"Foul ball," Boldt teased.
Shoswitz didn't appreciate it. "You learn to watch the foul balls. Sometimes they pull fair."
"Bloodlines was just a quick little question-and-answer session, Phil. If I hadn't said I was a cop ... "What's Matthews working on, Lou?"
Boldt felt that sinking sensation of losing your balance when it's too late to do anything about it. He had committed to Daphne, but he didn't want that to be the same thing as committing to Phil Shoswitz. If he handled this incorrectly, he would end up back on the force but off Daphne's investigation-if she was even allowed to continue with the case. Shoswitz was a tough negotiator. Boldt gave him the details, starting with Cindy Chapman's appearance at the homeless shelter, up to and including the "coincidence" that four out of four names were in the Bloodlines' database. For now, he left out Dixie's matching tool markings, saving himself a trump card in case he needed it. He concluded, "You see why we were hesitant to bring this to you? We're a long way from any hard evidence. Bob Proctor wouldn't give me five minutes with what I've got." Proctor was the King County prosecuting attorney.
Shoswitz stared off blankly, deep in thought. He mumbled something about
"Matthew's responsibility to involve the department."
Boldt fired back, "You just said she doesn't qualify as an investigator-which is unfair, mind you, since she took highest honors at the academy." He suggested, "She only came to me because she knew I would listen objectively."
"Objectively?" he asked. "She doesn't want objectivity. She's into the overwork phase. She's going through 'mental pause." That incident with the knife set her way back. She's still not over it. You know how it goes: When you start to fight back you go too far. She's haunted by that incident. She wants to prove herself as a detective, wants to be more than a psychologist. She's itching to get out of the office and into the squad car. She tried to talk her way out of something and it didn't work, so now she wants it again, wants a chance to prove to herself that she's over it. I see what you're thinking," he added, heading Boldt off, "but it isn't that easy. I can't very well recommend her for another rotation when she's the only shrink on the force. That's her specialty-that's what we took her on for, even if she is qualified for investigations. Besides she hasn't asked for any kind of active duty.,, "What if she did? What if I signed back up on the condition that we be allowed to partner together on this harvester investigation? Fifty-fifty partners, no seniority on my part, but I would be there to help her out, maybe work her through this. At this Same time, she'd agree to continue to handle the more pressing aspects of her job as departmental psychologist. "You've thought this out, haven't you?" Shoswitz said. "I know you, Phil. If I sign back up, You'll yank me over to some murder-one ticket, and I'll never see this thing again."
What thing? You're the one pointing out the of evidence in this thing.lac@ Give me the manpower and authority to run with this. Give me a few weeks to come up with something to convince Proctor we have a case. If I can't, I'm yours-I'll see out my twenty."
"One week, no more."
"He's stealing organs, Phil. At least three kids are dead. The deaths are a direct result of his work, and that makes it multiple manslaughter, at least. How many more are there? I thought that was the point of Homicide. Three weeks."
"So it's hardball, is it?"
"Is it?"
"I want you back. That's no secret. I suppose that's half the problem," he said, allowing a rare smile. "But I'm not going to deal like this."
Boldt interrupted. "What a crock! You make deals like this every waking hour."
Shoswitz's face turned red and his nostrils flared. "Two weeks and that's final. Is this the new you?"
"Maybe it is," Boldt admitted. "I'm not feeling real 'new' at the moment, actually. Babies tend to make you feel ancient."
"You don't even have a formal complaint, do you? Is this on the books as a crime?" "I'm complaining," Boldt said, carefully avoiding the second answer. "The problem with you is you only see your side of things," Shoswitz said in a frustrated voice. "Now you're sounding like Liz."
This elicited a smile from the lieutenant, and Boldt could feel he had won. Shoswitz glanced over Boldt's shoulder. Boldt saw a flicker of distraction in the lieutenant's eye and knew before turning that it would be Daffy. He turned to see her coming at them like a freight train-no stopping her. A beautiful freight train at that. A nice engine. She opened the door without knocking. In a desperate voice she said, "A friend of mine's been kidnapped. I need your help." Pamela Chase climbed into her car, having decided on a drive because it was raining again and she couldn't stand it another minute inside her apartment alone. The occasional round-trip flight to Vancouver airport that she performed for Tegg did little to assuage her overall feeling of emptiness. Begrudgingly, she lived alone. Alone with her weight problem-with what she had come to think of as her ugliness.
A low ceiling of thick storm clouds blotted out the night sky and dumped more rain onto the drowning city. Four years of drought, now this! She didn't know exactly where she was going, but like a dog on a scent she followed her instincts away from the deafening drumming of the rain on her small balcony with its plastic fern and blown-out lawn chair. Another few minutes and that rain would have driven her right out of her mind. She pulled up to a red light and studied her reflection in the windshield. Mirrors were not popular in her apartment. She searched her face, trying to see it as beautiful, as Elden claimed to see it. She ignored the heavy checks and the squinty black eyes, the lifeless hair and spotty eyebrows. She saw someone else entirely. She briefly forgot all about her childhood-her parents' malicious remarks about her weight problem, her being left behind to "study" when her family went on social outings, the kitchen cabinets being locked, her being fed different size servings and different food than her siblings.
The neighborhood changed. Suddenly she left behind the stores and fast-food chains, the plastic marquees and 49-cent, LETTUCE signs, and was surrounded instead by towering trees, manicured shrubs, and elegant homes.
This was familiar territory to her, not unlike her childhood neighborhood less than a mile away. This was where the money lived, the professionals, along the lake shore, away from the noise and exhaust.
The Teggs owned three cars. Since they had only a two-car garage, and his was the one always parked in the driveway it was easy for her to determine Tegg was not at home. She drove by here often, waiting for the hours to pass, waiting for work. She lived for business hours. For Monday through Friday. For late-night emergency calls. For something more than the boredom of that apartment.
She tried the clinic next, but he wasn't there either. The place was locked up tightly and the security was on. So where was he? Out at another of his social functions with her? The ballet? The opera? Out with the big names and big money? He loved that world.
The more she couldn't have something, the more she wanted it. just like peanut butter. There was one way to make sure of his whereabouts. She pulled over at a Quik-Stop, bought herself a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, and ran through the rain to a phone booth, getting soaked in the process. She thought about the voice she would use: Elden had taught her about image, about role-playing and acting. She summoned a convincing desperation, which wasn't too far from the way she felt anyway. The phone rang several times, which she knew from experience meant it wasn't the baby sitter answering, because the baby sitter always either occupied the phone line, keeping it tied up, or sat close enough to answer an incoming call on the first ring. The multiple rings confirmed her suspicions: The wife was home, Elden was not.