Ridley Pearson - Pied Piper

His host motioned Boldt toward the living room. The lieutenant rounded the corner and stopped cold, glancing back at his trusted friend and then into the room again and the people assembled there. A trap! Boldt realized, his first instinct to run. Run and never trust anyone again.

Daphne Matthews stood admiring one of the antiques, a hammered brass lamp and mica lamp shade.

LaMoia also stood, though with his back pressed firmly against the mantel, his bloodshot eyes trained on his mentor. SID’s Bernie Lofgrin was on the couch working a beer. Bobbie Gaynes occupied the end of the piano bench. She straddled it, legs spread, leaning on her hands planted together in front of her. A group that knew each other well, a working family. Boldt did not like the looks, nor the silence. He had been found out! By whom? LaMoia? Daphne?

But one other person appeared to his right, stepping out of the sunroom. Liz said, “This is an intervention.”

It was not Boldt’s life that passed before his eyes, but the image of Sarah on the video clip: the pleading eyes, the frightened voice, “Daddy!” It wasn’t these people to whom she was calling out, but to him, her father. He wanted no part of an intervention, whatever the hell that meant; he wasn’t an alcoholic, he was a cop who wanted his daughter back.

Liz said, “You can’t do this alone, love. No matter how badly you want to, and God knows I love you for it-” She was crying now, “You can’t. We can’t. We made the decision to save her. These are our closest friends. They can help.”

“Liz!” he protested.

“If we’re careful-” Daphne began, immediately interrupted.

“No one asked you!” Boldt shouted, his skin numb and tingling. Liz had killed their child …, “or you, or you,” he said to the others.

“Your wife asked me,” Daphne contradicted in the voice of a friend, not a psychologist.

“You could have told us,” an angry LaMoia delivered. “What’d you think I’d do, rat on you?”

Daphne said, “This isn’t about you, it’s about Sarah-”

“Don’t lecture me on what this is about.” To his wife he complained bitterly, “We talked about this. No one was to know .”

“And no one does,” Dixie pointed out in his resonant baritone. “Only we know, Lou. Only those of us in this room. It isn’t a conspiracy with only one person. You need us.”

LaMoia jumped in. “You want to find her, we’ll find her. You want to screw up the task force, brother we’ll fuck it up but good!” He smiled a patented LaMoia smile. Overconfident to the point of cocky.

Lofgrin said, “We can misplace some evidence if necessary.”

Bobbie Gaynes stood from the piano bench. “Sarge, I got to get back to the Park and Ride surveillance. What you got to know-we’re with you on this. We all love little Sarah. We all love you. So stop being so ungrateful and figure out a way to put us all to work. John, you’ll catch me up?”

“Got you covered.”

Gaynes walked to Boldt, leaned forward on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. She had never done this before and it brought a frog to his throat. “You got your own secret little task force now, Sarge. Take advantage of it.” She left, the large front door thumping shut behind her.

LaMoia checked his watch. “We got about two hours to debrief you and get a game plan before we raise suspicion by being away from the office.”

Dixie said, “There’s tea water on. And sandwiches.”

“Have a seat, Sarge,” LaMoia said, patting the couch.

Boldt sat down, not by his detective but by his wife. The meeting began in earnest a few minutes later.

The Intelligence offices were a quiet place to work. Boldt had learned to appreciate the quiet. Phones purred softly, answered in hushed voices that didn’t carry. Secrets. A two-way street of constantly shifting information. Computers hummed. Outside, the sun appeared for the first time in several days, painting brushstrokes of silver in the windows of neighboring buildings.

Surrendering his secret added to Boldt’s exhaustion, driven by an overwhelming sense of relief. The burden of withholding the truth of his daughter’s situation released, he found himself able to concentrate, focus and redirect his energies. He spent his time reviewing the Spitting Image invoices, including the E-mail orders he had received from Stonebeck earlier that same morning.

He attempted to contact the various cable television companies that served northwest Washington, hoping to determine which of them had run a weather alert at 12:02 P.M., March 25, the moment of Sarah’s video ransom, and he was in the middle of just such a call when he was interrupted by a patrol officer. “You have a visitor, Lieutenant. A woman.”

“No visitors,” he said, believing it a snitch. “Pass her off to someone else.”

“She’s from out of town. Says it’s urgent. It’s not a squirrel, Lieutenant. This one is Talbots and Eddie Bauer. You know? What should I tell her?” the uniform asked.

“Out of town?”

“She didn’t say where.”

“An attorney. You’ve got to at least get a name. I’m busy here.”

The uniformed woman stood up artificially erect. “She wouldn’t give me a name. But she did say that you spoke to her yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” He couldn’t remember back twenty-four hours. He glanced at the call sheet he kept by the phone. Sunday. Nothing. It didn’t make sense to him. It was someone trying to weasel an unscheduled appointment out of him. He had spent most of the day before, in, or en route to, Portland.

He dragged himself out of the chair. The patrol officer stepped out of his way. Boldt peered around the jamb.

In her mid-thirties, she dressed well, wore her hair extremely short and wire glasses that added a thoughtful intelligence. The face seemed familiar to him, but he couldn’t come up with a name. He stared at her searching for a name. She sensed it and turned and met eyes with him.

“Connie,” he called out. “Connie Bowler .” He had in fact spoken to her the day before. She had helped him to locate her drunken husband. It felt as if a week had gone by.

Boldt showed her to a seat and shut the office door for privacy.

She clutched her purse tightly. Sarah had a favorite blanket she held to this same way. Beneath the purse lay a bulging oversized mailer. Boldt found it difficult to take his eyes off that envelope. Connie Bowler spoke in a high, rushed voice. “If Tom asks, I’ll say I drove up here to do some shopping. But he won’t ask, so it doesn’t matter.” She rattled on, “It’s a bit of a stretch, because the shopping in Portland is just as good, but we do have a few friends up here,” she said, thinking aloud, “you and Elizabeth among them, but I wouldn’t dare use that because he might follow up on it.”

“How long has Tom been drinking like that?” Boldt asked, getting directly to the point.

“How is Elizabeth?” she asked, avoiding an answer. “I was so sorry to hear-”

“Better, I think.” He didn’t want a twenty-minute heaping of sympathy. He had grown to resent such offers. “I wanted to work with Tom on this kidnapping case-”

“The Pied Piper.”

“Yes,” he answered.

She toyed with the chain to her purse, eyes cast down in avoidance. She pulled out the manila folder and Boldt stepped up to accept it. He did not open it despite himself. He set it aside. “That’s why I’m here. Why I came. Tom-” She caught herself and glanced over at his office door as if to make sure it was closed, their conversation private. “We don’t know each other very well, do we?”

He knew Bowler from the constant traffic of information between departments, and because Bowler had once chaired a conference of Northwest Law Enforcement at which Boldt had been one of the speakers. “Well enough,” he attempted to reassure her.