Pied Piper lbadm-5 Page 29

  She came out of the truck’s cab at a full sprint, already warmed up from her volleyball, came out running like a thoroughbred from the gate. Seattle traffic being what it was, she left most of it behind as if it were standing still, blowing through intersections without looking, without slowing her pace in the slightest, her hysteria feeding off her charged system. The harder she ran, the more convinced she was of the trouble that lay ahead.

  Ironically, it was the disabled pickup truck abandoned midlane that brought the police into it, not the abduction of Trudy Kittridge. Fearing a car-jacking, an abduction or simply a vehicle stolen for a joyride, the reporting motor patrol officer requested a black-and-white do a drive-by inquiry at the Kittridge residence-the name and address lifted from his wireless computer terminal that accessed DMV’s mainframe.

  As Carlie Kittridge rounded the corner of 35th and Stoneway she was in abject horror and running faster than she had ever run in her life.

  She approached the kitchen door already calling out for Gena, a neighbor’s fourteen-year-old daughter in whom Carlie had placed an enormous amount of deserved trust. Gena was fourteen going on thirty. She loved Trudy like a member of the family, and her own mother-a fantastic friend-lived just four houses down the block.

  “Gena, it’s me,” she called out loudly, swinging open the kitchen door. Gena lay there on the floor, her clothes torn, her fourteen-year-old body exposed.

  Carlie Kittridge’s scream was heard for several blocks.

  CHAPTER 46

  LaMoia awakened from a comatose sleep, summoned by the irritating beeping of his pager. His first response was anger, his second was a feeling of fear and dread. 8:00 P.M. He had fallen asleep at his kitchen table. He could conceive of very few reasons for the summons, not one of which he wanted to face.

  He read the phone number from the device and heaved a sigh of relief. Sheila Hill’s home telephone, an unpublished number. She had decided to talk. He complimented himself for understanding her. She was not an easy keeper.

  “It’s me,” he announced over the phone.

  “Their name is Kittridge.” Her blank tone of voice and the announcement drained all color from his face. She read off an address. “Handle it.”

  She hung up, leaving him with a hollow, panicked feeling.

  Another kidnapping.

  Within an hour, photocopies of Trudy Kittridge’s face were faxed to airports, train stations, ferry companies, the image being shown to cab drivers, limo drivers, bus drivers. Within the next hour every local television station would cut away to the same photo. Hundreds of thousands of people would see that face, and yet if the Pied Piper lived up to his reputation, no one would see the child.

  Daphne awaited him as he pulled up, her face grim, her fists clenched tightly. Her job, to define the Pied Piper in terms of behavior, was taking its toll. She looked exhausted.

  LaMoia said, “You take the parents, I’ll take the scene. We gotta work fast. This place’ll be jumping in a couple minutes. We need the head start. We pow-wow in the kitchen in ten minutes. You believe in miracles?”

  “No,” she answered.

  “Me neither.”

  LaMoia had never smoked. He drank beer, but only socially. He had been blind drunk twice in his life, and had hated the lack of control. But at that moment he envied the habitual, whatever the vice, because it gave the person a preoccupation, an object of distraction. He had only the first officer’s description of the fourteen-year-old unconscious on the kitchen floor to occupy his thoughts. He would have given anything to erase it from his mind. He could visualize her lying there where now there was some litter from the EMT’s medical work and AFIDs from the air TASER. Sight of the AFIDs reminded him of the stonewalling of evidence. Sarah and the others deserved better than this.

  Daphne joined him in the kitchen as planned.

  She told him, “The mother is real clear on the Spitting Image outfit. It was a tiny little sweatshirt. A gift. Knew the name and everything.”

  “Did you tell her not to share said same with our distinguished colleagues?”

  “That’s suppressing evidence, John.”

  “Well shame on us.”

  A pair of Lincoln Town Cars pulled up in front.

  LaMoia said to her, “Stall them. Give me as much time as you can.” He took two steps, turned and asked, “Where are they?”

  “Upstairs. To the left.”

  LaMoia threw open the bedroom door, stepped inside, and closed it quickly behind himself. “Mr. and Mrs. Kittridge?” The couple was trashed, the man worse than the wife, who looked as if she had run a marathon. He knew about the volleyball game, though he wasn’t sure how the Pied Piper had made the connection.

  He displayed his badge and introduced himself. He edged over to the window and peered out. Flemming, Hale and Kalidja. The full team. They walked as a group with strict determination. Flemming held an intensity that LaMoia did not want to experience firsthand-the guy’s career was in flames, and SPD was pouring on the gasoline.

  “You’ve just spoken with Ms. Matthews about a certain garment that your child … that Trudy … received as a gift.” He glanced out the window nervously for a second time. Daphne wouldn’t be able to hold them for long. If the Bureau made the Spitting Image connection, then they were likely to close in on a suspect, perhaps ahead of Boldt, and Sarah’s chances went down the drain. He owed this effort to Boldt, who had made the Spitting Image connection in the first place.

  “The sweatshirt,” the wife muttered.

  Nervous perspiration breaking out all over, he spoke quickly to the parents, knowing he had one, and only one, shot at an explanation. “Okay. Here’s the thing. What I’m about to tell you is opinion. My opinion. But keep in mind, I’m lead detective for Seattle Police on this case. Okay? Just keep that in mind. This information, this Spitting Image connection, is what we call a good lead. You understand? It’s important information to us. Very important. To the investigation, I’m talking about. To getting Trudy back. But there are other people investigating these kidnappings, okay? The FBI I’m talking about. And they aren’t exactly our bosom buddies, if you know what I mean. They’ve had this investigation for nearly six months, and parents, just like you, are still waiting for news of their children. Okay? Six months. Gimme a break! These guys can’t even remember the kids’ names! You know what a leak is? Good. That’s great. Well,” he lied, “we think there is a leak inside the FBI. We think information like this-the Spitting Image information-is better kept close to home.” He heard footsteps growing closer. Flemming and his team. LaMoia felt a bead of sweat run down his chin. He wiped it off. “Better kept right here in Seattle. You want to deal with three-piece suits and black shoes, you go right ahead. It’s a free country. I can’t stop you. But me, I’m right down the street. You pick up the phone, I’m there. Okay? Public Safety building. Right downtown. These guys? Go ahead and try to reach them on the phone. I can’t even reach them. What chance do you have?” The footsteps were only a few yards away. “What chance does Trudy have? That’s what you’ve got to ask yourself. Six months they’ve had this. Think about that. They’re trying to handle a dozen cases. What’s to show for it? Why? Because somebody’s not clean, that’s why.”

  A strong hand knocked on the door-Flemming-LaMoia knew this before the door opened.

  LaMoia repeated, “It’s a free country. I can’t tell you what to do. They can’t tell you what to do. No one can make you say anything you don’t want to.” He shouted toward the door. “Yeah?”

  Flemming threw the door open. In his strong, rich baritone, he addressed the parents, “Mr. and Mrs. Kittridge, I’m terribly sorry for your loss.” He glanced over at LaMoia venomously, for not waiting, and then back to the parents. He introduced himself and his two special agents. “I’m sure Detective LaMoia-”

  “Sergeant,” LaMoia corrected, interrupting. He said, “You still don’t know my rank?”

  “-has asked you a few questions. We’d like to
start all over if you don’t mind. The sooner we get this information, the better our chances of getting your daughter back.”

  “Trudy,” Kay Kalidja supplied.

  “Trudy,” Flemming repeated.

  David Kittridge glanced over at LaMoia and then complained to Flemming, “Just like you’ve gotten all the other children back?”

  LaMoia felt the warm rush of success as Flemming flashed him another angry look.

  David Kittridge lifted his right hand, holding it out for everyone to see. Gripped tightly between white, bloodless fingers was a tin penny flute.

  CHAPTER 47

  “Do you know the aquarium well, the big viewing room that is under all the fish?” the creamy female voice inquired.

  “Yes,” Daphne answered.

  “Can you be there in fifteen minutes?”

  “See you there.”

  The walk to the aquarium felt good, in part because it was nearly entirely downhill. Daphne worked herself up to a good heart rate, past cranes and Caterpillars and jackhammers all busy making the population deaf. The city refused to stop growing. Unable to spread out, it grew up now, the new buildings pushing higher and higher into the sky, winning views of the bay and blocking the view of others. The streets closed in around the pedestrians. The town of Seattle was gone, a city having replaced it.

  Elliott Bay’s restless, wind-scuffed green waters caught the sunshine in highlights, like Italian marble with flecks of mica angled to the sun. Freighters and ferries, their white wakes flowing behind them like wedding veils, called out in deep-throated cries. A jet rocked its wings on final approach, its wheels like tiny talons reaching for the ground.

  On its best day, no city was as beautiful, no city held her heart as this one. She knew she would never leave, although she had considered doing so-distance would force a fresh start. She also knew that if she stayed she would likely marry Owen Adler. Fear had led to her breaking off the engagement the first time. Fear of being filthy rich, of attending fund-raising dinners and ribbon-cutting ceremonies instead of working psych profiles and would-be suicides. Fear of losing her identity, not a fear of her love for this man. She trusted her love. She appreciated his humor, the attention he paid her, his intelligence, confidence and determination, the way he put others first, especially Corky, his adopted daughter. She loved Corky nearly as much as he did.

  She walked right past the aquarium before she realized what she had done. Owen was like that-he could occupy her in ways no other man ever had.

  The aquarium was crowded with tourists and a busload of students on a field trip. Most of the display areas were kept dark, the visitor’s attention focused on the fish tanks in the walls. She navigated her way through the throng and made her way to the descending ramp that led down into the center of an enormous tank, where the humans became the observed, surrounded on all sides and overhead by coral, water and fish of a dozen varieties.

  Special Agent Kay Kalidja occupied one of the two viewing benches, her purse and sweater set beside her holding a spot for Daphne, who sat down. The glass arched above them, fish swimming directly overhead, passing from one side of the tank to the other. Kalidja did not look at Daphne but at the fish. She pointed out a sand shark with a suckerfish attached. “I feel like that sometimes,” she said in her pleasing island lilt, “the one attached.”

  “Yes.”

  “Made to follow, to stay close.”

  Kalidja’s choosing a neutral site forewarned of the significance of the meeting. Excitement filled Daphne, as she nudged, “You ran the tattoo.”

  “The contents of many of the Bureau’s databases are classified. As you must know, we track everything from violent offenders to suspected double agents in the State Department. For this reason there are levels of access imposed, levels of security, pass codes, log-in records. It is extremely well-protected data. Hackers have fooled with our Web site before, but no one-to my knowledge-has ever come close to compromising these databases.” Kalidja found it difficult to share the information. She struggled to admit, “Yes. The tattoos.” She then said, pointing out a pair of blue and yellow fish, “Spectacular.”

  “The system tracks access,” Kalidja continued. “It maintains a computerized log. Not only can internal investigators see who has been working what information, but it also allows agents to see who else has worked the information, to share that information. An agent in Chicago can call an agent in Dallas who has been requesting the same information. Perhaps they are pursuing the same suspect and were unaware of the connection. The database actually alerts them. Those alerts are automatic now, offering a kind of investigative bibliography.”

  “Impressive,” Daphne said, suppressing her anxiety over where Kalidja was headed.

  The agent faced Daphne for the first time and spoke quickly but extremely softly, “Special Agent Dunkin Hale requested any and all information on eagle tattoos-photographs of those on file, tattoo artists known for wrapping the wings around the bird like a cape. Everything he could think of.”

  Daphne had expected nothing like this. She had a dozen questions to ask, but held her tongue. Kalidja was not finished.

  “Special Agent Hale has never mentioned any such tattoo in any of our meetings. Never. Not once.”

  “And you had said nothing to him about it?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Perhaps he saw it on your desk-”

  “Never! I accepted this information from you in the strictest of confidence. I’ve told no one! Shown no one!”

  Daphne tried to make sense of it. The schools of fish swimming over, above and around her added to her sense of confusion.

  “VI–CIM, our Violent Criminal Identification and Markings database, has produced two hits, two similar tattoos,” she said, producing photocopies and showing them to Daphne. “One of the tattoos was shown on the biceps, the other on a pectoral.” They were, in fact, both unmistakably similar to the rendition drawn by Tommy Thompson: a bald eagle looking straight ahead, the wings wrapped around like a cape. “One is dead. The other is two years into serving a life sentence. Mind you, we only show federal offenders in the database, and only a limited number of them. It is by no means complete.”

  “It’s not our boy. His was on the forearm.”

  “No, but the same artist perhaps. Special Agent Hale pursued the name of the artist. I can tell that from the database requests.”

  Daphne sniped, “Imagine calling this artwork.” Studying the photos, she asked, “Wait a second! Are you saying these two cons are from the same region?”

  “The same city,” Kalidja answered. “Both arrested and convicted in New Orleans, Louisiana.”

  “The tattoo shop is in New Orleans.”

  “Exactly.”

  Because of Boldt, Daphne knew a great deal about the investigation that Kay Kalidja and the FBI did not, including that the Pied Piper had used a 911 telephone scam to convince the day care center into handing over Sarah to the two uniformed cops. Con artists were continually arrested and even occasionally convicted. Using this new information, she wondered if she couldn’t work the New Orleans police or prosecuting attorney’s office to ID any con artists using 911 telephone scams. The location was a huge find. It would shift the entire investigation. Boldt often spoke of an investigation gaining momentum, that there came a time when the evidence outweighed the mystery, when the huge rock of knowledge assembled by a squad in an uphill manner suddenly crested that hill and began the journey down. She believed that combined with Kalidja’s information, the Pied Piper investigation had just crested. It would pick up steam now, and eventually that rock would crush the Pied Piper in its path.

  Daphne said, “What do you intend to do with this?”

  Kalidja looked a little frightened. “Honestly, Ms. Matthews, if I had not discovered that Special Agent Hale already has this same information, I was intending that we-you and I-should present the information to the task force, as we discussed. But now? I have to wonder why Special
Agent Hale would withhold such information. Yes? I am, unfortunately, not in a position to take this directly to S-A-C Flemming.”

  “We call that an end run.”

  “Yes. I deal with the S-A-C all the time, but by design, any information, especially information such as this, must go through Special Agent Hale. S-A-C Flemming is careful to insulate himself in this manner. He has managed to keep control of this investigation far longer than others might have, in no small part because he is so carefully insulated. Special Agent Hale and I were not brought on until Portland.

  “This assignment has been a graveyard. Three of the S-A-C’s former deputies and two of his former intelligence officers were removed prior to Portland. He shoots the messenger, you see. It allows him to preserve his position.” She looked Daphne up and down, head to toe, and then met eyes with her. “There is something else, something far more disturbing,” she said softly. “I overheard Special Agent Hale inform the S-A-C that the task force was his whenever he wanted it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Those were his words exactly: ‘yours whenever you want it.’ S-A-C Flemming does not like Captain Hill having control over the task force-we all know that, but he is an astute politician. He will not take control of a sinking ship. Nonetheless, I believe Special Agent Hale has discovered a way to push Captain Hill out of her chair when and if the time comes. If the time comes. Your Captain would do well to watch her back.” Looking at the fish, she said, “I do not care to see men ganging up on a woman just because she holds the position of power.”

  Daphne recalled Hill’s request that she study and report on each member of the task force. “Captain Hill is quite the politician herself. I wouldn’t count her out.”