Ridley Pearson - The Body of David Hayes

“The Slumberjack,” Boldt proposed, naming a run-of-the-mill motel that SPD used occasionally.

“Lucky you,” LaMoia said, forcibly taking hold of Hayes now by his collar and throwing him ahead to keep him moving. “Free HBO and the taxpayer pays.”

“It’s not exactly how it’s going to work, John,” Boldt informed his sergeant, his mind already playing through his and Liz’s needs over the next forty-eight hours. “I’m paying for this one. Let’s keep it between the three of us. Foreman’s got to have access to anything we’re doing, either officially or through his pals. We can’t risk that.” These lies came so effortlessly now, he nearly believed them himself. He wondered if they made it past LaMoia as well.

Hayes appeared nonplussed at the mention of Foreman’s name, leaving Boldt to wonder who had been responsible for the man’s abduction. That, or Foreman had thought to use Rohypnol to erase the man’s memory of the event, and to further tie the abduction to the earlier tortures. Boldt had slipped the name into the explanation hoping for a response, and felt the wind knocked out of him when it failed to register.

Hurrying toward the Crown Vic, Boldt dragged along this man who’d had sex with his wife, his only real wish to find a legitimate excuse to kick Hayes squarely in the balls. Start kicking and never stop.

BOLDT’S CELL PHONE, PLUGGED INand recharging, cut a shrill tone through the bedroom’s darkness at exactly 2 A.M. Liz stopped snoring and sat up as if hearing a fire alarm, still in a dream state. “The kids?” she asked Boldt, who was already out of bed. Then she remembered the state of affairs, sank back to her pillow, and said, “Oh,” as she realized it was only another of his late-night summonses. Another part of the same nightmare.

A woman’s voice said into Boldt’s ear, “He’ll talk to you and your guy, but only you and your guy. No wires. No tricks. Half hour from now-two-thirty. He’ll give you ten minutes, tops. Nothing on the record.” She named the location-the Pink Lady-a strip joint on First Avenue. “If there’s no objection, we’ll see you there.”

After some struggle, he identified the voice as that of Maddie Olson. He said, “No objection.” Both he and LaMoia could reach the club within fifteen minutes. She disconnected the call without ceremony.

Boldt dialed John. He felt tempted to go it alone, but LaMoia was street-smart, willing to play tough off the books, and handy to have around as backup. He had to consider the possibility, however remote, that Olson was leading him into a trap.

Matthews answered and passed the phone to LaMoia, and from somewhere inside Boldt came the need to look across through the gray haze of a dark bedroom and see his wife’s head on the pillow. The sight pleased him, and it occurred to him that he didn’t harbor any hatred or resentment for her affair with Hayes, at least not at that moment. He worried over the videotape, and what it would do to Miles and Sarah if their teachers, and the parents of their friends, saw pieces of it on the evening news. There were no secrets for anyone in public service, especially a veteran Homicide cop whom so many would love to see knocked off his pedestal. But something about dragging Hayes from that abandoned building, about placing him in the motel under the watchful eye of Bobbie Gaynes, had lessened the mystique surrounding the man. Bloodied and beaten down, Hayes had struck him as a sad excuse, a pitiful kid gone bad.

“But, Sarge,” LaMoia whined, “a downtown strip joint? How about someplace a little less distracting?”

Boldt marveled that even just wakened, LaMoia not only had his sarcasm intact, but was willing to say such a thing in front of Matthews.

“Fifteen minutes.” Boldt hung up without dignifying that with a response.

The Pink Lady seethed neon lighting and loud music, a sweet-and-sour smell of male excitement and cheap cologne mixed with the tang of salt-rimmed margaritas. It was nineteen-year-old girls, not women, in negligees serving drinks, and another up onstage, naked and with a shaved pubis, rubbing herself against a stainless steel pole and trying to look anything but pained to be there.

Maddie Olson wore a tailored black leather coat and a turtleneck that flattered her. Her jeans hugged her bottom, the seam running up her crack, and Boldt was surprised when LaMoia didn’t trip on a small step, because he hadn’t taken his eyes off their hostess. They were led to a red leather corner booth with a large Formica table anchored to the floor. Alekseevich looked about nineteen himself. He wore a nice suit, probably paid for by Svengrad, dark gray, but he’d lost the tie for the after-hours entertainment. He wore a gold chain around his furry neck that, if real, was worth several months of Boldt’s salary. He held a Proletarskie-the smoking gun-and had large hands with clean nails but several cuts and bruises. His razor couldn’t keep up; there was a shadow across his cheeks and down his neck. He used gel in his short hair and a tooth whitener. But it was the outright contempt in his blue eyes that struck Boldt first. He looked disgusted to be in their company.

“Thanks,” Boldt said, adopting an unusual opening to this particular chess match.

Alekseevich’s face softened some. Just a kid under there somewhere.

“You like baseball?” Boldt asked.

“Football. Soccer,” he corrected himself, having used the European term first. “MLS,” he said. “I follow Colorado, but Seattle’s trying to get an expansion team.”

“My boy plays soccer,” Boldt said.

“And piano,” Alekseevich said, turning Boldt’s stomach. “Pretty good, your boy.”

Stepping in to cover Boldt’s shock at this knowledge of his son, LaMoia asked, “Who holds your passport, Malina? You or the detective, here?”

The man’s face burned.

LaMoia said, “The lieutenant has a little tit for tat. You understand tit for tat? Not tit for twat. You gotta pull your mind out of the gutter for a moment, maybe stop letting your eyes drift over my shoulder at Beaver Cleaver, because you’re going to want to pay attention here.”

Alekseevich tried to look bored and disinterested, but LaMoia had gotten to him. Boldt said, “I need some information from you. There’s not time to verify it, so I’ll have to take your word. If I get your word, if I like the information, then I’m going to give you a heads-up that will save everyone a lot of trouble. If I read you wrong, you don’t get the information.”

The man checked his watch. “Seven minutes.”

LaMoia said, “Go on, be like that, tough guy.” He shook his head. “Pulling fingernails off people who can’t fight back. The shit does not work like that here. The lieutenant here has some good juice to give you, and you keep playing like you don’t give a fuck, then we’re outta here, and that’s that.”

“You’re the tough one, is that it? Good cop, bad cop?” Again, Alekseevich feigned boredom.

“You don’t even want to go there,” LaMoia said, leveling a gaze on the man that could have frozen water. “Tonight, we’re both bad.” With LaMoia you got what you saw, and at that moment he was all testosterone and adrenaline.

Alekseevich offered a mock shiver.

LaMoia had the last word with a subtle grin that maybe only Boldt understood, but one that left no doubt that if he let the two go at it out back, LaMoia would prevail. A street fighter with an absurd amount of confidence and a tolerance for pain, LaMoia was not to be messed with. Alekseevich directed his attention away from LaMoia and focused on Boldt, and yet he held the unsure expression of a little old lady on the sidewalk gravely concerned about the approaching mutt, unleashed and with its ears back.