The Shanty Lantern was no such haunt. On a Sunday morning it played host to ten determined souls, all of whom struggled to either continue their drunk, or find one. Tom Bowler owned a table, a pack of cigarettes and a disconnected look. He paid no attention to the sports discussion on the overhead Sony. He had a Scotch in front of him-half empty. By the way the man stared into space, Boldt knew it wasn’t his first.
Bowler looked all wrong for a man in his late thirties. Boldt might not have spotted him had he not been looking for him. He wore a wrinkled white shirt that was stained with either ketchup or blood. When he saw Boldt, he shook his head, refusing the visit.
Boldt took a chair at the man’s table, sat down and stared at him.
The bartender interrupted, attempting to rescue her regular customer. She was the owner of a great deal of dyed hair, a pair of artificially large breasts and a vivid shade of blue eye shadow that could be seen even in the cavelike atmosphere of The Shanty Lantern.
Boldt ordered an orange juice for himself and a cup of coffee for Bowler.
“Who put you in charge?” the man asked, correcting the coffee to another Scotch.
“We’ve never received your file, Tom,” Boldt said, deciding to play it straight. “You were lead,” Boldt reminded.
“Queen for a Day, you mean. Flemming shows up, my brass bends over and greases up the old red eye and says, ‘Park it here please, Mr. Federal Officer.’ We form a serious Crimes Unit, but all we end up with is bottle washers for Flemming’s suits. He’s a monster, you know-Flemming, I’m talking about. A dictator. Eyes in the back of his head, an ear to every wall. Knows what you’re thinking before you do. On edge. I had the feeling that at any moment … he used us. Manipulated us, worked us-and the brass seemed to never catch on. We processed the evidence, but they analyzed it. I gotta admit, he played it brilliantly, like a quarterback working a cheerleader to get her panties down. We get the public exposure, the blame, if it goes south; Flemming gets the real control. Knows which wheels to grease, which buttons to push. Has our chief bragging at cocktail parties that he’s taking phone calls and sharing beverages with our U.S. Senator. It’s all politics, Boldt. Blame management: Who’s to blame if the investigation goes south? Who takes the front page if the guy walks into the seventh precinct and gives himself up? Let me tell you this: Talk radio has done in law enforcement. The public is like a child, you know? You give them too much information too soon and they’re dangerous with it.” He killed the Scotch. “To hell with it.”
“How’re the kids?” Boldt asked.
Tom Bowler’s jaw set and his eyes grew large as they met and held Boldt’s. He shouted a little too loudly. “Ginger?” Barroom shorthand. She delivered the two drinks. “What about my kids?”
Boldt said, “Let me run a hypothetical situation past you, Tom, and maybe you can help me see clear of it.”
“What about the kids?” the man asked, mean in a way only a drunk can get.
Boldt had won the man’s attention. The room suddenly felt warmer.
“What the-?”
“Sarah’s going to be two. Can you believe it?” Boldt sipped his juice. It was from a can. He set it aside. He locked into Bowler, saying no more. The man’s expression slowly hardened. He knew why Boldt had made the trip. “So let’s just say, hypothetically,” Boldt continued, “that a cop is working a case, a big case, like a string of kidnappings or something.”
Bowler shifted uncomfortably.
Boldt continued, “And let’s say the doer is no dummy. He knows he either has to have an enormous string of luck or someone pulling strings for him. He knows the Feds will be players. Tens of thousands of kids vanish every year. Few, if any, of these disappearances are ever connected. Fewer prosecuted. But this guy is making a statement. He leaves a calling card.”
“A penny flute.”
“Exactly.” Boldt hesitated. Other than Liz he had not told a soul. He couldn’t bring himself to. Instead he said, “The doer understands it’s the local cops who will work the crime scenes for evidence, the locals who will most likely process the lab work on that evidence. In that way it’s the locals’ case to give away, not the other way around. The Bureau may be running things, maybe not, but the local cops control the evidence and therefore the success or failure of the investigation.”
A bead of sweat ran from Bowler’s sideburn into his collar. He looked jaundiced. Malarial.
“One other thing: The doer is much more frightened of the Feds than he is of local law.” He paused briefly. “Did I ask you about your kids?”
Bowler coaxed the shiny surface of the Scotch into a swirling disk of light suspended in the glass. “You wasted a trip,” he said.
“I’m just talking hypothetically,” Boldt reminded.
“How’s Liz?”
“Cancer,” Boldt fired back harshly. Mentioning it didn’t sting him the way it used to. If he expected Bowler to talk to him, then he had to reciprocate. “They cut her open. They ran her full of drugs and radiation. Now she’s found religion.”
“Connie’s joined the God squad. Me?” He lifted the Scotch.
“Is it working?” Boldt asked. Maybe it was the fear loosening him up. Maybe it was the look in Bowler’s eye that confirmed Boldt was right. His voice faltered as he said, “I’m begging you here, Tom.”
“The Sonics are murdering us this year. Once we lost Clive the Glide it was all over. They should have thrown it in back then.”
“Let’s say this guy-the doer-has something that’s mine,” Boldt said angrily, “and I don’t know whether or not I can trust it’ll be returned in one piece.” He stared at the man, hoping he might win eye contact, but it was a bust. “Let’s say that made my interest in the Portland file all the stronger.”
“I took the file-the master file-home one night. Stopped for a drink right here. Car was busted into. My car! Briefcase was stolen. The file was gone. Hey, we got triplicates, but it takes a while to pull it all together.”
“I need it to pull together, Tom. I need any leads I can get.”
“No, that’s wrong. You know your best bet? Play by the rules. You’ll be glad you did.” He waited for this to sink in, and met eyes with Boldt. He held him in a prolonged stare and said, “Penny is fine. Did I mention that? Thanks for asking.”
Tom Bowler stood, sliding his chair back with the effort. The legs cried out on the tile floor sending chills down Boldt’s spine. Bowler was unsteady on his legs. And he was dead inside. He had apparently played by the rules and had a daughter to show for it. But Boldt’s daughter was gone. The Shotzes’. The Weinsteins’. Bowler had to live with that, or try to. The man walked past Boldt and said something to Ginger about his tab. He left without looking back.
CHAPTER 38
Daphne hurriedly changed her outfit for the third time, studying herself in the full-length mirror that attached to the back of her houseboat’s bathroom door, and decided she looked too contrived: Annie Hall on a Sunday stroll. She hadn’t been this clothes-conscious since her dinner a month earlier with Owen Adler, her former fiance, perhaps her future fiance as well.
She undressed to her bikini underwear, shedding the underwire bra in the process and leaving it in a pile with the rest of her failures. Her body was winter pale, but her stomach flat and firm, her hips wide and her thighs lean. Her breasts were high on her chest, her nipples angling up and out to the sides. Men found her breasts attractive because of that; why, she wasn’t sure. She worked hard at preservation, chased her youth like a dog after a moving car-four miles a day, weight training-these weren’t God-given assets, she earned them through a daily regime. She ran through the houseboat all but naked hoping to death no one was happening down the dock, for one of the front blinds was open. She scrambled up the narrow ladder to the tiny loft bedroom where she kept her underwear, socks and bras separate from her other clothing-for reasons she had never fully understood. The rest of her wardrobe was divided between two closets, a trunk and a chest of drawers, all located down by the bathroom. She stuffed herself into a constricting jog bra, feeling much better. Hide the chest. Baggy is best.