She reached over and rubbed the top of his head, messing his hair, which was Emily’s way of saying how much she cared about him.
She said, “He wore black military boots. He had a faint red stamp on the back of his left hand that read COPY-probably from a bar or nightclub. When he paid me, he pulled out his wallet. He carried a pass to the PX, a discount shopping center on the base, which means he’s either active or works there. His driver’s license was from Kansas; I couldn’t make out the town or city. He had a ticket to the Seahawks in with his money.”
“He wore a big silver buckle,” Ben remembered. “Like a rodeo guy.”
“Very good!” she exclaimed. “Yes. That caught my eye as well. And did you catch it when he turned to leave?”
“Something on his back? I don’t remember,” he answered.
“His belt,” she said. “It had a first name stamped into the leather. Nick.”
“The guy’s name is Nick?”
“Yes. He’s twenty-eight, a long way from home, working on one of the bases, a football fan, hits the bars at night, rode a horse at some point in his life, or had a relative who did. He’s got business dealings that worry him to the point he’s having his chart read. The deal is worth a lot more than sixty bucks, or he wouldn’t be willing to shell out that kind of money.”
“We know a lot about him,” Ben said, impressed.
“Yes, we do,” she answered. “But not what he’s up to.” She went through the small pile of articles they had clipped. “And I have a feeling that’s his biggest secret of all.”
9
When Liz voluntarily took the kids with her to the cabin for the weekend, Boldt knew he had trouble. Typically, she found the cabin too remote, too far from a doctor should the kids need one, and was bothered by being too far from the city and all its weekend treasures. Her more common complaint about the cabin was how cold it was, and in early October it was likely to deliver on that front. She had not called him at work, but instead had left him a note he couldn’t possibly receive until she and the kids were well on their way, the decision beyond discussion. That struck him as odd, completely unlike her-until he reached the part in the note where she suggested he “come up if you can get free.” Then he realized it was a test, a conspiracy, and it made all the sense in the world. He had a choice: his family or his job.
Liz knew that when he sank his teeth into something like this arson case there was no letting go. These cases only came around once every two years or so, but she resented them more than when he had six domestic battery investigations running simultaneously, taking him away from home fifteen hours a day. It was almost as if she were jealous of these larger investigations, as if it stole something personal from her when he dove in like this.
What really hurt was that he was going to fail the test. There was no way he could get up to the cabin for the weekend. Sunday night was going to be pins and needles on the home front. She would be angry, but with a smile pasted onto her face. He would feel guilty, but act casual and confident. He couldn’t wait.
On the plus side, he had the house to himself. It didn’t happen that often, and when it did he felt as if she had handed him the greatest gift of all. The thought bubbled up then that perhaps she had gone to the cabin in sacrifice, knowing perfectly well how he valued quiet time during a difficult investigation. This made him feel all the worse because his first thoughts had been so negative. He reread her note one more time, hoping to find clarity there, but to no avail. Marriage was many things; easy was not one of them.
He switched off the front porch light and put on an Oscar Peterson album. He sat down at the piano and played for the first time in several months, wondering why the great things in life were always the first to be sacrificed. He played roughly through the opening, reset the tone arm, and tried again.
After twenty minutes with Oscar, Boldt went through his investigation notes, reading every line carefully.
Boldt had good ears. A car pulled past his drive, slowed, and stopped. He went to the curtain and peered out: Daphne’s red sports car. She climbed out carrying her briefcase, not a good sign.
He raced around, trying to pick up. A moment later he heard her footsteps on the back porch and opened the door for her.
“You not answering your phone?”
“Liz turns the ringers off-Sarah’s a light sleeper. Sorry.”
“Your pager? Your cellphone?”
“In the bedroom, along with my piece. I’ve had the music kinda loud,” he apologized. “Nothing intentional. Come on in.”
“Liz?” She seemed hesitant to enter.
“Took the kids to the cabin. It’s all right.” He motioned her inside.
“It’s not all right,” she corrected, stepping inside, already down to business. “Today’s press conference was a disaster. Shoswitz talks too much! And then there’s this.” She reached into her briefcase and handed him a photocopy. “The original’s with the lab,” she informed him.
Minutes later she was sitting across from him at the kitchen table, sipping from a glass of red wine. Boldt had a glass of juice. He reread the note silently another time before finally speaking. “Suddenly a flash of understanding, a spark that leaps across to the soul.” Several minutes had passed. “Sent to Garman?”
She nodded gravely. “It’s Plato. Our boy is something of a scholar.”
“Just now you’re on your way home?” he asked, dodging the issue a moment while he considered the consequences of the note. “It’s late for you.”
“Garman delivered it unopened,” she informed him. “He knew what it was. He said he wanted to protect it as evidence.” She let him digest this a moment before saying, “I offered to bring it over.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Boldt said. He added, “I hate this, you know? I really hate it.”
“Yes.”
In her eyes he saw a deep-seated sympathy. They both understood perfectly well what this meant, but Boldt had no desire to voice it, as if by doing so might give it more weight. Nonetheless, his imagination fixed on the thought of another Dorothy Enwright out there, at home, minding her own business, about to come face to face with the gates of Hell. They had recovered only a single bone of her body. It seemed all but impossible.
“Why?” Boldt asked Daphne, still withholding any mention of what this second note represented-another fire, another victim.
“The fire or the note?” she asked.
“Is there a difference?”
“You bet there is.” She sipped the wine, though she didn’t seem to enjoy its taste. She looked a little less pretty all of a sudden, tired and under the same relentless pressure that Boldt found himself. Investigating a violent crime was one thing; anticipating and stopping such a crime, another thing entirely. With the arrival of the second note, their charge was to prevent a death. It was an undeserved burden-unwarranted in many ways-but inescapable. They had been here before, the two of them, and this went unmentioned as well, for lives had been lost; other lives changed forever, not the least of them their own.
She continued, “The first note, as we discussed, could have been anything from a cry for help to a poorly timed coincidence. This note changes all that. Remember,” she cautioned, “this is only an opinion, an educated guess.”
“I’m with you.”
“These quotations are warnings, Lou.” Boldt felt a chill. “Forget the cry for help. He’s going to strike for a second time. By mailing them, he dated both poems, don’t forget. If I’m right, that means the fire is today or tonight. It’s immediate. He’s not giving Garman any time to figure this out. He warns; he strikes-which means that by the time the card arrives, he has already targeted his victim, perhaps even rigged the house to burn.”
“Jesus!” Boldt expelled his breath. “With only one victim, we hardly have what could be considered a pattern.”