Matthews and Mulwright looked up as a sharp rap on the door announced the entrance of two gray suits and a gray skirt that was occupied by a long and slender pair of dark legs. As Special Agent in Charge, Gary Flemming headed the FBI’s investigation and had done so since the first kidnapping in San Diego. He had arrived in Seattle expecting that he and his team would control any and all kidnapping investigations, an opportunity removed by SPD’s advance formation of the task force and Sheila Hill’s appointment as its commander. Flemming had lost the upper hand. Hill had warned all her subordinates to expect Flemming to do everything in his power to regain it.
A substantial man with ebony skin and a head nearly shaved clean to hide encroaching baldness, Flemming had a worried-looking face and bloodshot eyes. He sat in the chair immediately to Hill’s left and spoke in a deeply rich voice. He made no apology for his late arrival; nor did Hill for starting without him. Flemming’s reputation preceded him: meticulous, ambitious, firm, demanding. He got results. An astute politician and negotiator, Flemming not only understood law enforcement politics but had overseen six hostage/kidnapping investigations and had never lost a victim. He held the highest clearance rate for kidnappings in the Bureau’s history. One listened carefully to his words and looked for hidden content.
“We’re coming up on forty-eight hours,” he cautioned. “He and his victim are long gone from the city by now. We’d like to help with the glass samples you recovered,” he informed LaMoia, who stared back stunned by the man’s information and his arrogance. “You have some pollen as well, as I understand it.” He referred to the yellow smudge Boldt had noticed on the crib. LaMoia didn’t know where he got his information, but earlier that day the department’s lab had IDed the yellow powder as pollen, genus unknown. Flemming continued, “This pollen was found on the child’s crib, as well as on some carpet fibers your lab obtained from the crime scene.” He editorialized sarcastically, “Of course, I know you were going to share this with us, but as I understand it, the fibers came off a floor mat from last year’s Taurus-which, according to color schemes, should make it a champagne-brown exterior, I believe.” LaMoia understood then that Flemming’s people had already interrogated the Shotzes and had made inquiries at the lab, all with no one the wiser. Strangely, he did not dislike Flemming for this, but found himself admiring him. Flemming continued, “Our lab people would like to review the pollen as well as the Taurus fibers ASAP. We’d also like to conduct our own interview with this realtor, Daech. Quite frankly, Captain,” he said, addressing Sheila Hill, “we’re a little disappointed we weren’t included in the first round with Daech.”
“I have a decent relationship established with Daech,” LaMoia informed him.
“I’m sure you do,” Flemming returned, staring him down.
“Cop to witness,” LaMoia explained, his admiration melting away.
“From what we know of your reputation,” the linebacker, Dunkin Hale, contributed, “that would be something of a first.”
Only Mulwright laughed.
Hill cautioned the FBI man, “That’s enough of that! She’s LaMoia’s witness, and she’s assisting this investigation.”
“For the sake of the investigation,” Hale questioned, “or for the publicity?”
Hill decided, “You’re welcome to the sergeant’s notes. Let’s leave the witness to him, shall we? You gang-bang her and we’ll lose her.”
“The notes will do fine,” Flemming acknowledged, having never taken his eyes off LaMoia. “And perhaps the sergeant will allow us to add a few questions to his script for their next session.” Flemming hesitated, holding the attention of everyone in the room. He said, “Let me be perfectly candid, shall I? This is my investigation. Has been since San Diego and that first kidnapping. Task Force, Special Crimes Unit-dress it up however you want, make all the claims of ownership you want, it’s not going to affect me. Sticks and stones, as far as I’m concerned. It’s these kids I’m worried about, not the name tags or the stripes on the sleeves-the kids. And it’s mine. Not yours,” he said to Hill, “or yours,” he said to LaMoia, “mine. You play games with me-concealing evidence, delaying reports-and you’ll regret it. That’s about as clear as I can make it to you. And why will you regret it? Because I don’t give a shit about you or your careers. I’ll walk right over you if necessary.”
Looking at Hill he added, “Destroy you, if necessary. Any one of you. All of you. Any of my people as well, and they know this about me.” Hale and Kalidja did not so much as blink. “They know it’s about the kids, and only the kids. It’s about catching this guy and doing whatever it takes to find those kids. Rant, rave, scream, bitch, kick-complain to whomever you wish. Washington D.C.-I don’t care. It won’t do you a bit of good. Why? Because it’s mine to win or lose, and lose is not an option. Remember this, and remember it clearly: You are working for me. You are working for these kids, and I am their guardian angel. I am bringing them home. And the first person to get in my way, the first person to slow me down even a step, is going to wish they’d never seen this thing, wish they’d never heard of it.” He met eyes with each person, sighed deeply and said, “Ah. Feels good to get that off my chest.”
Daphne Matthews spoke in a near whisper, thereby commanding everyone’s attention. As if reviewing the fundamentals, she said, “A task force is assembled to facilitate an open-minded exchange. The FBI can run an investigation without us-as we can without them. The point, the intention, of such a task force is to bring us all under one tent,” she looked at Flemming, “so that we don’t double up the lab work,” to LaMoia, “so we don’t monopolize a witness. The daily four o’clock is our chance as a team to share our progress and our hurdles, to communicate, to facilitate a more efficient investigation.”
Mulwright interrupted, “They withheld critical information.”
“The AFIDs, the penny flute,” LaMoia said, “we would have withheld those as well.”
The lack of team support angered Mulwright. True to form, he had not heard a word of what Matthews had to say.
Flemming said, “I think I’ve made my position perfectly clear. Or are there questions?”
Dunkin Hale, a thirty-five-year-old red-headed jock with an attitude, chewed gum violently and wore a thick gold wedding ring on his left hand. They didn’t make ties to fit necks like his; the silk knot stood out like a large thumb protruding from his Adam’s apple. His attention remained primarily on Flemming, a dog awaiting a scrap, his loyalty unmistakable.
Flemming informed them, “We are looking for this Taurus.”
He nodded to Hale, who said, “We’re running rental car contracts-all contracts made here in the past four days compared against all rentals contracted in the week prior to the Portland and San Francisco kidnappings. Credit card comparison, model requests. It’s slow going, but maybe it kicks a match.”
“Who informed the press of the hundred-thousand-dollar reward?” Mulwright challenged. “The phone number in that release was the task force hot line, not an FBI number I noticed, which means it’s us getting a couple hundred calls an hour, all of which have to be followed up, meaning we’re out chasing ghost stories while you guys are working real leads. Is that cooperation?”
“Lieutenant!” Hill chided. “Although we were in fact blind-sided by the reward and the flood of calls it caused, let none of us forget that the task force phone number was our idea. We asked for this.”
Flemming spoke in his low, warm voice, “Special Agent Kalidja is our research expert and our fact-finder.” Delegate the problems: what every bureaucrat learns early on.
Kay Kalidja’s parents had immigrated from the Caribbean. She had lighter skin than Flemming and widely set, Asian eyes. Bone thin, she looked more like a runway model than an FBI agent. She wore a starched white shirt and crisp gray suit. Her tobacco-colored hair was done in corn rows with terra-cotta beads that clicked if she shook her head quickly. She kept her attention on Flemming like a benched athlete watching her coach, and took her cue.