Boldt heard her but did not acknowledge. He read slowly and intently. He wanted every last detail committed to memory.
CITY BEAT—POLICE MADE TWO ARRESTS ON TUESDAY IN THE SO-CALLED 911 SCAM THAT HAD BEEN PUZZLING INVESTIGATORS FOR WEEKS AND HAS COST AREA VICTIMS, MOSTLY THE ELDERLY, NEARLY $280,000. FOLLOWING A TELECOMMUNICATIONS STING INVOLVING COORDINATED TECHNOLOGIES LINKING AIR TOUCH CELLULAR, SOUTHWESTERN BELL AND SPRINT COMMUNICATIONS, THE CONFIDENCE GAME, WHICH PITTED THE FICTIONAL CALLER AS A LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICER ATTEMPTING TO UNRAVEL A BANK EMBEZZLEMENT SCANDAL, WAS FINALLY PUT ON HOLD. ARRESTED WERE ROGER CROWLEY, 28, OF NEW ORLEANS, AND HIS WIFE, LISA. THE PAIR, WHO HAVE OPERATED UNDER AS MANY AS TWENTY-TWO ALIASES, ARE WANTED ON RELATED CHARGES IN FIVE OTHER STATES INCLUDING NEVADA, ARIZONA AND FLORIDA. IF CONVICTED, THE COUPLE INDIVIDUALLY FACE UP TO FIFTEEN YEARS JAIL TIME AND FINES EXCEEDING $200,000. THE CROWLEYS’ ATTORNEY, VINCENT CHEVALIER, SAID HE WOULD FILE FOR DISMISSAL BASED ON ENTRAPMENT. INSISTING HIS CLIENTS WERE VICTIMS THEMSELVES—OF A LAW ENFORCEMENT WITCH-HUNT—CHEVALIER INSISTED ON HIS CLIENTS’ INNOCENCE AND SUGGESTED TO REPORTERS THAT THE CASE WOULD NEVER REACH TRIAL.
Three subsequent articles proved Chevalier wrong. The case did go to trial, a jury trial, resulting in what to Boldt’s eye was a ninthinning plea bargain down to intent to defraud that cut short the trial and lessened the sentences to seven years each, restoration of the victims’ assets and fines of ten thousand dollars each. Translated, it meant release in two to three years, restoration at thirty cents on the dollar, and two, twenty-five-hundred-dollar fines. It was the Crowleys’ first conviction after eleven years and twenty-seven separate arrests in five states. There was nothing in the articles to connect the couple to any kidnapping, child abduction, child abuse or extortion.
Daphne made the connection ten minutes later. “Middle of last year, the Crowleys sued the state of Louisiana for blocking an adoption they had planned.”
Boldt shot her a look of astonishment. He said, “Convicted felons aren’t allowed to adopt,” well aware of the federal law.
Daphne continued, “The Crowleys took possession of an infant girl born in Arkansas. They might have pulled it off, except the biological mother was an unwed fourteen-year-old, a minor, and her parents contested the adoption. Vincent Chevalier both arranged the adoption and represented the Crowleys in their lawsuit and their appeal.”
“Lost both,” Boldt guessed.
“Yes.”
“Motive enough for this spree,” Boldt suggested.
“A couple denied parenthood?” she said. “Worse than the wrath of a woman scorned.”
“Confirm with Broole that Roger Crowley has an eagle tattooed on his left forearm. Then convince him that Crowley’s at large. We need a warrant to trap-and-trace telephone calls inside Chevalier’s office, from his cellular, and from pay phones in and around the surrounding neighborhood. Whatever you do, don’t mention the Pied Piper investigation.”
Keeping up with Boldt’s hurried strides, Daphne said, “Is there some water you want me to walk on in the meantime?”
“Just try.”
“I will.”
“What happens to them after the adoption is blocked?” he asked.
“Denied the adoption, they decided to pursue other means of obtaining a child. But not for themselves anymore. For others.”
“Forget about it,” he said.
“The penny flutes. They wanted the abductions connected. They’re making a statement. It’s the Robin Hood Syndrome. They see themselves as saviors. In their minds, their actions are perfectly justified. They know what it’s like to be denied parenthood.”
“Stop,” he said harshly. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“You need to,” she protested. “These are the people who have your daughter.”
CHAPTER
Detective Broole returned to his desk carrying a swagger reminiscent of LaMoia and a thick manila folder that Daphne assumed belonged to Roger or Lisa Crowley. The detectives division suffered under the noisy strain of wall-mounted air conditioners unable to condition and the languid efforts of paddle fans that recycled the same stale air.
“You really know how to pick ’em, su-gar.” Broole slapped the file down in front of her and then lit up a cigarette within yards of the sign forbidding the activity. His clichéd coif was gelled into a ducktail. “We’ve had this loser in cuffs more times than his tailor. How’d you find him?”
“Library.”
“Ah yes, that font of public knowledge,” he said sarcastically.
“But it didn’t say anything about tattoos,” she said, reminding him of her earlier criteria.
“Yeah? Well this does. Have a look,” he said, leaning over from behind and opening the folder in front of her, using the effort to be physically close to her. Attached to the folder’s inside flap was a series of a half dozen mug shots. Below these were two other photographs, both of tattoos: an eagle on the man’s left forearm; a snake running down his leg to the right of his genitals that had been blacked out with marker. Her heart skipped a beat—they had a physical marking that could be offered as hard evidence—Roger Crowley was the Pied Piper.
Crowley’s various mug shots revealed a man skilled at cosmetics. Light hair, dark hair. Short hair, long. Acned skin, baby face. Warts, scars and wounds. Bright eyes, dull eyes; round eyes, almond. Crowley was all of these people and yet none of them, she realized. The real man behind the crimes lay buried somewhere back on Crowley’s personal time line. Daphne Matthews wanted a shot at that person—the one who remained hidden. She wanted into his mind, inside where others had not been.
As she sought an invention to convince Broole to wiretap Chavalier’s phone lines, Broole revealed his own agenda. “Is this the Pied Piper?” he asked, still leaning over her, his sour cigarette breath warm on her neck. “And before you hand me some discontinued merchandise and try to sell me on the life of its warranty, I beg you to consider the truth carefully because maybe, just maybe, su-gar, I possess something of even greater value to you.” He placed his left hand onto her shoulder and his long fingers dangled down her chest as he sucked on the cigarette from his right. A cold shiver pulsed through her. He quizzed her. “Now, I don’t want to speak it, su-gar, not aloud that is, but thunderstorms produce not only rain and lightning but another meteorological element.”
“Wind? Tornadoes?”
“Not aloud. Aloud is not allowed,” he said, amusing himself. He touched a finger to her lips. She was suddenly very much afraid of him. “But no, not wind, not tornadoes.” He took his finger away. “It is a hybrid of snow and rain, su-gar, this particular meteorological element—kind of rain and ice rolled into one. It is also something you might associate with a particular federal agency involved in law enforcement. It will benefit us both greatly if you do not speak his name aloud, for that will alter my own position greatly and put me in a difficult position where I am forced to take sides. And I don’t believe it would be revealing any secrets to tell you I would much prefer to be on your side.”
“Frozen rain,” she said, repeating what he had said.
“Precisement!”
Hail, she thought. Hale. Special Agent. “I’m with you,” she said.
“Which is more than any man could ever ask,” he said, maintaining the intimacy and stroking her collarbone. “Let me repeat,” he said, sparing no contact. “Is this the one you all are calling the Pied Piper?”
“He’s a suspect,” she conceded, wondering how much to give, how much to keep.
“And the connection to New Orleans, other than his past?”
“His past is what brought us here,” she told him. It was not an outright lie; the use of the 911 con had in part led them to Crowley.
“The connection, su-gar? Don’t play with me.” He sucked on the cigarette. Some ash brushed her arm as it tumbled to the floor.
“An attorney named Chevalier. We need a wiretap. We need to stay a step ahead of our federal friends.”
“Is the collar so all-important?”
“You like the Feds, you work with them,” she offered. “We need his office, his cell phone, and any pay phones for several blocks. My job is to win your cooperation.”
His fingers danced lower on her chest. “And what is it exactly that I get in return? Hmm? From you, I mean? What would such a favor be worth? I’ll need a warrant, su-gar. I’ll need a real good lie to convince a judge to give me one. What would all that be worth, do you think?”
“The lives of two little girls,” she answered bluntly. “If the Feds beat us to the suspect, we lose at least one of the girls.”
“And I’m all tears, you understand,” Broole said, “but it’s that night sky I’m thinking about. Some good company.”
“We could try for the attorney’s phone records without you,” she said, “but we’re a little out of our jurisdiction.”
“Maybe you aren’t listening.”
“Dinner tonight?” she said, weighing Sarah in the balance.
Broole picked up the phone and made two calls, Daphne listening in. He found his way to a woman named Emily who was either a past girlfriend or a blood relation. There was a brief discussion. When he hung up from the second call he said, “Phone records for office phone, home phone, fax line and cellular. They’ll be through on the fax in a matter of minutes.”
“I shouldn’t have told you what I did,” she admitted, having had time to reconsider.
“Look at it this way, su-gar. If you hadn’t, our meteorological friend would have been a step aheada you.”
“He has already IDed Crowley?” she gasped.
“He looked through our photo albums. He had a list of the state’s former guests with him. What he made of it all, he didn’t say, but he did not leave here in a jovial mood. Even so, I wouldn’t count a man like that out, if I was you. He seems bound and determined to make the most of his resources.”
“We’re not counting him out, no,” she said. The fax of Chevalier’s phone records arrived only minutes later.
CHAPTER
The phone records provided by Broole produced immediate results and instantly clarified Vincent Chevalier’s role. They also necessitated Daphne requesting a rain check for her dinner with Broole: She was heading out of town.
Awaiting his flight’s boarding call, Boldt told her for the third time, “I’ll call your cellular at eight o’clock Eastern, your batteries okay?”
She nodded. “You know the drill? Go easy with them, Lou. It’s doubtful they know the extent of what they’re involved in. If they go crying foul to Chevalier—”
“Got it,” he said brusquely, checking the overhead clock. It was her plan, not his. A part of Boldt resented that. But true to form, she had come up with something brilliant.
“There are moments in one’s life that are never forgotten,” she warned. “Weddings, deaths, traffic accidents. The space shuttle blowing up. Kennedy. Lady Di. Your visit to the Brehmers is one of those moments. Mine too, with the Hudsons. This evening their lives change forever. Remember that.”
“All our lives have changed forever,” Boldt reminded stoically. “Every moment—every decision—is one of those moments you’re talking about.”
“They’ll never forget our visits. We are walking into their living rooms and detonating a bomb. Go easy on them.”
“Message received.”
His flight was called. He glanced toward the developing line at the gate, back to the clock and finally to Daphne. They shared an awkward moment, not knowing how to part. They shook hands. Boldt felt right about that.
“Eight o’clock,” he repeated. He walked to the gate carrying only a briefcase.
Amelia and Morgan Hudson owned a sprawling horse farm on the outskirts of Lexington, Kentucky. Surrounded by a whitewashed board fence, acres of manicured bluegrass corrals interconnected like a patchwork quilt. With it too dark to see, Daphne imagined the ill-tempered stallions kicking and bucking, the complacent mare and foal pairs meandering the fence lines. She had been raised on a farm not unlike this one. Her parents lived not two hours away.
Having headed straight to the Hudson residence from the airport, she turned the rental down the long drive, recalling a dozen memories from her childhood.
The enormous brick house ran off in a variety of directions. A white-faced Negro riding a black horse in an English saddle welcomed visitors with an electric lantern held out to the side.
Chevalier’s office and cellular phones carried a series of long distance calls to the Hudson household leading up to the date of the Shotz kidnapping. The day of the kidnapping, three separate calls had been placed. A week later, the calls suddenly stopped. Chevalier never called the couple again. Daphne knew what she would find inside—who she would find, though it did nothing to instill confidence in her. Her assignment was simple confirmation. Boldt had the more difficult task.
She dragged her briefcase heavily toward her. She had lied to the Hudsons three hours earlier in a call from the New Orleans airport. Now she had to reveal that lie and undo others. She double-checked that her weapon, concealed inside her purse, was loaded and working properly. She had no idea what kind of people she faced.
CHAPTER
Boldt toyed with LaMoia’s pick gun from the backseat of the rental. The Brehmers’ Houston, Texas, home showed no activity, as it had not for the last hour. Boldt had made a single call to it before leaving New Orleans. A woman’s southern drawl had answered, “This is Cindy.”
“Mrs. Evaston?” Boldt asked.
“This is Mrs. Brehmer speaking,” she corrected.
“Sorry, wrong number.” Boldt hung up. That was all he had needed to justify the trip, but now, from the backseat, he found himself having second thoughts. He was playing a solid hunch based on an attorney’s phone records, but the impatience of the desperate father in him, in constant conflict with the meticulous detective, refused to waste more than another fifteen minutes. He climbed out of the car and headed around the house to find the back door. He had the perfect excuse available to him if someone turned out to be home—the police shield in his coat pocket.
The house was deceptive. It reached back into the lot, framing a lap pool, and with a substantial cottage pressed up against the back fence. A great deal of care had been taken with the landscaping, hiding corners and breaking the structure’s more common lines.
Boldt walked up to the kitchen door and pounded sharply. He didn’t care if neighbors saw him; he had Sarah, Trudy and the others on his mind. He knocked again. No answer.
The security system, visible through the kitchen door, was manufactured by Brinks and was currently armed, a single red LED flashing. Boldt flipped open his cellular and called the house number again to make certain he had called the right home. The phone rang inside a moment later and also went unanswered.
The next call went to LaMoia.
“Yo!”
“It’s me.”
“Nothing here. Chevalier is a workaholic. Ordered a sandwich delivered.”
“I need every four-digit number that could possibly belong to the Brehmers, of 342 Magnolia. Cindy and Brad. Dates of birth. Cell phones. Social Security. Car registrations. Start there. Add anything else you can think of.”
“Hang on, I’m writing this down,” LaMoia said. “Cindy and Brad Brehmer.”
“How long?” Boldt asked.
“Six o’clock in Seattle? I can do this. Fifteen or twenty for the easy stuff: birthdays, cell phones, Social Security. I don’t know about the car registrations. I’ll try the local law. They might help if I press them.”
“Hurry,” Boldt said.
“You on your cellular?”
“Right here,” Boldt said. He disconnected. Boldt never questioned LaMoia’s contacts, his ability to obtain information. Some said it was all the women he had been with. Others claimed he had once held a position in Army Intelligence, something Boldt knew to be untrue. Whatever the case, he would have made a better Intelligence office
r than Boldt; he had contacts everywhere and at all levels.
Twenty minutes later Boldt’s cellular vibrated at his side. LaMoia provided him with two Social Security numbers, one cellular phone number, and the vanity plates from two cars: FNDRAZN and BRADH. He also had two other phone numbers for the same address, both unpublished. Boldt took these down as well, believing them to be the office phone and data line—both decent candidates for the home code.
Boldt asked, “How many retries on a Brinks home security system?”
“We’re talking password entry?”
“Right.”
“The system times out is all. User programmed. Ten-second intervals. Default is thirty seconds on most systems.”
“That’s true for Brinks? Do you know that for a fact?”
“Doesn’t matter the make, only the commercial models limit the number of retries as far as I know. Home models use timers.” He asked, “You going inside, Sarge?”
“The last plane out is at ten. I can’t wait around if I’m wrong.”
“And if you’re right?”
“Then Matthews has a flight to book.”
Boldt wrote out the numbers he’d been given as a list on a piece of notepaper. He timed himself, and using his cellular phone’s numeric pad, practiced entering the various combinations of numbers. Within minutes, he determined he could not key in all the numbers provided him. He had to make selections. He reduced both Social Security numbers to their last four digits and he did the same to all the phone numbers. The birthdays were more troublesome, both containing six digits. He divided each into two sets of four digits: 12/24/59 became both 1224 and 2459. Boldt’s edited list amounted to ten sets of four digits. After six practice runs it became clear to Boldt he would be physically unable to enter more than eight sets of numbers in the thirty-second window. He removed the home phone number—too obvious—and the first half of the wife’s birthday, 1224; husbands were not the best at remembering their wife’s birthday.
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