“They are con artists,” Daphne said. “The nine-one-one scam tells us that much. Their world is illusion. He could have been arrested and charged by the state, not the Feds. They wouldn’t have him in their database.”
“Hale is ahead of us?” LaMoia complained. “You know what that means for Sarah?”
Daphne answered, “We don’t know that for sure. We know only that he searched the same information that Kalidja supplied us. He probably got the names of the two cons with the same eagle tattoo.”
“It had to be Indiana, Michigan, Denver or New Orleans,” Boldt informed them. “New Orleans fits,” he confirmed.
“And just how the hell do you know that?” LaMoia protested.
“Anderson’s photos,” he answered. “The ones you gave me.”
“I went over those things a dozen times. Two dozen. There was no license plate, no markers or identifiers of any kind to indicate-”
“The sweatshirt,” Boldt supplied. “Coming down the dock he’s facing the camera. You can’t see his face because of the hat, but the sweatshirt has two colors on it: purple and gold. School colors. Those same colors are used by colleges in-”
“Indiana, Michigan, Denver and New Orleans,” LaMoia completed, understanding the logic.
“There was the off-chance it might have been high school colors, but I was betting university or college.”
“So it is New Orleans,” LaMoia said.
“Our suspect spent time there,” Daphne said, picking up on the reasoning. “Maybe went to school there. More than likely got a tattoo there. Could have spent time locked up. Kalidja stressed that only some of the inmates end up on the database.”
“May still have contacts there,” LaMoia added, “or a sheet.”
Boldt warned, “If we involve the law down there it will have to be done carefully. The ransom demand…,” he reminded.
LaMoia asked, “Why would Hale stonewall this from his own people?”
“Flemming’s attitude fosters independents,” Daphne said. “Kalidja warned me of that.”
Boldt suggested, “We need that tattoo shop.”
“Agreed,” LaMoia echoed.
“I have the address,” Daphne announced proudly, drawing looks of astonishment from both men. “You think I wanted fresh air?” she asked sarcastically.
Boldt asked, “Hale?”
“Probably has it too,” she admitted. “It was in their database.”
Boldt warned, “We can’t have him IDing a suspect.”
“No,” Daphne agreed.
“We going to Cajun Country?” LaMoia asked. “We gotta find this tattoo shop ahead of Hale.”
“I’ll book the flights,” Boldt said.
Boldt’s phone was ringing as he reentered his office. He caught it before voice mail picked up. He answered tersely, having no interest in Intelligence work, the pressure of Hale’s advance work threatening Sarah.
“What it is, my man,” the deep voice uttered into the phone.
He recognized the drawl immediately. “Not now, Raymond.”
“What has one tail but two assholes?” the snitch asked.
“Am I paying for this bit of entertainment?”
“What has a nice set of tits, a dick and two wings?”
Boldt didn’t want to be playing games. He told the man so.
“I thought you cops were good at solving shit like this.”
Boldt answered, “Two people on a plane: a man and a woman.”
“Damn!”
“So why do I care?”
“Because one of the assholes is this visiting heat, this FBI brother who’s been all over the TV. The other is one fine piece of trim.”
Boldt’s chest tightened: Flemming and Kalidja. “Where did you get this, Raymond?”
“A brother just came by the Air Strip. The G-man and the G-string jumped a private jet fifteen minutes ago.”
Flemming had a government Lear at his disposal. The information held together.
Boldt informed his informer, “There’s a fifty in it if you can give me their destination. And I need it quickly.”
“Right back to you.” The phone went dead. For Flemming and Kalidja to leave the city together without letting the task force know meant something big was in the works. Bigger than big: huge. Boldt suspected their destination was New Orleans, that Flemming had the jump on the tattoo shop, that Sarah’s chances were diminishing with every hour. Boldt called a travel agent and booked himself and LaMoia nonrefundable tickets to New Orleans on the earliest flight available. If need be, he would appeal to Flemming in person, revealing Sarah’s abduction.
In the midst of booking the flights, Boldt’s other line rang, and he answered it.
“Boise, Idaho,” Raymond announced. “The G-man jet filed for Boise.”
“Idaho?”
“As in potatoes.”
“It’s going down in the book,” Boldt acknowledged, confirming the payment.
“And the rich get richer.” Raymond hung up.
Boldt steadied his hand as he dialed Boise’s police department. He knew several cops there. If Flemming had a suspect already in custody …
Minutes later, Boldt connected with Detective Hank Langford.
Boldt reintroduced himself to Langford as an Intelligence officer investigating the Pied Piper kidnappings, electing a strategy of us-against-them. He made assumptions and took chances that a week earlier he would have been unwilling to take. “Hank, as I’m sure you are aware, you have a situation over there that may involve our investigation. Our friends in the FBI are on their way there as we speak. We at SPD were hoping you might enlighten us a little so we don’t end up with mud on our faces.”
“Mud or shit, Lieutenant?”
“I see we understand each other.”
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking ’bout. Closest thing we’ve got to ‘a situation’ is a five-car fender bender out on the interstate. A diesel jockey fell asleep at the wheel, rolled his eighteen-wheeler, and dumped about a hundred microwave ovens out on the highway like some kind of garage sale. Right there in front of the airport. The trucker was decapitated. Around here we let the state police boys clean up those messes. A lot of blood in a decapitation. You ever seen one?”
“Would you know anybody with state police who might know about extending an invitation to the Bureau?”
“This is Idaho. From God’s lips to your ears, we aren’t real fond of the federal government. They tend to grab our land, try for our water and steal our checkbooks.”
“Could you make a call for me?”
“Could and will. Sit tight. Won’t be a minute.”
It was seven minutes. Boldt counted each one along with his elevated heart rate.
Langford sounded a little more excited on the second call. “Seems you’re onto something. The FBI was in fact contacted.”
“Do we know why?”
“I told you about the pileup. One of those cars was found abandoned. No driver. No passenger. What was found was baby bottles, dirty diapers and such. The car came back an Econo-Drive rental out of Seattle. That’s when the Feds were notified.” He added, “Whoever was driving abandoned the scene of an accident and took an infant child with them. Leaving the scene is a crime in and of itself.”
Boldt asked desperately, “Any sign of a second child being in that car? An older child?”
“Didn’t hear nothing about it.”
“If you hear anything more …,” Boldt said.
“Got you covered.”
Flemming was pulling an end run. It was information he should have shared.
Any evidence trail would begin in that wrecked car. Boldt wanted that crime scene, but he needed it ahead of the Bureau and that wasn’t going to happen. He couldn’t allow any of this to distract him: The pull remained New Orleans and identifying a suspect-preventing Hale from doing so.
The decision was a simple one. Let Hill aim the task force at Boise, convincing her that LaMoia was best left behind in Seattle. Then jump the plane for New Orleans stealing LaMoia and staying ahead of the race.
Screaming into the phone, Sheila Hill ordered Boldt to keep trying for details and to stay by his phone. Boldt, in turn, pleaded with her to assign Mulwright to Boise.