Ridley Pearson - Pied Piper

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 checkbooks.”

“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.

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.”