"The helpless female? I don't buy it."
She glared. "This young woman was violated in the worst, most heinous sense. Some monster"monster was not a word that Daphne Matthews, the psychologist, often used-"cut her open, reached inside her, and removed an organ-a physical part of her! MY God! Phil Shoswitz may be committed more to the dead than the living, but you? After they stole her kidney, they burned her short-term memory with electroshock. Am I getting through? Maybe one of them raped her just for fun. Evidence? Do I need probable cause, Sergeant, in order to investigate, or just the suspicion that a crime has been committed?" She stared him down. "Will you help me or not?" she asked, adding, "if for no other reason than as a parent."
He couldn't help but picture Miles-Einstein, the nickname belonging to his blond, curly haired son-involuntarily under the knife of such a butcher. She interrupted his thoughts. "The electroshock may have done permanent damage to her memory, not to mention her mind: She hears a constant barking."
"I'm out of the business. I'm off the force. My badge is collecting dust in Shoswitz's drawer."
"You're on extended leave."
"That's just Phil's way of holding a carrot out to me, of keeping my chance at twenty alive. That's the way it reads on paper, Daffy, but in here?" he said, repeating her gesture of placing his hand on his chest. "In here, I'm a father and a hack pianist."
He had never dared speak the words aloud, had seldom even thought them, for he wasn't one to lie, and he couldn't be sure this was the truth: "It's over." It felt sacrilegious to say such a thing. just hearing it spoken confirmed its falsehood. He felt a terrifying loss of control, as if hitting a patch of ice on a dangerous curve. it wasn't over, was it? Someone out there had torn the guts out of a young girl. What surprised him most of all was the way he took to it so quickly. He wanted whatever evidence she had. He wanted the pieces of the puzzle. He wanted to put a stop to it before it happened again. Cop instincts-she was counting on them. Perhaps it was because the victim was alive.
A voice-a man's, big and thunderous-reverberated through the club. "Party's over, everyone. No more drinks. I'm going to have to ask you all to leave." Boldt looked over his shoulder expecting to see some drunk on the stage, but instead he saw a crew cut wearing a ten-year-old gray suit and scuffed wingtips with worn heels. A badge hung out of the breast pocket of the suit. Four or five clones of the man swept quickly into the club, fanning out to various responsibilities. It felt like a bank job to Boldt, an organized robbery. But when this guy announced, "Treasury Department," he realized what it was. The man continued, "These premises are being sealed." He repeated loudly over protests, "I'm going to have to ask you all to leave."
"Your idea?" Boldt asked her, nodding toward the Tman. "Trying to pressure me into this?"
She grimaced, looking past him toward the stage. One of the suits was screwing a padlock clasp into the piano's keyboard cover. Boldt could feel the screws biting into the wood as if they were drilling into his own flesh. He rose angrily, Daphne following. "What the hell?" Boldt hollered as he closed the distance. "That's a musical instrument, goddamn it!" The one with the big voice was smart enough to step aside. The assistant kept right on twisting the screwdriver. "Stop that! Now!"
"Don't make any trouble, pal," the assistant cautioned.
The screw chewed more deeply into the wood. "You don't do that to a musical instrument," Boldt repeated, wrapping one of his big hands around the boy's wrist. "You just don't do that."
The agent threatened, "You want me to call the cops?"
"I am a cop," Boldt declared. His eyes met Daphne's; she wasn't going to let him live that one down. Boldt released the man. "So am I," Daphne informed the agent, producing her identification. "I'd sure as hell like to see the warrant that authorizes the destruction of private property in the process of seizure. You want to show me that document, please, Agent-" she craned forward to read his nametag. -"-Campbell?"
The man's face went crimson. He looked first at her then at Boldt, then over at his superior. "You want to see warrants, you'll have to talk to Agent Majorksi. I got a job to do here." "Leave it be," Boldt said definitively, grabbing his wrist again. Two screws had already violated the ebony.
Across the room, bartender Mallory struggled with one of the agents in an effort to lock the cash register, but lost. The agent took the key from her. They had practiced this drill well or had performed it enough times to execute it flawlessly. Piece by piece, stage by stage, the agents took control in a matter of minutes, Confused patrons were herded toward the door, several chugging beers on the way. Another commotion-Bear's arrest-grabbed Boldt's attention as the agent started twisting that screwdriver again.
The club owner was placed in handcuffs and read his rights. He glanced over at Boldt, shrugged, and smiled. "I should have hired H&R Block," Bear shouted over to Boldt. That was Bear: ever the comic. He threw a couple of one-liners at the agents who had him, but they didn't seem to appreciate the humor. "Drinks are on the house, fellas," he tried one last time as they escorted him toward the door. "Hey, Monk," he called out, using his nickname for Boldt, "I thought all you badgers were on the same team. Hey, Elliot Ness," he called to the gray suit, Majorski, "this here is Lou Boldt. The Lou Boldt of the Seattle Police Department! Have a heart!" He was ushered out of the building. "Louis Boldt?" Agent Majorski asked. "That's right," Boldt answered, surprised to hear his proper name come from the mouth of a stranger. These guys were as stiff as cardboard. "You mind calling this guy off? He's screwing a friend of mine."
Daphne displayed her I.D. for the second time. "I'd like to see the warrant that permits him to do that."
Majorski looked over her badge and photo. "Tommy," he said, stopping the one at the piano. "Why don't you help with the files?" Reluctantly, the rookie abandoned his task. Boldt and Daphne briefly exchanged looks of triumph.
The euphoria was short-lived. Majorski consulted a typed list he withdrew from his coat pocket. "You'll be hearing from the IRS," he said to Boldt with a disturbing smugness. "I'd speak to my accountant if I were you." He moved off to reorganize his people. "My accountant?" Boldt responded desperately, the man not listening. Liz handled their tax returns.
Daphne and Boldt were herded toward the door. "Just let me use you as a sounding board," Daphne pleaded, ever persistent. "I can bounce my ideas off you. Show you what I've got." She feared she had lost him, that her effort had been overshadowed by the raid, that all was for naught. She couldn't leave it as it was, she couldn't bear the thought of facing Shoswitz alone; she needed Boldt. "Daffy, I can sleep at night. My stomach is better than it's been in years. I take naps in the afternoon, with my little Einstein purring in his crib. I read books imagine that! Liz and I actually find time to speak a few complete sentences to each other.
You know what you're asking?"
"Please," she tried. II The way she said it. Boldt looked at her intently.
As a sounding board, but that's all." "Sure," she said, unconvincingly. "That's all." He hated losing.
THURSDAY February 2
Sharon Shaffer, barely tall enough to see over the wheel even with a cushion under her, was driving her seven-year-old Ford Escort, Daphne in the passenger seat. Daphne lived on a houseboat at Gas Works Park; Sharon lived about a mile away on Linden, a block from the Freemont Baptist Church. They carpooled together whenever possible, mostly for the company. Following her meeting with Boldt at the hbrary, Daphne was going to spend the evening at The Shelter and then ride home with Sharon.