The group worked well together when dealing with specifics. They anxiously awaited the analysis of the pollen, the lab work on the glass chips, and put great hope in the surveillance of the vacant houses. The proposed direction for the investigation segregated down departmental lines: SPD put faith in Anderson’s killing and a possible connection to the abductions; Flemming wanted little to do with Anderson, insisting that Kay Kalidja’s suggestion to pursue catalog and magazine subscriptions offered the greatest chance for a breakthrough.
Mulwright proposed concentrating all manpower on surveillance of families with infant children that lived within sight of the abandoned house Boldt had discovered. Flemming argued against this, citing manpower demands. He suggested they notify all parents in the area, reminding, “No child has been taken from a parent-only from baby sitters and relatives of the family.”
In the two weeks since the Shotz abduction, this was the first mention of this, and for Daphne it went to the psychology of the Pied Piper. She blurted out, “He doesn’t want the confrontation a parent would offer. He’s afraid of violence.” All heads turned to face her.
“My point is,” Flemming said, “that if a parent stays with that child there will be no kidnapping.”
Daphne said, “He’s punishing the parent for leaving the child in someone else’s care.” Silence overtook the room. She said, “He’s giving those children to parents desperate for their own; parents who care. Parents who won’t leave that child for anything.”
“Mumbo jumbo,” Hale quipped.
Flemming reprimanded his agent with a stern look. To the others he said, “The point is, if we alert the public now, we may save some children.”
Sheila Hill came through the door without knocking. She won the immediate attention of nearly every man in the room, drawn like moths to light. She wore a plain gray suit, white shirt and black flats. A simple silver necklace hung over her collarbone. Her lipstick was flesh-toned, her hair brushed smooth and held with a clip. Nothing showy. The SPD officers stood for her. The FBI followed reluctantly. In that instant, the mood changed. Authority walked through that door. Even Flemming seemed to understand this.
Daphne sat up and took notice.
At a few minutes before four that same afternoon, a rainstorm relenting to the east, Lou Boldt crossed an internal threshold and, like an ex-drunk sitting in front of a bottle of whiskey, reached out and took his first sip. He simply couldn’t sit there staring at it. If the two who had abducted his daughter had believed him capable of passivity, they had guessed wrong. The cop in him won out. The only way he would ever see his daughter alive again was to beat his own people to the Pied Piper, locate his daughter and do whatever had to be done to take her back. He ruled out nothing. The plan was a simple one-eat or be eaten. His choice was made.
Tech Services was to provide him twice daily with cassettes of conversations that contained the key words he’d specified: “kidnap,” “kidnapping,” “abduction,” “babies,” “infants,” “task force,” and the names of every player, including the victims and Andy Anderson. The tapes were delivered in an interdepartmental envelope that had to be signed for by Boldt himself. Just another day in Intelligence, but this time Boldt was eavesdropping on his own people.
He listened to most of the conversations with the tape speed doubled. Voices like chipmunks, but the spoken words understandable. A two-minute phone call became one. Life in half time.
As he listened, he thought that he had failed as a father, husband and cop. A dozen should-have-dones presented themselves, but all in hindsight.
He recalled bottle-feeding Sarah in the living room as the morning sun warmed a darkened sky, the smell of the top of her head, the delicious sounds she made while eating. He recalled the softness of her feet and the strong grip of her toes. He ached beyond anything he had ever experienced. A knot of pain seized his chest, unrelenting. Adding to this anguish was the solitude of his secret. He could not face people. He shut and locked his office door and turned off his phone. But he locked himself in another room as well.
The father in him-the failure-wouldn’t let him out of the dark room of his guilt and grief. A glimpse of a family photo, Sarah’s crayon art, the tiny baby shoes on the bookshelf. These were the personal reminders he could not live with, and yet could not bear to remove.
From this point of utter desperation, he struggled back, reaching the most difficult decision of his life: The Pied Piper was not going to dictate his actions. He would turn on his own people if necessary, but Sarah would not be used to allow other children to be kidnapped.
As lead, LaMoia had both the Anderson file and the task force “book” on the Pied Piper in his possession.
Boldt could have submitted official requests for any such reports and files-he considered doing that-but then a more ominous question presented itself: Did the Pied Piper have a way of monitoring Boldt’s activities? Was there a second insider? Had a second cop been compromised? Was someone monitoring his every move?
Boldt had to conduct his own investigation while hindering the efforts of the task force, to be seen obeying the ransom demands while secretly working to locate Sarah and get her back. Any sudden interest on his part in evidence records and case files might send the wrong signal.
If he couldn’t request them, he had to steal them.
Flemming glanced over at his subordinate Dunkin Hale in what Daphne realized was a signal.
Addressing Mulwright, Hale said, “Lieutenant, if you agree, we would like to suggest SPD canvass pawnshops for Anderson’s camera.”
Mulwright countered in a sharply sarcastic tone, “It would help if we knew what kind of camera we’re looking for, Special Agent.”
Hill caught on and said, “Are you suggesting that Anderson was a heist gone bad, not a murder associated with the kidnappings?”
“It’s possible,” Hale replied. He then informed the group, “The camera is a Kodak DC-40, a digital camera that Anderson’s credit card records show he purchased in November of last year.”
Hill’s face went scarlet. “We want the camera, yes. But for the record, Anderson connects via the pollen,” she protested.
Flemming said calmly, “Anderson’s computer may contain digitally stored photographs. It has been sent to Washington for analysis.”
“You shipped it east without so much as telling us?” LaMoia complained. What he did not divulge was that the SID technicians had discovered a number of backup disks in Anderson’s bookshelf that were currently being analyzed. If the disks contained digital photographs, SPD would have them ahead of Flemming.
“I’m telling you now,” Flemming said. “We use the four o’clocks to share information.”
Not all of us, LaMoia thought. He smiled and said, “Thanks for sharing.”
The clock clicked into place: 4:20 P.M. LaMoia would still be at the four o’clock, his office cubicle unattended.
Boldt did not miss the irony of approaching an office cubicle and desk that had once been his own. At 4:00 P.M. the duty rotation had occurred and LaMoia’s squad had technically gone off their day shift. Because of the caseload demands of the Pied Piper investigation, most of his team kept right on working, logging coveted overtime. Combining the two squads could have meant a chaotic fifth floor, but it didn’t work out that way because of the surveillance duty. Adding to the floor’s peace and quiet was that the civilian employees-the secretaries, clerks, receptionists-had gone home.
As Boldt entered Homicide, he glanced first toward the lieutenant’s office, a large room with two desks shared by Shoswitz and Davidson. The lights were on. Boldt kept his head down and moved quickly. It was rare that both lieutenants occupied the room at the same time-they handled separate rotations-but the chaos of the task force had added hours to both men’s watch. If either lieutenant spotted him he would need to come up with an excuse for roaming around Homicide. Head down, he slipped past and headed directly to LaMoia’s desk, where a deerskin jacket hung on the back of the chair. The adjacent desk belonged to Leon Kreuter, a detective on Davidson’s squad, another of the middle-aged Homicide detectives who felt that Boldt’s prolonged years as sergeant had hurt their promotions-an argument Boldt didn’t buy. Kreuter was a talker. He would make a point of nosing into Boldt’s affairs. LaMoia’s desk would not be safe for long.