Ridley Pearson - No Witnesses

“Me? I work too hard. I know that. So what? I break the little promises, okay? I’m home late. I work weekends, or I hit the links. I’m selfish with my time: I know that. I’m away from the house too much-I know that? But not the big promises! Okay? Am I getting laid on the sly?” he asked hoarsely. “I’m not like that, damn it? She’s not like that.”

“Maybe it just happened, Mike. Maybe it’s one of those things that just happened. I think you start by keeping your head and opening a dialogue. I think you go into that dialogue well aware that you are half the problem, and you use a counselor-”

“I am not seeing a shrink!”

“A counselor as a referee-a go-between. A therapist. A shortstop. However you want to think about it.”

“I don’t want to think about it. I want to catch the guy-catch them both in the act. I want to prove this one way or the other. But I don’t have a clue how to go about it. You on the other hand-”

Boldt saw the trap he was being led into. “You don’t want to do that, Razor. That’s a bad idea.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“You want to catch her in the act,” Boldt repeated, so the man could hear his own words, so he could face the reality of it. “When? Just before? In the middle? When? Think about it.”

“Shut up.”

He was thinking about it, and Boldt thought that was good, because a guy with Striker’s temper had to be discouraged from this at all costs. “Is it for you or her that you want to catch her in the act?”

Striker’s one good arm was incredibly powerful, and when he shoved Boldt with it, the big man tripped on a lawn sprinkler and went down hard. “You see?” Boldt asked, sitting on the damp grass. “You want those kinds of images permanently living inside you? Worming around inside you? Do you? Because I’ll tell you something? They eat their way right back out eventually. Those kinds of things will kill the relationship forever. You can’t erase that stuff. It’s a big mistake. If you’re smart, you’ll stay as far away from that as possible . What you want to do is talk. To listen. You want to sit her down and talk, and you’ve got to accept what she says-no matter what she says.” He added, “No matter what, because she may be a little hateful right now. Feeling guilty. And that’s where therapy comes in-because a therapist won’t let you play games with each other. She’ll call your number.” Boldt came to his feet. Striker appeared lost. “You with me, buddy?”

Striker did not answer for a long time. “What do you care? You got things straightened out.”

“Razor, I do care. I care a lot.”

The attorney hurried to his car.

Boldt ran after him. “Mikey …”

“Fuck you!” He climbed inside the car.

“Mike, listen-”

But the man drove away. Boldt chased the car on foot, calling after him, but pulled up short when he saw it was a lost cause. His son’s three-wheeler was crashed into an azalea bush. He fished it out and carried it around back and left it with the other stuff. He could not believe the mountain of toys this kid had.

He saw Liz through the kitchen window, holding Miles. The boy had not stayed down. She was watching him with a worried expression. He shrugged. She shrugged right back.

“I’ve got to get going,” he reminded her when he reached the kitchen. She opened her arm and the three of them hugged. Miles touched his father’s face and nearly poked him in the eye.

“I’m sorry you have to go through this stuff,” she said.

“There are always a couple of blowouts on a case like this. Always happens.”

“So long as it isn’t you,” she said, holding to him tightly. “We’re lucky,” she added. She did not try to look into his eyes. “What do you think? About him?”

“I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that.”

“This could make trouble for you, couldn’t it?” she asked.

“It’s all right,” he answered. But she knew him better than that.

“Da-da?” Miles reached out for his father. “Go-fo-wak,” he slurred.

Boldt stood him on his right shoe, and the boy clung to his thick leg as if it were a tree trunk.

“Go for a walk,” Boldt announced. His son stared up happily into his eyes with unrequited love, and Boldt began walking him slowly around the kitchen, his son squealing with joy.

“Don’t get him too worked up,” Liz reminded, well aware that with Boldt leaving, she would have to face the terror of Miles on a roll.

Boldt wanted this and only this: to be in his kitchen on a summer night with these two people; to hear squeals of joy coming from his son. To be free of the Tin Man and Michael Striker and Adler’s nine-thousand-square-foot estate. To play along with a Scott Hamilton cut when no one was listening.

A few minutes later he walked out to his car, climbed inside, and drove off. As he passed the house down the street and the sound grew louder, it seemed quite obvious that the laugh track was laughing at him.

“But did it help?” Liz asked from across the breakfast table.

The time-trap software had failed to make a difference the night before. Boldt said positively, “We got closer than we’ve been. Only a couple blocks away by the time the transaction ended.” He did not like bringing his work home like this, to where Liz had an active interest in a case, but he owed her whatever she wanted to hear. “I’m told there’s a pretty good chance the Bureau will partner up with us, which would mean more people and better gear. If that happens, I think we stand a chance.” The phone rang. Liz did not move.

Boldt recognized the smooth French accent as belonging to Lucille Guillard. “Sergeant Boldt? I have something in my hands I believe you would very much like to see. You will please come to my office?”

Boldt was in the car fifteen minutes later. He hit horrible traffic, costing him another thirty to reach downtown. He had to sign in with a receptionist and wear a badge marked VISITOR, which was new since the last time.

Guillard wore a navy-blue suit with gold buttons, and a blouse with a French collar and white silk embroidery on the cuffs that looked like waves. Her hair was straightened and pulled back into a topknot, elongating her face and enhancing her eyes. She wore pale red lipstick that contrasted with her black skin and her white teeth. She offered him coffee; he asked for tea with three aspirin.

“Funny way to drink your tea,” she said. She called in a male assistant and placed their orders with him, and she went looking for aspirin. A few minutes later, when all had been delivered, she shut her door and they were alone.

The blinds were open, and the view from the Pac-West Bank tower included the Westlake Center, with a thousand shoppers swarming in and out of it like bees on the hive. The Seattle sun poured over them like golden honey. A street juggler tossing pins into the air caught Boldt’s attention. From this distance the pins looked like matchsticks.

She slipped something out of a folder, leaned forward across her desk, and declared: “Here is your extortionist.”

The eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph that she handed Boldt was a grainy, slightly blurred image that at first glance looked like an astronaut wearing a black space suit. He donned his reading glasses, reducing some of the blurriness. Guillard explained, “This was recorded on stop-frame videotape during last night’s nine P.M. withdrawal. I did not know of it then or I should have mentioned it. The camera, you see, was installed just this last weekend.”

The photograph was shot through a star-shaped form of spread fingers in the foreground, and behind it, a reflective surface-a motorcycle helmet, he realized-and the high, padded shoulders of a biker’s black leather jacket. No face. No identifying features. His heart sank. Out of politeness, he studied the photo for a long minute and then put his glasses away.