‘‘Lofgrin called,’’ LaMoia stated, referring to the head of the forensics lab. ‘‘Said he picked up fish scales on the bottom of those slippers. Wants me to stop by when we’re done with Tech Services.’’
Although the discovery of the fish scales intrigued Boldt for their apparent connection to Jane Doe, Boldt felt a stab of envy and misgiving. He wanted SID calling him, not his sergeants. But given his advancement to lieutenant, it wasn’t going to be that way. The lab and the ME’s office notified the lead officer first, and a lieutenant was rarely, if ever, a lead officer. Supervisor, yes. Consultant, yes. But not lead. Boldt wasn’t sure why this mattered so much to him, but it did. He didn’t want to be the second to know, he didn’t want to be the bridesmaid. He wanted it to be his pager to go off-even though he hated the things; his phone to ring; his decision. When a case went bad he was now called to the office rather than the crime scene. It just wasn’t right. This, in part, explained the suit he was wearing. He had a job interview lined up for later in the day. Not even Liz knew about it. He was in turmoil over the decision to take the interview, much less the job if it were offered.
They stopped at the fire door to the basement floor. It had been painted with so many coats that it had a leathery look. ‘‘If anything decent comes out of this video,’’ Boldt cautioned, ‘‘we need to be thinking about how else we might obtain it in case some judge shuts us down.’’
LaMoia’s resources were legendary. He had friends who had friends who had access to the most sensitive and privately guarded information-financial and otherwise. Some said it was all those past girlfriends; others claimed he’d once been military intelligence. He never said a word about it, extending the legend and keeping his sources protected. ‘‘You got it,’’ he said.
Boldt told him, ‘‘It’s a job interview, but I don’t want anyone to know.’’ That sobered LaMoia.
‘‘Yeah? Well I hope for all our sakes it goes really bad.’’ He hesitated a moment and then added warmly, ‘‘Thanks. . Lieutenant.’’
Boldt pulled open the door.
The geek in Tech Services said something about dubbing the digital down to an SVHS master and handed LaMoia the remote wand-yet another sign of who was lead officer-and told him to summon him if they needed anything, or when they were through. He left the two men by themselves in a small darkened room in front of a twenty-seveninch color television.
‘‘A private showing,’’ LaMoia said, starting the tape rolling. ‘‘Who’s buying the popcorn?’’
Boldt wasn’t in a joking mood.
The sound and picture were of a city street by day, the camera held about waist height. The video title stamp was set incorrectly to January 3. The time was 6:19 P.M. Boldt didn’t trust that either. The two discernible background conversations were of a couple discussing a Native American festival and another two or three men all complaining about their jobs.
‘‘The camera’s concealed,’’ Boldt said softly.
‘‘In a briefcase, maybe.’’
‘‘Agreed.’’
The scenery suddenly blurred and a city bus was seen approaching.
‘‘It’s a bus stop,’’ LaMoia said.
‘‘Yup.’’
‘‘That make sense to you?’’
‘‘Let’s watch,’’ Boldt suggested.
The air brakes hissed and the bus pulled to a stop. Shot from the hip, as the video was, the scene played out from a child’s height and perspective. Boldt thought about his own kids, Miles and Sarah, and worried that he wasn’t seeing enough of them. He was barely seeing Liz either, for that matter-unless he counted the hours she was sleeping. With his insomnia back in full swing, he saw a lot of Liz while she slept. He lay there and worried-it didn’t seem to matter about what; his kind of worry was a world unto itself.
They caught their first glimpse of Melissa in a shiny piece of steel or aluminum, or maybe even a mirror inside the bus. It happened so quickly that it was hard to tell. But there she was-twenty-something, almost pretty, blue jeans and a Wazoo sweatshirt-climbing the stairs of the bus. There was too much noise to pick out any particular conversation, but the camera seemed intent on the left side of the bus. It was obvious that she had worked at maintaining that angle as long as she did, given that she was walking the center aisle the whole time.
‘‘What do you think?’’ LaMoia asked.
‘‘I don’t know,’’ Boldt answered. He didn’t like the man interrupting every few seconds. He wanted to watch the video, to get inside the images, not be constantly yanked back into the viewing room with his sergeant.
‘‘Someone on the left side interests her.’’
‘‘Let’s just watch it one time through. You think?’’
‘‘Yeah, sure.’’
Melissa took a seat about two-thirds of the way down the bus, across from the vehicle’s rear door, but the lens remained aimed on the same side of the bus. Images streamed by outside the windows.
LaMoia said immediately, ‘‘She wants to be able to leave in a hurry.’’
Boldt said nothing. Lead by example, he was thinking.
After only a few more seconds there was an abrupt jerk in the image, and the time stamp advanced eleven minutes. She had stopped and then restarted the recording. Boldt made note in the dark of the eleven-minute break.
‘‘You trying to intimidate me, Sarge? Should I be taking notes?’’
‘‘I’ll take the notes,’’ Boldt said.
The bus turned and lumbered up a downtown street. The change in architecture said as much. It was noticeably darker outside- twilight. The nose of the bus lowered, all the passengers thrown slightly forward in their seats.
‘‘Third Avenue bus tunnel,’’ LaMoia said.
‘‘Yup.’’
‘‘She’s following someone. What do you want to bet?’’
‘‘Let’s watch.’’
LaMoia snorted, excited by what he saw and disappointed in Boldt’s stubborn silence.
The bus pulled to a stop inside the tunnel and a dozen passengers stood to disembark. The camera continued to record as one waist and torso after another passed by. It then swung and Melissa carried it off the bus and into the bus stop where some passengers headed for exits and others awaited connections. For the first time, the camera clearly singled out one man in particular.
‘‘There he is,’’ LaMoia said anxiously. ‘‘Whoever he is.’’
The man grew increasingly larger as the camera approached. For an instant, he was held in profile, but an overhead ceiling lamp burned a bright white hole into the image and erased the man’s face.
‘‘Damn!’’ LaMoia gasped. ‘‘We had him.’’
‘‘She had him,’’ Boldt corrected. ‘‘The question that has to be asked: Did he have her?’’
‘‘You think he made her?’’
‘‘We know he made her, John,’’ Boldt reminded. ‘‘We just don’t know when.’’
‘‘This shit gets on my nerves.’’
‘‘I can tell.’’
‘‘Film, I’m talking about.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Boldt said.
She stopped at a city map, turned and sat down, presumably on a bench. The camera turned ever so slightly and held the man’s back in frame.
‘‘She’s good at this, you know? A good aim.’’
The image jumped. In the lower right-hand corner, seven minutes had elapsed. The man’s back was still on the screen. He wore an old moth-holed sweatshirt with a hood, black jeans and waffle-soled boots. The man’s black wavy hair and build suggested ethnic blood-a big Hispanic or South Pacific man. It meant nothing without a better look.
‘‘Why this guy?’’ LaMoia spoke aloud.
‘‘That’s the relevant question,’’ Boldt agreed.
‘‘Klein? Did she connect the missing skirt with this Frito Bandito?’’
‘‘That’s a racial slur, John. You’re a sergeant now.’’
‘‘This rice and beans gentleman,’’ he said, correcting himself. ‘‘Tommy Taco?’’
‘‘Way to go.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’
A bus pulled to a stop. Passengers disembarked. The suspect boarded, followed a moment later by the camera and the woman carrying it. The image didn’t last long. She established the man’s location on the bus. Another cut. Elapsed time, seventeen minutes.