Ridley Pearson - The Angel Maker

She answered "They stitched her back up. But they took X-rays. She's missing a kidney." She let it hang there a second.

"No hospital record of any such operation. She has no memory of any surgery. None. No explanation at all. I'm looking for the explanation."

"Phil went along with this?" he asked curiously.

As staff psychologist, Daphne reported to Lieutenant Phil Shoswitz, Homicide, the logic of which was known only to the upper brass. if there were to be an investigation and she part of it, it would more than likely be overseen by Shoswitz. "He doesn't even know about it yet," she admitted, looking away-an uncommon gesture for her. "That's one of the reasons I've come to you," she added. "I need your help, your expertise."

Trouble! He knew her too well. "Help?"

"Her name is Cindy Chapman. She's been on the road for seven months. Left Arizona last winter after her stepfather sexually abused her. She went through Flagstaff, Salt Lake City, and ended up here about a month ago. Her long-term memory is fine. But she's lost a twenty-four-hour period during which she was exposed to electroshock and her kidney was removed. Let me tell you this: No two medical procedures could be less related to one another. I've studied this stuff, Lou. This is my turf. But investigating it? That's why I'm here."

He felt the stability of his marriage was at stake. Police work swallowed him whole. He and Liz had come to certain agreements. "What are you saying? Someone stole her kidney?"

"if a hospital or an institution is involved, it has to be local. These kids stick to a pretty small area. They develop small societies of self-help or selfabuse. When they move away, it's forever. On to Portland, San Francisco, L.A. You champion the cause of the victim. it's the victim that can tell you the most about a case, dead or alive. Right? You're the expert on the victim."

more compliments. He fought like hell to maintain his guard. "She may have been raped. She won't admit to consensual sex. The evidence is there, but she doesn't remember. That's the electroshock. You see?" She was beginning to frighten him. "No," he admitted, "I don't see."

A commotion at the front door attempted to steal his attention but failed. Daphne's eyes-convincing, terrified, searching, hopeful-held him firmly. "someone cut this girl open and stole her kidney. I'm convinced of it. The electroshock was used to ensure she didn't remember anything about it." Fire filled her eyes. "I can't prove it. Not yet." She placed her hand on her chest. "But I feel it in here. You know that feeling, don't you? I know you do."

He resented being cornered by her. Yes, he knew that feeling.

Yes, he had been forced to defend it on a dozen occasions; and no, there was no real sense to it. But this was her feeling, not his, he reminded himself; her case, her instincts, not his.

"What evidence is there?" he asked coldly.

She winced. "I'm not an investigator. I can't even take this to Shoswitz until I have something convincing. Hell he's Homicide. He may not want it even then: She's alive after all. What do I do? Where do I turn?"

"The helpless female? I don't buy it."

She glared. "This young woman was violated in the worst, most heinous sense. Some monster" monster was not a word that Daphne Matthews, the psychologist, often used-"cut her open, reached inside her, and removed an organ-a physical part of her! MY God! Phil Shoswitz may be committed more to the dead than the living, but you? After they stole her kidney, they burned her short-term memory with electroshock. Am I getting through? Maybe one of them raped her just for fun. Evidence? Do I need probable cause, Sergeant, in order to investigate, or just the suspicion that a crime has been committed?" She stared him down. "Will you help me or not?" she asked, adding, "if for no other reason than as a parent."

He couldn't help but picture Miles-Einstein, the nickname belonging to his blond, curly haired son-involuntarily under the knife of such a butcher. She interrupted his thoughts. "The electroshock may have done permanent damage to her memory, not to mention her mind: She hears a constant barking."

"I'm out of the business. I'm off the force. My badge is collecting dust in Shoswitz's drawer."

"You're on extended leave."

"That's just Phil's way of holding a carrot out to me, of keeping my chance at twenty alive. That's the way it reads on paper, Daffy, but in here?" he said, repeating her gesture of placing his hand on his chest. "In here, I'm a father and a hack pianist."

He had never dared speak the words aloud, had seldom even thought them, for he wasn't one to lie, and he couldn't be sure this was the truth: "It's over." It felt sacrilegious to say such a thing. just hearing it spoken confirmed its falsehood. He felt a terrifying loss of control, as if hitting a patch of ice on a dangerous curve. it wasn't over, was it? Someone out there had torn the guts out of a young girl. What surprised him most of all was the way he took to it so quickly. He wanted whatever evidence she had. He wanted the pieces of the puzzle. He wanted to put a stop to it before it happened again. Cop instincts-she was counting on them. Perhaps it was because the victim was alive.

A voice-a man's, big and thunderous-reverberated through the club. "Party's over, everyone. No more drinks. I'm going to have to ask you all to leave." Boldt looked over his shoulder expecting to see some drunk on the stage, but instead he saw a crew cut wearing a ten-year-old gray suit and scuffed wingtips with worn heels. A badge hung out of the breast pocket of the suit. Four or five clones of the man swept quickly into the club, fanning out to various responsibilities. It felt like a bank job to Boldt, an organized robbery. But when this guy announced, "Treasury Department," he realized what it was. The man continued, "These premises are being sealed." He repeated loudly over protests, "I'm going to have to ask you all to leave."

"Your idea?" Boldt asked her, nodding toward the Tman. "Trying to pressure me into this?"

She grimaced, looking past him toward the stage. One of the suits was screwing a padlock clasp into the piano's keyboard cover. Boldt could feel the screws biting into the wood as if they were drilling into his own flesh. He rose angrily, Daphne following. "What the hell?" Boldt hollered as he closed the distance. "That's a musical instrument, goddamn it!" The one with the big voice was smart enough to step aside. The assistant kept right on twisting the screwdriver. "Stop that! Now!"

"Don't make any trouble, pal," the assistant cautioned.

The screw chewed more deeply into the wood. "You don't do that to a musical instrument," Boldt repeated, wrapping one of his big hands around the boy's wrist. "You just don't do that."

The agent threatened, "You want me to call the cops?"

"I am a cop," Boldt declared. His eyes met Daphne's; she wasn't going to let him live that one down. Boldt released the man. "So am I," Daphne informed the agent, producing her identification. "I'd sure as hell like to see the warrant that authorizes the destruction of private property in the process of seizure. You want to show me that document, please, Agent-" she craned forward to read his nametag. — "-Campbell?"

The man's face went crimson. He looked first at her then at Boldt, then over at his superior. "You want to see warrants, you'll have to talk to Agent Majorksi. I got a job to do here." "Leave it be," Boldt said definitively, grabbing his wrist again. Two screws had already violated the ebony.

Across the room, bartender Mallory struggled with one of the agents in an effort to lock the cash register, but lost. The agent took the key from her. They had practiced this drill well or had performed it enough times to execute it flawlessly. Piece by piece, stage by stage, the agents took control in a matter of minutes, Confused patrons were herded toward the door, several chugging beers on the way. Another commotion-Bear's arrest-grabbed Boldt's attention as the agent started twisting that screwdriver again.