Busy with paperwork, she did not look up immediately.
“Working late,” he said, greeted then by an authentic smile.
She motioned to the stacks around her. “If you do this during the day, there’s no time to sell.”
“Your partner?” he asked motioning toward the hallway.
“Business partner,” she clarified. “One of them.” She drummed her painted nails on the desktop.
“A couple of questions,” he said.
“Oh, darn.” She flashed a smile and barked an eager laugh.
“I need some help.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” The eyelashes were dyed, but effective. They beat like little wings.
“We needed a realtor. I thought of you.”
“I love making that kind of impression on people.”
“I would imagine it’s quite often.”
“Complete with a silver tongue. You must need this help pretty badly.”
“May I?” He motioned to the available chair. His legs were dog tired.
“I like you better when you’re standing,” she said, looking eye level at his rodeo belt buckle, “but okay.”
He remained standing. “A realtor must track houses that are likely to come onto the market-try to get a jump on the competition and win the listing.”
“Listings are the golden ring. Sales are great, but I get a piece of the listing even if someone else sells it.”
“Ahead of time, I’m talking about.”
“Of course. You stay ahead or you fall behind.” She adjusted herself in the chair, enjoying his company, and said, “It’s a rule that pertains to so many things in life.”
“And how do you do this?” he asked. “Other than reading the obits?”
“You’re not thinking of getting your license, are you?” She added, “I hate competition.”
“Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout. Too many rules for a man like you.”
“I wasn’t a man then.”
“I think you had better sit. You’re distracting me. Good. There. All right. How do I do it?” she asked, chewing on a wry smile. “Okay. Obits, of course. Sure. Divorce filings can be a gold mine. I get a lot of play out of the divorce market-the separation filings are registered downtown. Early bird gets the worm. Construction permits are a good source: couples often fix up the house before trying to sell, or they start work on a future home before committing to listing the existing one. Tricks.”
“Others?” LaMoia, for all his ability to think through crimes, had not come up with the divorce and construction angles.
“Oh, sure. I have lots of other tricks.” The same smile, but a little more forced.
He appreciated her ability, her desire, to toy with him, to flirt. He knew the game and enjoyed playing it. He trusted her because of this. She demanded another’s confidence in herself that only the best salespeople, attorneys and cops possessed. She was family. “Such as?”
“Don’t tease, Detective.”
“That is definitely the pot calling the kettle black.”
“Smaller clues? Other sources?” she inquired, knowing what he sought. “Let’s see … property taxes in arrears-that can point you toward a vacancy, and it’s a matter of public record.”
“Public records,” LaMoia mumbled, writing fast.
“They are the easiest. City water being shut off is the biggie. Private records don’t hurt, if you have access: phone, utilities. If you know someone in the insurance industry, multipolicy car insurance lapsing or a change in property coverage can signal a death. It’s a long list. Maybe we should discuss it over a drink.”
“Do you keep a list of these places? Some way to follow up?”
“A database on my machine. Sure I do. My secretary makes the cold calls for me. I do the follow-ups. It’s one of those things always running in the background, you know? Low priority. Boiling away back there. A lot of it’s wasted time, but every so often it pays off and I get a listing worth a trip to someplace warm and dry. The Biltmore in Phoenix. Ever been?”
“No.”
“Friend and I own a two-bedroom suite in the hotel, a condo deal that works out great. We each get two weeks a year. It really is amazing weather down there. Rain is just another four-letter word. Not like here.”
He asked, “Can I get a copy of the database?”
“Is this where I get to barter? Oh, goodie. How about you consider Arizona, and I consider giving you the database?”
“I’m a little busy right now.” LaMoia thought about a weekend with this one at the Biltmore: white terry cloth robes, free shampoo. Where would he rather be? The decision came easy for him: with Sheila Hill.
She said, “What is all this about anyway? Still the kidnappings?” She curled a lock of yellow blonde hair. “What do vacant houses have to do with it anyway?”
LaMoia answered honestly, “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
He left with the promise of having the database by morning.
CHAPTER 20
Tuesday morning, day fourteen since the Shotz kidnapping, a fine cold mist sat across the city. Umbrellas were held against the weather, animating the sidewalks with color. It was a salt rain and tasted as such, tangy and tight in the nostrils, tart in the throat. A cloud-driven drenched darkness hung over the city.
Sherry Daech’s list of confirmed vacant structures arrived by fax at quarter to ten. Thirty-two addresses. LaMoia checked with Sheila Hill, who agreed that by the start of the four o’clock task force meeting, the FBI would have to be provided the list and told of any progress for the remainder of the workday; however, SPD possessed this for themselves. It was LaMoia’s job to work the evidence dry so that they surrendered nothing useful to the competition.
With the pressure of time and Hill’s demand for success, he rounded up volunteers for the legwork: four members of his homicide squad, a Sex Crimes detective by the name of Cindy DuFur, a Narcotics cop called Runt who needed the overtime, Boldt and Gaynes. LaMoia assigned each cop several of the addresses to check. They were to door-to-door the neighbors for any activity at the houses, day or night, check the locks and look around the premises. If the owners could be contacted and admission legally gained and granted, then LaMoia wanted a look inside with attention paid to the upper stories. “Operation: Room with a View,” he nicknamed it.
Excitement warmed him, countered by a chilling fear for the missing children.
The investigation still lacked key explanations to understanding and anticipating the Pied Piper, explanations required if the case were to be solved by anything other than blind luck. Chief among these was how the kidnapper identified his victims. The possibilities of their being random was infinitesimal-the Pied Piper was profiled as a careful planner. Whether the victims were identified through their parents or somehow through the infants themselves, no one knew. The parents seemed the more likely choice, all the children were of the same approximate age, all white. The kidnapper clearly knew about his victims. A variety of sources existed for such information, including the Internet, which posted national bulletin boards of births; its network carried full text copies of hundreds of small-town newspapers, all of which published news of new arrivals. The kidnapper might have used any of these.
The FBI, with its resources and nearly endless manpower, had been after this link between victims for nearly six months, and still seemed in the dark. How, LaMoia wondered, was SPD supposed to make such a discovery in the face of that?
Right behind selection of the victim was the physical and logistical execution of the crime-the modus operandi. For this reason, the discovery of a possible system of surveillance used by the kidnapper held a place of major importance.
For Lou Boldt, the fieldwork for which he had volunteered offered him a chance to air out his brain, clear his thoughts, refocus. Liz’s proclamation of a spiritual awakening and an intention to abandon medical treatment struck him as nothing short of dementia. With his wife’s survival so much in question, the notion of “leaving it up to God” was for him like deciding the easiest way to use the elevator was to cut the cable and allow gravity to deliver the car to the lobby. But there was no way he could think that would allow him to seize control and force her to take the treatments. To the contrary, he had to accept her decision, and his fear all but prevented that. This, in turn, caused him to face up to those fears, and he found it easier to run from them-to pursue fieldwork-than to look them in the eye.