so-more often than not, a relatively small number given the population base. We average less than ten in any given month. Sometimes zero. Right? From my viewpoint, it means there's a good possibility-even a probability-that any two bodies discovered around the same time, or in the same area, or relating to a similar cause of unnatural death may in fact be the work of the same person. It takes a certain jump in logic, however, to immediately reach that conclusion in this particular case, but that's my job, isn't it? Damn right it is. That's exactly what I'm here for. And my job is to pass along my concerns to the police if and when such suspicions bear investigation. In this instance, you, my friend, are the police, and I'll explain why."
"Nearly six months ago now," he continued, "a man carrying a brown paper bag arrived unannounced at our offices requesting to see "whoever's in charge." That's me, of course. He was of average height, in his early forties, with graying curly hair.
e was of a slight build-a hundred and forty-five Pounds maybe-the kind of guy who stays thin from an excess of nervous energy. You've met a dozen just like him. He was wearing a suit-a nice suit. This was his lunch hour. He was a corporate attorney by trade, name of Carsman.
"Mr. Carsman was a hunter. A bird hunter. Talked about not liking to kill. Talked about no one understanding hunting except other hunters. Said he liked to listen to the wind blow, the rain fall. "The rain?" I asked. "Is that why you're here?" He said no, it was on account of his dog. His dog? I verified that, then he lifted this paper bag, this grocery bag, the top of which was choked down tight so it looks like an old man's neck. He'd been sitting there holding it between his knees. I'm starting to think this guy is over the top and I'm part of his plan somehow. I'm starting to wish I carry some kind of revolver in my desk. I'm about to come out of my chair when he hoists this bag onto my desk. Thump, it goes. That thump worried me because I knew that sound: bone. I'm thinking it's a head maybe. He says he wasn't sure what to do with something like this. He said Stu Coleman's a neighbor of his. I know Stu from the state lab. Stu's all right. Stu told him to bring it to me. I asked him if I could see the bone. That threw him, but like I said: I knew that sound. There's no mistaking the sound of a bone on your desk." "Whatever you say," Boldt said.
His palms were moist. He wanted to order his dinner. He wanted Dixie to stop with his storytelling and get to the point, but Dixie spent a lot of hours with the dead, and he appreciated someone alive to talk to when he got the chance. "He was hunting in a very remote location, timberland northeast of the city. He shoots a bird-a blue grouse, I think it was-and he sends his dog after it. Dog disappears a long time. When he comes back-the dog, that is-he has …" Dixie leaned over with some effort. Boldt heard the sound of a zipper. The bag. Dixie righted himself saying " … this in his mouth."
Dixon let the large bone down gently onto the table. To him, it was perfectly normal to show someone a bone-a human femur. Big and unmistakable. To the people passing by their table, it proved a source of great curiosity-and for some, disgust.
Boldt studied it, turning it over repeatedly, and said, "You could have waited until I ordered my dinner."
"After a little bit of searching the stream, he found this as well," Dixon informed him, placing another, much smaller bone on the table. "This is the one that interests you-it's a rib."
"What if I was planning on ordering barbecue?"
"I thought Liz had you eating vegetarian."
"Who told you that?"
"Word gets around."
"Well … What if I am?"
"Then you're not ordering barbecue," Dixon said.
The second Scotch arrived. This was followed by a dinner waiter whose attention kept drifting to the two bones. Boldt ordered the Greek salad. Dixon just to be spiteful-ordered a rich pasta with smoked turkey and prosciutto.
When the waiter left, Boldt handled the rib. "I'm supposed to be interested in this?"
"Yes, y
ou are, It's human. just like the femur. Just like you." Dixie stared him down. "I took a personal interest in locating the rest of the corpse. Human bones discovered in such an isolated area suggest a buried body and buried bodies seem to be epidemic these days. The discovery of any human remains has to be investigated if for no other reason than that it is illegal to bury a corpse in the watershed area where Carsman's dog discovered the bone. Maybe you remember Monty, my assistant, Lewis Montgomery? He's our forensic anthropologist-and he's very good. Monty coordinated a search team using Boy Scout troops because at the time Search and Rescue wouldn't touch it."
Boldt interrupted, "Boy Scouts?" Dixie ignored him. "Nothing turned up and the case was filed under Unsolveds. I haven't spoken to Monty about the bones since. He and I ran some tests on them back when Carsman turned them over to us. Measurement and calcification tests indicated this femur had once belonged to a woman between the ages of eighteen and twenty-eight. The pelvis, if it can be found, will not only confirm this but will also tell us whether or not this woman had children." — Dixon continued "To formally identify a person from his or her bones, one needs more bones than this, and a lot of luck. A young woman in her mid-twenties, buried fifty miles from nowhere suggests the obvious to me — ."
"Homicide," Boldt finished for him.
He toyed with the partial bone on the table. "Look at the rib, would you?" Boldt studied the rib more closely, taking it into his hands and spinning it around. The waiter arrived with their meals. Boldt moved his arms to accommodate the man, who remained fascinated by the bones. He bumped a water glass, nearly spilling it. The waiter offered ground pepper, which both men declined, and he left, backing away, still fascinated.
Boldt ran his index finger along the square end of the bone.
"Some kind of surgical technique?"
"Interesting, isn't it?"
Boldt waited him out. "We use gardening shears. They work the best."
"We?" Boldt asked. "My office," Dixon replied. "For the autopsies," he clarified. "You've seen me use them; you just don't remember."
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