Ridley Pearson - Pied Piper

As she sought an invention to convince Broole to wiretap Chavalier’s phone lines, Broole revealed his own agenda. “Is this the Pied Piper?” he asked, still leaning over her, his sour cigarette breath warm on her neck. “And before you hand me some discontinued merchandise and try to sell me on the life of its warranty, I beg you to consider the truth carefully because maybe, just maybe, su-gar, I possess something of even greater value to you.” He placed his left hand onto her shoulder and his long fingers dangled down her chest as he sucked on the cigarette from his right. A cold shiver pulsed through her. He quizzed her. “Now, I don’t want to speak it, su-gar, not aloud that is, but thunderstorms produce not only rain and lightning but another meteorological element.”

“Wind? Tornadoes?”

“Not aloud. Aloud is not allowed,” he said, amusing himself. He touched a finger to her lips. She was suddenly very much afraid of him. “But no, not wind, not tornadoes.” He took his finger away. “It is a hybrid of snow and rain, su-gar, this particular meteorological element-kind of rain and ice rolled into one. It is also something you might associate with a particular federal agency involved in law enforcement. It will benefit us both greatly if you do not speak his name aloud, for that will alter my own position greatly and put me in a difficult position where I am forced to take sides. And I don’t believe it would be revealing any secrets to tell you I would much prefer to be on your side.”

“Frozen rain,” she said, repeating what he had said.

“ Precisement !”

Hail, she thought. Hale. Special Agent. “I’m with you,” she said.

“Which is more than any man could ever ask,” he said, maintaining the intimacy and stroking her collarbone. “Let me repeat,” he said, sparing no contact. “Is this the one you all are calling the Pied Piper?”

“He’s a suspect,” she conceded, wondering how much to give, how much to keep.

“And the connection to New Orleans, other than his past?”

“His past is what brought us here,” she told him. It was not an outright lie; the use of the 911 con had in part led them to Crowley.

“The connection, su-gar? Don’t play with me.” He sucked on the cigarette. Some ash brushed her arm as it tumbled to the floor.

“An attorney named Chevalier. We need a wiretap. We need to stay a step ahead of our federal friends.”

“Is the collar so all-important?”

“You like the Feds, you work with them,” she offered. “We need his office, his cell phone, and any pay phones for several blocks. My job is to win your cooperation.”

His fingers danced lower on her chest. “And what is it exactly that I get in return? Hmm? From you, I mean? What would such a favor be worth? I’ll need a warrant, su-gar. I’ll need a real good lie to convince a judge to give me one. What would all that be worth, do you think?”

“The lives of two little girls,” she answered bluntly. “If the Feds beat us to the suspect, we lose at least one of the girls.”

“And I’m all tears, you understand,” Broole said, “but it’s that night sky I’m thinking about. Some good company.”

“We could try for the attorney’s phone records without you,” she said, “but we’re a little out of our jurisdiction.”

“Maybe you aren’t listening.”

“Dinner tonight?” she said, weighing Sarah in the balance.

Broole picked up the phone and made two calls, Daphne listening in. He found his way to a woman named Emily who was either a past girlfriend or a blood relation. There was a brief discussion. When he hung up from the second call he said, “Phone records for office phone, home phone, fax line and cellular. They’ll be through on the fax in a matter of minutes.”

“I shouldn’t have told you what I did,” she admitted, having had time to reconsider.

“Look at it this way, su-gar. If you hadn’t, our meteorological friend would have been a step aheada you.”

“He has already IDed Crowley?” she gasped.

“He looked through our photo albums. He had a list of the state’s former guests with him. What he made of it all, he didn’t say, but he did not leave here in a jovial mood. Even so, I wouldn’t count a man like that out, if I was you. He seems bound and determined to make the most of his resources.”

“We’re not counting him out, no,” she said. The fax of Chevalier’s phone records arrived only minutes later.

The phone records provided by Broole produced immediate results and instantly clarified Vincent Chevalier’s role. They also necessitated Daphne requesting a rain check for her dinner with Broole: She was heading out of town.

Awaiting his flight’s boarding call, Boldt told her for the third time, “I’ll call your cellular at eight o’clock Eastern, your batteries okay?”

She nodded. “You know the drill? Go easy with them, Lou. It’s doubtful they know the extent of what they’re involved in. If they go crying foul to Chevalier-”

“Got it,” he said brusquely, checking the overhead clock. It was her plan, not his. A part of Boldt resented that. But true to form, she had come up with something brilliant.

“There are moments in one’s life that are never forgotten,” she warned. “Weddings, deaths, traffic accidents. The space shuttle blowing up. Kennedy. Lady Di. Your visit to the Brehmers is one of those moments. Mine too, with the Hudsons. This evening their lives change forever. Remember that.”

“All our lives have changed forever,” Boldt reminded stoically. “Every moment-every decision-is one of those moments you’re talking about.”

“They’ll never forget our visits. We are walking into their living rooms and detonating a bomb. Go easy on them.”

“Message received.”

His flight was called. He glanced toward the developing line at the gate, back to the clock and finally to Daphne. They shared an awkward moment, not knowing how to part. They shook hands. Boldt felt right about that.

“Eight o’clock,” he repeated. He walked to the gate carrying only a briefcase.

Amelia and Morgan Hudson owned a sprawling horse farm on the outskirts of Lexington, Kentucky. Surrounded by a whitewashed board fence, acres of manicured bluegrass corrals interconnected like a patchwork quilt. With it too dark to see, Daphne imagined the ill-tempered stallions kicking and bucking, the complacent mare and foal pairs meandering the fence lines. She had been raised on a farm not unlike this one. Her parents lived not two hours away.

Having headed straight to the Hudson residence from the airport, she turned the rental down the long drive, recalling a dozen memories from her childhood.

The enormous brick house ran off in a variety of directions. A white-faced Negro riding a black horse in an English saddle welcomed visitors with an electric lantern held out to the side.

Chevalier’s office and cellular phones carried a series of long distance calls to the Hudson household leading up to the date of the Shotz kidnapping. The day of the kidnapping, three separate calls had been placed. A week later, the calls suddenly stopped. Chevalier never called the couple again. Daphne knew what she would find inside- who she would find, though it did nothing to instill confidence in her. Her assignment was simple confirmation. Boldt had the more difficult task.

She dragged her briefcase heavily toward her. She had lied to the Hudsons three hours earlier in a call from the New Orleans airport. Now she had to reveal that lie and undo others. She double-checked that her weapon, concealed inside her purse, was loaded and working properly. She had no idea what kind of people she faced.