And now for the good part.
This was where Lou Boldt threw out all convention, where the textbooks took a backseat to experience, and where he found out who in the lecture hall was listening and who was asleep.
He raised his voice. Boldt was a big man and his words bellowed clear back to the make-out seats without the need of the mike clipped to his tie. “Everything I’ve told you in the past few weeks concerning evidence, investigative procedure, chain of custody, and chain of command is worthless.” A few heads snapped up—more than he had expected. “Worthless unless you learn to read the crime scene, to know the victim, to listen to and trust your own instincts. To feel with your heart as much as think with your head. To find a balance between the two. If it was all in the head, then we would not need detectives; the lab technicians could do it all. Conversely, if it was all in the heart—if we could simply empathize with the suspect and say, ‘Yup, you did it’—then who would need the lab nerds?” A few of the studious types busily flipped pages. Boldt informed them, “You won’t find any of this in your textbooks. That’s just the point. All the textbooks in the world are not going to clear a case—only the investigator can. Evidence and information is nothing without a human being to analyze, organize, and interpret it. That’s you. That’s me. There comes a time when all the information must be set aside; there comes a time when passion and instinct take over. It’s the stuff that can’t be taught; but it can be learned. Heart and mind—one’s worthless without the other.” He paused here, wondering if these peach-fuzz students could see beyond the forty-four-year-old, slightly paunchy homicide cop in the wrinkled khakis and the tattered sport coat that hid a pacifier in its side pocket.
At the same time, he listened to his own words reverberating through the lecture hall, wondering how much he dare tell them. Did he tell them about the nightmares, the divorces, the ulcers and the politics? The hours? The salary? The penetrating numbness with which the veterans approached a crime scene?
Light flooded an aisle as a door at the rear of the hall swung open and a lanky kid wearing oversize jeans and a rugby shirt hurried toward the podium, casting a stretched shadow. Reaching Boldt, he passed the sergeant a pink telephone memo. A sea of students looking on, Boldt unfolded and read it.
Volunteer Park, after class. I’ll wait fifteen minutes.
—D. M.
Volunteer Park? he wondered, his curiosity raised. Why not the offices? Daphne Matthews was anything but dramatic. As the department’s forensic psychologist, she was cool, controlled, studied, patient. Articulate, strong, intelligent. But not dramatic—not like this. The curious faces remained fixed on him. “A love letter,” he said, winning a few laughs. But not many: Cops weren’t expected to be funny—something else they would have to learn.
Volunteer Park is perched well above Seattle’s downtown cluster of towering high-rises and the gray-green curve of Elliott Bay that sweeps out into the island-riddled estuary of Puget Sound. A large reservoir, acting as a reflecting pond, is terraced below the parking lot and lookout that fronts the museum, a building under reconstruction for months on its way to housing the city’s Asian Collection. Boldt parked his aging department-issued four-door Chevy three spaces away from the red Prelude that Daphne Matthews maintained showroom clean. She was not to be found in her car.
The water tower’s stone facade rose several stories to his left. Well-kept beds of flowering shrubs and perennials surrounded its footing, like gems in a setting. The grass was a phenomenal emerald green—unique, he thought, to Seattle and Portland. Maybe Ireland, too; he had never been. Summer was just taking hold. Every living thing seemed poised for change. The sky was a patch quilt of azure blue and cotton white, the clouds moving in swiftly from the west, low and fast. A visitor might think rain, but a local knew better. Not tonight. Cold maybe, if it cleared.
He spotted an unfamiliar male face behind the iron grate of one of the tower’s upper viewing windows and waited a minute for this person and his companion to descend and leave the structure. Once they were gone, he chose the stairway to his right, ascending a narrow chimney of steep steps wedged between the brick rotunda to his right and the riveted steel hull of the water tank to his left. The painted tank and the tower that surrounded it were enormous, perhaps forty or fifty feet high and half again as wide. With each step, Boldt’s heart pounded heavier. He was not in the best shape; or maybe it was because she had elected to step outside the system, and that could not help but intrigue him; or maybe it was personal and had nothing whatsoever to do with the shop. He and Daphne had been close once—too close for what was allowed of a married man. They still were close, but mention of that one night together never passed their lips. A month earlier she had surprised him by telling him about a new relationship. After Bill Gates, Owen Adler was the reigning bachelor prize of the Northwest, having gone from espresso cart to the fastest-growing beverage and food business in the western region. He leased his own plane, owned a multimillion-dollar estate overlooking Shilshole Marina, and now, quite possibly, owned the heart and affections of Daphne Matthews. Had her note been worded any other way, had she not chosen such an isolated location, Boldt would have been convinced that her request was nothing more than some lover butterflies.
In another two hours, Volunteer Park would be a drug and sex bazaar. Despite its view, the tower was not a place frequented by the pin-striped set. She had clearly chosen it carefully. Daphne was not given to acts of spontaneity. She desired a clandestine meeting—and he had to wonder why.
He reached the open-air lookout at the top of the tower. It had a cement floor and evenly spaced viewing windows crosshatched with heavy-gauge steel to prevent flyers from testing their wings, or projectiles from landing on passersby.
Daphne held her arms crossed tightly, accentuating an anxiety uncommon in her. Her brown hair spilled over her face hiding her eyes, and when she cleared it, he saw fear where there was usually the spark of excitement. Her square-shouldered, assertive posture collapsed in sagging defeat.
She wore the same blue slacks and cotton sweater he had seen her wearing at work. She had not been to her houseboat yet. “What is it?” he asked, worried by this look of hers.
Her chin cast a shadow hiding the scar on her neck. She did not answer immediately. “It’s a potential black hole,” she explained—a difficult if not impossible case to solve, and with political overtones. And then he understood: She had bypassed the proper procedures to give him a chance to sidestep this investigation before he formally inherited it at the cop shop. Why she would have a black hole in the first place confused him. The department’s psychologist did not lead investigations; she kept cops from swallowing barrels, and profiled the loonies that kept Boldt and the others chasing body bags. She assisted in interrogations. She could take any side of any discussion and make a convincing argument out of it. She was the best listener he knew.
She handed him a fax—the first of what appeared to be several that she removed from a briefcase.
SOUP IS MOTHER’S CHOICE.NOT ALWAYS.
She told him, “That was the first threat he received.”
“Adler,” Boldt said, filling in the blank.
She nodded, her hair trailing her movements. Daphne Matthews had grace, even when frightened. “It’s an ad slogan they use.”
“Innocuous enough,” he said.
She handed him the next saying, “Yes, but not for long.”
SUICIDE OR MURDER. TAKE YOUR PICK.
NO COPS. NO PRESS. NO TRICKS,
OR YOU WILL CARRY WITH YOU
THE LIVES OF THE INNOCENT.
“It could be nothing,” Boldt said, though his voice belied this.
“That’s exactly what he said,” she replied angrily, lumping them together.
Boldt did not want to be lumped in with Owen Adler. “I’ll give you one thing: When you say black hole, you mean black hole.” Faxed threats? he thought. In the top left of the page of thermal paper, he read a date and time in tiny typeface. To the right: “Page 1 of 1.” Good luck tracing this, he thought.
She handed him a third. He did not want it.
“Quite a collection,” he said. Boldt’s nerves unraveled from time to time, and when it happened, he defaulted to stupid one-liners that seldom won a laugh.
IF ADLER FOODS IS OUT OF
BUSINESS WITHIN 30 DAYS, AND ALL OF THE
MONEY IS GONE, AND YOU ARE DEAD AND
BURIED, THERE WILL BE NO SENSELESS KILLING.
THE CHOICE IS YOURS.
“How many days has it been?” It was the first question that popped into his head, though it was answered by the date in the corner. He counted the weeks in his head. The thirty days had expired.
“You see the way he worded it?” Looking down at her feet, she spoke softly, dreamy and terrified. Her lover was the target of these threats, and despite her training, she clearly was not prepared for how to handle it. “The more common threat would be: ‘If Adler Foods is not out of business within thirty days …’ You see the difference?”
Her bailiwick, not his, he felt tempted to remind her. “Is that significant?” He played along because she had FRAGILE written all over her.
“To me it’s significant. So is the attempt in each fax to place the blame firmly with Owen: It’s his decision; his choice.” When she looked up at him, he saw that she held back tears.
“Daffy—” he offered, stepping closer.
“Owen and I are not going to see each other—socially—for a while. Me being police and all.” She wanted it to sound casual, but failed. “We have to take him seriously now.”
Boldt felt a chill. “Do we?”
She handed him another.
I AM WAITING. I SUGGEST YOU DO NOT.
YOU WILL HAVE TO LIVE WITH YOUR CHOICE.
OTHERS WILL NOT BE SO LUCKY.
“It’s the first time he’s mentioned himself,” Boldt noted.
She handed him the last of the group. “That one was sent four days ago. This one arrived this morning.”
YOUR INDECISION IS COSTLY. IT CAN, AND
WILL, GET MUCH WORSE THAN THIS.
Below this on the fax was a copy of a newspaper article.
“Today’s paper,” she explained.
The headline read: INFECTIONS BAFFLE DOCTORS—Two Children Hospitalized.
He read the short article quickly.
“The girl is improving. The boy is not,” she told him. “‘It can, and will, get much worse than this,’” she quoted.
He looked up. “This is his offer of proof? Is that what you’re thinking?”
“He means to be taken seriously.”
“I don’t get it,” he complained, frustrated. “Why didn’t you bring this in sooner?”
“Owen didn’t want to believe it.” She took back the faxes possessively. Her hand trembled. “The second one warns against involving us.”
She meant cops. She meant that the reason for them meeting here, and not in the fifth-floor offices, was that she still was not sure how to handle this.
“An Adler employee,” Boldt said. “Past or present, an employee is the most likely.”
“Owen has Fowler working on it.”
She meant Kenny Fowler, formerly of Major Crimes, now Adler’s chief of security. Boldt liked Kenny Fowler, and said so. Better yet, he was good police—or had been at one time. She nodded and toyed with a silver ring fashioned into a porpoise that she wore on her right hand.
“I misjudged him,” she said so quietly that Boldt leaned in to hear as she repeated herself. Daphne was not one to mumble.
“Are you okay?”
“Sure,” she lied.
A black hole. Absorbing energy. Admitting no light—pure darkness. He realized that he had already accepted it, and he wanted to blame her for knowing him so well.
“Talk to me,” he said, nervous and irritated.
“You’re right about it being an employee. That’s the highest percentage bet. But typically it involves extortion, not suicide demands. Howard Taplin, Owen’s counsel, wants it handled internally, where there’s no chance of press leakage, no police involvement, nothing to violate the demands.” This sounded a little too much like the party line, and it bothered him. It was not like her to voice the opinions of others as her own, and he had to wonder what kind of man Howard Taplin was that he seemed to carry so much influence with her. “That’s why I have to be so careful in dealing with you. Taplin wants Fowler to handle this internally. Owen overruled this morning. He suggested this meeting—opening a dialogue. But it was not an easy decision.”
“We can’t be sure this newspaper story is his doing,” Boldt told her. “He may have just seized upon a convenient headline.”
“Maybe.” She clearly believed otherwise, and Boldt trusted Daphne’s instincts. Heart and mind; he was reminded of his lecture.
“What’s Fowler doing about it?” Boldt asked.
“He doesn’t know about this meeting. Not yet. He, like Taplin, advised against involving us. He’s looking to identify a disgruntled employee—but he’s been on it a month now. He’s had a few suspects, but none of them has panned out. His loyalty is to the company. Howard Taplin writes his paychecks, not Owen—if you follow me.”
Boldt’s irritation surfaced. “If this news story is his doing, I’d say we’re a little late.”
“I’m to blame. Owen asked me for my professional opinion. I classified the threats as low-risk. I thought whoever it was was blowing smoke. Proper use of the language. The faxes are sent by portable computer from pay phones. Fowler traced the last two to pay phones on Pill Hill. That’s a decent enough neighborhood. What that tells us is that in all probability we’re dealing with an educated, affluent, white male between the ages of twenty-five and forty. The demands seemed so unrealistic that I assumed this person was venting some anger—nothing more. Owen went along with that. He put Kenny on it and tried to forget it. I screwed this up, Lou.” She crossed her arms tightly again and her breasts rode high in the cradle. Again she quoted, “‘It can, and will, get much worse than this.’”
Her voice echoed slightly in the cavernous enclosure, circling inside his thoughts like horses on a carousel.
A black hole. His now.
“You want me to look into it, I’ll look into it,” he offered reluctantly.
“Unofficially.”
“You know I can’t do that, Daffy.”
“Please.”
“I’m not a rent-a-cop. Neither are you. We’re fifth-floor. You know the way it works.”
“Please!”
“I can’t do that for very long,” he qualified.
“Thank you.”
“If either of these kids dies, Daffy—” He left it dangling there, like one of the many broken cobwebs suspended from the cement ceiling.
“I know.” She avoided his gaze.
“You’ll share everything with me. No stonewalling.”
“Agreed.”
“Well … maybe not everything,” he corrected.
It won a genuine smile from her, and he was glad for that—though it deserted her as quickly as it had come. His frantic footfalls on the formed stairs sounded like the beating of bats’ wings as he descended at a run.
The newspaper article had listed one of the hospitals. For Lou Boldt, the victim was where every investigation began.