“I think not,” Boldt said.
“I won’t say a word.”
“Better not,” Boldt said. “We can discuss this at the next lecture.”
“After the next lecture?” she pressed, and there was no mistaking that look in any woman’s eyes, even a woman this young. He felt his face flush and his groin stir.
“Another time,” he said. “Good to meet you, Ming.” He stepped past her, leaving a whole other world behind him and wondering why a collision like this would present itself just now. Other than during his occasional teasing with Matthews, no woman had openly flirted with him in at least a decade, certainly not a child. The repartee with Matthews had ground to a halt once she’d attached herself to LaMoia. The implied interest of this girl nearly derailed his thought long enough for him to forget himself. But he moved to the computer terminal in the corner, sat down on the warm stool, reminded once again of his eager student, and leaned to slip the disk into the machine.
Within seconds the disk drive began to whir. With it, in Boldt’s mind, a resurrection. Yes, David Hayes was very much alive.
Driving home twenty minutes later, the disk coming out of the machine blank, as Riz had anticipated, and Boldt momentarily blank along with it, Boldt crossed I- 5 in the Crown Vic, catching sight of the painted triangle where he’d been pulled over and waiting for a call only an hour before. He yanked the wheel, hit the emergency flashers, and pulled over in traffic on westbound NE 45th.
“Command,” Riz answered the phone.
“The Forty-fifth Street exit off I-5 north,” Boldt said, without further introduction. “Is there a traffic cam that watches that location as well?” As Riz checked, Boldt ended the call and crossed the busy street and peered over a low rail at the interchange in question, his mind whirring. He had briefly held suspicions that Riz, or another SPD officer, was involved in this. It was certainly not beyond the realm of Yasmani Svengrad to “turn” a cop through extortion or threat, or to entice a cop with the smell of that kind of big money. Now, watching the highway traffic stream past, Boldt’s phone rang and it was Riz.
“Affirmative,” Riz said. “They had you in plain sight for both stops.”
They discussed the possibility that Hayes might have been able to access Web-Stir’s video security cameras, and Riz confirmed this possibility, “depending on the firmware they’re using.”
Working on the notion that the obvious is always the solution to a certain level of crime, and rarely the solution to sophisticated crime, Boldt placed a call to his department’s traffic division. He felt like a spider carefully laying out his web while knowing all along his predatory victory amounted to little more than haphazard chance. The fly had to be in the room for the web to be effective.
Boldt requested any and all reports of breakdowns or accidents for late afternoon into the early evening hours of Wednesday on highway 520-the day Hayes had apparently been tortured-and Foreman had allegedly been stuck in traffic on state highway 520. A few minutes later he received the report. He disconnected the call and hurried back to the Crown Vic.
His phone purred as he climbed back inside behind the wheel.
“It’s me.” Liz.
“Hey.”
“Everything okay?”
“In a manner of speaking. He… or someone else, has the software now. He did it smart, and we’re not going to trace it.”
“He?”
“We believe it’s Hayes. There’s only one thing left they need now.”
“Access,” she said. Her.
“Yes.”
“That’s why I’m calling,” she said. She detailed Foreman’s visit, leaving out nothing, including the Palm Pilot. “They made it look like torture and then they hid him. Danny’s convinced they can bring in whoever’s money it is, and then that’s that. He suspected I’d tell you, but needs it kept confidential. Says Geiser will deny knowledge of any of it.”
“SID found tooth chips, an excessive amount of blood, and pieces of two fingernails at that crime scene,” Boldt told her. “That doesn’t fit with what you’re telling me.”
“They wanted it to look right?”
“Maybe,” Boldt allowed. Foreman and Geiser would both know the details of the other tortures. It suddenly explained to Boldt why he’d felt so uneasy about the Hayes crime scene-the lack of cigarette ash and shoeprints among the missing pieces.
“The thing is,” Liz said, “if I am involved, if I do make this wire transfer for someone, and I send the money to an account Danny specifies, where’s that leave us if Danny doesn’t catch Svengrad? The tape? The kids? You said these people are not to be toyed with.”
“That’s right,” Boldt said, his head throbbing as he tried to set this straight in his thought. Once the tape went public, their lives-quite possibly their children’s lives-would never be the same.
“I’ll think of something.”
“Danny was off, Lou. Wasn’t himself.”
“Pressuring you couldn’t have been easy. It was right of you to tell me.” Boldt figured Geiser had put him up to it. Paul Geiser was pulling the strings now. “Thank you for that.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“You’re going to get the call,” he said. “We have to prepare for that.”
“There’s not much to prepare for. I wait and see what it is they ask me to do.”
“There’s a call I need you to make,” Boldt said. “It’ll have to be from your cell phone.”
“What’s going on, Lou?”
“Not now,” he said, imagining his home line tapped. “Call me back from your cell phone.” He took a moment to sign off politely and cradled the mobile phone in a cup holder.
He no longer trusted his own people.
There had been a time when rousting LaMoia, morning, noon, or night, would have been easy. Here was a cop who seemed to approach the job, each day, with youthful enthusiasm. The tougher the work, the better. The more risky, the better. But home life had changed all that, and Boldt resented Daphne Matthews taking that part of LaMoia from the job. Now LaMoia wanted to be home with Daphne and Margaret, a toddler who seemed destined to be swallowed by the state’s child protection laws despite the loving care she was receiving from Matthews, who’d been assigned temporary guardianship. Only a state government could consider over fourteen months of daily care “temporary.” But LaMoia felt the pressure, along with Matthews, of the child possibly being taken away, and the result was a man who never wanted to leave his loft condominium.
Boldt finally laid out his suspicions to LaMoia in a desperate act he’d hoped to avoid. It wasn’t his way to voice those suspicions until he had more to go on than hunches. But none of this was going “his way,” and so he resorted to outright manipulation, knowing LaMoia wouldn’t be able to resist.
“Two visits in the same day. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Dressed in blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, Paul Geiser looked nothing like the attorney who occupied the small office in the Justice Building. He’d become so predictable in his gray suits, white shirts, and conservative ties, that this alter ego at the front door surprised Boldt. Geiser looked at them over a pair of dime-store reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
He admitted Boldt and LaMoia with no reference to the late evening hour, no questions on why the surprise visit. “Beer? Coffee? Tea for you, Lieutenant?” He motioned for them to follow him when they failed to answer. Geiser might have lost the suit but not the swagger of confidence that epitomized prosecuting attorneys.
The room smelled of airplane glue, a potent odor that took Boldt back to his youth. “Models?”