No Witnesses lbadm-3

by Ridley Pearson

  Holding his arm, she led him over to a sitting couch that fronted the huge plate-glass window. A moment later she delivered a tea to him and kept one for herself. She sat down beside him. Two people in a dark room, looking out a window.

  “Nice view, huh?”

  Boldt looked out across the bay, its surface in a constant shifting motion catching the moonlight, broken only by container ships awaiting a morning dock. “She arrived about an hour and a half ago. They talked awhile-actually he talked at her. He was angry, I think. Then he took her from behind. Right there. She leaned against that table. See that table? I don’t think she liked it much,” she said. “But she put up with it, which tells you something about the way he negotiates a deal. I wonder how much she goes for.”

  It was Fowler’s apartment. She was watching Fowler’s apartment, not the water. Not the boats or the moon. A set of gauze drapes was pulled, but Boldt could make out the shapes of two people, clearly a man-Fowler-and a woman. No telling her age or what she looked like.

  “This is what he does in his free time when he’s not watching other people.” Her angry tone of voice worried him. “Buy a little piece of ass for a midnight snack. A Hostess Twinkie.” In a Betty Boop voice, she said, “What? Can’t sleep tonight? Dial: One-eight hundred-I-DO-FUCK.”

  “I’m right here,” he offered.

  Staring out the window, she asked, “Have you ever watched other people screw? Not movies-I mean for real. It was disgusting. It was my first time. It’s really a disgusting dirty little act in many ways-especially like that, at the table like that. All the bumping and grabbing. A couple minutes is all, like alley cats. They never even kissed. Can you imagine? He just took her like a piece of meat. Like he had ordered a pizza or something. I don’t think she liked it,” she repeated.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Boldt suggested.

  “I’ll bet you anything he watched me and Owen.” She snapped her head toward him then, but looked away immediately. She said, “He didn’t learn anything, judging by his own performance.”

  “We could get some eggs,” Boldt suggested, wanting her out of here.

  “She’s leaving now. She’s smart.” Boldt saw that the woman was in fact leaving. “Two hours on the nose. Well, not exactly the nose. No matter what he paid her, it wasn’t enough. Not with a man like that. I wonder what two hours cost. Is it by the hour, or what?”

  “What does this accomplish, Daffy?”

  “If I’m watching him, then I know he’s not watching me. You want to fault that logic?” She added, “I want to bring charges, Lou.”

  “Daffy, do whatever you have to do.”

  “If you’re going to say something, just say it.”

  “We were cutting him out, Daffy. He knew it. He even said as much. You were nosing around some old skeletons, and he wanted to know what you had.”

  “No pun intended,” she sniped sarcastically. “I’m quite certain that by now he knows what I have.”

  “You want to blame someone, try Taplin. You think Fowler dreamed this up? He takes orders, Daffy. He’s Taplin’s go-and-fetch-it.”

  “They probably had pizza parties and watched me take showers.”

  “They’re in business. They’re not running peep shows. If you really want to hurt them, then forget filing charges. We wait and we use this against them somehow.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You think I can go back there and pretend I don’t know?”

  He waited her out.

  “You’re saying they’ve already seen all there is to see, so why not?” she questioned.

  “I’m not really suggesting that. No. We make an excuse. A friend needs you. Adler asks you to move in with him.”

  “We had to stop that because of my badge.”

  “We’ll think of something. I’d just rather not blow the whistle yet.”

  Fowler’s light went off. It was over.

  “You’re staying here tonight?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Are you going to be all right?”

  Another nod. “I’m a big girl.” She smirked. “Just ask him.”

  “I can stay.”

  “Go home to your family.” She glanced over at him. “I’m sorry for the way I behaved. I lost it, that’s all.”

  “Yeah. You lost it,” Boldt said. And she grinned for the first time.

  He kissed her. She flinched. And he left.

  THIRTY-THREE

  “Where were you until four in the morning?”

  “You’re not supposed to ask that at six-thirty.”

  “The question stands.”

  “If I told you I was in an ocean-view suite in a fancy hotel with a beautiful woman, what would you think?”

  “That you’re full of you-know-what.”

  “Good. The answer stands.”

  “You’re hopeless.” She walked around the room, and in and out of the bathroom, naked, getting herself ready. Boldt thought back to someone watching Daphne, and how she had reacted, and he thought he understood her better now that he saw his own wife being so casual with herself. And he, too, was angry, and perhaps more determined to do something about this anger.

  “Wake up.”

  He had drifted back to sleep. “You said I shouldn’t let you sleep.” Adding, “It’s not fair to ask of me such things.” She was dressed now, but not for work.

  “What day is it?”

  “Suzie and I are going over to Elaine’s. Michael is still locked up in that room with rubber walls.”

  Boldt realized that losing the prosecuting attorney would set back the investigation, but he pushed this thought aside. “You should be sainted.”

  “Taken to dinner would do.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Yes you had,” she told him.

  “I had,” he admitted. “But now I remember. I owe you a champagne dinner.”

  “And you owe your son about two weeks off.”

  “So noted.”

  “He’s spending too much time at day care. I’ll drop him,” she frowned. “But I’ll pick him up early. So forget it, in case you were thinking about it.” She looked at him. “You weren’t thinking about it.”

  “I can hardly think at all.”

  “Sleep deprivation has that effect.” She hesitated in the doorway, reluctant to leave.

  “What?” he asked.

  She asked tentatively, “How beautiful? And which hotel?”

  He smirked.

  The phone rang, and they both hesitated. “Do we have to?” she asked. Boldt answered it.

  Shoswitz’s voice named an address on Lakewood.

  Boldt hung up.

  “Honey?” she asked.

  “It has happened again,” Boldt mumbled.

  By the time Boldt arrived at quarter to eight, the crime scene had turned into a circus. Scores of the morbidly curious, plus television and radio vans including the three nationals with satellite links, every variety of police and-never explained-two fire trucks, crowded the area so badly that Boldt was forced to park on Sierra and cut through someone’s backyard. Much to his chagrin, the crime scene had been held for one man: Lou Boldt, and his arrival sparked a kind of instant celebrity that proved one of the most distasteful experiences of his career. Reporters shoved microphones at him, but he shielded his face and avoided both cameras and questions. When he finally made it inside the home, he discovered a video-cam crew from a tabloid television news show in the process of recording every aspect of the deceased-three bodies, total. The crew had set up in the living room and were waiting for him, complete with a portable light that was blindingly bright. The crime scene was contaminated, yes, but the violation of this family’s privacy was what triggered Lou Boldt’s explosive rage. He had the entire crew arrested for trespassing and breaking and entering.

  By the time the area was finally cleared, both Dixie and his crew, and Bernie Lofgrin and his, were on hand. The three men clos
ed the kitchen door, shutting out the chaos outside, and studied the dead.

  The husband had made it to the phone, though he had apparently never dialed. Dixie attributed these extra few seconds to his body weight “and a great deal of courage.” The middle-aged suburban woman appeared to have lunged for her eight-year-old girl, perhaps knocking over her chair in the process. Mother and daughter were curled tightly in each other’s arms, now dead beneath the kitchen table, the mother’s face locked in an expression of pure horror.

  The source of the poison-Dixie guessed the cause of death as such within minutes of his preliminary examination-appeared to be a watermelon. Lividity, the settling of blood in the body, indicated a time of death of between eight and sixteen hours earlier; additional tests would further narrow this. There were three slices of the melon on three plates, the seeds carefully removed, the slices cut up into cubes. No one had ingested more than six cubes of melon. Dixie declared, “We’ve both attended a lot of deaths, Lou, but I’ve never witnessed anything quite like this.”

  It was true. The father’s final effort was frozen, mocking his attempt; he was lying on the floor, arm outstretched, the phone’s receiver still in his hand. The dishes were neatly stacked alongside the sink. They had eaten barbecued pork chops, corn, and a green salad.

  Lofgrin said, “The news crew has already destroyed any chance of clean evidence, but we’ll go through the motions.”

  The similarity to the tree-house killings had reporters asking about a serial killer. Fishing still, but closer to the real story.

  He needed to be alone. He passed through the kitchen and into a small sitting room where a color television aimed at a couch and a bookshelf was crowded with hardcovers and paperbacks. The name of the family was Crowley, and the neighborhood, the house, the furnishings, the appointments, put them firmly in the combined six-figure income. This was another house that Liz would have wanted, and he could not help but think of mother and daughter beneath the kitchen table, huddled against the fears and pain of death. And how glad he was that this was not Liz and Miles.

  The stairs were maple and climbed quickly to a second story. He heard the whining as he reached the top, and he moved toward it cautiously, not knowing what to expect. It grew sharper and sadder as he approached, and he understood it was a dog before he opened the door. There, lying at the foot of the parents’ bed, pressed into the floor, lonely eyes trained up at Boldt in complete confusion, a shepherd-collie cried plaintively. This dog, Boldt realized, was the only witness to what had happened. This dog had lost her entire family in the course of one evening’s meal.

  He bent down and petted it, and fought back a seething anger.

  Dr. Richard Clements commandeered Shoswitz’s office. Daphne Matthews was there, as were Boldt and the lieutenant. Clements said to Boldt, “You are focusing on these truck farmers. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is not right.”

  “We’ve pulled every watermel-”

  “Schmater-melon. Blah! He no longer cares about claiming authorship. It is ending. He is leading you astray, Sergeant. You mustn’t be misled. I saw your work in the situation room. Stick with that-the paint, the colors, the evidence. This watermelon is a ruse, intended to mislead the hunt. He is the fox, let us not forget, and you are the hound,” he said to Boldt, “and we must remember that the only way the fox ever wins the chase is not to outrun his pursuers, but to deceive them.”

  Shoswitz huffed audibly, losing patience with Clements. His agitation surfaced as small tics to the shoulders and the eyes, so that he looked like a marionette whose strings were tangled. Boldt feared he might say something to offend the doctor, and realizing the value of Clements, quirky or not, Boldt headed off any such confrontation between the two by speaking first.

  “He could kill hundreds by poisoning produce.”

  “He doesn’t desire to kill hundreds. What did he say on the phone?” he asked Daphne.

  “That Owen had killed the ones he loved.”

  “He wants to kill Adler. My diagnosis is that his schizophrenia has progressed to a point that whatever voice may once have vied for such a grand scheme has since been overpowered by the drive for vengeance, a far greater motivation. As Caulfield perceives it, Owen Adler owes him several long years of his life. How many have read this?” He waved a group of papers in the air, impossible to see. He explained, “It is his defense of his innocence subsequent to the trial. A thoughtful, powerful, convincing piece of writing. I for one believe him. He claims to have been the victim of a frame-that the drugs were not his. He supported this by an offer of proof that not one blood test administered to him had tested positive for cocaine use. He points to the police lab tests that failed to find any trace evidence whatsoever of the drug in his home or automobile. In his third year of medium detention, he wrote this most extraordinary appeal, but because of the state’s minimum sentencing failed to be granted parole or a retrial. It is my judgment that a schism developed within him, driven perhaps by a valid injustice, as we now understand his situation. His more logical half advised him to follow the system; his disturbed half revolted, rejecting any such alliance with the very forces that had led to his demise. The latter half has gained control now, I am suggesting. But there is a cunning, logical, intelligent mind at work here, and one that has been alerted to the substantial powers and abilities of his adversary. It’s all over the news. He knows the clock is running. He knows what he is up against, and he has little conscious desire to be a martyr and be caught, regardless of the efforts of the subconscious.”

  “So he tricks us,” Daphne said, following the reasoning.

  “Exactly. He poisons a single melon. Off go the hounds chasing the melons, following the wrong scent, while all the while the fox has doubled back and is raiding the chicken house.”

  Shoswitz protested, “But we don’t know it was only the one melon.”

  “Sure we do,” Clements countered. “We’ve not had one other report. Correct? Not one other incident. And if he intended to kill hundreds using melons, this would hardly be the case.” He giggled. “Don’t you see how obvious he’s being about this?”

  The lieutenant bristled with the giddy pleasure Clements was taking in all of this. Any homicide cop felt the pain and suffering of the victims and their relatives-no matter how callous to the crime scenes he or she became, no matter how quick the one-liners, and how easy it was to move on to another case. The tragedy of the Crowley family had deeply affected everyone on the fifth floor, and in this way Clements was clearly a visitor.

  “I’m saying it’s Adler he wants. Do not be fooled by his cleverness. He will deceive you at every opportunity. I warned you of this before: You cannot put yourself in this man’s mind. But I can, gentlemen.” He acknowledged Matthews and smiled. “I can.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Boldt entered NetLinQ’s “war room” on Sunday night, losing faith that the ATMs might ever be used to trap Caulfield. For too many nights now he had sat in a chair and stared at the electronic map projected onto the huge screen. For too many nights he had gone home with nothing more than a headache.

  Special Agent Sheila Locke was about twenty-six years old, with short brown hair, a thin pale face, and enormous eyes. She wore a blue blazer that hid her figure, and a wireless headset that covered her right ear and a foam-covered microphone that hid her generous mouth. Using the newly added FBI communications, Locke and another agent, whom Boldt knew only as Billy, were in constant touch with the nearly seventy-five men and women watching ATMs in King County. Although Boldt’s tiny squad of eleven was keeping tabs on downtown ATMs, the FBI special agents and King County undercover officers had been deployed in the outlying regions, including Kirkland-Bellevue and SEATAC-Renton.

  Ted Perch was chatting up Lucille Guillard, who monitored a computer terminal allowing her personal control of all Pac-West ATMs. She would also get a real-time look at the extortionist’s account balance so that if a hit slipped thr
ough the screening software again, they would at least see a balance change indicating a hit.

  Over seventeen hundred ATMs under NetLinQ’s control were now subject to the time-trap software. In the past forty-eight hours, the system had not crashed once. Publicly, the delay was still being attributed to maintenance.

  The electronic wall map was peppered with different-colored dots: Red represented cash machines not under direct surveillance, of which there seemed to be hundreds. Green, considerably fewer, depicted the ATMs under covert surveillance. No ATM had been hit twice, and the amber dots represented the machines previously hit.

  It was indeed a remarkable display of technology, he realized, though it did little to buoy his mood. NetLinQ’s two other enormous screens, part of the switching station’s regular command center, displayed ATM traffic as blinking orange-and-green lines. These colorful lines shot across the maps like arrows, reaching hubs that represented banks’ mainframes, changed color, and traveled on. There were six people from NetLinQ tracking these screens, though they were generally disregarded by the law enforcement visitors.

  “Ready, Billy?” Locke asked the male dispatcher after several minutes of relative silence. Billy rolled his chair forward to a computer terminal that was positioned central to the wall maps. He adjusted his headset and tested it twice. He typed into the keyboard, checking his monitor and the maps, and spoke in a soft, even monotone: “Check seventeen.” He listened, typed again, and said into the headset, “Check forty-six.” Again. “Check sixty.” He did this for several minutes before giving a nod to Locke.

  Dispatchers, Boldt thought, were a different life-form. They needed nerves of steel and a steady monotone voice to go with them. In the middle of the most complex, chaotic, life-threatening emergency, they were paid to keep calm and direct human beings and vehicles as if they were chess pieces.

  Twenty minutes of silence followed, punctuated only by the clicking of computer keys. Boldt had nodded off when he was pulled awake by the sound of a human voice.