Ridley Pearson - The Angel Maker

At the same time, he listened to his own words reverberating through the lecture hall, wondering how much he dare tell them. Did he tell them about the nightmares, the divorces, the ulcers, and the politics? The hours? The salary? The penetrating numbness with which the veterans approached a crime scene?

Light flooded an aisle as a door at the rear of the hall swung open and a lanky kid wearing oversize jeans and a rugby shirt hurried toward the podium, casting a stretched shadow. Reaching Boldt, he passed him a pink telephone memo. A sea of students looking on, Boldt unfolded and read it.

Volunteer Park, after class. I'll wait fifteen minutes.-D.M.

Volunteer Park? he wondered, his curiosity raised. Why not the offices? Daphne Matthews was anything but dramatic. As the department's forensic psychologist, she was cool, controlled, studied, patient. Articulate, strong, intelligent. But not dramatic-not like this. The curious faces remained fixed on him. "A love letter," he said, winning a few laughs. But not many: cops weren't expected to be funny-something else they would have to learn.

Volunteer Park is perched well above Seattle's downtown cluster of towering high-rises and the gray-green curve of Elliott Bay that sweeps out into the island-riddled estuary of Puget Sound. A large reservoir, acting as a reflecting pond, is terraced below the parking lot and lookout that fronts the museum, which had been under reconstruction for months on its way to housing the city's Asian collection. Boldt parked his aging department-issued four-door Chevy three spaces away from her red Prelude, which she maintained showroom clean. She wasn't to be found in her car, which left only one possibility.

The water tower's stone facade rose several stories to his left.

Well-kept beds of flowering shrubs and perennials surrounded its footing, like gems in a setting. The grass was a phenomenal emerald green, unique, he thought, to Seattle and Portland. Maybe Ireland too; he had never been. Summer was just taking hold. Every living thing seemed poised for change. The sky was a patchwork quilt of azure blue and cotton white, the clouds moving in swiftly from the west, low and fast. A visitor might think rain, but a local knew better. Not tonight. Cold maybe, if it cleared.

He saw an — unfamiliar male face behind the iron grate in one of the tower's upper windows and waited a minute for this person and his companion to descend and leave the structure. Once they had, he chose the stairway to his right, ascending a narrow chimney of steep steps wedged between the brick rotunda to his right and the riveted steel hull of the water tank to his left. The painted tank and the tower that surrounded it were enormous, perhaps forty or fifty feet high and half again as wide. With each step, Boldt's heart pounded heavier. He was not in the best shape; or maybe it was because she had elected to step outside the system, and that couldn't help but intrigue him; or maybe it was personal and had nothing to do with the shop. He and Daphne had been close once-too close for what was allowed of a married man. They still were close, but mention of that one night never passed their lips. A month earlier she had surprised him by telling him about a new relationship. After Bill Gates got married, Owen Adler became the reigning bachelor prize of the Northwest, having gone from espresso cart to the fastest-growing beverage and food business in the western region. He leased his own plane, owned a multimillion-dollar estate overlooking Shilshole Marina, and now, quite possibly, the heart and affections of Daphne Matthews. Had her note been worded any other way, had she not chosen such an isolated location, Boldt would have been convinced that her request was nothing more than some lover butterflies.

In another two hours, Volunteer Park would be a drug and sex bazaar. Despite its view, the tower was not a place frequented by the pin-striped set. She had clearly chosen it carefully. Daphne was not given to acts of spontaneity. She desired a clandestine meeting-and he had to wonder why.

He reached the open-air lookout at the top of the tower. It had a cement floor and evenly spaced viewing windows crosshatched with heavy gauge steel to prevent flyers from testing their wings, or projectiles from landing on passersby.

She held her arms crossed tightly, accentuating an anxiety uncommon in her. Her brown hair spilled over her face, hiding her eyes, and when she cleared it, he saw fear where there was usually the spark of excitement. Her square-shouldered, assertive posture collapsed in sagging defeat.

She wore the same blue slacks and cotton sweater as he had seen her wearing at work. She had not been to her houseboat yet. "What is it?" he asked, worried by this look of hers.

Her chin cast a shadow, hiding the scar on her neck. She did not answer immediately. "It's a potential black hole," she explained-a difficult, if not impossible case to solve, and with political overtones. And then he understood: She had bypassed the proper procedures to give him a chance to sidestep this investigation before he formally inherited it at the cop shop. Why she would have a black hole in the first place, confused him. The department's psychologist did not lead investigations; she kept cops from swallowing barrels, and profiled the loonies that kept Boldt and the others chasing body bags.

She assisted in interrogations. She could take any side of any discussion and make a convincing argument out of it. She was the best listener he knew.

She handed him a fax-the first of what appeared to be several that she removed from a briefcase.

Soup is good food. For some.

She told him, "That was the first threat he received."

"Adler," Boldt said, filling in the blank.

She nodded, her hair trailing her movements. Daphne Matthews had grace, even when frightened. "Innocuous enough," he said.

She handed him the next, saying "Yes, but not for long."

Suicide or murder. Take your pick. No cops. No press. No tricks, or you will carry with you the blood of the innocent.

"It could be nothing," Boldt said, though his voice belied this.

"That's exactly what Adler said," she replied angrily, lumping them together.

Boldt did not want to be lumped in with Owen Adler. "I'll give you one thing: When you say black hole, you mean black hole." Faxed threats? he thought. In the top left of the page of thermal paper he read a date and time in a tiny typeface. To the right: Page 1 of 1. Good luck tracing this, he thought.

She handed him a third. He did not want it.

"Quite a collection," he said. Boldt's nerves unraveled from time to time, and when it happened, he defaulted to stupid oneliners.

Soup is bad food. If Adler Foods is out of business within 30 days, and all of the money is gone, and you are dead and buried, there will be no senseless killing. The choice is yours.

"How many days has it been?" It was the first question that popped into his head, though it was answered by the date in the corner. He counted the weeks in his head. The thirty days had expired. "You see the way he worded it?" Looking down at her feet, she spoke softly, dreamy and terrified. Her lover was the target of these threats, and despite her training, she clearly was not prepared for how to handle it. "The more common threat would be: "If Adler Foods is not out of business within thirty days …"You see the difference?"

Her bailiwick, not his, he felt tempted to remind. "Is that significant?" He played along because she had fragile! written all over her. "To me, it's significant. So is the attempt in each fax to place the blame firmly with Owen. It's his decision; his choice." When she looked up at him, he saw that she held back tears. "Daffy-" he offered, stepping closer. "Owen and I are not going to see each other socially-for a while. Me being police and all." She wanted it to sound casual, but failed. "We have to take him seriously now."