Ridley Pearson - The Angel Maker

The club owner was placed in handcuffs and read his rights. He glanced over at Boldt, shrugged, and smiled. "I should have hired H amp;R Block," Bear shouted over to Boldt. That was Bear: ever the comic. He threw a couple of one-liners at the agents who had him, but they didn't seem to appreciate the humor. "Drinks are on the house, fellas," he tried one last time as they escorted him toward the door. "Hey, Monk," he called out, using his nickname for Boldt, "I thought all you badgers were on the same team. Hey, Elliot Ness," he called to the gray suit, Majorski, "this here is Lou Boldt. The Lou Boldt of the Seattle Police Department! Have a heart!" He was ushered out of the building. "Louis Boldt?" Agent Majorski asked. "That's right," Boldt answered, surprised to hear his proper name come from the mouth of a stranger. These guys were as stiff as cardboard. "You mind calling this guy off? He's screwing a friend of mine."

Daphne displayed her I.D. for the second time. "I'd like to see the warrant that permits him to do that."

Majorski looked over her badge and photo. "Tommy," he said, stopping the one at the piano. "Why don't you help with the files?" Reluctantly, the rookie abandoned his task. Boldt and Daphne briefly exchanged looks of triumph.

The euphoria was short-lived. Majorski consulted a typed list he withdrew from his coat pocket. "You'll be hearing from the IRS," he said to Boldt with a disturbing smugness. "I'd speak to my accountant if I were you." He moved off to reorganize his people. "My accountant?" Boldt responded desperately, the man not listening. Liz handled their tax returns.

Daphne and Boldt were herded toward the door. "Just let me use you as a sounding board," Daphne pleaded, ever persistent. "I can bounce my ideas off you. Show you what I've got." She feared she had lost him, that her effort had been overshadowed by the raid, that all was for naught. She couldn't leave it as it was, she couldn't bear the thought of facing Shoswitz alone; she needed Boldt. "Daffy, I can sleep at night. My stomach is better than it's been in years. I take naps in the afternoon, with my little Einstein purring in his crib. I read books imagine that! Liz and I actually find time to speak a few complete sentences to each other.

You know what you're asking?"

"Please," she tried. II The way she said it. Boldt looked at her intently.

As a sounding board, but that's all." "Sure," she said, unconvincingly. "That's all." He hated losing.

Sharon Shaffer, barely tall enough to see over the wheel even with a cushion under her, was driving her seven-year-old Ford Escort, Daphne in the passenger seat. Daphne lived on a houseboat at Gas Works Park; Sharon lived about a mile away on Linden, a block from the Freemont Baptist Church. They carpooled together whenever possible, mostly for the company. Following her meeting with Boldt at the hbrary, Daphne was going to spend the evening at The Shelter and then ride home with Sharon.

Crossing the colorful Freemont Bridge toward town, Daphne strained to see her marina but couldn't. With Lake Union to their left, they drove along Westlake, cluttered marinas gradually evolving into condos and corporate headquarters as they drew closer to town. Ninth Avenue was a no-man's land of struggling small businesses. Then it was the fast-food and franchised commercialism of Denny Way.

A ferry horn sounded, dull and low, like the groan of a huge animal. Daphne's watch read three twenty-eight. The ferries represented a kind of freedom-island life. Isolation, escape.

"Judging by yesterday's weather," Daphne said, "I'd say the groundhog drowned,""We're halfway through the rinse cycle," Sharon agreed. "Four more weeks of this at least."

"Makes you really love the place, doesn't it?"

"You look a little tired," Sharon said. "I spent the day poring over some autopsy files the medical examiner wanted me to see. It's exhausting."

"Sounds disgusting."

"I made some headway. I'm not sure Cindy Chapman is all alone in this."

"Meaning?"

"I need to run it all by a friend and see what he thinks," Daphne explained. "I don't like the sound of your voice."

"I'm a little scared, that's all."

"I don't think I could ever be a cop," Sharon said. She ruminated on this for a moment. "Three years ago, if someone had tried to tell me that someday one of my best friends would be a cop, and a forensic psychologist at that, I would have tagged them for the bird house-the loony bin. It's weird how things work out."

"In your case, they've worked out rather nicely."

"It'll happen to you," Sharon encouraged. "It's all in your attitude, and your attitude is improving. Something's working."

"It's the therapy."

"Whatever it is, it's good to see."

"Have you ever worked with someone after you've had a thing with him?"

Astonished, Sharon cried, "Did, you sleep with your therapist?

"I "Not my therapist, dummy. just answer the question." Sharon stopped at a light and said, "On the street I slept with everyone. You'd sleep with someone because they had the coke that week. Coke whores. We were all coke whores." She drifted off for a moment. When she spoke again, the pain was gone from her voice. "But I know what you're asking about, and it did happen to me once. I slept a couple of times with a guy I met in A.A. Then it fizzled out. I'm not sure why. But we kept running into each other at all the meetings. It worked out okay, except that no matter what we talked about on the surface, there was always this sexual tension-at least for me-going on underneath, you know? I wasn't after him-nothing like that-but you don't forget the really good ones, and this guy was really tuned in, really good for me."

"But you don't forget, do you?" Daphne asked, repeating her friend's comment. "I sure don't."

"And it worked out?"

"Depending on who you ask. He's got a woman now. I have The Shelter. But," and she laughed, "it's hard to curl up with The Shelter. And there are times … Well, you know. But you can't project. "One day at a time/ girl.

"An attitude of gratitude."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't preach," Daphne chided. "Sometimes I think I'm lucky I got so messed up on the streets. Without A.A. Well, you've heard all of this."

"A number of times." Even three years into the program, Sharon was still on a sort of honeymoon. Sometimes it was all she could find to talk about. "Who's the guy?" Sharon asked. "Just that: a guy."

"Don't give me that." She laughed. "If you slept with him, he's not just a guy, he's an endangered species."

"Once.

Only once. And I didn't even spend the night. It isn't the sex."

"Those are the dangerous ones," Sharon said, turning the corner and pulling over to the curb. "Yeah, I know," agreed Daphne. She looked at her watch. Thirty minutes in which to do her research. "You're meeting someone here, aren't you?" Sharon asked. "Him," she stated. "I'll catch up with you later," Daphne reminded. She climbed out of the car, wondering why she felt so damned nervous.

The Lakeview Animal Clinic veterinarian offices occupied the ground floor of a relatively new business complex facing Madison. The reception area had vinyl flooring in a brick pattern and long benches against each wall. In huge letters a sign read: Keep Animals Caged or Leashed At All Times. Dogs, to the left benches. Cats to the right. There were a few of each in the small room, the air electric with possible conflict.

Pamela Chase, short and overweight, wore a yellow crew shirt with the words

"Lakeview Animal Clinic" embroidered on her breast pocket. She inspected the form that belonged to the cat she was carrying. Camile hadn't eaten in three days. When she had managed to get food down, she vomited it back up. Camile, like so much of their work, was a referral-Dr. Elden Tegg was the one vet to whom the other vets turned.