Ridley Pearson - No Witnesses

The driver announced a stop, and handled the bus poorly as they slowed. Boldt faced himself so that he looked out a window, when in fact he was using the reflection to watch the suspect’s profile. If she moved toward the rear exit door, he intended to follow. There was no one at this stop, and without a call signal, the front door never opened. The bus gained speed and continued on.

At the third stop, an agent disembarked. Another boarded, a pretty woman: FBI, with a simple face and inquisitive eyes. She sat directly across from Uli, who occupied one of the front wall benches. This agent took a look around for any leftover papers, then pulled out a nail file and went to work on her nails.

As a signal of their identity, all agents had been instructed to touch their left ear prior to boarding, which was why Boldt occupied a seat on the right side of the bus-and he was grateful that Uli had her back to this same side. In this way, Boldt knew ahead of time the status of his passengers. At the fourth stop, a civilian boarded: a portly, toothless man. He showed his pass and asked the driver, “So where’s Danny tonight?”

The driver answered, “You’re stuck with me.”

“Never seen you before,” the man said.

In the window’s reflection, Boldt studied Uli’s response. She seemed to take no notice. The driver handled himself well, though the bus poorly. He lunged ahead too quickly, sending the teetering newcomer charging down the aisle, barely keeping his balance. He smelled of cigarettes and booze as he passed. “Nice job!” he hollered. He took a seat immediately behind Boldt, which made the sergeant uncomfortable. He leaned forward over Boldt’s shoulder and said, “Got a rookie behind the wheel, friend. I can drive blindfolded better than that. Hmm?”

Boldt made a point of not engaging in any conversation. This man had the feel of a nonstop talker, and that was the last thing he wanted at this point. One of the agents, sensing this, rose and came to this man’s seat. “You mind?” he asked, and without awaiting a response, took the aisle seat next to this man and started him talking, taking him away from pestering Boldt.

The bus motored along, whining and hissing, one red light to the next. The following bus stop was again void of passengers. At the next, another agent disembarked. The one after that, two more boarded-both agents.

The bus driver announced the stop. He turned to Uli and said, “Here’s your connection.” Boldt hesitated. He did not want to commit to leaving the bus until he was sure Uli was also.

As the bus slowed, she rose. Boldt came out of his seat and headed for the front door. Three of the others joined him. They all disembarked, receiving transfers from the driver. They joined two others at this stop. Boldt guessed them both as agents, though there was no easy way for either to offer the signal, so he could not be certain. The bus drove away.

The night was calm, the air warm. Above them in the darkness two white seagulls swooped over the street and one cried at the other, then they disappeared. Two of the agents discussed a Mariners game. The woman with the paperback found some street light and opened her book. Boldt said to one of the strangers, “Is this the line going into the city?” This man scratched his ear as he thought about it. “International district and downtown,” he said. “You want the U, you gotta change downtown.”

Boldt thanked him.

Cornelia Uli asked the woman next to her for the time. She looked restless, and the way she guarded her purse, Boldt assumed it contained the ransom money.

By now a police car would have pulled alongside Uli’s Datsun. On the off-chance Caulfield was coming for the car while Uli headed home, this was handled in a straightforward manner. The patrolman wrote up the citation and called in a tow truck. The truck took ten minutes to arrive. It would be towed via a combination of the highway and streets-intentionally avoiding the bus route-to the police garage, where it would be given the full treatment by the grease-monkey division of Bernie Lofgrin’s ID unit.

The bus pulled up to the stop. The driver was cleaning wax out of his left ear with his index finger. As Boldt climbed aboard and showed his transfer, the driver met eyes with him, revealing absolutely nothing in his face, but in the eyes themselves there was a keen energy.

Bobbie Gaynes was in the fifth seat back.

There were six others on the bus, all SPD. Seeing these familiar faces, Boldt felt an immediate sense of relief. No matter how much he respected the other agencies assisting him, nothing felt quite as good as seeing family again.

Uli took the first seat. It faced the front window. The bus bounced over broken roads and sagged through dips and rounded corners clumsily, cutting them a little too tight.

As it slowed to the third stop, Boldt looked out the window and felt a rush of heat up his spine. There were two people waiting for this bus. One of them was Digger Shupe, a retired Major Crimes detective. He would recognize at least half the faces on this bus. The other man Boldt did not recognize, and there was no move toward the left ear. He carried a pair of grocery bags in his arms.

The doors opened and Digger Shupe climbed aboard. The driver shot Boldt one quick, intense look, and then averted his own face so that Shupe would not recognize him. An electricity sparked inside the bus. The two new passengers paid, and as Shupe looked up and saw Boldt he said, “Well, I’ll be damned-” But the driver hit the gas, the brake, and the gas again, and sent the two newcomers sailing. Danny Levin feigned an attempt to help Digger Shupe to his feet, and in the process bent and pressed his lips close to the man’s ear, and Boldt saw him say something. Shupe’s head nodded, and when he climbed to his feet and collected himself, he walked to the rear of the bus, ever the professional, and took his seat.

The bus driver apologized profusely, especially to the man who had spilled his groceries. The groceries were gathered up, and this man took a seat by Bobbie Gaynes. The bus set off.

Two stops later Boldt saw LaMoia waiting in the shelter, and again felt a sense of relief to see one of his own people. There was a push to the back as several of the agents selected this stop to disembark.

LaMoia paid, walked right up to the suspect, and sat down next to her. Boldt, two seats back, felt his stomach roll. Only LaMoia would hit on a suspect.

“Finally some nice weather,” LaMoia said to her.

She offered him a weak smile.

“Of course, summers are the best anyway,” he said.

No reply.

“You do any windsurfing?” he asked her.

She shook her head, but smiled a little at the attention he gave her.

“Terrific sport,” he told her. “Better on the lakes because they’re not as cold. Spend any time on the lakes, do you?”

She looked ahead, paying him no mind.

“Do you ride?” he asked. “The jacket … Is that a fashion statement, or do you ride?”

“A Sportster.”

“A Harley. I can’t believe this! You ride a Harley?”

Boldt turned to the window and smiled to himself. They passed another stop, the driver swooping in but not stopping.

Cornelia Uli peered out the window, reached up, and signaled the driver with the obnoxious electronic call.

Again Boldt felt the tension inside the bus, despite the passive faces and the casual expressions.

One hundred yards to go.

“This your stop?” LaMoia asked, indicating by body language that he could get out of her way.

“Yeah, thanks.”

LaMoia stood.

The driver’s eyes caught Boldt in the rearview mirror. He gave a faint nod, gripped the stainless steel bar tightly, and reached in for his weapon.

The bus slowed toward the stop, then pulled a power turn to the left and sent Cornelia Uli hard up against the window and wall. LaMoia, reacting with the reflexes of a cat, planted his shield practically on her nose, spun her around violently, and pinned her, shouting: “Seattle Police! You are under arrest! Do not move ! Don’t do it!” he added, driving his knee into the small of her back to hold her steady.