“Not possible.”
“Then tell your people this. Sunday night, one way or another, I’m delivering Svengrad on the front steps, so they better stop your guy from crossing into Canada or boarding a flight because we’re all going to need him if we’re going to make the charges stick.”
“They’ll go ballistic, I give them that.” She sounded a little desperate now herself. “We’ve been building a case for the better part of a year now. You cannot do this, Lieutenant.”
“I’m not asking permission, Detective. I’m trying to give you a heads-up.”
“And if I can get you the meet with Alekseevich?” she asked. “Where’s that put all this?”
“Now you’re listening,” he said. Pulling the car to the curb as she’d directed, Boldt knew he’d won the meeting. “Your name never comes up in any of this.”
“I don’t know whether to kiss you or throw a punch,” she said, popping her door open.
He made sure she had his cell phone number, and then headed back into traffic, confident he’d led her away from her own very good idea, and wondering if he could now turn it to his favor.
Liz was half out of her mind with impatience and the claustrophobic sense of being watched and guarded. Lou’s last-minute request before he’d left had nearly floored her, but she knew to trust his judgment and instincts-when it came to planning, few were his equal.
To her surprise, the third shop she phoned was open late on Friday nights, the effeminate male voice on the other end trying to cross-sell all kinds of extras she didn’t need. She made this call in secret, as Lou had suggested, from the kitchen’s portable but in the bathroom with the water running, while Bobbie Gaynes babysat her in the living room, leafing through magazines and constantly adjusting the ear bud that linked her with dispatch. Liz had heard Lou talk about such operations dozens of times over the course of their marriage, but being the centerpiece of such a thing proved exhausting despite her doing nearly nothing and going nowhere. The nervous energy alone drained her of physical strength and threatened paranoia. Pickup and delivery of a costume was arranged. She reviewed the arrangements twice, making sure there were no misunderstandings. Lou had given her specific orders, and she meant to carry them out.
“Everyone okay in there, Mrs. B.?” It was Gaynes knocking lightly on the bathroom door. “Out in a minute. There’s another upstairs,” Liz added.
“It’s not like that,” Gaynes said. She didn’t need a toilet; she needed her charge back in her chair in the living room. Cops were territorial animals.
Liz willed her mobile phone to ring-to engage her, give her something to do other than worry. She would not have expected being so eager to be involved, so ready for it. At that point in time, if someone had asked her to clean fish she would have done it. Anything to relieve the stress of waiting.
She kicked herself a moment later for not thinking the way Lou thought, for not realizing her environment and how to handle herself. She left the bathroom and, by her way of thinking, did a pretty fine job of returning the kitchen’s portable phone to its wall cradle. But a moment later she looked back to see Gaynes striking a pose in the doorway shared between the kitchen and living room, one shoulder on the jamb, one leg crossed before the other.
“No,” Gaynes said into the portable phone. “Just checking if you’re open.” She hung up the call with the press of a button. She had pushed redial. She had realized what Liz was up to in the bathroom and had gone straight to work upon the phone’s return.
“What’s up with the costume shop, Mrs. B.?”
“I think you’d better come over here and sit down,” Liz said. “This may take some explaining.”
“I didn’t think you’d take me up on my offer so soon,” LaMoia said from the passenger seat. Less than thirty minutes had elapsed since Boldt had dropped him off. “I just barely wolfed dinner.” LaMoia carefully picked at a thick brownie, nibbling off tiny amounts and savoring each bite.
Boldt couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. He currently had the remains of a hot tea warming the cup holder. Boldt caught LaMoia up on the surprise visit by Maddie Olson, but did not mention her by name or division within the department, referring to her only as a “female officer.”
“Best kind,” LaMoia said, his teeth black with chocolate.“
It presents two very different scenarios,” Boldt said, driving faster than he normally did, and knowing that John recognized this but was too cool to acknowledge it. “Either Foreman stung us by faking the torture and stashing Hayes for the U.S. Attorney’s Office, or he actually tortured Hayes himself and put it off on others.”
LaMoia reacted sarcastically, one of the only emotional responses he allowed himself. “Oh, well, that second one’s certainly a dandy. Pissed at the system, he decides to take the money for himself?”
“It might account for Svengrad going after Geiser and him.”
“Why do I sense we’re not out for an evening drive?” LaMoia asked, popping the last bit of brownie into his mouth and rolling his eyes as he chewed. Boldt had just run a red light. “These things might come from a box,” he said, licking his fingers, “but Matthews has it down. The trick is undercooking them.”
“The Martha Stewart of Homicide.”
LaMoia, adding a southern twang, said, “And damn proud of it.”
Boldt explained, “First thing I did was try the Sheriff’s Office, looking for Danny, because this cop mentioned having Danny on our radar, and I think without meaning to, reminded me that all the MDTs,” Mobile Data Terminals, “track real-time location of the cars, same as ours do.”
“And you got a fix for his new ride? The Escalade?”
“Not exactly.”
“You’re driving as if you did.”
Boldt suppressed a grin. The first faint acknowledgment from John. It was worth cherishing. “I’ve got a fix, but it wasn’t courtesy of the Sheriff’s Office.”
“Is this supposed to be twenty questions or something?” He eyed Boldt’s tea, still smacking his lips. “You mind if I have a swig of that?”
“Finish it,” Boldt said. LaMoia knew perfectly well that Boldt did mind sharing both drink and food. This was LaMoia’s attempt at being polite while he got what he wanted. “Sheriff’s Office only keeps real-time information, and they currently have nothing on their screens for Foreman’s Escalade. Means the engine’s turned off. They’ll call me if that changes.”
“We call them ‘motors,’ Sarge,” LaMoia corrected, “but I’ll forgive you this time. Motors, because they’re engines that move you.” John was a gear-head of the first order. Boldt should have known better than to wander into his territory.
“Do you want to hear this?”
LaMoia, not wearing his seat belt, had slumped back in the seat, as if tempted by a nap despite Boldt’s erratic driving. The man had some Old West mannerisms like this-the town sheriff tipped back in the spoke chair outside the jail-that he wore effortlessly, and that fit him well. He reminded Boldt of the best of Steve McQueen. As if Boldt had already briefed him, LaMoia said, “I’m way ahead of you. The new Escalades offer an On-Sat service package that gives you twenty-four-hour road assistance, electronic mapping, live operators.” He paused for dramatic effect. “GPS, twenty-four-seven. You’re about to tell me On-Sat maintains GPS data for some specified amount of time; I’m guessing between six and twenty-four hours. That way they know where you’ve been, and this helps their operators look good when you ask for a nice restaurant or motel nearby.” He gave Boldt a smirk. “Voilá! The wheres and whens of Danny Foreskin’s comings-and-goings over the past whatever-amount-of-time.” He looked over at Boldt ponderously, and when Boldt failed to contradict him, slid further down in the seat, saying, “Wake me when we get there, Daddy. I need to close my eyes a sec.”