Boldt 03 - No Witnesses Page 14

  As she entered the ticket line for the monorail with her heart in her throat, she knew she wasn’t thinking clearly. She bought a round-trip, impatiently checking over her shoulder, and then moved on to join the waiting crowd. The monorail surged around the bend and slowed for its arrival. Her agitation increased with each passing minute. The two train cars pulled to a stop and a handful of passengers disembarked. A moment later she and the others crossed the steel catwalk into the train and took seats. No one in a khaki windbreaker, she realized to great relief. The sliding doors clapped shut, and she exhausted a huge sigh. She moved forward to the lead car where there was more room, instinctively distancing herself.

  But the doors, previously shut, hissed open admitting three latecomers, including a man in a khaki windbreaker whose back was already to Daphne by the time she realized these others had boarded. When she spotted that jacket, she nearly let out a small scream, but muzzled herself and faked a sneeze to cover. She could not allow herself this kind of fear. She knew that once a cop allowed him- or herself this kind of paranoia, it was difficult if not impossible to stop it. You saw the faces of killers you had helped to convict in every crowd, on every street. You imagined where no imagination should be allowed. She felt through her purse at her side to the small police-issue handgun it contained.

  She collected her strength, stood, and walked back to this other car, her full attention on the khaki windbreaker. She passed the circular bench, took a handhold on an overhead rail, and turned to face him. She stared at him until he finally looked up. He was a small man, midforties, with a tiny scar by his left eye. With boyish curiosity he said, “Hi.”

  “Do you know me?” she asked, not knowing where the words came from, not recognizing him.

  “I think I’d like to,” he said.

  “Why are you following me?” she asked.

  He looked around nervously at the people around them, all of whom Daphne was using intentionally. Confront, intimidate. He could not do anything to her here. “What?” he replied. If he was acting, he was quite good.

  “Go away,” she said, “or I’ll have you arrested.” She took one step away and then added as an afterthought, “If you know anything about me, you know I’m capable of delivering on that.”

  “Listen—” he said. But she would not give him any chance at an explanation. The worst possible thing she could do, she had just done, responding to emotion rather than logic. If he was for real, she should have played him out, should have arranged to have him followed, to turn the tables on him, to get something out of it. Instead she had felt the need to prove herself, and had blown whatever advantage she might have had over him. She handled this all wrong. She knew all this, and yet she felt satisfied as she sat back down, because it had taken nerve to do what she had done—and right then she had needed proof of that nerve. Now she did not, but now it was too late.

  The monorail came to a stop after its brief trip to the Seattle Center. She wandered the Center for longer than she had intended, keeping an eye on this man who, paying her no mind whatsoever, headed straight to a crafts show, confusing her all the more.

  With this confusion charging her system, she headed toward the crafts fair at a full run. To hell with the meeting. She would follow him. She would call in backup and stay with him.

  But he was gone. She spent ten minutes searching the grounds, the rides, a few of the displays. He had disappeared again, as quickly as he had at the Westlake.

  Or maybe, she thought, glancing around quickly, he was once again watching her, only this time more cautiously. This time vowing to make no mistakes.

  The felt board outside the Seattle Center’s planetarium was the kind used in hotel lobbies for seminar announcements. It read, NEXT SHOW: 12 NOON, with a listing of the planetarium’s regular summer schedule in a smaller white press type below.

  The center was mobbed with families overcome by the interactive science exhibits, providing the exact cover that Boldt had hoped for in calling the meeting here. Boldt discreetly showed his badge and gave his name to a security guard who stood sentry by the planetarium’s door, and getting the nod, let himself in. Taplin and Fowler were already waiting.

  Boldt had to convince Adler to pay the extortion money. He expected the man to flat-out refuse.

  The room was a twenty-foot-diameter circular enclosure, its perimeter entirely surrounded by a padded couch. In its center was a large, fixed desktop covered with an abundance of gray-metal projection gear that looked to Boldt as if it were straight off the set of Buck Rogers. The room had only one entrance and it was sound-proofed, the two qualities that when combined with its extremely busy public setting made it the perfect location for a covert meeting.

  Boldt had seen the real show a few months ago while here to meet a snitch who had whispered right over the words of the college-age woman with her red-light pointer narrating “a voyage into the night sky.” Pretty good show at that—terrific for the under-twelves. Miles would need a few years before he could get anything out of it.

  “You look a little whipped,” Fowler said, coming over to him. Taplin, an open briefcase next to him, was focused on a stack of papers on his lap. “You’re supposed to sleep every week or so, whether you need it or not,” Fowler quipped.

  “Glad to be out of it?” Boldt asked.

  “Am I out of it? I feel like you’re keeping me out of it,” he complained.

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant the department.”

  “Hang on,” Fowler said, pressing his finger into his left ear. Only then did Boldt notice a tiny, flesh-colored wire running from his shirt collar. “The boss is here.” Fowler had his people in the area, and as a result felt in control. It bothered Boldt, who was accustomed to running things.

  The padded door opened and Adler entered.

  Howard Taplin put the paperwork aside and stood. He appeared to have lost another five pounds, emaciated by stress and fatigue.

  Adler crossed the room and shook hands with Boldt. “You look about like I feel,” he said sympathetically.

  “I’m not sure how to take that.”

  “Here comes trouble,” Fowler announced. “And way off schedule, I might add.”

  Daphne entered, looking frayed. Fowler locked the door behind her.

  “If you’ve got problems with your watch,” Fowler said nastily, “we’ll get you another.”

  “I was delayed,” Daphne said.

  “I was supposed to be ten-minute intervals,” Fowler reminded her. “You were due here before Boldt.”

  “I was delayed,” she repeated, glancing at Boldt, who sensed immediately that something was terribly wrong.

  “Let’s get started,” Taplin complained irritably. “We have a lot of ground to cover.” He handed both Boldt and Matthews a photocopy of a fax. “This is the first of the two faxes we received.”

  “Two?” Boldt asked, reading.

  YOU BROKE THE RULES.

  YOU HAVE ONLY YOURSELF TO BLAME.

  I SAID NO COPS AND I MEANT IT.

  Fowler said, “I’ve got a staff of fifteen in a two-shift rotation. Three of the guys wore badges before this. We’ve got experience, we’ve got the best gear. Basically, I think what Mr. Taplin is thinking is that we should take over. We can’t risk any more killings.”

  “You’re trying to fire me?” Boldt asked Taplin.

  Daphne asked disbelievingly, “Owen?”

  Admonishing Fowler, Adler said, “We’re here to discuss this. No decisions have been made.”

  “You can’t fire the police,” Boldt explained angrily. He did not want to be forced into telling them about the murder of Sheriff Bramm. Longview Farms had once had direct links to Adler’s former company, though Boldt was waiting for the lab report on the State Health document before informing any of these three. “If we need to take additional precautions to prevent leaks, we will.”

  “It goes well beyond that,” Taplin protested. “You’re going to have to shut down your side of
this investigation—whatever that entails—and turn it over to us. Mr. Fowler has been handling the details of our side of this investigation, and has not involved the police once to my knowledge—so the leak certainly did not come from our side.”

  Adler complained to his counsel, “Let’s dispense with this partisan attitude, Tap. I don’t like it one bit.”

  Boldt saw no way around exposing the murder of Sheriff Bramm. It was the only way to settle this. “We’re investigating the homicide of a law enforcement officer who may have been a victim of your blackmailer. The murder occurred at Longview Farms sometime early last night.”

  Adler, Fowler, and Taplin all shared expressions of shock. No one spoke until Boldt broke the silence.

  “I want to remind you that the evidence collected from the poisonings suggests an Adler Foods employee. But this murder is now being investigated as well. Although we have no evidence yet to corroborate this, we have to consider the possibility that a former Longview employee, or someone hired by one of the Meriweather family, is currently on your payroll and is perpetrating these crimes. The point being that he killed a police officer whom we asked to look around the farm for us—and that is what this fax is in reference to.”

  “Why weren’t we informed of this?” Taplin complained.

  “We just were,” Adler interjected, losing his patience with his attorney. His eyes betrayed his anger with the man.

  “What about your side of this?” Boldt asked Fowler. “Have you gotten anywhere with possible employees, past or present? Why haven’t I seen any reports?”

  “I’ve got all that for you,” Fowler said defensively. Pointing to the attorney, he explained, “Mr. Taplin was just going over it. Nothing looks very good, I gotta tell you. I was focusing on guys—okay? And then you throw this curveball that it’s a girl we’re after—that Foodland video—and there I am starting all over. It takes time to do this without attracting attention. You know that.” Fowler asked, “What about the Longview investigation?”

  “Matthews is continuing to look into the possibility of a Longview connection,” Boldt replied.

  Fowler glanced over at Daphne and nodded. “If you need my help …” he offered.

  “Thanks.”

  Adler instructed, “Let’s show them the other fax, Howard.” Boldt noted the harsh tone of voice and the use of Taplin’s proper first name instead of the nickname Tap. The tension between these two was palpable.

  “Another fax?” Daphne questioned. “A second fax on the same day?” she attempted to clarify.

  Fowler shifted restlessly. “You’re seeing ’em in the order we did.”

  Boldt read:

  MOM’ S HOME RECIPE:

  $100,000 IN PAC-WEST #435-98-8332

  BY FRIDAY, OR HUNDREDS WILL DIE.

  “Sent to the same fax machine?” Boldt asked.

  Adler confirmed with a disappointed nod.

  Boldt asked Fowler, “What about caller-ID? I take it you got a number?”

  “A pay phone in the U district. By the time we reached it, whoever sent this—he? she?—was long gone.”

  “We should have been informed, Kenny,” Boldt chastised, furious to have been excluded. “That’s what we have patrol cars for.”

  “You didn’t notify the police? Why wasn’t he notified?” Adler inquired. He was doing a fair job of keeping his cool, but he seemed right on the edge of losing it.

  “It was a matter of reaction time,” Fowler explained. “I make the phone call … Boldt notifies dispatch … Dispatch notifies the radio cars … I’ve been there, sir.” He grimaced. Boldt got the feeling Kenny Fowler did not appreciate calling anyone sir. “The fastest, most efficient way of handling this,” he said, playing to Adler’s priorities, “was to jump right on it and handle it ourselves.”

  “Well it failed—how’s that for efficient? Next time,” Adler corrected, “the police will be notified immediately. Are we all in agreement on that?”

  Fowler flushed with embarrassment; he did not like reprimands, either. Boldt felt the meeting falling apart. All three men seemed ready to go at one another’s throats.

  Boldt asked Daphne, “What have we got?”

  “It uses the same language—this threat to kill hundreds. It has to be taken seriously.” Boldt knew her well enough to sense something troubling her, but he was not going to push, given their present company.

  “What bothers me,” Adler said, “is that it seems such a chance to take just to send these faxes—so why send two? Why not combine them?”

  “Maybe,” Fowler theorized, “the extortion is what has been planned all along, and it just took pushing him over the top to trigger the demand.” He put Daphne on the spot by asking, “Were the poisonings the setup? First, prove his power, then move in for the real hit—the extortion?”

  Daphne chose her words carefully. Glancing quickly to Boldt and then back to Fowler, she repeated, “The extortion threat must be taken seriously. This opening line is another reference to Mom’s Soup, which fits his earlier style. I think he means business. My advice, if that’s what you’re asking for, is to pay the ransom demand.”

  Taplin said, “Out of the question. We will not give in to acts of terrorism.” To Adler he said sternly, “We have to draw a line in the sand somewhere.”

  Boldt hurried to interrupt. He asked Fowler, “What about the bank account?”

  “We haven’t done an end run on you concerning this bank account, if that’s what you’re asking. Sure, I could find out the particulars of the account through my contacts, but I lack the kind of access you enjoy at these corporations, so I’m leaving it to you.”

  Boldt did not believe any of this. Adler and his company had more than enough banking contacts to end-run the police. He assumed Fowler was already looking into it and simply wanted to avoid the legal problems of admitting it. Boldt saw the incredible opportunity this extortion presented to the investigation, realizing the importance of convincing Adler to reach into his pockets and play the game. He realized the current indecisiveness between Taplin and Adler could be made to work to his advantage, and he believed Adler would listen more closely to Daphne than anyone in this room. Meeting eyes with her, he asked, “How do we interpret this?”

  She stared at him briefly and answered, “It’s his first serious mistake. He has allowed greed to cloud his agenda. I disagree with Mr. Fowler: I don’t believe he had this in mind all along. I would say this came as an afterthought. Perhaps faced with a violation of his demands, he realized he had one of two choices: kill hundreds or turn up the heat. I think he has elected the latter. And in doing so, I think what we learn from this is that he is indeed reluctant to deliver on this more serious threat of mass killings. Either he doesn’t have the means to do so, or he’s lacking in will. My interpretation is that he blinked. We should take quick advantage of it. If he’s greedy enough, we can use that against him.”

  Taplin insisted, “We are not going to pay. This company will not be held hostage. Besides, we very well may have cut him off at the knees by changing the glues—which admittedly we have you to thank for, Sergeant. The product codes on the Portland contaminations were all for cans produced prior to the glue change. To date, we have seen no contaminated cans post glue change. This extortion attempt is nothing but an act of desperation. He’s out of bullets.”

  Daphne said, “We don’t know that. He could easily have a stockpile of soup—a hundred cans or more—in which case the new glue means nothing. The other thing of interest is this bank account—an established bank account. He’s not asking for a paper bag filled with cash, for a dead drop in the bus terminal. This bank account indicates premeditation—a professionalism that must be taken seriously. The demands have continually escalated. Are we seriously willing to challenge this person? I would warn against taking such an action at this point in time. Pay the ransom. Play him out. The FBI would tell you the same thing.”

  Taplin stood rigidly tall and said in a cocky, defiant voice: �
��And if we pay, what happens if this is just the tip of the iceberg?”

  “It often is,” she answered. “I don’t have to explain to you that these product-tampering extortions can continue for years. I’m sure you’ve researched your position. The H. J. Heinz baby food case in England went on for over two years. Thirty thousand British pounds were paid out before they caught the man.”

  “I’m familiar with the case,” Taplin conceded. “It is exactly what we want to avoid.” Toying with his three-hundred-dollar fountain pen, the attorney said, “At some point enough’s enough.”

  “This is not that time,” Boldt cautioned, turning his plea to Adler. “If anything, it’s just the opposite: This is when to play along.” He met eyes with Taplin and then Adler. “You are both men who clearly understand opportunity. You don’t have your kind of success without knowing when to play and when to fold. This isn’t just another threat,” he said, indicating the fax, “it’s an invitation. He’s handing us a real-world link to himself. It’s exactly what we’ve been lacking: a way to lure him in. Forget the glue and the soup and the bacteria. He’s requesting currency, which by definition moves. You move it into the account and he has to move it back out. And when he does, we’re waiting. It’s that simple.”

  “He can—”

  “Wire it?” Boldt interrupted, cutting off Taplin before he constructed a compelling argument. “He probably thinks he can. But we’ll follow it. This is the computer age—he can’t do anything with that money without our knowing about it. Look, he has made himself vulnerable. This is our first decent chance at him. Don’t take that away from us.” To Adler he said excitedly, hurriedly, “If you don’t pay him, all we’re likely to have is more killings—that’s what he’s promised us. If you pay, we have a trail to follow.”

  Taplin complained, “If you give in to a demand like this and the press gets hold of it, you’re seen as weak. These people never stop coming after you. Never. It’s over.”

  Adler appeared to be deep in concentration. Boldt elected silence. Adler met eyes with Boldt, and he seemed to be searching for the right answer. The sergeant said, “If you give me the choice, I’d rather follow a money trail than a string of Slater Lowrys.”