"Why not an end run?" Shoswitz asked.
Boldt thought: Why not! Such tactics were fairly common practice: You asked a contact at a credit agency or the phone company-or Immigration-to do a search for you; if something useful was discovered, you were told to make it a formal request, knowing in advance that the formal request would net what you were after. It saved you from jumping through all the legal hoops only to come up dry. Shoswitz finally understood, finally saw his role in all of this. "You want me to make the call, is that it?"
For Boldt, it was like fireworks going off. A home run. "You're the only one with the necessary contacts at Immigration. I don't have them. Lamoia doesn't. But you do. I know you don't like this kind of thing, Phil, but we need some help here." Boldt had Daphne to thank for this; this technique had been all her doing.
Shoswitz said, "You could have just asked, you know."
Boldt offered an inquisitive expression.
The lieutenant considered this a moment. "No," he conceded, "I suppose not." Miles squirmed. He clapped his hands against Boldt's chest.
Boldt said, "Lamoia's working on getting the employee lists.
Three clinics in alclass="underline" Tender Care, North Main, and Lakeview.
With any luck, we should have those names by morning."
THURSDAY February 9 7 A.M.
With one day in which to find Sharon alive, Daphne, having slept for only three hours, marched into Boldt's office at seven o'clock Thursday morning and announced, "We overlooked something."
Wearing the same clothes as the day before, Boldt looked up from his desk with glassy eyes and replied, "I wouldn't doubt it." "I know how to identify the harvester."
He sat up, suddenly more alert, and watched as she passed by him, heading directly to one of several large stacks of paperwork. "Didn't you pull the drivers licenses on the three Tender Care vets?"
"Other stack," he directed. "But it's no good.
Shoswitz agrees that we'd be tipping our hand, that we'd give the harvester a chance to close up shop, to destroy evidence, if we interview them. Although the way Maybeck behaved with the laptop, I'm starting to think we're already too late."
"It's not an interview I'm after." She dug through the next pile over and extricated three sheets of paper. "He can tell us who he is without our ever asking a question." She added, "The thing is, Dixie told us the harvester is left-handed. Remember? We weren't thinking."
"But how-?"
"His signature, dummy." She placed the first sheet in front of him. It showed a poor-quality photocopy of a driver's license, complete with name, address, height, weight, eye color, and identification number. Her fingernail ran across the signature. "Right-handed," she stated. "See the slant to the characters and the way the dot on the T trails to the right?" She placed the next sheet in front of Boldt. She was leaning in close to him, and he could smell the shampoo in her hair. "Another rightie," she declared. "He's the one who retained the Tender Care name, isn't he?"
"Yeah, but I don't see how-" She interrupted again, "This is my training," Lou. Not yours." She delivered the last sheet to the table.
Her finger traced along the signature. "A leftie! See the posture of the T and the V? It's him!"
Reading the name from the license, Boldt asked, "Elden Tegg? How sure are you about this rightie/ leftie business?"
"Put him under surveillance," she instructed, taking charge. "I am going to find out who the hell this bastard is."
At eight forty-five she re-entered Boldt's office and took a seat across from him. "Dr. Elden Tegg is Canadian by birth-a U.S. citizen now. You want to guess what city in Canada he's from?" When he failed to answer her she said, "Vancouver," and left it hanging in the air like a bomb. "How do you know any of this?" he asked skeptically.
She slid the faxes over to him, her heart beating quickly.
"Just got these." She could feel Boldt's anticipation. "He's a board-certified veterinarian. I obtained his curriculum vitae from the Seattle Veterinary Medical Association. It gets real interesting on page two. Prior to veterinarian school here in Washington, Elden Tegg attended medical school in Vancouver." "As in humans?" Boldt's eyes were as wide as saucers. "As in. He didn't make it through his residency, which is not unusual in itself, the dropout rate being what it is. He came down here to Seattle and studied to be a veterinarian-also not that unusual. But it sure as hell fits the profile. Page three: There's a doctor listed as an attending physician: Dr. Stanley Millingsford. Lives outside Vancouver. I called him. What is unusual about Elden Tegg is that he was at the very top of his class. He didn't leave his residency; he was asked to leave. Dr. Millingsford was reluctant to give me that. In fact, Dr. Millingsford is an ardent supporter of Elden Tegg, or was until I told him about the nature of our investigation." She added, "Would you like to guess Elden Tegg's special interest in residency?"
Boldt answered, "Transplants?" She nodded. "Transplantation surgery. Millingsford is willing to talk but not over the phone. He has a dislike of phones."
Understanding her situation, Boldt stated, "You need a travel voucher signed by Shoswitz."
"You're such a good cop," she said. "We've established surveillance of the clinic and Tegg's residence. You're on your way. Now!"
She jumped up. They stood only inches apart. It seemed he might try to kiss her. Something inside her hoped that he might at least hug her, but the moment passed. He hurried out the door, running toward the lieutenant's office. "Lieutenant!" she heard him shout, "We've got him!"
Nestled in a shoreline forest of giant cedar, madronas and pine, Dr. Stanley Millingsford's gray clapboard home was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence with a stone pillar gate. It had a horseshoe driveway made of crushed stone and gave Daphne the impression, of an English manor house. As the taxi dropped her off, she faced a nine-foot-high black lacquer door with a polished brass knocker in the shape of a half moon. The sun shone brightly but was not hot. She tapped the moon gently against a polished brass star.
Mrs. Stanley Millingsford, who introduced herself as Marion, was in her late sixties, with pale blue eyes. She wore a riding outfit, complete with high black boots. She led Daphne into the cozy living room where a fire burned in the large fireplace. She seemed upset with Daphne coming here, bothering her husband, and she communicated this in a single, intense expression. She offered tea an went o to prepare it before Daphne had a chance to answer.
Dr. Millingsford walked with a cane. He wore a blue blazer, khakis, white socks, and corduroy slippers. A pair of bifocals protruded from the pocket of his Stewart plaid shirt. He had silver-gray hair and eyes the same color as his wife's. He motioned Daphne to the couch and took the leather wingback chair by the fire for himself. He placed his bad leg on a footstool and leaned the cane within reach. "Sorry to make you come all this way." She didn't say anything. He had that air about him: You didn't interrupt his thoughts. "Your generation is more comfortable with the telephone than mine." He sounded American, not Canadian, but she wasn't going to ask. "Elden Tegg," he said. "Yes.
"Organ harvesting?" He glanced at the fire. "Which organs?" he asked. "Kidneys. Lungs. We think it is mostly kidneys. Two of the victims are missing a kidney."
"Victims?"
"At least three of the donors hemorrhaged and 'died."
He lost some of his color and looked at her gravely. "He was asked to leave his residency," she reminded him. "Yes." He collected his thoughts. "You don't forget a man like Elden Tegg. There aren't many that good, which makes them stand out all the more. I don't mean just talent. Talent and intelligence abound in the residency programs. But rare is the individual who rolls the two together and achieves something of a higher level from this combination call it creativity, call it confidence-when you see it, you know. "Elden Tegg has as sure a pair of hands as I have ever seen. Brilliant control. He had the eye-that's the thing so many lack. Oh, they've read all the texts, they are founts of technical information, but they can't see. A surgeon must be able to see that which is there. Not just that problem for which he operates, but everything. Elden Tegg has such an eye, and the hands to go along with it. But while he was with us he had something else: ambition. The wheels of education moved too slowly for him. He sensed his greatness. He wanted everything, wanted it all. More than anything, he wanted acceptance from his peers. He wanted to belong. It wasn't difficult to see that. He was the freak, the whiz kid, and he suffered for it."