Boldt - 05 - Pied Piper
Pied Piper
Boldt [5]
Ridley Pearson
Hyperion (1899)
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Rating: ★★★★☆
Tags: Mystery, Thriller
Mysteryttt Thrillerttt
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A wave of 'babynappings' has terrified parents from San Diego to Portland. And when the Pied Piper - named for the penny flute he leaves in the cribs of his victims - claims his first Seattle infant, the investigation draws in homicide detective Lou Boldt. Assigned temporarily to Intelligence, Boldt's role is to keep the FBI out of the Seattle Police Department's way. Then the Pied Piper snatches Boldt's own daughter, promising that unless Boldt throws both the Feds and the SPD off his trail he'll never see his child again. Caught between his professional obligations and his fear for his daughter's life, Boldt launches his own private manhunt - and discovers how the Piper has managed to stay a step ahead of the police, elude capture, and find his small victims...
### Amazon.com Review
A wave of babynappings has terrified parents from San Diego to Portland. And when the Pied Piper--named for the penny flute he leaves in the cribs of his victims--claims his first Seattle infant, the investigation draws in homicide detective Lou Boldt. Assigned temporarily to Intelligence so he can spend more time with his kids while his wife is hospitalized for chemotherapy, Boldt's role is to keep the FBI out of the Seattle Police Department's way. But FBI special agent Gary Flemming is a tough adversary--so tough it almost seems as if he's intentionally sabotaging the SPD's investigation. Then the Pied Piper snatches Boldt's own daughter, promising that unless Boldt throws both the Feds and the SPD off his trail he'll never see his child again. Caught between his professional obligations and his fear for Sarah's life, Boldt launches his own private manhunt with the help of John La Moia, his replacement in homicide, and police psychologist Daphne Matthews, his closest friend in the department. They form a sub rosa task force under the noses of the Feds and the SPD, and soon discover how the Piper has managed to stay a step ahead of the police, elude capture, and find his small victims. The chase moves from Seattle to Portland to New Orleans, culminating in a thrilling denouement in the daffodil fields of Washington's Skagit Valley. Combining strong characterizations with an impressive command of both policing and pacing, Ridley Pearson, author of *Chain of Evidence* and *Beyond Recognition*, delivers another sure winner in this outing for Lou Boldt. *--Jane Adams*
### From Publishers Weekly
A serial kidnapper called the Pied Piper?the villain of Pearson's ingenious, fast-moving 11th thriller?has targeted Seattle, and newly promoted Lieutenant Lou Boldt (last seen in Beyond Recognition) is called in on the case by John LaMoia of the Seattle Crimes Against Persons unit. Boldt, whose wife, Liz, is undergoing chemotherapy, soon discovers that the Pied Piper has managed to target families, steal children and vanish from city after city seemingly at will, although the FBI, under the direction of Special Agent Gary Flemming, has been chasing the serial kidnapper across the country for months. And it looks like the same thing will happen in Seattle, especially when vital information is withheld by the FBI in a turf battle with the locals. But just as Boldt starts asking the right questions, the Pied Piper abducts his daughter, Sarah. It's twists like this that fuel the rest of the novel as Pearson tightens the screws on Boldt as he tries to find his daughter and prevent another kidnapping. The plot begins simply and becomes wonderfully complex, stretching from Seattle to New Orleans; while the lucky car accident that helps break the case wide open is somewhat facile, the work of Boldt and an expertly drawn supporting cast of characters will hold the attention of readers. As will be clear even to neophytes, Boldt's relationship with forensic psychologist Daphne Matthews, and the ongoing affair between two members of the task force, point to a lot of history between these characters, none of it confusing for first-timers, who may be tempted to pick up earlier novels to see whether they're all this good. $250,000 ad/promo; Literary Guild, Doubleday Book Club selections; author tour. Agent, Al Zuckerman. (Aug.) FYI: A mass market edition of Beyond Recognition will be published simultaneously.
Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc.
PRAISE
This year marked the passing of three men instrumental to my work habits and my being published. No words of thanks or praise could ring loudly enough to acknowledge all that they gave to me, both as professionals in their fields and as dear and trusted friends and advisers. There is no greater argument for the importance of mentoring. Separately, these men took hold of my hand and led me, editorially, into the creative life of writing and publishing fiction, for which I am eternally grateful.
Gentlemen, you are here, on every page. You always will be.
IN MEMORY
J. Bradbury Thompson
Franklin Heller
Ken McCormick
DEDICATION
For Paige and Marcelle
(Will miracles never cease?)
CONTENTS
Title Page
Praise
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Works
Copyright
CHAPTER
The train left the station headed for nowhere, its destination also its point of embarkation, its purpose not to transport its passengers, but to feed them.
By early March, western Washington neared the end of the rinse cycle, a ne
arly perpetual curtain of ocean rain that blanketed the region for the winter months, unleashing in its wake a promise of summer. Dark, saturated clouds hung low on the eastern horizon. Well to the west, where the sun retreated in a violent display, a glimpse of blue cracked the marbled gray, as welcome to the residents of Seattle as any sight alive.
Arrival at the dinner train surprised Doris Shotz. She had thought her husband Paul was taking her to Ivar’s, one of Seattle’s more popular fish-house chains. A simple dinner date had presented her with a test of sorts, being that it was her first evening leaving her four-month-old baby girl, Rhonda, with a sitter. She’d finally decided she could handle an hour or two a few blocks away from home. But an entire evening stuck on a train in the woods was unimaginable, unthinkable!
“Surprised?” he asked, displaying the tickets proudly.
On the verge of total panic, Doris reminded herself that Julie was an experienced sitter, having taken care of Henry for the last year, as responsible a fifteen-year-old as one could ask for. Better to give Paul his moment than to start a fight.
They’d been talking about the dinner train for years. And Doris had to concede that over the last nine months, Paul had been a saint. She owed him.
“I can’t believe it!” she said truthfully.
“I know. You didn’t guess, did you?”
“Not for an instant. I promise: It’s a complete surprise.”
“Good.” He reached down and took her hand and squeezed. She felt flushed. She wanted to be home with the kids.
“All aboard,” he said.
The train lurched. Doris Shotz shifted to avoid spilling the cheap champagne that Paul had ordered. Although she didn’t want to drink while nursing, she knew Paul would consider it an act of defiance to say no to any part of the celebration, and given that she had already gone this far to please her husband, she wasn’t going to let one glass of champagne ruin the evening. When the train turned east, the frosted mountains flooded crimson with the sunset, Paul said with obvious satisfaction, “This is a long way from the backside of a computer.”
Paul repaired PCs for Micro System Workshop, a name his employer had invented because it could be reduced to MS Workshop, and in an area dominated by Microsoft those two initials meant dollars. Paul drove a blue MS Workshop van around the city, crisis to crisis, fire to fire: hard drives, networks, IRQ ports—Doris had heard all the buzzwords enough times to think she might be capable of a repair or two herself.
Paul provided for them adequately. He loved her in his own way. She loved him too, though differently than she once had. Now the children absorbed most of her time and much of her love, too. She wasn’t sure exactly how to categorize her love for Paul; she simply knew that she would always be at his side, would attempt to put up with his moods. But the truth was that she lived for her children, Rhonda and Henry. She had never before known such a complete feeling. It warmed her just thinking about it.
She politely refused a refill of champagne as she watched her husband’s cheeks redden behind the alcohol’s effects. Clearly carried away with happiness and the light buzz that came from the champagne, he talked at her, but she didn’t hear. Boys and trains, she thought.
“Do you think I should call home?” she asked him.
“Call?”
She motioned to the rear of the train car. “There’s a pay phone. Cellular. I could call them.”
“You know how much those things cost? Fifteen minutes, Doro,” he pointed out, checking his Casio and saying sarcastically, “we’ve been gone a whole fifteen minutes!” He leaned closer and she could smell the sweet alcohol on his breath, a smell that reminded her of the occasional drunken violence that Paul had sometimes brought with him to their bed. “They’re fine. Julie’s perfectly capable.”
“You’re right,” she said, offering him a fragile smile. He nodded and stared out the window. She felt sick with anxiety.
It occurred to her that in a few minutes she could excuse herself to go to the bathroom and use the phone. Paul would probably never know. The champagne bottle’s white plastic cork rolled noisily at his feet. The train clattered past condominiums that reminded her of a Monopoly board. A few of the couples had dressed for the occasion, though most wore jeans and sweatshirts. It wasn’t exactly the Orient Express.
It soon became clear that Paul’s romance was with the train rather than her. Flushed cheeks pressed to the glass, his right foot tapping quickly as it always did when he drank in excess, her husband disappeared into the alcohol and she retreated into thoughts about her children.
Ten minutes passed with minimal conversation. Doris excused herself and made the call home. It rang and rang, but there was no answer.
Wrong number, she decided. At those prices—$3.95 for the first minute, $.99 each portion of a minute thereafter—Paul was certain to catch the charge on the credit card bill. But so what? She pressed NEW CALL. She redialed, again suffering under the weight of its endless ringing. She could envision Julie busy with a diaper, or in the middle of feeding. It didn’t necessarily mean trouble. …
A fire, she thought. Paul’s home entertainment center—a sports center was more like it—crowded the outlets with far too many wires. What would Julie do in a fire?
The knot in her stomach twisted more tightly. Her fingers went cold and numb. Julie might be in the bathroom. Nothing more than that.
But her imagination wouldn’t let it go. Perhaps Julie had a boyfriend with her in the house. In that case, she wouldn’t be paying attention to either the kids or the phone. Doris stole a look around the corner and down the shifting train car’s center aisle to the back of her husband’s head. She had already been gone a few minutes, and it would ruin everything if he caught her at the pay phone. She had promised him she would wait to call until after dinner.
She hung up the receiver, deciding to slip into the washroom and then try again when she came out. But she emerged only to find someone else using the phone, ironically a mother happily talking to her children.
When the woman hung up, Doris tried again. This time the phone’s endless ringing seemed a kind of punishment for trying at all. She glanced up the aisle at Paul, but now all she could think about was that there was something terrible going on. She decided to call her neighbor Tina, who answered on the second ring.
Doris concentrated on removing any panic from her voice. “Tina, it’s Doris. I have a really weird favor to ask of you. …”
In her mother’s heart she knew: Something was dreadfully wrong.
CHAPTER
Hope sprang eternal. For Lou Boldt, who lived in a world of innocent or guilty, alive or dead, where the patrol officers drove cars painted black and white, hope rarely surfaced though always lingered, teasing and enticing.
A woman’s rail-thin body lay in the hospital bed before him, dressed not in the familiar hospital gown but in the pink seersucker he had brought her two weeks before their fifteenth anniversary. Beneath that gown, as well as on the exposed skin, not a single hair. The chemotherapy had claimed the body fat, the hair, even any expression of joy from her sunken eyes. Her alien looks signified either a preparation for death, or a rebirth. The vomiting and complete lack of energy left Boldt with the impression of a woman half-dead. Despite his hope.
He placed a DO NOT ENTER—OXYGEN IN USE sign on the door to the room, a door that he shut tightly before jamming a white towel up against the crack at its base. He briefly caught sight of himself in the bathroom’s mirror: a tired forty-two, thinner than he’d been since college, tough in the face, but kind in the eyes. Even dressed in his ubiquitous khakis and blue blazer, he no longer looked professorial but more like retired military—”a dog trainer,” one friend had laid on him. The cop shop lived for such insults. Approaching his wife’s roommate, a woman who liked afternoon tabloid television, Boldt knocked on the bed stand before pulling back the privacy curtain. “Medication time,” he announced.
Stark and clinical, the room felt like a place to st
ockpile auto parts, not heal the sick—stainless steel, electric cable, faux grain vinyl veneer, bleach-white sheets—the room’s only warm color came from the patches of pale human skin that escaped the bedding.
“Count me in,” declared the roommate, Roberta, who was undergoing chemo for stage-four leukemia, her life expectancy, thirty to ninety days.
Elizabeth was battling lymphoma, life expectancy, three to six months. This lodged in Boldt’s throat like a stuck bone.
The two windows looked out on a parking lot filled with the cars of visitors to the “C ward”—sad people carrying flowers on the way in, burdened by tears on the way out. Boldt parked out there among them. He opened both windows.
“Compliments of Bear,” he explained to his wife, producing a perfectly rolled joint. Bear Berenson, a friend of twenty years, owned the comedy club Joke’s On You, over on 45th near Stoneway.
Liz smirked. “A twenty-four-year veteran, a Homicide cop, pushing drugs.”
“Medication,” he corrected. “And I’m not Homicide any longer.”
“Intelligence,” she said. “There’s an oxymoron.”
He stood on a chair unsteadily and slipped a glassine bag, normally used for evidence collection, over the smoke alarm. His advancement to lieutenant had necessitated a transfer from Homicide; in a year or so he’d be back, and at a higher rank, better pay, better benefits, all made necessary by the mounting bills and loss of her banker’s income. Change—Boldt’s nemesis. Homicide was home; this woman was home. Home was changing.
“Disabling the lavatory smoke alarm can get you thrown off the flight, you know?” Roberta had been an Alaska Airlines flight attendant for eleven years.
Boldt put the finishing touches on his effort and climbed down.
Liz grinned widely—a moment Boldt lived for. She put the joint between her lips, saying, “Times like this I miss the Jefferson Airplane.” Boldt lit it for her and sat between the two beds passing the joint back and forth between the two women. Roberta smoked greedily and coughed loudly, bellowing smoke into the room, worrying Boldt that he too might get high.