Ridley Pearson - Beyond Recognition

As Boldt headed home, he barely focused on Aurora Avenue, slowing when the red taillights brightened, speeding up as they grew distant, following the other cars but not entirely conscious of them. His focus was on Steven Garman and Daphne’s suspicions that he knew more than he was letting on. He pulled into the drive and sat quietly behind the wheel for several long minutes.

Liz’s car was there-and suddenly he was flooded with an entirely different set of suspicions and concerns.

Daphne knocked on the door of the purple house with the neon sign in the window and then hurried off the front porch to get a look down the driveway. She was uncomfortable to be a white woman, alone, in that neighborhood. Seattle was not a racially tense city like some other American cities, but gangs were of increasing concern: Asian against Asian, black against black. Women were occasionally gang-banged, sometimes to death. Car jackings were on the rise. And there was Daphne, white, attractive, driving a red Honda Prelude with aluminum mags, suddenly well aware of the ghetto surroundings.

He was small, and he was fast. A white boy, ten or twelve years old. He dodged around the corner of the house, froze as he saw Daphne, and then took off like a shot.

The front door came open and Emily Richland stood there in a black pants dress with an embroidered yellow robe over her shoulders. It took her a second to locate Daphne in the driveway.

“Is he your son?” Daphne asked.

“Leave him out of this,” Emily protested.

“Is he?”

“No.”

Daphne approached the woman, who stepped back inside and made an attempt to shut the door. “I wouldn’t,” Daphne warned.

Emily considered this and hesitated, the door still partially open.

“I haven’t heard from you,” Daphne told her.

“I haven’t heard from him .”

“How do I know that?” Daphne asked.

“I would call you.”

“Would you? I don’t think so.” Daphne forced her way inside and closed the door. “Who’s the boy?” she asked, pushing past the psychic into the lavishly painted room. “And don’t play with me, or you and the boy will end up downtown, having your pictures taken and rolling your thumbs and forefingers in little boxes. The press loves to destroy people like you.”

“You do whatever it is you have to do. You’re pathetic. You know that? He hasn’t been back. I would have called.”

“You con people for a living. How am I supposed to trust you? The boy is part of it,” Daphne said, keeping the boy’s role in the foreground. The boy was clearly the wild card, the way to get at the woman. “Maybe you lied about this man with the burned hand.”

“No, he was here.”

“Maybe I can help the two of you,” Daphne offered. She caught a flicker of what looked like hope in the woman’s eyes. “Is he from a bad home? A runaway?”

Emily looked hateful. “You leave him out of this.”

“I’ll do that. I’ll leave him out of it, but you’re going to have to help.” She wandered around the bizarre room, dragging her finger along the naked women painted there. “City Services would be interested in talking to the boy.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Help me!”

“How can I? You don’t believe me. He has not been here. Do you ever listen, or do you just like to threaten?”

The question stung Daphne, though she hid it by looking at the murals. She removed a photograph of Steven Garman from her pocket, crossed the room, and handed it to the psychic. “Is that the man?” she asked. “Look closely,” she said as Emily began to shake her head. “Forget the face hair. Look at the eyes, the shape of the head.”

“Absolutely not. Not even close.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“You would swear to that in a court of law?” With each question, Daphne studied the woman’s face, putting little value in her words. But what she saw there was discouraging. Emily Richland had never seen the man before. Daphne felt crushed. She had convinced herself that Garman could have created the burned hand for himself as a disguise for the sessions with the psychic.

“It’s not him. Not even close.”

From sour to sweet: Daphne produced a hundred-dollar bill. “I need an exact description. You withheld some details last time, didn’t you?” Every snitch did so, in order to collect more money a second time. Emily regarded the money carefully but seemed reluctant to accept it. Daphne said, “Or maybe the boy can fill in some of the blanks.”

Emily bristled, took the money, and began a thoughtful and exacting description of her client, covering some of what she had told Daphne the first time around but embellishing upon it greatly. She mentioned Sea-Tac airport, a possible drug deal. She described the man in more detail. An image formed in Daphne’s mind-the close-cut hair, the strong build, the farm or rodeo background. The more she heard, the less she liked it. The man known to Emily as Nick-this, from the back of his belt-did not make the most likely suspect for a person quoting Plato. Two suspects? she wondered, knowing that even the suggestion of such a thing would send Boldt ballistic. A conspiracy? What would that do to the investigation?

“Perhaps I’m wrong about this,” she said, hearing the words tumble out of her mouth and wondering from where they came. There were times she seemed possessed of two minds: one eager to solve the case, interview the suspect ahead of everyone else, even the arresting officer if possible; the other, to help keep things less complicated for Boldt and his squad, to ease the tension, improve the working environment. Most of the time, these two objectives existed in direct opposition to one another and forced her to make a choice. She heard her words and wondered if she had subconsciously already made it.

“Perhaps you are,” Emily said spitefully, no longer holding the one hundred dollars: part psychic, part magician. The money had disappeared.

“I want to talk to the boy.”

“No.”

“This isn’t up for negotiation,” Daphne warned. “The more trouble you create for me, the more you bring upon yourself. At the moment, we’re staying clear of warrants and statements and trips downtown. At the moment, as far as you’re concerned, it’s still business as usual. You’re open; you’re seeing clients, I presume. As far as I know, the kid is still working the cars for you the way he worked mine. That can all change, and quite quickly. No work, no little boy. The prudent thing to do at a time like this, Ms. Richland, is carefully weigh one’s options. Obstinacy for its own sake is such a terrible waste.”

“The boy stays out of it,” the other said defiantly.

“By attempting to protect others, we often endanger them further.” Daphne took a few steps closer. “Are you sure you want this for him?” She asked, “Tell me how you know what you know. A drug deal at Sea-Tac. Are you sure? Did you see it, or did he? What if it isn’t drugs? What if it puts both of you at risk? What if you or the boy were seen at the airport?”

Emily’s throat bobbed and an eyebrow cast a lower slant, despite her admirable attempts to prevent any such reaction. Her eyes darted nervously, searching Daphne’s.

“It’s my duty to tell you this, although quite honestly I would prefer not to, because I don’t want to frighten you any more than you already may be. Two women about your age, with about your looks, are dead. You will have heard about the arsons, they’ve been all over the news. This man Nick, or perhaps someone close to him, may be responsible. The military connection works for us … the burned hand. You saw the possible connection, or you wouldn’t have offered your services to us.”