"Just don't call him late to dinner," someone shouted out. "Cute, Meyers. Bet you thought that up all by yourself," she said quickly, stealing the laughter that Meyers had hoped for, boosting her confidence. She looked Boldt in the eye and was gratified to see respect there. "We want to use his insecurity against him. He wants this laptop. You must remember that at all times. He'll do what's necessary to get it back, including giving us the password as long as we make him think of it. It may take us several times. We must be prepared for him to walk. We can't be afraid of that. Let him go; he'll be back." Lots of doubting faces on that one. "This is my territory," she reminded. "Trust me: He'll be back. That is, if that laptop contains the kind of information we think it does and if our surveillance boys don't tip him off to us." She allowed them time to talk among themselves and then interrupted. "We're going to push and pull him. Toy with him. It's essential we make this tough for him."
Boldt interrupted, his confidence apparent. "Once we have the password, we're going to copy files from the laptop's hard disk. That may take a minute ...
She reinterrupted, "Which is when he will grow the most suspicious. Those of you acting as patrons-that's your moment to cause the most confusion. We want to make it safe for him to be delayed. If he wants to leave-fine. Once we have the password we don't really care." o Boldt corrected, "But we do care about his catching on to us. The whole reason we're letting him skate is the hope he'll lead us up the ladder. It's like a Narco bust that way-which is exactly why those of you from Narco were assigned here. We need your expertise." Meyers asked, "How do we know this guy ain't the cutter?" Some heads nodded. "We have a profile of the harvester. This guy doesn't fit," Boldt answered. Daphne witnessed the glum faces and felt tempted to defend herself. He glanced at her from the side of the room where he was standing. "We have reason to suspect that the harvester is a veterinarian." They both allowed a few seconds for the resulting chatter that always followed such an announcement. This was the first time anyone had been told this, other than Shoswitz, Lamoia and herself.
Daphne offered, "There's also some physical evidence. We believe the harvester has a harsh voice. Our pawn shop suspect does not. We believe the accomplice wears size thirteen running shoes; the suspect in the pawn shop was wearing large running shoes. "The important thing," Daphne continued, "is to use his impatience against him. To criticize him: his looks, his intelligence, anything to heighten his anger. If we keep him angry, he won't be thinking clearly, he'll stop being observant his focus will be on directing his anger." She asked the two women, "Which one of you is the prostitute?"
That caused all the male heads to spin. Maria Romanello raised her hand. She was a good choice: dark skin, sultry attitude, with an eye-popping figure. But she was a gum-chewer and not at all glamorous. The guys applauded her. Maria flipped them the bird.
Daphne explained, "You'll want to turn it up pretty hot. Not for him-just in general. Lots of eye shadow. Some skin-as much as you feel comfortable with. Anything to keep him distracted without going over the top." Maria nodded. One of the men let out a wolf whistle. "What we're looking to do," she told them all, "is pull this guy in as many directions as we can. We make the environment busy. We make him feel unwanted. We piss him off, if possible. Maria keeps his hormones active. The more compartments in his brain we can activate, the less mental power he has to concentrate on what's being asked of him. We make him believe he's offering. We make him think this is all his idea. We play this right, and he'll volunteer that password without thinking about it."
"If we blow it," Boldt said, "chances are we've sacrificed a nice piece of evidence. Maybe even the smoking gun."
Daphne looked up at the clock. "The pawn shop opens at ten.
That gives us one hour to get into place. Any questions?"
A single hand raised. Meyers again. Daphne nodded. "Anybody thought about what we do if he pulls a piece and demands the laptop?" Boldt said, "We'll have an identical laptop on hand. if he tries to rob the place, we'll substitute it and give him the wrong one."
"Anything else?" No other hands surfaced. Daphne felt herself perspiring as she watched for the lieutenant's reaction. Shoswitz looked his crew over. He hesitated but finally nodded, giving his approval. Boldt glanced over at her. She felt a real connection to him.
As she passed closely to him on her way out, she whispered, "What'd you think?" He said softly to her, "I'm glad you're on our side."
she was thinking about Sharon again-it was all she could think about anymore. What had become of her? Where did this man at the pawn shop fit in? And what fate awaited Sharon if they failed in the task before them?
The receptionist left for lunch.
Pamela locked the front door and placed the CLOSED clock in the window-back in an hour-because they had a surgery to do and they couldn't be disturbed. In truth, this wasn't the only reason she locked the front door. It was for privacy as well, for while it trapped the public out, it also trapped the two of them inside, together. They had work to do.
She had lost two pounds in just three days. Some kind of miracle! She attributed this newfound strength to him. She placed the phones on the service, unbuttoned the top button of her shirt, and headed for his office. If she was honest with herself, she was worried about him. He wasn't himself today. He had spent the morning brooding in his office, his nose buried in medical journals and textbooks. He had outright refused to see several of their patients, passing the work along to her. Not like him at all.
She knocked. "Enter," he called out in a threatening voice that reminded her of her father. No, he was not himself at all. She opened the door.
He looked worried behind his desk. Others might not see it in him, but she knew him better than anyone. He picked at his beard nervously. "What about that stray?" he asked. "What's become of him?"
"We've called around. No one is claiming him.
He's headed for the pound later this afternoon."
"The pound?
But they'll kill him in three days! I saved that dog's leg!" he protested. "The farm? Is that what you mean? You want him out at the farm?"
"Are we prepped for surgery?" he asked. "A knotted intestine. Routine. It's all set up for you, prepped and ready to go." She added as a hint, "I've locked up. The phones are off." She wondered if he noticed her exposed cleavage. He didn't seem to. She reached up and undid the next button as well. "Very well," he said, rising from his black leather chair. "But not the lower G.I. Set up the stray for thoracic." "Excuse me?" she questioned. "Prep the stray.
Now!"
A few minutes later, they were standing alongside one another ready for the first incision. He studied the animal for what seemed like an interminable amount of time. "Doctor?" she said, breaking the silence.
He glared at her. He looked down at her breasts and told her to button herself up. "This isn't a porno movie, you know. We have work to do. Correction! I have work to do. I'll handle this alone."
"What?" she gasped, fishing for the buttons.
He glanced around the room. "Get me some ice," he said. "Ice?"
"Now!"
She left the room and headed into the small kitchenette. She collected ice from a freezer there. She heard a buzzing from the surgical suite. The saw? "Saline!" he called out loudly. She had to go to the back room to find it. It took her longer than she wanted. She hurried back into the operating room, because he blamed her for any problems, even if she was off doing something he told her to. "Where's that saline? Penicillin! Where's the ice?" he repeated sternly.
When she rounded the corner and saw him standing there, she stopped abruptly. "My God!" she exclaimed, seeing the chest cavity splayed open. "A perfect job," he proclaimed proudly. "And fast, at that!" He turned to face her, his outstretched hands cupped firmly together.