Ridley Pearson - Pied Piper

“Don’t! Keep that comment to yourself until we have a chance to talk about it.”

“The chemo took, that’s all.”

“That isn’t all,” she objected. “That isn’t any of it. But don’t do this now. Let’s wait ’til I’m home, okay? Tomorrow, or Sunday at the latest.”

He squeezed her hand, thrilled and troubled. “We need to talk about this.”

“We will. Let me get home first.”

He nodded. Then he saw a look he knew too well. “Dr. Woods approves, doesn’t she? Of your going home.” A resonating fear penetrated through him: She was giving up on treatment.

“Dr. Woods is somewhat baffled by my improvement, love. She would like to hold me for observation.”

“Improvement?” he said skeptically.

“My count is down significantly. Katherine can’t explain such a quick change, but I can. And I don’t need observation, love, I need to go home. To you, the children. Home. The work that needs to be done is better done there.”

“The work? You’re scaring me.”

Speaking like a Transylvanian, she mimicked, “It vill all be revealed to you in time.” And then she smiled a smile that could have filled a stadium with light, or a cathedral with warmth, a smile that had nothing to do with illness, a smile that came from a Liz before their marriage, their children, their trials, a smile that convinced him that she knew what was best.

“I’ll be damned,” he whispered.

“No you won’t,” she said, a different, all-knowing smile taking its place.

LaMoia appeared disheveled and tense. “First hail, then rain. I’m getting a little sick of this.”

Bobbie Gaynes, on the other hand, looked positively radiant.

“What did I miss?” Boldt asked. The fifth floor was near empty.

LaMoia said, “SID discovered a caller-ID box at Anderson’s.”

Gaynes declared enthusiastically, “The caller-ID unit kept a record of the last ninety-nine calls made to Anderson’s apartment.” She repeated, “Every incoming call.”

“Technology is a beautiful thing,” LaMoia said.

Gaynes handed Boldt a list of the calls. “These are the last thirty incoming calls. We’re thinking maybe his visitor might have paid Anderson the courtesy of an advance phone call before coming over. If so, it might be the Pied Piper, if the two had a relationship.”

“And?” Boldt asked, handling the pages. “What do we have?”

LaMoia explained, “The guy had an obvious network going. Look at all the pay phones: nine of the last thirty calls he got.”

Both detectives looked up at Boldt simultaneously with wanting expressions.

“Oh, I get it,” Boldt said.

“It’s your field, Lieutenant, ” LaMoia fired back, with emphasis on the rank.

“We’d like to talk to all the people who called Anderson. Including whoever used these pay phones,” Gaynes said. “Maybe we find out why both Anderson and the Shotz crime scene had pollen all over them.”

“No, no, no,” Boldt cautioned.

“Sarge, it’s a homicide,” Gaynes pleaded. “A homicide that ties directly to the Pied Piper investigation through that pollen match.”

“You want me to run the pay phone numbers for you,” Boldt said, scanning the list, “and see if Anderson was running any of our snitches.” A number jumped off the page at him as he said this. He concealed his reaction by forcing a cough. The number belonged to one of his more reliable snitches, the pay phone in a tittie bar by the airport, The Air Strip. He tallied the number of its appearances: three calls, all just prior to Anderson’s demise.

“Sarge?” LaMoia asked.

“It’s nothing,” Boldt answered. Intelligence operated in its own sphere. The squad worked autonomously, gathering its information, creating its files, running its snitches, from five-hundred-a-night call girls to mayoral aides. Boldt had to protect the identity of his snitches, even from his own detectives. “Let me work with this,” Boldt said.

“Sarge?” LaMoia inquired, noticing the change of voice.

“I’ll run the phone numbers for you. Be thankful for small favors.”

“Sarge?” Gaynes asked in an equally accusatory tone. She exchanged looks with LaMoia, then back to Boldt. “We’re on the same team here, right?”

“I’ll run ’em for you,” Boldt repeated a little more sternly, both excitement and concern competing inside him, along with the secrecy the moment required of him. “I’ll handle it.” LaMoia said something else, but Boldt didn’t hear. He was thinking about his snitch, Raymond, and why the hell the man might repeatedly have been calling a chump like Anderson a few days before the man’s murder.

The Air Strip’s facade glowed Pepto-Bismol pink with a metal awning that proclaimed in chipped lettering LIVE GIRLS-ALL NUDE. Boldt had never seen a sign advertising dead ones. He stepped inside, faced with a potbellied doorman wearing a tuxedo T-shirt, black leather Army boots, dark shades and a hoop earring. The doorman said to Boldt, “Five-buck cover. Two-drink minimum.”

Boldt’s first reaction was to offer his gold badge, but he owed it to Raymond to keep his identity as a cop hidden. He paid the five. Tina Turner blared from the enormous speakers about wanting his love. The doorman said, “Enjoy yourself.” Boldt stepped in, overwhelmed by the smoke and smell of salty flesh.

There were fifteen or twenty men scattered among twice that many tables. Most wore business suits or sport coats, their ties loosened. The air held a low cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke. Salesmen, Boldt figured. Regulars, a couple nights a week, a couple nights a month. In the dark shadows to Boldt’s right a pair of young women moved like painted horses on a carousel as they lap-danced for two sets of legs and two pair of hands that gripped the arms of the chairs like a strong wind was blowing. To Boldt’s left a girl in her late teens stood with her hands on her hips, her young breasts bare, her crotch barely within a sequined G-string, rocking her pelvis in time to the pounding music, throwing her brown hair forward like a curtain of water. She hooked her thumbs into the G-string, intent to remove it, and Boldt looked straight ahead to the bored bartender and his gaggle of barflies.

Coming into Raymond’s bar was a blatant violation of their agreement. The man-a darkly handsome Latino-sat at a stool at the far end, leaning against the wall. He wore mirrored sunglasses that fit his face like swimming goggles, trained onto Boldt as he closed the distance and perched on an aluminum stool next to the man. Boldt ordered a ginger ale, winning a snort from the bartender and a comment that the first two cost five bucks no matter what you ordered, and you had to order two. Boldt changed his order to a 7-UP.

“This is not cool, man,” Raymond said in as much of a hush as he could manage over the music. “Very uncool.”

“You think she’s eighteen?” Boldt asked of the woman writhing against a vertical bar on stage.

“No clue, man. Nice jugs and trim. That’s all the man cares about. You don’t see no driver’s license on her, do you?” Raymond enjoyed his own jokes. “What? You gonna pull her over for speeding up your ticker, man?” He lit a cigarette. “A guy your age, she probably gives you a woodie. Don’t do nothing for me.”

“How about we take it outside?” Boldt asked.

“Dude!” Raymond called out to the bartender, who glanced over, “We gonna party for a minute behind the curtains.”

“Don’t bother the girls, damn you.”

Raymond led Boldt through a pair of velvet curtains, through a door, and into a brightly lit area where three bare-breasted women were in the process of applying too much makeup. Two shared a joint. The other chewed gum. They walked past the women, Boldt careful not to brush up against a bare back. All three seemed fascinated with Boldt’s attempts not to look.