Ridley Pearson - No Witnesses

“She’s into it all,” Daphne said.

“Fuck you!”

“She understands the topic,” Boldt said.

“Definitely,” Daphne replied.

Boldt looked at his watch again. “I’m tired, how ‘bout you?” he asked Daphne.

“Exhausted.”

“She’s not going to cooperate.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Who says?” asked Cornelia Uli.

Boldt told her, “You’re not exactly being forthcoming here, Cornelia.”

“Can I stand up?” the suspect asked.

“Please,” Boldt said.

“I think better on my feet,” she said.

“By all means, think better,” Boldt encouraged.

She wandered the small room for a few minutes, and after a short time Boldt observed that Daphne was tracking her with an increased intensity and interest. Confusion knitted the psychologist’s brow, and she squinted, saying suddenly to the suspect, “Put your arms over your head again. Like you just had them.” Uli stopped walking the floor. “Clasp your hands over your head.”

Uli looked to Boldt for support. The sergeant said, “Do as she asks.”

Uli obliged, lifting her arms and lacing her fingers on the top of her head. “What’s going on?”

She had small, high breasts that disappeared when she lifted her arms. She was thinner than Boldt had first judged her, and her neck was long and elegant.

“Turn around,” Daphne instructed.

She did so, asking, “Come on. What’s going on?”

“Turn around!” Daphne was out of her chair now. “Who gave you that ATM card?”

Facing the wall, the suspect said, “It was sent to me in the mail.”

Daphne sounded angry. “No it wasn’t. You applied for it by mail. You opened an account.” Daphne produced the scanned copy of the account application provided by Lucille Guillard. “A handwriting expert will connect you to this application. We’re confident of that. But who put you up to it?”

She began to lower her arms.

“Keep them that way. Turn back around.” To Boldt she said, “Do you see it?”

He wanted to support her, but she had lost him. He looked at her inquisitively.

“Who told you to open that account?” Daphne asked.

Uli was looking down at the document on the table, blank-faced, her hands still held on her head. “I …”

“And don’t hand me a crock of shit, Uli, because I’m running out of patience with you.”

Sweet and Sour. They never really knew who would play which role. Sometimes they planned it out in advance: who would befriend the suspect, who would lean. Sometimes it evolved, and they found their roles as the interrogation wore on.

“I can’t say,” Uli said.

Boldt felt a spike of heat rush up his spine. By these words, Uli had just admitted her culpability in the crimes.

They interrogated her for another forty-five minutes, talking in circles.

Sometime after three, they elected to send her down to lockup. They would try again the next morning.

In the elevator, on their way to the garage, Boldt asked her, “What was the choreography about?”

A worried look about her, Daphne answered carefully: “It’s not that I understand it, Lou, but I’ve seen that woman before.”

Monday morning Boldt was physically awake at eight, but mentally he could not find his bearings. He drank a pot of tea and stuffed himself into his car. He turned on KOMO news on his way downtown. The plan was to meet Daphne and continue with the Uli interrogation.

But as the lead story for the morning news was read, Boldt nearly caused an accident. He involuntarily jerked the wheel, forcing another car to make a quick lane change that evolved into a skidding U-turn, and left Boldt’s Chevy sandwiched diagonally in a parallel parking spot. The car’s tail was protruding into the morning rush.

He had expected the Striker/Danielson shooting to be near the top, if not the lead itself, but instead the local report began with a pleasant female voice that announced “an unexpected development” in which Adler Foods had been ordered by the FDA, in conjunction with the CDC, to recall every retail product line from all grocery shelves by noon this day. The story suggested that an investigation had begun into the company’s role in the “alleged” E. coli contamination and in recent poisonings that had claimed several lives. It had yet to be confirmed, the listener was told, but “sources close to the investigation” also claimed that a major food product-tampering and extortion scheme had “held Adler Foods paralyzed” for nearly three weeks, and that local authorities, as recently as yesterday, had summoned the help and assistance of the FBI.

Captain Rankin and the bureaucrats had scored again: Knowingly or not, they had just challenged Harry Caulfield to Russian roulette.

The pulling of the products, the mention of the FBI-all forced Caulfield’s hand. He had come to know his adversary. This reckless decision on the part of Captain Ran-kin drew detective and suspect closer. They shared a disgust at this decision. Boldt knew without checking that there would be a fax awaiting him when he reached his office.

In a strange way, he was glad he was right.

Daphne awakened late, having spent the night with Owen Adler. Feeling frustrated and dirty from the interrogation, she had shed her clothes and taken a moonlit swim, then joined Owen in his bed, where she fell into a deep sleep.

He had sneaked out of bed and showered and shaved, and as he was changing she came awake. “We have the estate under surveillance. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m glad you did.”

“I haven’t slept that well in weeks.”

“I’ve missed you,” he said. “So has Corky.”

He finished buttoning his shirt.

She pushed the pillow back and sat up in bed, the sheet down around her waist, and felt wonderful that she could be partially naked here without the sensation of violation. She felt none of what she had been experiencing in her houseboat. She decided not to voice her suspicions of Fowler. Not yet.

“Daddy?” It was Corky coming down the hall.

Adler did not want his daughter connecting Daphne to his bed. Daphne knew this, and she sprinted out of bed for the bathroom, making it only to his walk-in closet before being forced to hide. She felt like a teenager hiding from a parent, and she began to laugh at this notion-Corky as Owen’s parent, not the opposite-and she gagged herself with the sleeve of a sport coat to keep from being heard.

“Your fax machine is going,” his daughter reported.

“I’ll be right there.” Owen hesitated before saying, “Honey?”

“Why’s Daffy in your closet?”

Kids. Daphne’s mind raced. She called out, “I’m wrapping your birthday present, Corky.”

“You are?”

“No peeking!” She looked through the racks of clothes for a robe to put on, and resorted to one of his man-tailored shirts.

“Are you coming sailing?”

“Maybe afterward,” she said. “I can’t promise.”

“You’ll miss Monty the Clown.”

“Daffy’s extremely busy, Honey, but she’s going to try and make it to the party after.”

“What kind of present?” she called out.

“No peeking,” Daphne repeated, pulling on a pair of his underwear just in case. She started laughing again because the underwear would need a belt to stay on. She kicked them off.

“Meet you in the kitchen,” Adler said.

“Okay,” said the child, disappointed.

Adler rounded the corner of the walk-in. He said, “Don’t even try for the party. I completely understand, and so will Peaches.”

But Corky would not understand, and Daphne knew this better than her own father. “I’ll catch up to you later. Save me some cake and ice cream.” She waited a moment and reminded, “The fax.”