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“Do not underestimate S-A-C Flemming. He is a brilliant man and a brilliant investigator. If the Pied Piper is caught, it will not be Sheila Hill’s collar. This I promise you. There will be only one person giving the press conference, and that person will be S-A-C Flemming.”

  “And these?” Daphne asked, indicating the photocopies of the database information. “Why don’t I follow up on this for you?”

  Kalidja had clearly been hoping for such an offer. “It is not for me to act upon information.”

  “Your name will now appear as having accessed the same database.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hale may notice that.”

  “Only if he seeks the same information a second time. I see no reason he would do that.”

  “I accept,” Daphne took the envelope, to her a treasure.

  “Watch out for Special Agent Hale,” Kalidja said in a hushed voice. She stood and straightened her knee-length skirt.

  “Message received.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Boldt, LaMoia and Daphne took a walk around Pioneer Square in order to avoid ears within Public Safety. Dodging tourists, panhandlers and ticket scalpers, they passed a sax player and Boldt left a dollar bill in his case, much to LaMoia’s disapproval.

  “You just encourage them,” LaMoia complained.

  “It’s how he makes his living.”

  “You can’t call that music. You of all people-you know music. So why give up your hard-earned money?”

  “They are con artists,” Daphne said. “The nine-one-one scam tells us that much. Their world is illusion. He could have been arrested and charged by the state, not the Feds. They wouldn’t have him in their database.”

  “Hale is ahead of us?” LaMoia complained. “You know what that means for Sarah?”

  Daphne answered, “We don’t know that for sure. We know only that he searched the same information that Kalidja supplied us. He probably got the names of the two cons with the same eagle tattoo.”

  “It had to be Indiana, Michigan, Denver or New Orleans,” Boldt informed them. “New Orleans fits,” he confirmed.

  “And just how the hell do you know that?” LaMoia protested.

  “Anderson’s photos,” he answered. “The ones you gave me.”

  “I went over those things a dozen times. Two dozen. There was no license plate, no markers or identifiers of any kind to indicate-”

  “The sweatshirt,” Boldt supplied. “Coming down the dock he’s facing the camera. You can’t see his face because of the hat, but the sweatshirt has two colors on it: purple and gold. School colors. Those same colors are used by colleges in-”

  “Indiana, Michigan, Denver and New Orleans,” LaMoia completed, understanding the logic.

  “There was the off-chance it might have been high school colors, but I was betting university or college.”

  “So it is New Orleans,” LaMoia said.

  “Our suspect spent time there,” Daphne said, picking up on the reasoning. “Maybe went to school there. More than likely got a tattoo there. Could have spent time locked up. Kalidja stressed that only some of the inmates end up on the database.”

  “May still have contacts there,” LaMoia added, “or a sheet.”

  Boldt warned, “If we involve the law down there it will have to be done carefully. The ransom demand…,” he reminded.

  LaMoia asked, “Why would Hale stonewall this from his own people?”

  “Flemming’s attitude fosters independents,” Daphne said. “Kalidja warned me of that.”

  Boldt suggested, “We need that tattoo shop.”

  “Agreed,” LaMoia echoed.

  “I have the address,” Daphne announced proudly, drawing looks of astonishment from both men. “You think I wanted fresh air?” she asked sarcastically.

  Boldt asked, “Hale?”

  “Probably has it too,” she admitted. “It was in their database.”

  Boldt warned, “We can’t have him IDing a suspect.”

  “No,” Daphne agreed.

  “We going to Cajun Country?” LaMoia asked. “We gotta find this tattoo shop ahead of Hale.”

  “I’ll book the flights,” Boldt said.

  Boldt’s phone was ringing as he reentered his office. He caught it before voice mail picked up. He answered tersely, having no interest in Intelligence work, the pressure of Hale’s advance work threatening Sarah.

  “What it is, my man,” the deep voice uttered into the phone.

  He recognized the drawl immediately. “Not now, Raymond.”

  “What has one tail but two assholes?” the snitch asked.

  “Am I paying for this bit of entertainment?”

  “What has a nice set of tits, a dick and two wings?”

  Boldt didn’t want to be playing games. He told the man so.

  “I thought you cops were good at solving shit like this.”

  Boldt answered, “Two people on a plane: a man and a woman.”

  “Damn!”

  “So why do I care?”

  “Because one of the assholes is this visiting heat, this FBI brother who’s been all over the TV. The other is one fine piece of trim.”

  Boldt’s chest tightened: Flemming and Kalidja. “Where did you get this, Raymond?”

  “A brother just came by the Air Strip. The G-man and the G-string jumped a private jet fifteen minutes ago.”

  Flemming had a government Lear at his disposal. The information held together.

  Boldt informed his informer, “There’s a fifty in it if you can give me their destination. And I need it quickly.”

  “Right back to you.” The phone went dead. For Flemming and Kalidja to leave the city together without letting the task force know meant something big was in the works. Bigger than big: huge. Boldt suspected their destination was New Orleans, that Flemming had the jump on the tattoo shop, that Sarah’s chances were diminishing with every hour. Boldt called a travel agent and booked himself and LaMoia nonrefundable tickets to New Orleans on the earliest flight available. If need be, he would appeal to Flemming in person, revealing Sarah’s abduction.

  In the midst of booking the flights, Boldt’s other line rang, and he answered it.

  “Boise, Idaho,” Raymond announced. “The G-man jet filed for Boise.”

  “Idaho?”

  “As in potatoes.”

  “It’s going down in the book,” Boldt acknowledged, confirming the payment.

  “And the rich get richer.” Raymond hung up.

  Boldt steadied his hand as he dialed Boise’s police department. He knew several cops there. If Flemming had a suspect already in custody …

  Minutes later, Boldt connected with Detective Hank Langford.

  Boldt reintroduced himself to Langford as an Intelligence officer investigating the Pied Piper kidnappings, electing a strategy of us-against-them. He made assumptions and took chances that a week earlier he would have been unwilling to take. “Hank, as I’m sure you are aware, you have a situation over there that may involve our investigation. Our friends in the FBI are on their way there as we speak. We at SPD were hoping you might enlighten us a little so we don’t end up with mud on our faces.”

  “Mud or shit, Lieutenant?”

  “I see we understand each other.”

  “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking ’bout. Closest thing we’ve got to ‘a situation’ is a five-car fender bender out on the interstate. A diesel jockey fell asleep at the wheel, rolled his eighteen-wheeler, and dumped about a hundred microwave ovens out on the highway like some kind of garage sale. Right there in front of the airport. The trucker was decapitated. Around here we let the state police boys clean up those messes. A lot of blood in a decapitation. You ever seen one?”

  “Would you know anybody with state police who might know about extending an invitation to the Bureau?”

  “This is Idaho. From God’s lips to your ears, we aren’t real fond of the federal government. They tend to grab our land, try for our water and steal our checkb
ooks.”

  “Could you make a call for me?”

  “Could and will. Sit tight. Won’t be a minute.”

  It was seven minutes. Boldt counted each one along with his elevated heart rate.

  Langford sounded a little more excited on the second call. “Seems you’re onto something. The FBI was in fact contacted.”

  “Do we know why?”

  “I told you about the pileup. One of those cars was found abandoned. No driver. No passenger. What was found was baby bottles, dirty diapers and such. The car came back an Econo-Drive rental out of Seattle. That’s when the Feds were notified.” He added, “Whoever was driving abandoned the scene of an accident and took an infant child with them. Leaving the scene is a crime in and of itself.”

  Boldt asked desperately, “Any sign of a second child being in that car? An older child?”

  “Didn’t hear nothing about it.”

  “If you hear anything more …,” Boldt said.

  “Got you covered.”

  Flemming was pulling an end run. It was information he should have shared.

  Any evidence trail would begin in that wrecked car. Boldt wanted that crime scene, but he needed it ahead of the Bureau and that wasn’t going to happen. He couldn’t allow any of this to distract him: The pull remained New Orleans and identifying a suspect-preventing Hale from doing so.

  The decision was a simple one. Let Hill aim the task force at Boise, convincing her that LaMoia was best left behind in Seattle. Then jump the plane for New Orleans stealing LaMoia and staying ahead of the race.

  Screaming into the phone, Sheila Hill ordered Boldt to keep trying for details and to stay by his phone. Boldt, in turn, pleaded with her to assign Mulwright to Boise.

  “Don’t tell me my job, Lieutenant.” She hung up.

  Boldt spent the next fifteen minutes finding Daphne and LaMoia and keeping them current. LaMoia was asked to pursue Econo-Drive and run the charge history on the credit card used to rent the abandoned car. Daphne, with her people skills, was asked to work NOPD by phone for any con artists who used a 911 telephone scam. She wasn’t to mention her association with the task force.

  As he was debating buying Daphne a ticket to New Orleans as well, his wife called him to announce a visitor: Sergeant Tom Bowler, Portland Police Department, was sitting in Boldt’s living room.

  CHAPTER 49

  Bowler was sober, making him a different man than the last time Boldt had seen him. He had clear eyes that wore concern at their edges, though he possessed the soft, bloated look of a man lost to the bottle. Boldt noticed the liver spots on the back of the man’s hand and felt its coldness as they shook hands in greeting.

  “Tom.” Boldt felt jumpy and edgy. There was too much going on inside his head to stay focused, too many lies to keep straight. He had seen suspects this way-frayed and scattered. He worried he was becoming the very person he sought.

  Liz, her wig perfectly in place, her clothes hanging loosely, explained patiently, “Tom drove all the way from Portland to talk to you. I’ve been boring him with the details of my recovery.”

  “Not at all,” Bowler said, generously.

  She called it her recovery-her decision to walk out of treatment, to turn to “God’s healing powers.” As supportive as Boldt had felt about it only days earlier, he feared that any setback might rob her of her ability to mentally fight the battle. She preached, to those who would listen, the healing powers of her faith. Ironically, Boldt could only pray that she wouldn’t lose that same faith if the beast grabbed hold of her again.

  Boldt sat down alongside his wife but could hardly stay still. Bowler had gone to a great deal of trouble to come here. Pushed by Connie, or of his own accord; therein lay the important difference.

  Liz offered to leave the room. Boldt, and Bowler immediately after him, told her she was welcome to remain. “It involves us both,” Boldt told his wife, his eyes on their visitor.

  “Yes, both of you,” Bowler began. “I know what you’re going through. I also accept that in no small way I’m responsible.” Liz sat up straight and her lips quivered; the facade she had offered Bowler was crumbling. Boldt took her hand.

  He said to Boldt, “When you came down to see me, I was an asshole. I was drinking. We were threatened-Connie and me. I just could not, would not, put us into that same position again.” He sat in the chair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled at his chin. He looked as if he might be praying too. “And then this Kittridge girl.”

  Liz knew only the rough details of the Kittridge case, what Boldt had told her from the bathtub. Like her husband, she was a practiced listener.

  Bowler said, “That changed things. I don’t know if it was Connie or Sarah and this Kittridge girl, but something convinced me it has to stop. Maybe it was your visit,” he told Boldt. “Seeing that you were willing to take him on, that I wish I had. I was pissed-pissed that you had the strength I lacked. I wasn’t about to help you.” He said to Liz, “You got a good man here.” Liz sobbed and squeezed Boldt’s hand.

  Boldt corrected him. Returning her affection, he told Bowler, “We made that decision together.”

  Bowler said, “We were working the vic’s possessions. Anything that might link the kidnappings. I informed the Bureau that I had a good, solid lead-”

  Boldt interrupted, “Spitting Image.”

  He nodded. “You do your homework, don’t you?”

  “We stumbled onto it.”

  “So I ask for a meeting, to get this out on the table.” He blinked furiously, his eyes glossy. “Penny’s gone the next day. Needless to say, because of the demands I cancel the meeting and keep my trap shut.”

  “The next day?”

  “The Pied Piper knew I had requested that meeting-has to be.”

  “Your contact over there?”

  “The island girl-legs to the ceiling.”

  Kalidja, Boldt realized. Had Hill been right about an insider? Had Daphne played right into that?

  Bowler said, “I’m making lame excuses for skipping the dance; she’s breathing fire down my throat. I’d been after them to run rental car reservations, not the actual agreements, using a list of valid cards I had.”

  “Which were?” Boldt asked.

  “The Spitting Image customers. If you know about Spitting Image, then you know she has a Web page; I got to the Web page first, never did interview her. But one of our pocket protectors hacked into her site without any hassle. Said a sixth grader coulda done it. Lifts a couple dozen valid credit cards. The woman was using E-mail for her orders! Jesus! And I’m thinking-”

  “This guy’s had experience counterfeiting credit cards,” Boldt supplied.

  “Got to be. Right? Credit cards, documentation. It’s all available to him. He needs fake cards to get things done. But first he needs valid numbers, and Spitting Image all but hands them to him.”

  “Not the victims’ cards.”

  “No way. Have to be punch drunk to use those; but the other card numbers? Why not?”

  “Did you ever connect it?” Boldt asked.

  “Did I ever! The AFIDs.”

  “We’ve never seen a report.”

  “Yeah, well, Hale has one. The cartridges for the air TASER were bought all at one time. Las Vegas, a year ago. One time charge to a valid credit card-”

  “Which later turned out to be-”

  “Much later, yeah,” Bowler answered.

  “What?” Liz asked irritably.

  The two men answered nearly simultaneously, “A Spitting Image customer.”

  “And that’s when you thought to follow the cards,” Boldt said.

  “The guy is lifting his vics off the Internet. Why make things harder on himself? He does up a valid credit card, maybe a driver’s license all from the same hack. He gets into those files once, he never needs to go back again. Clean and simple.”

  “Is someone going to explain this to me?” Liz asked indignantly. “How does his using some silk-screen cus
tomer’s credit card connect to rental cars?”

  Bowler answered shamefully, “I never followed it up, never chased it. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t.”

  Boldt told her, “The Pied Piper needs valid credit cards and a valid ID to rent cars, take plane flights, whatever. If he’s using Spitting Image customers-and I agree it makes sense that he might-then we may be able to track him.” Boldt told Bowler, “The problem with it that I see is that we know he accessed the victims’ credit card records-it’s how he knew their movements, how he predicted when to strike.”

  This was clearly news to Bowler, who attempted to digest it. Boldt continued, “If he had that kind of access to credit records, he doesn’t need the Spitting Image list.”

  Bowler contradicted, “Sure he does. He needs expiration dates. Those aren’t available from a TRW or some credit service. He’s got some ex-con who can pull that kind of information for him,” Bowler speculated. “It doesn’t mean he’s got valid cards.”

  Liz, the banker, said, “He’s right, love. He would need the expiration dates for a successful counterfeit.”

  “What you’ve got here is someone who knows computers. With a color scanner you can forge hundred dollar bills. How difficult can a driver’s license be?”

  Boldt thought back to the CD-R of Sarah-video embedded on a CD-ROM. He said, “They teach computer skills in prison.”

  Bowler looked up and said, “Our tax dollars hard at work.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Boldt returned to the office as fast as the Chevy would safely take him, a dozen ideas competing inside his head for his attention. Kalidja. Hale. Sarah’s situation. Time running out. He couldn’t hold all the loose ends together.

  LaMoia pushed shut both doors to the fifth-floor corner coffee lounge, windows overlooking the secretary pool to one side and the bullpen to the other. The situation room, which offered far more privacy, had become task force headquarters and churned with activity. Daphne warmed her hands on a tea cup. There were no smiles, only anxiety-ridden expressions.

  “I’m toast,” LaMoia said. “I’m out of here.” He had called the others to the impromptu meeting.