Ridley Pearson - Pied Piper

“You’re just pissed that Hill can call the shots,” Daphne, the psychologist, explained to him. LaMoia was no fan of her psychological evaluations. “You don’t like a woman bossing you around. I know you, John. I know where this is coming from.”

“You don’t know shit about it.”

“Hey!” Boldt chided. He told LaMoia, “The Bureau blocked the financial records of the victims, we assume so they could have it all to themselves. But we can pull credit card statements for the Spitting Image customers and look for charges that coincide with the Pied Piper’s calendar. You see what they’ve done?” he asked, tapping the Spitting Image records. “The Pied Piper uses fresh, valid credit cards-Robertson ordered that blanket just last week. If he has the access we think he does, then he knows her statement dates; he knows she won’t actually see any of his charges for a month or more. He’s protected from discovery. What we want to do is get to those statements electronically ahead of time-we can do that-then we focus on car rentals in and around the abduction dates; gas charges, airfare, lodging, restaurants.”

“They won’t use the cards for small-ticket items,” LaMoia countered. “The car rentals, sure-you have to show a card.”

Daphne said, “And that card has to match your driver’s license.”

“Fake ID?” LaMoia asked. “So they could use a card and license to board a plane as well. I’d buy that.” He added for Boldt’s sake, “But I’m off to Boise to measure skid marks and work a traffic accident. That’s what this is, you know?” he complained. “Hill is knocking me down to metro.”

“I need both of you with me in New Orleans, if any of this pans out,” Boldt announced. “Hill will have to settle for Mulwright.”

LaMoia snapped, “Forget it. She’s talking a minimum of two or three days over there.”

“She’s going too, isn’t she?” Daphne speculated.

“It’s where the press will be,” LaMoia said, though he blushed and squirmed in his chair. “What do you think?”

“The press, are you sure?” Boldt questioned, the ramifications for Sarah echoing in his thoughts.

“I’m sure. They’re all over it.”

“Already?”

“Already.”

“That couldn’t have been what Flemming wanted,” Boldt pointed out.

“Ten to one, the Captain did it, Sarge-Hill. She wanted Flemming slowed down; she wanted to punish him for trying the end run. What better way than to dump the press in his lap?”

“Games,” Matthews said, disgusted.

“You gotta get me off the Boise assignment, Sarge. You’ve got tattoos to run, con artists, adoption records. A foreign town.”

“How badly do you want off?”

“Whatever it takes,” LaMoia answered.

“I’ll go,” Daphne confirmed. “I won’t be missed.”

Boldt asked LaMoia, “Straight answer. Is there any reason Hill would be mad at you?”

“Moi?”

“I need it straight, John, because from here, from what we know about what you face in Boise — ”

LaMoia interrupted, “You mean failure? Trying to track down this driver and child after the Bureau has a substantial lead on us.”

“It looks more like a setup. This may be the investigation’s biggest lead, and if it goes nowhere-”

“Hill needs a scapegoat,” Daphne said, following Boldt’s reasoning.

“Or else there’s a personal agenda at play,” Boldt said, challenging LaMoia directly, “and she’s either intentionally sending you off to Siberia, or getting you out of the way so you can’t screw things up for her at home.” He added, “How ’bout it?”

LaMoia didn’t answer. He looked searchingly back and forth between Boldt and Matthews.

Boldt said, “Sarah’s out of time. If the press picks up on the abandoned car …” His throat caught. To Daphne, he said, “Better go pack. We have seats on the red-eye.”

LaMoia boiled at the thought of pursuing dead leads in Boise, Idaho, while Boldt attempted to track the tattoo and criminal records to the actual suspect in a place like the Big Easy. The central question that needed answering-was Sarah better off with him in Boise-seemed obvious enough: Bobbie Gaynes or Patrick Mulwright could easily handle Boise. How Sheila Hill could have made such a call without discussion was beyond him. Once again she was using him, this time in a political move that left too many unanswered questions. Was she afraid of someone within the department? Was LaMoia a threat? Or did she simply want three days with him in a hotel out of town to mend their fences? He feared this latter thought the most: playing gigolo in Boise for an oversexed, overly ambitious woman who had the power to trash his own career. Exactly what had he gotten himself into? Perhaps his handcuffing incident had awakened her, had made her realize how strong his feelings were for her.

He had no choice but to obey orders. A police department was not a democracy. The Boise investigation could have been handled over the phone, and Sheila Hill knew it. But the cameras-along with the fresh sheets and room service-were in Boise.

LaMoia’s calls to his credit services contacts produced immediate results. Cross-referencing the Spitting Image customer names with the dates that the Pied Piper was known to have been in specific cities produced billing records that suggested the kidnappers had counterfeited at least six credit cards. LaMoia was sorting through the information when his pager buzzed, interrupting his work. Tempted to ignore it, he obediently angled it to the light and read the overly long string of numbers on the display, immediately guessing these numbers would lead him to a hotel room, same as always. Sheila Hill wanted to talk; she had wisely reconsidered her decision. That, or she wanted to lay down ground rules for their Boise bed jumping. He cringed. A combination of resentment, anger and hope overcame him. Perhaps she wanted to apologize. Perhaps she knew in advance he had no intention of sharing showers with her in Boise. The New Orleans red-eye was only hours away. His own flight to Boise was much sooner.

One phone call, and LaMoia had the name of the hotel: a Days Inn south on I-5. Its close proximity to the airport annoyed him-she still expected him to board that plane to Boise.

He passed the credit card information along to Boldt, went home and quickly packed a bag, his anger continually resurfacing like a fire assumed out. He left an extra dish of dry food for his cat, Granite, and slipped a note under his neighbor’s door that said he’d be gone for a few days. He stopped at an ATM and withdrew two hundred dollars cash, which he would then expense over the next few days.

On the drive south he promised himself that he would not, under any conditions, have sex with her.

He found himself passing the Days Inn registration desk and heading to the elevators. He found himself on the second floor, walking the long corridor in search of the number 214. He found himself practicing his first few lines so that she could not, would not, steer him off course, no matter what her intentions and appetites. He knocked sharply on the door and braced himself for whatever she threw at him.

The door came open to empty space and he knew immediately she was hiding behind the door, and he feared what she had in mind. Feeling like a trained German shepherd, he stepped into the room prepared to counter whatever awaited him. He walked straight ahead, intentionally not looking back, not playing to her game. If her clothes were laid out on a chair or on the bed, then he knew what to expect: reckless abandon. He couldn’t wait to deny her that.

The TV was going loudly. Sheila Hill was a screamer. LaMoia knew at that moment that she intended to try to make up to him. Knew what she had in mind-something adventuresome, something daring, perhaps even dangerous. He cautioned himself against succumbing.