Ridley Pearson - No Witnesses

It was indeed a remarkable display of technology, he realized, though it did little to buoy his mood. NetLinQ’s two other enormous screens, part of the switching station’s regular command center, displayed ATM traffic as blinking orange-and-green lines. These colorful lines shot across the maps like arrows, reaching hubs that represented banks’ mainframes, changed color, and traveled on. There were six people from NetLinQ tracking these screens, though they were generally disregarded by the law enforcement visitors.

“Ready, Billy?” Locke asked the male dispatcher after several minutes of relative silence. Billy rolled his chair forward to a computer terminal that was positioned central to the wall maps. He adjusted his headset and tested it twice. He typed into the keyboard, checking his monitor and the maps, and spoke in a soft, even monotone: “Check seventeen.” He listened, typed again, and said into the headset, “Check forty-six.” Again. “Check sixty.” He did this for several minutes before giving a nod to Locke.

Dispatchers, Boldt thought, were a different life-form. They needed nerves of steel and a steady monotone voice to go with them. In the middle of the most complex, chaotic, life-threatening emergency, they were paid to keep calm and direct human beings and vehicles as if they were chess pieces.

Twenty minutes of silence followed, punctuated only by the clicking of computer keys. Boldt had nodded off when he was pulled awake by the sound of a human voice.

“We have a hit! Three seconds and counting.”

Where once this announcement had brought excitement, now it brought only frustration.

On the display a bright white light flashed in Earlington, indicating the hit. A digital display ran in the upper right-hand corner, counting off the passing seconds of the active ATM transaction.

Billy dispatched two of the field agents, directing one to the north of the hit, and the other directly to the ATM. Not surprisingly, given the odds, this ATM was not under direct surveillance.

Guillard called out: “It’s not ours.”

Perch shouted, “Ten seconds elapsed.” He hawked instructions at an assistant who worked furiously at the keyboard. “Twenty seconds.”

To Billy, Perch said, “Where the hell are your people?”

The dispatcher, maintaining his calm, did not reply.

Boldt watched as Perch’s assistant shook his head and announced, “Transaction complete.”

Boldt said, “We need more time,” and cued Billy to rush the surveillance teams. A volley of calm instructions followed. Billy informed Boldt, “Surveillance nine is closing. Also fourteen.”

Perch, Guillard, and Boldt all fixed their attention on the two dispatchers, motionlessly, silently. Cars racing down streets. Caulfield calmly walking away.

Billy finally looked up. “Surveillance reports no visual contact. The ATM is empty.”

Perch slammed the desk violently. “I’m increasing the window of time.” He added, “The system had better hold together.”

The room settled into an uncomfortable but workmanlike atmosphere. For the next thirty minutes Boldt checked his watch frequently, glancing between Billy and the overhead screen.

For NetLinQ, it was business as usual. The rows of technicians monitored the endless transfer of money as hundreds of transactions representing thousands of dollars raced through the NetLinQ computers.

At five minutes to nine, Guillard announced excitedly, “We have a second hit. I’m pushing the time delay to thirty-five seconds. Objections?” She had independent control of the time-trap software for her bank’s ATMs.

Perch sounded apoplectic as he questioned the wisdom of such a long WOT. “Thirty-five seconds?”

Boldt glanced at him hotly.

Perch said, “Fuck it. Just do it!” he okayed.

Boldt stood to his feet as the screen changed to an enlargement of the Earlington area, showing all its streets. The small dots were now large circles with numbers inside them. Each surveillance agent carried a Global Positioning System transmitter, relaying back his or her exact real-time location, which the electronic map then displayed. A blue triangle bearing the number 6 moved steadily toward the yellow ATM on Southwest Seventh. Another blue dot numbered 4 moved north on highway 167, and another, under Billy’s monotone instructions, north on the 405.

“Authorization requested.”

Boldt could picture Caulfield at the ATM waiting for the cash. Would he notice the added time? Would he have heard the fabricated news stories that the entire Northwest system was experiencing delays due to maintenance operations?

“Authorization approved,” Perch called out, reading over Jimmy’s shoulders.

Twenty seconds .

“Currency delivery in progress,” Guillard announced.

The time-trap software included a routine to slow the actual delivery of the bills. This was because Perch had explained that a customer can hear the machine counting out the cash, and he believed that once the suspect heard and recognized this sound, psychologically it would be much more difficult to walk away from the machine.

Thirty seconds .

Billy said into his microphone, “I copy, six.” To Boldt he said calmly, “We have visual contact.” He handed Boldt a headset.

At that moment there were no sweeter words for Lou Boldt. Given all their efforts, this was the first time anyone had actually seen Caulfield. “Description?” Boldt asked.

He did not recognize the voice of field agent number 6. It belonged to one of the dozens of FBI agents who were now participating. He did not recognize the description of the suspect either, which was when his head felt faint and dizzy.

“Five foot seven or eight. Motorcycle helmet. Leather jacket.”

“Repeat height,” Boldt ordered. Harry Caulfield stood an even six feet.

“Five foot eight.”

“Sex?”

“Female.”

“Repeat.”

“Definitely female. I’m looking at her backside, don’t forget.”

Boldt recognized the description well enough: Lucille Guillard had shown him a photograph. Disappointed it was not Caulfield himself, he settled for the accomplice.

“Orders?” Boldt heard through the headphones.

He glanced around the room. All eyes were on him.

Billy asked calmly, “Instructions, Sergeant?”

He felt cheated. He sorted through his choices as the accomplice stood waiting for her cash, and the field agent stood waiting for instructions.

“Maintain visual,” Boldt said, though barely loud enough to be heard.

Perch jumped forward and complained, “But the software worked! You’ve got her!”

“Back off!” Boldt ordered the man. “Maintain visual,” he repeated calmly to Billy, feeling himself again, his eyes glued to the electronic map.

The dispatcher repeated the command with all the energy of ordering a tuna sandwich.

“How long to throw a net around it, Billy?” Boldt inquired. The plan all along had been for one or two surveillance personnel to make the bust. Patrol cars readied as backup, in case it went sour. But now, all that had changed.

Billy and Sheila Locke consulted several screens. Locke said, “Two minutes and we can have all the major routes in and out with a minimum of single-agent coverage. I can put the bird up if you want.” She checked a mileage chart. “Seven minutes and we’re there. That would give us backup support, although it’s a dark night out there tonight.”

“Do it. Tighten it up and close it down.” He ignored Perch, who hovered alongside. “Maintain visual surveillance only.”

“Right.”

“Transaction complete,” Guillard announced from her corner.

“What the hell are you doing?” Perch implored.