"So?" Pendegrass finally said.
Boldt held up the videotape for the man to see. "I couldn't talk Chapman out of his, and I never will. So I guess if you're set on that tape, then whatever you've got of my Denver trip goes out to whoever you plan on seeing it."
"And this?" Pendegrass asked, eyeing the tape in Boldt's hand.
"This is the one you overlooked. Even I.I. overlooked its importance. This is the one that's going to hang you once I get it to SID for analysis. This is what you want to trade for, whether you know it or not. It's the original. If you had me followed from Chapman's then you know I went back downtown. This is why. This tape. I substituted a Mister Rogers for it. You think anyone will ever notice? Not a chance. Because I.I. doesn't understand the importance of the second tape."
"As if I know what you're talking about."
"You think I'm wearing a wire? Is that it?" He raised his arms, still sore all over. "Search me. Go ahead."
"I'll pass. Whatever it is you're trying to do, nice try, Boldt."
"You've got a VCR," Boldt stated. "Five minutes. Give me five minutes." He waved the tape. "It's a real eye-opener."
An impatient Pendegrass considered this and finally stepped back from the door, admitting Boldt, who inside was a nervous wreck. If Pendegrass had slammed the door in his face, it might never have worked.
The TV occupied a tabletop in a cluttered living room that smelled of cigarettes. Pendegrass's wife looked in on them, but the man waved her away and she closed the door tightly, a concerned look overtaking her tired face.
Boldt handed the man the tape and remained standing. He identified the VCR's remote, and pocketing his own keys, took control. This had been Daphne's suggestion: Maintain control over the physical environment.
"The way I figure it," Boldt explained, "you and the others didn't think there was much to fear from the second security video—the one set up to record the entrance." Boldt pressed a button on the remote. The television showed a grainy black-and-white security video of SPD's parking garage. "But I'm telling you, you underestimate Bernie Lofgrin."
Pendegrass maintained a look of confidence, though Boldt had to believe there were cracks.
"There are three men visible in that car. You in the passenger seat, Riorden driving, and Smythe in the back," Boldt said, advancing the tape to the place where Detective Andrew Smythe's face showed clearly through the vehicle's backseat window. "You want me to keep going?"
"We come and go at all hours. All of us do. Yourself included. This proves what?"
"Your car went down to level two . . ." he advanced the tape, "as can be clearly seen."
"I don't know where you're going with this, Boldt, but this proves absolutely nothing. Zero."
"I'm not going anywhere with this," Boldt corrected. "It's Bernie Lofgrin you should be worried about. The guy's a wizard. You see this post right here?" Boldt pointed to the freeze frame of the car on the screen. "It's been scratched a dozen times by cars clipping it too close. For Lofgrin, it's going to be all about those scratches. They ended up like marks on a measuring stick running up the wall."
Now Pendegrass looked concerned. Any cop knew well enough to fear the things the lab could do.
"Lofgrin will measure the height of the rear bumper against those scratches as you fellows arrived, and then he'll compare that to the height of the same bumper upon your departure less than ten minutes later." He stopped to win Pendegrass's attention. "What you should have done . . ." Boldt advised the man, ". . . was take the assault rifles, but leave the military shipping cases. But that would have taken more time, right? That's what I'm thinking: You were in a hurry. The guns don't weigh much at all. But those military shipping cases add up. Lofgrin can measure the height of that bumper going in and coming out. He will prove that when you left that garage ten minutes later, you were carrying over two hundred extra pounds in the trunk. A dead body? I don't think so. Given the missing videotape recorded on that same night, and at least one missing weapon, what do you think I.I. is going to make of your visit?"
"Circumstantial bullshit. You won't get to square one with this."
This was the sticking point of Boldt's argument. The evidence on the tape was circumstantial—and only cir cumstantial—but Boldt needed Pendegrass to believe otherwise. "Might be," Boldt agreed. "How do you think I.I. will look at it? About all they ever deal with is circumstantial evidence. People are going to get questioned about this. People working in the boneyard. You. The others. Deals will be offered to one of you. Chapman will be subpoenaed to turn over that other tape. The best laid plans. . . . A cop was shot at with one of those stolen weapons. This cop!" Boldt said defiantly. He walked over to the VCR and took the tape back. "You guys talk it over. My offer's on the table for tonight and tonight only."
Pendegrass stood there like a statue.
Boldt said, "Once Bernie Lofgrin gets this, it's out of my hands."
Pendegrass tried to sound convincing. "It don't mean nothing."
Boldt stopped at the front door. "Then you've got nothing to worry about."
C H A P T E R
66
Boldt's plan came down to the next few hours. If he was to turn circumstantial evidence into incriminating evidence, he believed it would happen before morning.
He lived twenty minutes from Pendegrass, and he spent much of the time with his eyes trained on his rearview mirror and his right hand gently touching the videotape in the seat beside him. He couldn't be sure, but he believed the same car that had been following him all night—to Chapman's, downtown, and to Pendegrass's—was still back there: a narrow set of headlights with a blue cast to the light itself.
Riorden and Smythe lived the closest to him, and he assumed one of them would be awaiting his return home. Either there would be an offer to trade tapes, or violence. He doubted any call would be placed to his home with an offer—even Property cops knew better than to leave a paper trail.
As he pulled into his driveway, a Seattle mist filled the air, fog passing so low to the earth that it gently rinsed everything, everyone, in its path. He ran his wipers even though it wasn't completely necessary: He didn't want any surprises.
He turned off the car, that dreaded sense of foreboding enveloping him, as well as a deepening sadness that cops were involved. He loved the uniform. He loved the department and what it stood for. It was as simple as that.
He picked up the video and slid it beneath the seat as he and LaMoia had planned. Once outside the car, he used the remote to lock all doors at once. He slipped the bulky keys into his pocket, wondering what felt so wrong. After three or four thoughtful steps he realized what it was.
The silence.
The neighbor's dog did not bark at him, did not scratch at the fence. If Pendegrass, Riorden and Smythe had been the three men who had assaulted him a week earlier—which he now believed—then they knew well enough about that dog. Its silence became all the more frightening.