Ridley Pearson - Beyond Recognition

“You’re trying to scare me,” Emily said. “Take a look around at this neighborhood and ask yourself if I scare easily. My age, my looks? Come on! You think he’s targeting me? You think I’m next?” She grinned and laughed. “Where do you get your material, Detective?”

“I’m not a detective,” Daphne clarified, for the sake of the tape recorder running in her pocket.

“But you said-”

“I told you that I’m working on the investigation. That’s true.”

“You told me you were a cop.”

“Also true. Just not a detective. Listen, my role is unimportant here. It’s your role that’s of concern to me. And yes, for all I know, he’s targeting you. We have no idea how he targets his victims, how he rigs the structures, how he gains access.” She hesitated. “Did you ever leave him alone in this room?”

All color drained from Emily’s face. She collected herself well enough not to allow her panic to filter into her voice, but Daphne saw it all over her: the rapid blinking, another attempt at a dry swallow, the twitch in her left eye. She had left the man alone.

Glancing around nervously, Daphne said, “I think it might be to our mutual advantages to work together.”

“You’re messing with me to get at-to get at the boy.” She had almost slipped and spoken his name aloud. Daphne wondered: If she had pushed a little harder would the name have come out? Everything was measured in degrees. She didn’t always guess right.

“Messing with you?” she questioned. “What I’m telling you is that we can’t protect you. That protection stuff works fine in the movies, but not in real life. You think we can afford the manpower to watch your place?” Daphne was hoping to confuse the woman. The truth was mixed: They could afford the surveillance, but witness protection on a local level was nonexistent. Daphne’s role was not to deliver the truth, nor did any regulation explicitly state she was obliged to. Suspects were routinely told falsehoods in order to win confessions; it was one of the techniques of interrogating, tricky at best, and a matter of pride for police entering the Box: The best liar wins. “At best you could hope for the bomb squad to do the two-step through here and try to sniff out any devices. We’d bring someone in like he was a client of yours, in case your place is being watched.”

“Shut up!” Emily threw her head back and forth, her hair whipping the air. “Stop it!”

“But I need the boy for that,” Daphne continued, knowing she had finally gotten through to the woman. “I have to show my sergeant that there’s some currency here, some give-and-take. You must understand that. On some level I know you do. Trust me. Let me work with you and the boy together-no warrants, no arrests. Just a little collaborative effort to put this guy Nick where he belongs.”

Emily’s face showed rage and resentment. Daphne wondered if the woman might strike out at her.

At the same time, Daphne hoped she had cracked the shell, hoped Emily might give her the benefit of the doubt, prayed for a shot at the boy. Child witnesses were among the best. Little kids and old ladies-Daphne knew the statistics. Juries and judges loved them. If the boy had seen something, if Daphne could get it on tape or in a statement, Boldt would be beside himself.

Suddenly, Daphne questioned her own motivations. Was this effort for the betterment of the investigation or to please Boldt? Was she trying to solve a crime or win points? Her belly knotted in pain, and she felt light-headed and weak in the knees.

“You’re lying to me,” said the woman in front of her, a woman as familiar as she was with reading body language. “We can have all the currency you want, but the boy is not in the equation.”

Daphne recovered nicely. “They have electronic sniffers. Have you seen one? A guy comes in here with a briefcase and he leaves, telling you if the place is rigged or not. Five, ten minutes. Peace of mind. Are you a target? I don’t know. I wish I could tell you that you weren’t.” The sniffers were for hydrocarbon accelerants and certain drugs. She’d never heard of one for rocket fuel. She didn’t share this. “Let us help you. Do this my way and it’s completely low-profile. Stonewall and you lose control. You strike me as a woman who wants to maintain control.”

The woman looked confused. Daphne didn’t like that. She anticipated Emily’s reaction before it ever came.

“Get out of here.” Emily stepped to within inches of Daphne’s face, strong and defiant. “You’re here uninvited, and you’re not welcome. I’ll file a complaint against you. Don’t think I wouldn’t.”

“You’re overreacting,” Daphne cautioned. “Take a minute to think about this.” She absolutely hated losing. There was nothing worse. Her job was about wins, about steering people away from some thoughts and toward others.

“Out!” Emily reduced the space farther, closing to where Daphne could feel the warmth of her breath across her face.

“I’m going,” Daphne conceded. She stormed out, more upset with herself than with the psychic.

The outside air was not cold, but it stung her face. She stood on the front steps for a moment, admiring the quirky six-foot metal sculpture of the world that sat on Emily’s front lawn. And then a frightening feeling overcame her: She was being watched. She glanced around-but casually, carefully-and saw no one.

She walked a little more quickly to her car, feeling unsafe and exposed. And as she drove away, a little faster than polite for a quiet neighborhood, she wondered who had been watching. The boy? Or was it the arsonist?

How much to tell Boldt and how much to keep to herself? How much was paranoia, how much real?

And how was she going to feel if and when Emily became the next victim?

Another poem. Garman had delivered it downtown while Boldt had been visiting Bear. Both his pager and cellular phone had sounded nearly simultaneously. He drove home to tell Liz in person that it was going to be a long night. He didn’t want to tell her by phone. The claw-foot tub was the first place he checked, placing his large hands against the side wall, searching for evidence of lingering warmth. Stone cold, like his heart. He felt an immediate pang of regret. Trust had been the cornerstone of their renewed attempt at marriage, and here he was, creeping around and feeling up bathtubs.

Together they put the kids to bed, Boldt looking for a chance to tell her he was going to leave her alone. Getting the kids down took longer than he expected. Things rarely went the way he expected. He finally sat down to a reheated dinner at a kitchen table cluttered with several days of mail-bills, mostly.

“You know,” she said, absentmindedly opening a piece of mail, “I was thinking that I might leave Miles with you and take another weekend up at the cabin.” The announcement-for that was what it was, an announcement, not a request-stunned him. She had never been a big fan of the cabin. What had changed? “Maybe this weekend.”

“By yourself?” he blurted out.

“No, with my lover,” she snapped sarcastically. Or was she using sarcasm to hide the truth? Would she, when he finally found out, remind him of this evening when she had mentioned a lover over the dinner table? “I’m whipped, Lou. Burned out. I could use a weekend by myself. I’ll take Sarah, of course. A good book.” She added, “Not away from you, just this.” She motioned around the room. He knew she meant him. She meant Miles, who at three and a half was a handful. Although a good mother-especially, he thought, for a working mother-she reached these tolerance points with Miles; it wasn’t the first time. More important, he thought, trying to see the positive, she trusted him to take good care of their son.