Undercurrents Page 8

  “You want me to handle the malls too?”

  “Put someone else on it. You have enough to do.”

  “Amen.”

  “You say today’s the only day you two can get together?” Boldt asked.

  “This afternoon. She’s working nights for another ten days.”

  “When does she go off?”

  “Eight in the morning, right as I show up here. She sleeps past noon and goes back on early evening.”

  “So take a long lunch, John. Three hours. Even for an Italian stud like you that should be time enough to wake her up. Fair enough?”

  LaMoia thanked him profusely and checked his watch.

  “Don’t daydream this morning, John. Give me some good hours.”

  “You got it, Sergeant. No problem.”

  Boldt leaned back in his chair and smiled as LaMoia charged through the office, flirting with every woman along the way. He rubbed his eyes and went back to his bear claw and lukewarm coffee. LaMoia had left him with a handwritten list of the various stores. There had to be some connection between these women, some way the killer chose these particular women out of the tens of thousands in Seattle. Was it the jogging path at Green Lake? A lineman for City Light? A poleman for Pacific Bell? Did the killer simply walk the streets until he noticed someone that fit his needs? Or did he spot them in a store?

  I need to know how you choose them, he thought. I need to figure out how you select them and how you find their addresses and how you gain entrance to their homes. I need you to make a couple of mistakes—and that’s a hell of a thing to wait around for.

  He moved the newspaper out of the way and went about reorganizing his desk.

  He called back City Light and spoke with a desk jockey. Following Boldt’s request, they had searched their files for any repairs or installations that might have involved pole 6B423, the pole in front of the Levitts’ house. None had been discovered. No servicemen had been in that area for months, not since a transformer had blown out in a summer storm—and that had been six blocks from the Levitts’.

  This call prompted him to remind Miss Jenny Wise at Viacom Cablevision that he was still waiting for a similar report from her. After three transfers, he reached Miss Wise, who claimed to have tried to contact Boldt several times. She told him that their crew records had not showed any recent service in the area, but that because of Boldt’s inquiry she had dispatched a crew to check for possible pirating. Subsequently, the crew discovered an unauthorized black-box connection on pole 6B423. Normal procedure required she take immediate legal action, but because of police involvement she had decided to wait until she had spoken with Boldt. “If it’s okay with you,” she said, “we’re going to disconnect and file our complaint through proper channels. People don’t realize there’s a thousand-dollar fine for pirating. We intend to prosecute.”

  “Is that the Levitt home?”

  “Yes.”

  “And there’s no question about the pirating?”

  “None.”

  “Can you tell if all the sets in the house are receiving the signal?”

  “We know it’s an illegal connection at the pole. That’s all.”

  “Would you hold off for a few days, please? This may be of some use to us.”

  “I’ll need something in writing. We’ve got a standard procedure for this, and I’ll need something in writing if you want me to delay.”

  “Delay. By all means, delay. I’ll send something over this afternoon. Nice and official,” he said.

  ***

  Daphne was doing a crossword puzzle at her desk, leaning on an elbow, finger-combing her hair, her painted nails disappearing into her chestnut mane. Her red dress had high, padded shoulders and short sleeves. Her arms were tan and exceptionally well-defined. Each time her hand moved to comb her hair, Boldt watched various muscles in her forearm contract. She was indeed a thoroughbred.

  “Busy, I see,” Boldt said from the doorway.

  “Come in.”

  He took a chair, leaving the door open this time. “Sorry about the other day. I’ve been a little uptight lately.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.” She placed the pencil on the desk and folded the paper. She crossed her arms. “That’s a lousy thing to say. My turn to apologize. I’m here to help, you know.”

  “Yes. I know. Maybe one of these days.”

  “All I do is listen. No pins. No dolls. No needles. No Pentothal. Pretty harmless, actually. You ought to try it sometime.”

  “Is that an invitation?” he asked, intentionally obscuring the meaning of her offer. His turn to flirt.

  She replied bluntly. “Anytime.”

  “I need some help with a thirteen-year-old boy.”

  “Okay.”

  “He knows more than he’s letting on. He told me he never used his telescope. I have him on tape reporting to our 911 people that he had spotted a ‘suspicious-looking person’ over on Seventy-fourth. I recognized his voice. The person he spotted was me. He described to our people what I was wearing. He had to be using the telescope to see that kind of detail at night at that distance.”

  “That’s not all of it,” she said wisely. Daffy was like that.

  “No. There’s more. I need to loosen him up, get him talking.”

  “More?” Persistent. Part of her trade.

  “At first I thought he might have seen someone on a phone pole out his window. Now I’m thinking he was up the pole, not the killer. He blushed a couple of times when I was asking him questions about Cheryl Croy, our most recent victim. He lied about that telescope being in his window.”

  “Voyeur?”

  “You tell me.”

  “At his age it’s not uncommon. More typically you find young boys stealing their father’s Playboys.”

  “From his room he would have a nearly perfect view of Croy’s house. I’d like to put a little pressure on him. I wonder how I should approach it. I have a nephew his age. He’s bright as all get out. I have a feeling this kid is just as bright.”

  “And how would you deal with your nephew? What would you say to him?” Unconsciously, she began to finger-comb her hair again. There was something sensual about the way she did this that Boldt found unsettling. He shifted uneasily in his chair and tried not to be mesmerized by it. It wasn’t easy.

  “I treat my nephew pretty much as an adult. He’s very mature for his age, though. I don’t know Justin at all. No way to know how to deal with him.”

  “If you’re considering threatening him with legal action, that’s up to you. Hard to say how a boy his age would respond. He might open up if the threat is strong enough; it might shut him up completely. If you make him feel he did something wrong, you won’t get a word out of him—and just by showing up you may imply he did something wrong.” She made a note to herself—he couldn’t read it upside down—and then slipped the cap of the pen between her lips and began spinning it around. Her lips were moist and red. The pen seemed very happy.

  “He did. I think he pirated a cable hookup.”

  “So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you treat him as an adult and bargain. Kids like to be treated as adults. What do you think?”

  “I thought I might tell him how tough my job is. You know, hand him the old sob story and try to soften him up. Then I’d hint that I know about the illegal cable hookup and see how he responds. If I get a rise, then I press for some cooperation, promising to keep his parents out of it, and telling him that I might be able to get the cable company to back off. If he denies it, then I lay it on him. I tell him the cable company is going to prosecute and it’s going to cost his parents a grand, which is true incidently, and I walk away.”

  “I’m impressed.” She pulled the pen out and set it down, folded her hands again, and sat cherublike before him.

  He couldn’t tell if she was coming on to him, or if this was her normal routine. He was absorbed in her—dangerously absorbed—and she seemed like the kind of woman who knew it. “How would you do it?” he asked.<
br />
  “I like to take my time,” she said, looking him in the eye. She wasn’t talking about interviewing children. Then she added, “That approach sounds good.”

  “What’s another approach?” he asked quickly.

  “I like your way better than what I was first thinking of. I thought you might try an approach that makes him feel like every boy who’s ever lived has tried to see naked women. Either that or the Boy Scout approach—you know, ‘we all need to work together on this.’ But I like your way better than either of those. You might alienate him my way. Teenagers are very difficult to second-guess.”

  “I don’t have any kids. If I did, I might be better at this.”

  “Not for lack of trying, I hope.”

  He couldn’t look at her then; he glanced at Charlie Brown. He felt thirteen all of a sudden—Justin Levitt’s age. His palms were sweating. He wasn’t any good at this kind of thing. She was simply teasing him—he could tell that by her tone of voice—but his imagination was running wild. What would an evening in the sack with Daphne be like? Like hot-buttered cornbread and honey.

  “You think he saw something?” she added, taking him off the hook.

  “What if he did? What if he saw the actual killing?”

  “Then you have one scared boy. He may resist opening up to you in order to maintain his denial. As long as he can keep denying he saw anything, then he can avoid the pain and the guilt associated with it.” She paused and then said, “You want me to come along, is that it?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “I think it’s a mistake at this point. I will if you want me to—no problem—but I think it’s a mistake. If he was watching her, he won’t admit it in front of a woman. Especially a stranger. This has to be man-to-man. You might ask the father. He may be able to help. I think it’s best if you try it first. If he’s going to open up to anyone, you have as good a chance as anyone. Try your approach. I like it the best.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I don’t insist. I suggest, and only when I’m asked to.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Let me know how it works out.”

  “You’ll be the first to hear.”

  “Lucky me,” she said, unfolding her newspaper and watching him leave her office.

  He stopped and looked back at her, but she didn’t notice. Her fingers were worming through her silky hair again, and the cap of the pen was slipping between those lips.

  As he passed Kramer’s office area, the sergeant said repugnantly, “Another closed-door session, eh, Boldt?”

  “What’s your problem, Kramer?” Boldt said, stopping. Towering above the redhead.

  “You are,” Kramer said, jumping up out of his seat. “So do something about it.”

  Boldt was well aware the first man to throw a punch would go on report, would risk his position on the task force. Kramer taunted him, waving him in seductively. “Whatsa matter, Boldt. Liz not putting out these days?” Kramer asked. Boldt stepped closer, his face scarlet, fists flexed. “Gotta chase Daphne’s skirt to feel like a man?” He and Boldt were nose-to-nose.

  A pair of detectives had stopped in the corridor. The Asian, Kim, encouraged, “Nail his ass, Lou. We’ll cover for you.”

  Kramer looked suddenly frightened.

  Boldt shook his head and continued on, “Not worth it,” he said.

  “Big badass Homicide dick,” Kramer said to the man’s back.

  Boldt stopped.

  Kramer added, “You may have all of them fooled, Boldt. But not me. It’s a nice show you put on, but where the hell’s the beef?”

  Boldt’s blood pressure soared. He felt his face flush red. Children’s games. Always Kramer. He forced one foot in front of the other, eyes trained on the toes of his scuffed shoes, and found his way to his office.

  “Not worth it,” he muttered to himself.

  ***

  “What’s this I hear about some sparring between you and John, Lou?” Shoswitz rested his shoulder gently against a baffle. His knee moved involuntarily, as if keeping time to a song.

  Shoswitz could sense trouble on his section of the floor, and he pounced on it like a hungry mountain cat on carrion. Any unrest among his ranks would indicate to his superiors an inability on his part to manage people, and that in turn would reduce his chances at a captainship—an opportunity that would present itself in less than six months when one of the captains, Bill Gardner, retired. Shoswitz and two other veteran lieutenants were in the running for the job. The success of this task force would play heavily on his possibility of promotion.

  “Same old shit, Phil.”

  “I don’t need it in my dugout. Not now. Not ever.”

  “And I do?” Boldt spun around and glared at his boss. “He’s begging for it, Phil.”

  Shoswitz raised his hand. “Don’t go climbing onto a white horse, Lou. That wouldn’t be healthy for either of us.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I think that’s clear enough.”

  “He’s all over me about the fieldwork, Phil. And look at his record. What the hell is he even doing on this team?”

  “We all have our cross to bear. I did what I had to do.”

  “Had to?” Boldt suddenly saw the bigger picture. Two words and it all became clear. There were still allies of Judge Kramer out there. The review board? Perhaps the chief himself. “Politics, Phil?” Boldt asked incredulously, wishing he hadn’t said it quite so naively. Internal politics entered every corner of the force, every wing of city government. This department was no exception. A Special Task Force was subject to public scrutiny and therefore the appointments were even more political than usual. The task force gave Shoswitz a direct connection to the Prosecuting Attorney’s office as well as the Mayor’s office. It provided all three men, Shoswitz, Boldt, and Kramer, with high visibility. Boldt was no newcomer to the possibilities the task force offered. If Shoswitz moved on, then his chair was open, and Boldt, as a second-in-command of the task force, would be the most likely candidate for that promotion.

  “Don’t push, Lou. We’ve all got shit riding on this. Right? You hear me? And we’re all tired. People do and say stupid things when they’re tired.”

  Boldt pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He was tired. He felt exhausted.

  “Besides,” Shoswitz said. “John’s not all rocks between the ears. Did he tell you about his plan to search all the private and public institutions?” He didn’t allow Boldt a chance to answer. “It’s a damn good idea, one I should have thought of myself. Or you. Am I right?” Boldt was so dumbstruck he didn’t get out a word. “Team players,” Shoswitz said. “That’s what we want around here. Team players with some imagination and creativity. John’s doing just fine. Fights in the hallways I don’t need. Think about it.” He turned and walked away. “Think about it, Lou,” he said over the baffle.

  Kramer hurried past Boldt’s office space, folder in hand, as if he was going somewhere with it. He’d been listening in on their conversation. Again. Kramer made a habit of other people’s business. Eavesdropping went entirely against regs. It increased the chances of the wrong people receiving partial or misunderstood data. And that in turn generated supposition, speculation, and rumor.

  But Boldt wasn’t about to do anything about it now. Unwittingly, Shoswitz had played right into Kramer’s hand. Boldt was pinned. He brushed lint off his lapels using a loop of Scotch tape and made an attempt at combing his hair. Time to get out of there.

  9

  Lou Boldt stood in the junior high school awaiting the end of class. The bright, tile corridor reminded him of the Medical Examiner’s autopsy room, which in turn reminded him of the six dead women, and he felt frustrated to find himself waiting. Always waiting. Much of this job consisted of waiting, and on this day it annoyed him. On the other side of these doors a few hundred kids were impatiently waiting as well. It’s something we’re taught to do from the time we’re very young, he thought. It was seldo
m enjoyable.

  Boldt had liked school, and this hallway was really not much different than the hallway at Yakima High. If he listened carefully, he could almost hear echoes of his own footfalls. If he glanced out the window, perhaps he could see the junior varsity football team—number 35 working through calisthenics, one eye on the varsity cheerleaders. His childhood home was only a couple of hours away, but he hadn’t been back in years. Not since his father died of liver failure and he had returned to pick up his mother and drive her down to his sister’s place in southern California. That had been the last of Yakima. He had too many bad memories to want to return.

  The bell sounded. Kids flooded through the doors and into the hall. It came alive with the familiar sound of lockers slamming and shrieks of nervous laughter. Nothing like a Friday afternoon. Boldt spotted Justin Levitt. The boy came out of the classroom, saw Boldt, and stopped cold. The girl behind him bumped into him, actually hugging him to maintain her balance and, embarrassed by the physical contact, berated him for being such a tweeb—whatever that was.

  “What do you want?” Justin asked.

  He could be my son, Boldt thought, seduced by a painful memory he would not allow. “A couple of minutes is all,” he said.

  Justin scanned the area. A few of the curious were watching, obviously wondering who Boldt was. “Outside,” Justin Levitt hissed. “Those doors down there. It’ll have to be quick. My mom’s waiting in the car.”

  Boldt nodded and moved down the long hallway, drawing curious looks.

  Justin appeared shortly and moved Boldt out of the mainstream of departing students. Boldt wanted to rub his hand into the boy’s hair and mess it up. How had the greaseball fifties’ look come back in style? He asked, “Do you understand what I’m up against?”