No Witnesses lbadm-3

by Ridley Pearson

  “We have a hit! Three seconds and counting.”

  Where once this announcement had brought excitement, now it brought only frustration.

  On the display a bright white light flashed in Earlington, indicating the hit. A digital display ran in the upper right-hand corner, counting off the passing seconds of the active ATM transaction.

  Billy dispatched two of the field agents, directing one to the north of the hit, and the other directly to the ATM. Not surprisingly, given the odds, this ATM was not under direct surveillance.

  Guillard called out: “It’s not ours.”

  Perch shouted, “Ten seconds elapsed.” He hawked instructions at an assistant who worked furiously at the keyboard. “Twenty seconds.”

  To Billy, Perch said, “Where the hell are your people?”

  The dispatcher, maintaining his calm, did not reply.

  Boldt watched as Perch’s assistant shook his head and announced, “Transaction complete.”

  Boldt said, “We need more time,” and cued Billy to rush the surveillance teams. A volley of calm instructions followed. Billy informed Boldt, “Surveillance nine is closing. Also fourteen.”

  Perch, Guillard, and Boldt all fixed their attention on the two dispatchers, motionlessly, silently. Cars racing down streets. Caulfield calmly walking away.

  Billy finally looked up. “Surveillance reports no visual contact. The ATM is empty.”

  Perch slammed the desk violently. “I’m increasing the window of time.” He added, “The system had better hold together.”

  The room settled into an uncomfortable but workmanlike atmosphere. For the next thirty minutes Boldt checked his watch frequently, glancing between Billy and the overhead screen.

  For NetLinQ, it was business as usual. The rows of technicians monitored the endless transfer of money as hundreds of transactions representing thousands of dollars raced through the NetLinQ computers.

  At five minutes to nine, Guillard announced excitedly, “We have a second hit. I’m pushing the time delay to thirty-five seconds. Objections?” She had independent control of the time-trap software for her bank’s ATMs.

  Perch sounded apoplectic as he questioned the wisdom of such a long WOT. “Thirty-five seconds?”

  Boldt glanced at him hotly.

  Perch said, “Fuck it. Just do it!” he okayed.

  Boldt stood to his feet as the screen changed to an enlargement of the Earlington area, showing all its streets. The small dots were now large circles with numbers inside them. Each surveillance agent carried a Global Positioning System transmitter, relaying back his or her exact real-time location, which the electronic map then displayed. A blue triangle bearing the number 6 moved steadily toward the yellow ATM on Southwest Seventh. Another blue dot numbered 4 moved north on highway 167, and another, under Billy’s monotone instructions, north on the 405.

  “Authorization requested.”

  Boldt could picture Caulfield at the ATM waiting for the cash. Would he notice the added time? Would he have heard the fabricated news stories that the entire Northwest system was experiencing delays due to maintenance operations?

  “Authorization approved,” Perch called out, reading over Jimmy’s shoulders.

  Twenty seconds.

  “Currency delivery in progress,” Guillard announced.

  The time-trap software included a routine to slow the actual delivery of the bills. This was because Perch had explained that a customer can hear the machine counting out the cash, and he believed that once the suspect heard and recognized this sound, psychologically it would be much more difficult to walk away from the machine.

  Thirty seconds.

  Billy said into his microphone, “I copy, six.” To Boldt he said calmly, “We have visual contact.” He handed Boldt a headset.

  At that moment there were no sweeter words for Lou Boldt. Given all their efforts, this was the first time anyone had actually seen Caulfield. “Description?” Boldt asked.

  He did not recognize the voice of field agent number 6. It belonged to one of the dozens of FBI agents who were now participating. He did not recognize the description of the suspect either, which was when his head felt faint and dizzy.

  “Five foot seven or eight. Motorcycle helmet. Leather jacket.”

  “Repeat height,” Boldt ordered. Harry Caulfield stood an even six feet.

  “Five foot eight.”

  “Sex?”

  “Female.”

  “Repeat.”

  “Definitely female. I’m looking at her backside, don’t forget.”

  Boldt recognized the description well enough: Lucille Guillard had shown him a photograph. Disappointed it was not Caulfield himself, he settled for the accomplice.

  “Orders?” Boldt heard through the headphones.

  He glanced around the room. All eyes were on him.

  Billy asked calmly, “Instructions, Sergeant?”

  He felt cheated. He sorted through his choices as the accomplice stood waiting for her cash, and the field agent stood waiting for instructions.

  “Maintain visual,” Boldt said, though barely loud enough to be heard.

  Perch jumped forward and complained, “But the software worked! You’ve got her!”

  “Back off!” Boldt ordered the man. “Maintain visual,” he repeated calmly to Billy, feeling himself again, his eyes glued to the electronic map.

  The dispatcher repeated the command with all the energy of ordering a tuna sandwich.

  “How long to throw a net around it, Billy?” Boldt inquired. The plan all along had been for one or two surveillance personnel to make the bust. Patrol cars readied as backup, in case it went sour. But now, all that had changed.

  Billy and Sheila Locke consulted several screens. Locke said, “Two minutes and we can have all the major routes in and out with a minimum of single-agent coverage. I can put the bird up if you want.” She checked a mileage chart. “Seven minutes and we’re there. That would give us backup support, although it’s a dark night out there tonight.”

  “Do it. Tighten it up and close it down.” He ignored Perch, who hovered alongside. “Maintain visual surveillance only.”

  “Right.”

  “Transaction complete,” Guillard announced from her corner.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Perch implored.

  “I heard you the first time. Thank you,” Boldt said. He had other answers, all cliches: “My job.” “What they pay me to do.” But he held his tongue, wondering if a civilian could be made to understand the balance of risk and assets.

  Billy deployed the agents to cover on-ramps and intersections, bus stops, bike routes, and running paths. Not taking his eyes off his work, he explained to Boldt, “If she goes too far south of town too quickly, I may lose her. We’re not set up for that.”

  “I understand,” Boldt returned. “She won’t go south,” he predicted. Clements and a pair of FBI experts had studied the ATM hit patterns from the previous nights and had determined that the extortionist always moved toward the city and I-5 as the hits progressed. It was assumed that I-5, possibly in combination with other major highways, was seen by the extortionist as an escape route. In truth, law enforcement welcomed the use of limited-access highways.

  Lucille Guillard’s telephone purred softly, and she answered it. A moment later she hung up and informed Boldt, “We have a stop-motion video image of the hit.” To Locke she said, “Your techs have been informed.”

  Locke said to Boldt, “We may be able to pull a video feed for us here.”

  Boldt had seen the satellite van outside in the parking lot and had wondered what it was for.

  He had no chance to doubt his decision. With the suspect clearly not Caulfield, and Caulfield the only person of interest to him, he felt he had no choice but to follow the suspect, hoping she would lead them back to him. The thought crossed his mind that Caulfield had never been any part of the extortion, but he could not allow himself to give any weight to this, given his current
commitment both mentally and logistically to the surveillance operation.

  “The chopper is picking up the video for us,” Billy told Boldt, a finger pushed to his ear. “We should have it back here in a matter of minutes.” He returned to his keyboard.

  Locke indicated Boldt’s headphones, which the sergeant had slipped down around his neck. He pulled them back on in time to hear the same field agent describe the suspect moving northwest on foot.

  “Turning left at the corner,” the voice said.

  Boldt caught himself holding his breath.

  The agent announced in a low voice, “I’m about thirty yards back. Maintaining visual contact.”

  Pointing to the screen, Billy told Boldt, “We’ll have another agent in play at the next intersection.”

  “Possible vehicle spotted,” the field agent announced.

  “A motorcycle?” Boldt asked him through the headset.

  “Negative. A brown Datsun, Washington vehicle registration: Nine-four-five-one-one.”

  Billy repeated the number into his headset and told Boldt, “Your people are running the plate through DMV.”

  “I’ve got it,” Locke announced, freeing Billy of this communication. A minute later she leaned into her headset and, having been instructed not to repeat such a thing aloud, wrote out for Boldt,

  Vehicle registration: Cornelia Uli, 26, female, Caucasian. Address: 517? Airport Way, Seattle.

  Boldt folded the piece of paper and placed it in his pocket. Assigning this a top priority, he instructed Locke to place the residence under tight surveillance. She went about redeploying the field surveillance personnel in order to accommodate this change.

  “She’s getting into the vehicle,” the field agent announced. “I’m on foot, I’m going to lose her.”

  “Likewise,” said the second agent to arrive in the area.

  Boldt, terrified they were about to lose her, checked with his dispatcher, who went off-mike, grinned, and said, “Don’t worry, Sergeant. We’ve got this tighter than a gnat’s ass.” He pointed to the screen. “I’ve got five vehicles within a four-block area. Unless she beams herself up, we’ve got her.”

  The radio traffic in Boldt’s headset heated up as Billy orchestrated the vehicular handoffs. No one car stayed with the target vehicle for more than six blocks or two miles of highway. On the screen, the blue triangles representing the agents’ location transmitters clustered in and around an area where Billy kept manually moving a white flashing dot indicating the suspect.

  The white dot left I-5. Billy announced, “Suspect is coming to a stop.”

  Boldt listened in on the continuous dialogue between dispatcher and field agents. He closed his eyes and tried to picture a sidewalk ATM on a not-too-busy street, the approach of a petite woman wearing a motorcycle helmet in the faint glow of the streetlights, and the swarm of police that now surrounded her and would continue to monitor her every moment. She was, as of that moment, public property. Cornelia Uli would be stripped down to her moles and birthmarks if necessary-all in due time. For the moment, under the duress of a nervous stomach, he sat back, consulting a printout listing the various field agents and assignments, and listened to his team at work under the unusual calm of the FBI dispatcher.

  DISPATCH: Twenty-six … Give us a walk-by visual.

  TWENTY-SIX: Twenty-six. Confirm. Walk-by visual.

  DISPATCH: Affirmative. Walk-by, please.

  T WENTY-SIX: Roger.

  A few anxious seconds passed.

  TWENTY-SIX: Affirmative, suspect is standing at the machine.

  Boldt consulted the deployment printout. Number 26-James Flynn-was dressed as a pizza delivery man tonight. Carrying his pizzas, he was passing the ATM, glancing briefly at the mark, never breaking stride. No wide eyes of recognition, no probing stare. Professional. Sure.

  Lucille Guillard announced, “We have a hit.”

  A hit flashed on the wall map, surrounded by a sea of blue triangles.

  Boldt instructed the dispatcher. “Can we kill the Datsun on the run?”

  Billy held up a finger and talked rapidly into this mouthpiece.

  DISPATCH: Tech Services mobile: Request a car kill on the suspect’s vehicle. Copy?

  TECH SERVICES VAN: Car kill. Affirmative. One minute, please.

  Boldt and Billy met eyes. The dispatcher looked completely relaxed.

  T ECH SERVICES VAN: Suspect’s vehicle is parked one-and-one-half blocks north-repeat, north-of the ATM location. Looks good for a kill, Billy.

  Guillard announced, “Fifteen seconds have elapsed. Twenty seconds left.”

  Boldt told Guillard, “Extend the time trap. Give us a few seconds longer.”

  Boldt asked Billy, “Can they do it in thirty seconds or less?”

  “Extending to forty-five seconds,” Guillard confirmed. “We should not go beyond this, Sergeant.”

  T

  ECH SERVICES VAN

  : Thirty seconds is an affirmative. Deploy?

  Billy glanced at Boldt, who hit the transmit button and said sharply, “Go!”

  DISPATCH: Forty-four. Keep us alert to any change in suspect’s position.

  FORTY-FIVE: Roger, Dispatch. Will do.

  TECH SERVICES OPERATIVE: I’m going in.

  Boldt could picture the man hurrying down a quiet street to one of many parked cars. In his pocket would be an oil-filter wrench.

  TECH SERVICES OPERATIVE: Dispatch? Problem. I have a couple out for a stroll. I’m aborting this pass.

  Guillard counted off, “Ten seconds to go.”

  DISPATCH: Time’s a-wasting.

  TECH SERVICES OPERATIVE: Affirmative. Making another pass.

  Guillard announced, “Five seconds.”

  DISPATCH: Five seconds until transaction is complete.

  T ECH SERVICES OPERATIVE: Affirmative, Dispatch. Five seconds. Making a second pass…. All clear. I’m going under the car.

  Sheila Locke said, “Tech has live video for us. Coming on-screen.”

  All eyes riveted to the screen, now divided, showing two black-and-white images. On the left was a wavy telephoto image of the helmeted woman standing at the ATM. On the right of a split screen, the Tech Services man in eerie night-sight video slid under the parked Datsun and disappeared. Boldt caught himself white-knuckling the chair.

  How the FBI personnel managed this live video was beyond him. But he did not question it. Tech Services in every department was famous for performing miracles.

  “Transaction complete,” Guillard announced.

  The video followed this woman as she left the ATM and rounded the corner heading toward her car. Once a good distance away, she pulled off the helmet and shook out her hair.

  DISPATCH: Tech operative. Suspect on her way. Do you copy?

  There was no response from the operative, whose feet could be seen on the screen sticking out from under the suspect’s car.

  Billy calmly reported to Boldt, “He’s not responding. Must be radio interference.”

  The suspect was now less than a half-block away and closing quickly. “Get him out of there!” Boldt ordered.

  DISPATCH: Tech Services? Request an interrupt. Repeat: Physical interrupt requested on the car kill.

  TECH SERVICES: Roger, Dispatch.

  On the screen, a woman dressed casually in blue jeans and a T-shirt hurried out of the van, moving quickly down the street toward the car. She made no effort to look in the direction of the suspect, now but a few yards away and coming up the sidewalk.

  As the Tech Services woman came alongside the suspect’s vehicle, she flung her purse to the pavement, intentionally spilling its contents.

  Boldt watched the overhead screen, hearing only the hum of the computers, Billy’s soft mumble, and the endless tapping of the computer keyboards. The woman field agent threw her head under the vehicle and said something as the suspect rounded the final corner, now only two cars away. The Tech Services man scrambled out, came to his knees, and immediately began helping her t
o clean up the contents of her spilled purse.

  Cornelia Uli approached the driver’s door and encountered them both. The field agent laughed and shook her head at Uli as if embarrassed to have spilled her purse. She said something, as did the Tech Services man. The last of the purse contents were collected as Uli unlocked the Datsun’s trunk and set the helmet inside. She acted as casually about possessing a motorcycle helmet while driving a car as the two field agents did about collecting the items from the spilled purse. Their job completed, the field agents made no sudden moves, no panic. Together they headed down the sidewalk in the opposite direction from the van and the camera that recorded them.

  The Datsun pulled away from the curb and drove off.

  “Stay with her,” Boldt ordered Billy. He was thinking: These next few minutes are critical.

  There were two ways that Boldt could play this woman whom he considered Caulfield’s accomplice, and he had already made the choice. The first, and most conservative, was to keep his distance and sit on her. Obtain the necessary warrants and tap her phone, perhaps even install video surveillance in her residence, record her every move, her every spoken word, and hope for the contact with Caulfield. The second-and the method he had elected to follow-was the more aggressive: to force a problem onto her and hope that in her moment of panic, she turned to Caulfield for help, either identifying his location, or luring him to her.

  He felt powerless not being in the field with the others, and he sensed that by staying behind and coordinating the effort, he had crossed the imaginary line to desk jockey-and did not care for it one bit. Following the radio traffic in the headphones, he pictured the cars swapping responsibility for surveillance of the Datsun. He rejoiced with the others as the stream of leaking oil was spotted behind the vehicle, and he alerted Locke to open a line to U.S. West; they were going to need a listing of all pay-phone locations.

  Three minutes later the Datsun pulled over, stopped dead in the middle of a strip of fast-food, quick lube, and car lots. One surveillance car pulled past and into the parking lot of a burger joint. Two others stopped fifty yards short, and divided to either side of the road.