Ridley Pearson - Pied Piper

Smoke caught in the man’s throat, burning it dry as Chevalier said, “She has arrived.”

People were creatures of habit, LaMoia thought, as he watched a Ford Taurus pull into the postage-stamp parking lot behind Chevalier’s office. Such habits were a detective’s bread and butter; they offered behavioral links to the past and future alike. People chose to dress the same, eat the same food at the same places, travel in the same circle of friends, frequent the same bars-drive the same cars.

Lisa Crowley had a thing for the Ford Taurus.

She parked in the first open spot in the lot, the one immediately adjacent to the street, providing LaMoia a good look and the driver a quick exit.

As the driver’s door came open, LaMoia prepared himself for the ready, putting away the.38 Boldt had loaned him and the stun stick he routinely carried tucked into his right boot, a handheld, less powerful version of the Pied Piper’s air TASER. He confirmed the pick gun’s location in the pocket of his windbreaker. No cuffs, no ID wallet. His life had changed, no doubt about it.

He did not recognize Lisa Crowley from the mug shot provided Daphne by NOPD’s Detective Broole. Dressed in a professional style in keeping with a job of such responsibility, and yet a state employee, this woman wore a starched white cotton top and a pair of crisp, pleated khaki pants. He assumed the hair was not hers, but one of many wigs, and yet it seemed perfectly in keeping, fitting her face and complementing her looks remarkably. She wore a colorful scarf on her head and a pair of shades. She might have been anybody.

LaMoia wondered if the scarf and glasses concealed head injuries sustained in the Boise pileup. If so, there was little she could do to fully hide herself. Body markings, regardless of how small, were an investigator’s God-given gift.

Confidence artists were fully versed in identity changes. LaMoia was prepared for Lisa Crowley to enter a building with one look and, moments later, leave as an entirely different person. The woman who climbed back in the Taurus and drove it away might not be the same woman who had arrived and now climbed out. Opening the car’s rear door, Crowley leaned inside and retrieved the baby seat.

LaMoia headed for the burned-out tenement’s fire escape and the blistering heat of another hazy morning. His assignment was simple in word, difficult in practice, and yet critical to Sarah’s rescue: to place Lisa Crowley under surveillance and never lose track of her. Boldt had entrusted him with nothing less than his daughter’s life. He had no intention of letting anyone down.

“Bradley?” a suspicious Chevalier repeated curiously, stepping away from the window.

“Cindy’s way of putting me in my place,” Boldt told the man, vamping. “One of those husband and wife things, that goes back to a childhood story I wish I’d never told.” Looking at Daphne, Boldt said for the benefit of the attorney, “No one but the teachers ever got my name right in school. It was always ‘Bradley’ this and ‘Bradley’ that. It really got on my nerves after a while. I came to hate the name. Still do. No one ever seems to get Brad ford .”

“Bradley gets your attention, sweetheart,” she said without hesitation, picking up the ruse beautifully. “And you know how I just love to have your full attention.” She tugged on the hem of her shift, lifting it a little more open than necessary, well aware of how to win Chevalier’s attention as well.

Chevalier sucked on the cigarette, his small eyes flitting between his two clients.

Boldt felt a tear of sweat charge down his ribs. He knew that Trudy Kittridge’s keeper had arrived when footfalls in the hall drew Chevalier to his office door.

Daphne jumped up, ran an open hand down her shift and headed straight for the car seat-the baby! — catching herself at the very last moment and thinking to introduce herself to the woman. The woman responded, “Susan Chambers.”

The woman who called herself Chambers passed the baby seat to Daphne, set down a baby bag slung over her shoulder and gingerly removed her sunglasses. Her left eye was badly blackened and considerably swollen.

She preempted any questions. “Slipped, standing up out of the tub.” She touched the scarf. “Pretty stupid, you ask me.”

“You’ve seen a doctor, I hope,” Boldt said, stepping closer, studying every line in her features, every bump, blemish and bone. He would never forget that face; he made sure of it.

“I’m fine.”

Boldt couldn’t help himself. “A blow to the head like that can give you real trouble,” Boldt said. “Headaches?” With an eye like that she would be living on pain killers-aspirin at the very least.

Chevalier agreed with Boldt, nodding. He said pointedly, “ You should have it looked at .” He added strongly, “Hear?”

The woman clearly didn’t like the conversation aimed onto her. Maintaining her composure, looking down at the child, she asked them all, “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

Daphne repeated her introduction. She spoke in a breathy, slightly hysterical voice, slipping at once into baby talk as she dropped to one knee to greet the baby girl. Daphne’s performance, the use of the altered voices, was essential because the social worker-in all likelihood, Lisa Crowley-had spent the most amount of time in phone conversations with Cindy Brehmer. With only the few calls made over a protracted period, it was doubtful Lisa Crowley would identify the voice as that of another woman, but Daphne was taking no chances. She focused her attention on the child and left the documentation, paperwork and chitchat to Boldt.

“May I?” Daphne said in a girlish voice, indicating the baby seat.

“Please,” Lisa Crowley answered, “and I’m here to answer any questions you or Mr. Brehmer may have about parenting the child.”

Boldt felt a sudden fit of rage unlike anything he had ever experienced. Triggered initially by simply the woman’s presence-his daughter’s kidnapper in the same room with him, for there was no mistaking Lisa Crowley-it struck to his core as she spoke so evenly, so controlled, so generously. She was a social worker, not a woman playing a role. Her professional calm and authority were an affront to his own professionalism and authority. He could picture her in a police uniform at the door to Millie Wiggins’ day care. This woman had physically touched Sarah, had trained a video camera onto her while she screamed for her daddy. Boldt wanted desperately to hurt this woman.

“Sir?” she asked.

“Yes?” Boldt returned.

“I asked if you have any questions on the caring and feeding of the child.”

“No, I don’t think so. We’ve been through the parenting classes as you know,” he said, pointing to the documents. The Brehmers had briefed them on the requirements they had fulfilled in order to take possession of the child. The nationally sanctioned parenting classes, offered by a Houston hospital, included a certification diploma that accompanied the Brehmer paperwork. After two kids of his own, Boldt could have given the parenting classes himself.

Something in him stirred, and Boldt couldn’t avoid confronting her. He looked directly into her eyes and said, “Do you have children of your own, Ms. Chambers?”

All color drained from Lisa Crowley’s face.

Daphne looked up sharply from the baby. “Bradley!” she chastised. “What possible business is that of ours? Please excuse my husband, Ms. Chambers. He can be impertinent and obnoxious in the most unexpected situations. And I assure you our little angel will learn nothing of the kind from her daddy. I nearly have him trained for the dinner table, after all, don’t I, Bradley?”