“One mile, maybe.”
“Stay with it.”
Boldt called Liz and asked if Theresa Russo had dropped any papers by, and before he finished with the woman’s name, Liz confirmed that she held an envelope for him. A long thoughtful pause hovered between husband and wife, all the unspeakable questions lingering between them, unintentionally driving Boldt’s sense of guilt to higher places. “We’re making some progress,” he said. It was all he could think to say.
“I’m praying.”
He wasn’t sure if he should thank her or not. He was going to have to learn more about his wife’s faith and how to respond to it. The idea of a strong faith nibbled at his conscience, tempting him. With all he had seen, all he saw in the line of duty, he wondered if he could bring himself to such a place. Others had. It worked for some. As the Country Squire closed that last mile to South Lander, Boldt caught himself in a state of silent vengeance; not the pure faith required of him, but an attempt to make a connection with something, someone, greater than himself and to seek partnership and to gain confidence in what he had planned. Not exactly prayer, but he was trying.
“Is that Lander?” Boldt asked his driver, indicating a traffic light in the distance.
“That’s the one.”
He dialed Lofgrin in the surveillance van. As he did so, he instructed Griz to negotiate the Country Squire immediately behind the Taurus. Griz was beyond questioning him; he accelerated past several cars and then pulled in behind the drilled taillight.
“Okay?”
“We’re all set,” Boldt said.
He looked ahead to the right and the mostly empty parking lot that included a lime green Corvair and SPD’s steam-cleaning van, the command van, the destination of his phone call.
“Yeah?” Lofgrin answered from inside that van.
“Do it,” Boldt said. In the next minute or two he hoped to throw both SPD and Flemming off Crowley’s scent. He sat back and watched, reduced to spectator, frustrated, tired and angry.
Mounted to the dashboard of the steam-cleaning van was a small gray box that might have been mistaken for a radar detector. All fire trucks, ambulances and certain police vehicles-including all command vans-carried such boxes, the function of which was to transmit radio signals to upcoming traffic lights, switching and holding the lights to green. Aimed as Boldt had directed, Lofgrin engaged the box and stopped traffic on 99, including Crowley and Boldt directly behind her, a half mile and closing.
The moment the traffic stopped, a good-looking black man stepped into the street and approached the stopped traffic carrying a spray bottle in hand and several more hooked in his waist. The light rain continued to fall. Raymond sprayed a part of the windshield of the first car and wiped it quickly. He hurried around the front of the car and clearly delivered a sales pitch into the driver’s window, holding up the bottle for the driver to see. The driver motioned him away.
Ten seconds had passed since the light had turned red, no cross-traffic in the intersection. Boldt willed Raymond on. Seattle drivers were notorious for running red lights.
Before Raymond raised his rag, the second driver waved him off. The street person worked the windshield to the third car and the driver passed him some money. Boldt had been approached this same way, also during a light rain-the fluid Raymond was selling repelled water off the glass windshield, making it far easier to see. The stuff actually worked.
Thirty seconds …
“Hurry up,” Boldt mumbled.
Crowley waved, refusing the service, but Raymond went at her windshield anyway. Her window came open and he gave up, shouting, “No charge! No charge!” He crossed in front of her, walked along the curb, and patted her car on the rear fender to let her know he was there. In a sleight of hand worthy of a magic show, Raymond stuck a piece of chewing gum over the drilled hole in the taillight.
At this same moment, across the intersection, the hood of a car stuck its nose out onto 99.
Lofgrin allowed the light to go green, and the first cars surged forward.
“Go ahead,” Boldt told Griswold, “but allow this car up here-you see it? — to cut in ahead of us.”
“I got it.”
A car horn sounded impatiently from behind. The Country Squire rolled but allowed Crowley to gain a car’s length that was quickly filled by the car pulling out. It was a dark car, a Nissan, its shape similar to a Taurus. They nearly rear-ended the car.
Griswold honked before Boldt could stop him. “Turn your fucking lights on!” Griswold roared.
As if hearing him, the car in front did just that, and as the taillights flashed red a white pinprick hole appeared.
Griswold understood the switch then and said to Boldt, “You sneaky bastard.” He added, “He got us close like that so we’d block him-”
“Screen him,” Boldt supplied.
“So like the others don’t see the lights come on.” The driver grinned. “They just see the hole in the same taillight.” He added, “What’s all this about, anyway?”
“It’s about a little girl,” Boldt said. He held his breath awaiting radio traffic to confirm the ruse.
“Anything?” he heard over the radio.
“Nothing yet … check that … Affirmative, I’ve got the target up ahead.”
Boldt heaved a sigh of relief: Surveillance had bought the switch.
As instructed, LaMoia waited a mile before turning off, making a right onto Royal Brougham and immediately speeding up. At 4th he would make a left and then would join the long on-ramp to 90, with each turn going faster, making sure to keep enough distance to use the darkness to hide the make of the car.
Crowley, and Boldt with her, climbed the viaduct, the traffic thickening. Behind them, three vehicles turned right in pursuit of the drilled taillight.
Griz, checking the rearview mirror, said, “I don’t get it. Aren’t those your guys?”
“In a matter of speaking,” Boldt replied.
“I suppose that’s the part I don’t get,” he said.
Boldt gloated at his success. Through the rain, the skyscrapers shimmered to his right. Viaduct traffic was clocking sixty. It was fast for wet highway, fast for Boldt, but there were no more drilled taillights to follow. They had to stay close to the Taurus.
“She sure is checking her mirror a lot,” Griz reported.
“Back off,” Boldt ordered.
“We could lose her.”
“Back off!” Boldt saw the nervous head movement in silhouette.
“She’s changing lanes-”
“Get over!”
Griswold dropped back further and slipped in behind a limousine. “Can’t see her.”
“Shut up!” Boldt barked nervously, his stomach a knot.
“Tunnel,” Griswold said, as the limousine slowed for the short tunnel further separating them.
“This is not good,” Boldt said, “not good.” The Country Squire flowed with traffic into the tunnel.
Boldt caught a faint glimpse of taillights.
“Exit!” Boldt shouted at the driver.
Griswold jerked the wheel and negotiated a sharp right immediately at the tunnel’s end. He slammed on the brakes. Every street, every intersection, was jammed with bumper-to-bumper traffic.
Griswold said, “I told you we should’a listened to the Sonics game. At least we would’a known when it was getting out. Who needs this shit?”
“She does,” Boldt answered. “She knows exactly what she’s doing.”
CHAPTER 78
Boldt took off on foot through the drizzle, slamming the car door while telling Griswold to park somewhere within a few blocks and pointing to a corner where he wanted Griswold to wait for him.