“But what account? Where’s the number? He should have given it to me by now.”
“He can’t. He knows Pahwan would stick some electronic glue onto that account number and that he, Svengrad, would never be free of us. He’s too smart for that.” Boldt asked, “So the question is: How and when will he get the account number to you?”
“And why has he waited until now?”
Boldt felt a flash of heat pulse through him, as if he’d accidentally grabbed a live wire. Past conversations percolated through him like groundwater rising during a flood. He answered, “Because he knows you aren’t in the bank… that you aren’t anywhere near that server.” It hit him so clearly-it explained so much.
“He’s watching me? Having me watched?” she said, suddenly looking left to right as if expecting to catch someone staring.
The tumblers fell into place and the truth unlocked for him. He felt an immense sense of relief, wondering at the role of random chance and whether he or Liz would have reached this same place, made this discovery, had he not confessed to her.
He continued by saying, “Listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you.”
TWENTY-TWO
SUNDAY AT 5 P.M. BOLDT’S cell phone rang as if he’d set an alarm clock. He and Liz were sitting in the living room, the shades drawn, she on the couch, he in a chair, she pretending to thumb through a catalog, he monitoring the surveillance radio channel via an ear bud. For the past thirty minutes no words had been exchanged, as the clock moved toward the bank reception.
A thirty-year-old female officer, whose name Boldt had already forgotten, remained within earshot at the kitchen table. Liz continued scanning gift items as he answered the call, didn’t succumb to the gravity of the moment. Boldt terminated the call and said to her, “There’s a taxi out front. The driver’s on his way up to the door with a box.”
Liz checked her own phone, then glanced up at Boldt before he turned his attention to the kitchen where the officer was already receiving orders over the secure walkie-talkie.
Boldt jumped up and waved Liz into the bedroom and the backup officer out of sight, cradling his handgun behind his back and moving toward the front door. All for show. Liz knew this taxi’s arrival was Lou’s doing. He waited for the doorbell to chime, gave it an appropriate pause, and opened the door. The cab driver sounded half Indian, half Arab. “Happy birthday to the Missus,” he said. The box was wrapped in a flower-print paper, torn and untaped on one side. The driver explained, “I don’t deliver nothing without seeing what’s inside. But it’s okay. Only clothes. Forty bucks for a five-dollar fare, what the hell?” He added, “There’s a note,” pointing out the unaddressed white envelope taped to the top.
Boldt stepped back, leaving the door ajar, and told the driver to open the box. “Empty the contents.”
“Listen, Mister.”
Boldt displayed his shield and repeated himself.
The driver tore off the paper and nervously upended the box. A pile of black and white clothing spilled out. Boldt instructed him to shake out the clothing, which the driver then did. Boldt returned the gun to its holster, tipped the man ten dollars, and attempted to send him away, at which point the driver said he’d been instructed to wait for the fare.
“To take her where?” Boldt inquired.
The man shrugged. “I wasn’t told. Listen, you want me to take off-”
“No.” Boldt put on his best face of confusion for the sake of the backup officer. He sent the driver to wait in the cab and then pushed the door shut. He held up the first of what turned out to be several oddly shaped pieces of clothing. A nun’s habit.
Boldt locked the door, called the Command van and suggested they double-check the cab number to verify it was legitimate. He quickly filled in Riz on the little he knew of the situation, and promised “more to come.”
Boldt carried the box and the note into the living room, summoned Liz and the officer, and placed everything on the coffee table. Boldt handed Liz the note that he himself had printed out.
The envelope was not sealed. She slipped out what turned out to be a movie ticket.
“This is them,” she said, again for the sake of the plainclothes officer.
“Yeah. We can still call this off,” he offered, as she sized the clothing.
“They don’t gain anything from hurting me as I leave the house. They need me inside the bank. Willing to cooperate.”
The plan called for Officer Malone, already dressed identically to Liz by prior arrangement, to switch out and take her place ahead of Liz’s arrival at the bank’s merger party. There were several contingencies available to accomplish this. At present Malone remained on her stomach in the back of Liz’s minivan in the Boldt garage. That could change as needed, but those changes would take time and Boldt had the advantage now. Special Ops had expected a phone call with an account number. They’d gotten much more.
Boldt heard over the radio that the cab was legitimate. He checked the window and confirmed it remained parked at the curb, engine running.
“No minivan,” she said.
“Yeah, I know,” Boldt said.
“So we’ll have to do the switch somewhere else.”
“Right,” he confirmed, making sure the woman officer overheard all this.
Liz moved into the bedroom and donned the nun’s habit over her existing clothing, a smart black cocktail dress, sheer pantyhose, and a pair of low heels. The officer pointed out she’d have more mobility if she lost the heels but that Malone wore the same shoes and so she’d better keep them on. Liz agreed.
Boldt hung up from a cell phone call. “It’s a sing-along, like Rocky Horror. Costumes. Twenty bucks a seat.”
Trying to make light, Liz said, “I’d make a better Maria, don’t you think?”
The officer reminded her that her bra contained a tracking device and assured her that they’d never be far away. Husband and wife met eyes-a covert exchange that the officer was not allowed to see.
Liz added a starched white section over her shoulders. Boldt helped secure it in place with Velcro.
Liz donned a Flying Nun headdress. He found it odd that a few pieces of clothing could add so much innocence and virtue. Her face looked peaceful and beautiful, not a strand of hair showing. Even as pale as she’d been lately, next to the stark white fabric her skin looked Italian olive, healthy and vibrant. All lies.
They met eyes in the mirror. Boldt forced a smirk.
“If you’re thinking of making a joke, don’t.”
He grinned and nodded. “You’ll be fine.”
Boldt answered his cell phone and heard Danny Foreman’s voice. Foreman occupied his Cadillac Escalade, parked down the street from the Boldt home, riding alone. Boldt walked into the living room to take the call in private, knowing that at this same moment, Homicide detective Mark Heiman was at On-Sat, keeping track of the location of Foreman and his car. Boldt still didn’t trust Foreman despite Hayes having no recollection of who had beaten him.