"I'm not sure, Lieutenant," Boldt lied cautiously, his hand curled around the note she had slipped there. He had felt her writing against him, using his back as a desk, just before she slipped out. "Maybe the little girls' room," Lamoia offered. He knew better.
"Gaynes, find her!" Shoswitz ordered. The detective hurried from the room. "Don't look too hard," Boldt advised from the corner of his mouth as Gaynes passed. She turned and winked at him. Wherever Daphne was headed, she would make it.
He opened his hand and read the crumpled note, written in mascara on the back of Lamoia's pink memo. It read: "You take Maybeck. I've got her." An arrow lead around the note to the other side where the name was boldly circled: Pamela Chase.
Boldt aimed his back squarely at Lamoia and asked, "Hey, did she get any of that stuff on my coat?"
Situated in the northern reaches of the university district, Pamela Chase's apartment building was around the corner from a Greek restaurant, a stationery store and a sewing shop. It looked more like a double-decker motel. Daphne was driving her own Honda Prelude because her assigned vehicle had yet to be returned by the airport security personnel; she would probably never see the car again. As she was checking to make sure her Beretta semiautomatic was secured in its holster up under her jacket, her pager began beeping. She unclipped it from her waist, studied it a moment, and dropped it casually between the seats, muting its tones and distancing herself from it. Shoswitz; wasn't reassigning her that was all there was to it. For several years of her life she had never gone more than thirty days without a trip to the firing range. Ever since that scar, more often than that. Only now, as she faced the possibility of actually using the weapon on a human, did she worry whether or not she could go through with it.
She climbed a flight of cement stairs, a dozen thoughts crowding her brain, paused at the top to catch her breath and clear her head, and approached number six. The mail slot to number six had Pamela Chase's name on it. Daphne felt like a detective now, not just a desk jock: Her stomach was nauseated, her eyes burning, her fingers cold. She had two bold lines of tension running up the back of her neck, as if an eagle had sunk its talons there. Her mouth tasted salty and dry, and she couldn't hear because of the humming in her ears.
Everything seemed to be riding on this moment. If Pamela Chase would go against Tegg, then Sharon might still have a chance.
She knocked on the door. The woman who answered it was overweight, in her-twenties. She carried a surprised innocence in her eyes, a piece of jellied toast in her right hand. "Pamela Chase?" Daphne asked. Although she looked like a pushover-someone easily broken daphne put herself on guard. Maybeck's strength had surprised her. With only hours to go until Friday, February 10, Pamela Chase seemed the last link to Elden Tegg.
There was no time to play sweet, no time to nibble at the edges.
Daphne had to take a big bite, right away, and make this woman hurt, make her panic. "I'm with the police, Miss Chase." She offered her a look at her identification. "I'm investigating a kidnapping, four homicides, and a series of organ harvests that date back at least three years."
The toast slapped onto the forest-green shag carpet in a wet landing. She had pinched it too hard. There was still a piece lodged between index finger and thumb. She was far from tan to begin with, but she was paler now. She had locked into a squint as if the sun were shining brightly over Daphne's shoulder. The sun was down, the sky a kind of glowing charcoal gray, like a colorless stained-glass window backlit by a low-watt bulb. Twice, Chase started to say something, tried to get a word out, but something was lodged in her throat. Something like guilt, thought Daphne. The kind of thing, try as you might, you can never swallow away. "What do you say we give your furnace a rest?" The girl didn't get it. "May I come inside?"
"What do you want?"
She felt like saying, "I want Sharon back alive!"
"I want more time in which to operate."
"I want our surveillance people back. A fighting chance."
She said, "I want Elden Tegg behind bars." The door swung open.
The girl staggered into the center of the dormitory-decorated room, dizzy and disoriented. It wasn't exactly an invitation, but Daphne followed, closing the door behind her. As it thumped shut, the girl glanced over at her, still in that painful squint. "I don't … I don't know anything," she said.
Daphne replied, "it would be nice if we had time to talk about it, wouldn't it? You could lie to me, I could lie to you. We call that 'the dance' in my business. I make promises I can't keep; you repeatedly tell me that you have no idea what I'm talking about. But you're small potatoes to me, Pamela Chase. You hardly count. I haven't got time for you.
Neither does my friend-the one you kidnapped. Time is the one I'm chasing now, and you're in the way, and I don't much care what happens to you, as long as you pay for what you've done and I get my friend back. This really isn't like me, but it's the way I feel, and I'll be damned if I can be any different right at the moment."
The girl's mouth sagged open. Dumbfounded, she again tried say something. Again, she failed.
Daphne smelled success brewing. "What it boils down to is whether or not you're willing to go to jail for the crimes he committed." Maybeck hadn't responded well to this line of reasoning, but Daphne sensed more chance in a girl like this. "Have you ever seen the inside of a women's prison? You know what they do to each other in there? All we ever hear about are the abuses in the men's prison system, but that's because we're in a male-dominated society. You know what the guards do to the women prisoners? They sell them goods-drugs and cigarettes mostly. And do you know what the women pay with? Why don't you sit down, Pamela? You're going to faint if you don't watch it. That's better. You feel okay? No? You shouldn't. You're not okay. You're in the deep stuff. You're in the stuff that hardens and turns to cement and never lets you go, and you know that all I need from you is a little talk. That's all. How you got into it? What he's done? just tell me that Elden Tegg is the harvester and tell me you'll sign a warrant to that effect. You do this for me and you may walk away from it. I don't much like that. If it were left to me, Id make you suffer for what you've done, but the law acts in strange ways. I'll play along, if you will. You buy yourself a big chunk of freedom by cooperating. You buy yourself nothing but trouble if you play it any other way." She took off a shoe and rubbed the sole of her foot.
"Tell me about it, Pam. Tell me how it works. Tell me where Maybeck fits in. And Connie Chi. Did you read in the paper about Connie? She's dead, you know? We think it was Maybeck, but it might have been Tegg. Someone killed her. That could have been you, girl. It may yet be you. That's something else I would think about if I were you. Life expectancy in this business of yours is on the backside of the curve." That kind of talk was going to lose her. She looked confused. Daphne didn't want her confused, she wanted her terrified. As terrified as she was. What if she failed with Pamela as well? What then? She spread her fingers into a church steeple, as if she were praying-maybe she was-and stared over nails that needed attention. All of her needed attention. "Sit down!" she shouted.
Pamela stumbled backward and fell to a sitting position on the couch. She was crying. "Better," Daphne said. She felt about as bad as she had ever felt. "I don't know what you're talking about," Pamela mumbled again. "Tell me about your flights to Vancouver. Who asked you to make those deliveries?"
"Am I under arrest?"
Daphne sensed this wasn't pamela Chase speaking, but Elden Tegg.
The girl had been coached. She couldn't arrest her for taking plane flights to Vancouver, and she couldn't very well bring her downtown for further questioning. Not given Shoswitz's edict. The policewoman Daphne Matthews couldn't lie, but she didn't have to answer.
Pamela stood quickly. Daphne instinctively reached for her weapon, as Pamela trundled off toward the kitchen. "Where are you going?" Daphne asked. "Just a minute," Pamela muttered. The carpet was wom in a straight line between that couch and the kitchen alcove.
Daphne pulled the weapon now, for Pamela had moved so quickly, she was already out of sight and around the corner. Her heart suddenly in her throat, Daphne edged toward the kitchen.
Noises! A cabinet door? A weapon? With the Beretta gripped tightly in both hands, its barrel trained at the floor, Daphne began to level it as she rolled gently around the edge of the corner.
Pamela attempted to hide the large jar of peanut butter, but her cheeks were bulging with it. She swallowed it away, gaping eyes glued to Daphne's gun. "Did Tegg ask you to make those trips for him?" She returned the gun to her holster. "I go there for study and research."
"Did he tell you to say that? We know why you go there. We know the flights you connect with there. It's only a matter of time before we uncover the other courier, the one making the international flights. Tegg is going to be mad at you when he finds out how we caught you: It was your frequent flyer miles, Pam. Every trip you took to deliver those organs is listed on your frequent flyer records."
"And why shouldn't they be? I go there for research."
"Kidnapping is a federal offense. A capital offense. You understand that? Prosecuting attorneys will often trade with one of the suspects, but only one. The others get the full charges. We already have Maybeck in custody." This shocked Pamela. She reached for the peanut butter and scooped out some with a spoon. Daphne said, "Tell me about Elden Tegg."
When Pamela spoke, her lips smacked with peanut butter.
"He's the best vet in the city. Ninety percent of our new business is based on referrals-cases other vets couldn't solve." This seemed more recited than spoken. Daphne could picture Tegg proudly, arrogantly, announcing these statistics to his assistant and staff.
Pamela Chase had been carefully indoctrinated. Such people couldn't easily be broken; they had to be worn down over repeated sessions, and Daphne didn't have the time for that. Panic seeped through the cracks. Pamela Chase had to talk. People on the fringes of criminal activity could often be compromised, but those at the heart proved far more stubborn. Those who stood directly in the shadow of the power were the most difficult of all to break: a dangerous combination of too loyal and too naive. Pamela Chase seemed to fit this latter category.
Daphne quickly adjusted to her new role. Her only hope now was to use Pamela as a conduit, to manipulate her into doing Daphne's work for her. Pamela was anything but cool, calm, and collected; she was panicked inside. They both were! Daphne could see it in the woman's frantic consumption of peanut butter, the perspiration on her upper lip, and her nervous eyes. If Daphne pushed her hard enough, if she pushed her over, Pamela would go running to Tegg, whether physically or by telephone, and that would lay the groundwork for an appearance by Daphne at Tegg's home.
She reminded herself that people who served as other people's assistants were accustomed to taking orders. She needed to be more authoritative with this girl. "Leave that on the counter and come into the other room. You're disgusting me."
Pamela's face flushed red. She hesitated. "Now!" Daphne pronounced. Down went the jar of chunky.
Daphne didn't carry a purse during working hours; she kept as little on her as possible, divided among several pockets: her wallet, her I.D. and shield, lip gloss, a small comb. The picture of Sharon Shaffer was in the left pocket of her coat, along with some notes, phone messages and her car keys. She handed the photograph to Pamela Chase and watched as those eyes squinted tightly and the girl's neck flashed crimson.
It was Daphne who felt light-headed now. Strangely, until this moment, she had clung to the hope that Sharon's disappearance might be explained some other way-any other way-that they had it wrong. But there was no mistaking the recognition in Pamela's reaction, although she also seemed surprised, and this confused Daphne who stated, "Her harvest is scheduled for tomorrow, isn't it." "Tomorrow?" Pamela questioned, still puzzled. Then she thought better of it. "I d-don't …" she stumbled on her words, "I don't know this person."
"That's a lie, Pamela.
Lying to the police is a serious crime. You can go to jail just for lying to me. Tell me about Sharon. Where is Tegg keeping her? Why has he kept her for so long, when Cindy Chapman was kept less than thirty-six hours?" There was recognition of that name as well. Daphne's palms were damp, the muscles in her upper back and neck had frozen into an unforgiving knot. So close now She rotated her head trying to free them. Pamela Chase continued to stare at the photograph.
Daphne said, "You think he's wonderful, don't you? You probably even think that what you've been doing is right, at least on some level. You don't strike me as a criminal. Now you're protecting him. Why? He uses you. Don't you see that?"
Pamela's head snapped up from the photo.
"He's using you and Maybeck to do the criminal work while he takes all the money. Do you know the kind of money we're talking about?"
"Shut up!"
"Hundreds of thousands of dollars."
"Quiet!" She dropped the photo and pressed her hands to her ears. The photo glided to the carpet and landed face up. Sharon looked up to Daphne for help.
Daphne asked, "Is she at the clinic? Is that where he's keeping her? If you take me to her, if you helped me to find her, you'll get off scot-free. I promise you." Pamela shook her head no, but Daphne pressed on. "Think! You're a smart woman.
You can see Tegg has used you. What laws has he broken? But you can take me to Sharon, can't you? You can save her. Take me to her now. What do you owe him?" A look of defiance came over the suspect. Her eyes flashed hatred and she said strongly, "I owe him everything! What do you know about it? Nothing! It's all lies. You're the police. You tell nothing but lies. Little people is what you are. Public servants, nothing more. You get out of my house. You get out of my house now!"
"I can bring you downtown for questioning."
"Then do it.
You're not going to do it, are you? If you were, you would have done it right away, wouldn't you have?" Pamela stepped toward her.
Daphne challenged. She too stepped forward, preventing Pamela from stepping on Sharon's photograph. "She's AB-negative," she said, displaying the photograph once again, "not O. Our experts tell us that her rare blood type indicates the harvester is after a major organ-something that will kill her. A liver maybe. A liver, like Anna Ferragot. Were you part of that?" Pamela stopped cold. Her eyes filled with tears. Her hurt and horror were palpable.
Sensing a nerve, Daphne pushed harder. "Tell me about Anna. We found her bones, you know? We found them buried by the Tolt River. You can't run away from any of this. There's no running away from this kind of thing. This is murder. At least three others besides Anna Ferragot. You think Elden Tegg is the best? Well, not on humans, he's not. These three died of incompetence-of hemorrhages. They bled internally. Bled to death on the streets. Runaways. No one cares, right? Is that what he told you? Well, he was wrong. We care. I care. Little people? is that what you called me? Where does that leave you, Pamela? Where in the hell does that leave you and Dr. Elden Tegg?"
"Out! Get out of my house!" She stepped forward and the two of them were face to face, though Daphne stood taller. The girl smelled like a combination of department store perfume and peanut butter.
Given Daphne's present situation, there was nothing more to be done. She ached with this realization. Was Pamela strong enough to act on her own? Daphne decided she wasn't. With Boldt keeping an eye on Maybeck, that left only Elden Tegg. Pamela would have to turn to one or the other. "You can still save yourself, Pamela."
"Get out."
Daphne slid the photograph into her pocket. As she stood in the open door, the sun now fully set, she said, "If you let her die, if you help him, what kind of person does that make you?" She added, "You're the only one who can save her. Tell me where she is. Tell me about Tegg. Tell me something. Think, Pamela, think!"
"Go away." Pamela pushed the door closed. Daphne kept her foot wedged in it briefly and the two met eyes. Then the door pushed shut completely. She heard crying on the
other side of that door. She lifted her hand to knock-to try one last time, but thought better of it. The phone was quicker than the car.
She had to get to Tegg's as quickly as possible.
J When Donnie Maybeck returned from his ordeal with the police, he found an unusual delivery awaiting him. Outside his apartment door in the drearily lighted hallway sat a dog cage containing a pit bull. His name and address were written on an envelope taped to the outside of the cage. This cage helped explain a smaller parcel that had arrived earlier, a parcel he had received just prior to heading off to the pit bull fight that had ended in such complete and total disaster. In that earlier package he had found a padlock key and a remote device for a shock collar. The accompanying note, printed by a computer printer, read: More To Come.
Had to be from the Doc. It was just like him to It do something this anonymous. The Doc didn't trust anyone. Didn't trust the phones. Didn't trust nothing. Did he intend for him to use the dog on Pamela? Something like that? No one needed to warn Donnie Maybeck about the danger that these dogs represented.
Donnie lugged the cage inside and shut the door, taking a second to lock it as well. He tore the envelope off the outside of the cage and ripped it open. The note inside read: Travel money.
His heart beat a little quicker. Cash? The payoff? The Doc was telling him to get the hell out of Dodge and do it now.
Maybeck practically dove at the cage. He peered into the dark hole, the dog growling at him, and spotted a manila envelope taped to the back wall. Then he understood: If you tried to open the cage without the key, without the remote wand to this shock collar, you were toast-you were never going to see that money. Genius! Leave it to the Doc!
Maybeck was beside himself with excitement. He had never been long on patience, and now he found himself moving so quickly he was bumping into things. Fifty? Would the Doc pay him the full fifty? Half would suit him fine. Even ten grand would make him happy for a long time. Why be greedy? But it was greed that drove him to act with such haste.
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