Ridley Pearson - The Body of David Hayes

The plan called for Officer Malone, already dressed identically to Liz by prior arrangement, to switch out and take her place ahead of Liz’s arrival at the bank’s merger party. There were several contingencies available to accomplish this. At present Malone remained on her stomach in the back of Liz’s minivan in the Boldt garage. That could change as needed, but those changes would take time and Boldt had the advantage now. Special Ops had expected a phone call with an account number. They’d gotten much more.

Boldt heard over the radio that the cab was legitimate. He checked the window and confirmed it remained parked at the curb, engine running.

“No minivan,” she said.

“Yeah, I know,” Boldt said.

“So we’ll have to do the switch somewhere else.”

“Right,” he confirmed, making sure the woman officer overheard all this.

Liz moved into the bedroom and donned the nun’s habit over her existing clothing, a smart black cocktail dress, sheer pantyhose, and a pair of low heels. The officer pointed out she’d have more mobility if she lost the heels but that Malone wore the same shoes and so she’d better keep them on. Liz agreed.

Boldt hung up from a cell phone call. “It’s a sing-along, like Rocky Horror . Costumes. Twenty bucks a seat.”

Trying to make light, Liz said, “I’d make a better Maria, don’t you think?”

The officer reminded her that her bra contained a tracking device and assured her that they’d never be far away. Husband and wife met eyes-a covert exchange that the officer was not allowed to see.

Liz added a starched white section over her shoulders. Boldt helped secure it in place with Velcro.

Liz donned a Flying Nun headdress. He found it odd that a few pieces of clothing could add so much innocence and virtue. Her face looked peaceful and beautiful, not a strand of hair showing. Even as pale as she’d been lately, next to the stark white fabric her skin looked Italian olive, healthy and vibrant. All lies.

They met eyes in the mirror. Boldt forced a smirk.

“If you’re thinking of making a joke, don’t.”

He grinned and nodded. “You’ll be fine.”

Boldt answered his cell phone and heard Danny Foreman’s voice. Foreman occupied his Cadillac Escalade, parked down the street from the Boldt home, riding alone. Boldt walked into the living room to take the call in private, knowing that at this same moment, Homicide detective Mark Heiman was at On-Sat, keeping track of the location of Foreman and his car. Boldt still didn’t trust Foreman despite Hayes having no recollection of who had beaten him.

Foreman asked, “What the hell is going on?”

“Some kind of attempt to spoil our game plan, I imagine.” Boldt explained the movie ticket and the nun’s costume.

“Does that sound like Svengrad?”

“Hayes, maybe.” Boldt put it out there, playing as if he didn’t know any better. He wondered if Foreman had returned to the warehouse yet, if he knew Hayes had “escaped.” He, Boldt, had to play it as if Hayes were still at large. This juggling act of lying to Foreman, misleading the surveillance team in hopes of springing Liz, tricking the officer assigned to their home by allowing her to hear rehearsed conversations between him and Liz, all took their toll. Playing several roles at once, Boldt felt scattered and schizophrenic.

Liz appeared from the bedroom.

“I don’t like it,” Foreman said. “What if it’s someone else-Geiser, for instance-trying to manipulate Liz for his own gain?”

“Making that kind of suggestion could get you in trouble, Danny. I could accuse you of the same thing.” He let that hang there. “Then where would we be?”

He heard Foreman breathing into the phone. Foreman said, “They’re going to want her at the reception, not at some three-hour movie. You can’t let her make this play.”

Boldt had expected a similar argument from Pahwan Riz. The embezzled money had to be wired out ahead of the merger, and the chaos of the VIP reception appeared to offer the best opportunity. A person could argue that Liz should ignore the nun’s habit, the movie ticket, and head straight to the reception, due to start at 7:30. But to his credit, Riz, accustomed to the fluidity of a special operation, had so far issued no such directives.

“That’s Reece’s call, not mine,” Boldt told Foreman. “You leave it up to me, Liz stays home tonight, watches reruns, and goes to bed early.”

Riz had a good plan all worked out: Malone subbed for Liz during the most exposed part of her itinerary, from the minivan on, in case Liz was abducted. Meanwhile, Liz would be transferred under tight security to the bank-safe once inside and able to access the AS/400, through the security requiring her palm print. It was a plan Boldt could not allow to happen because of the cards Svengrad held.

“Reece has a good plan,” Boldt reminded.

“Doesn’t include this,” Foreman complained.

“We adapt, right, Danny?”

“I’m just saying: I don’t like it.”

“So noted.” Boldt disconnected the call. So far, so good. Riz had not thrown up any roadblocks.

“Miles6, Sarah4,” Boldt reminded her as he approached. He didn’t want her using these passwords under any circumstances but had to appear otherwise.

He stepped forward to hug her and she whispered into his ear. “Is this going to work?”

“Stay with the plan,” Boldt said into her ear.

She kissed him on the cheek. It felt strangely foreign to him. He felt like kissing her back or hugging her, but inexplicably did neither. Instead, he opened the door for her and watched as she walked toward the waiting taxi.

He had calls to make. Arrangements. His complex plan to beat his own people without breaking laws and without being discovered suddenly seemed so fragile, so easily broken. Seeing the taxi drive off, he wished he’d said something more to her, longed for a second chance before sending her off without so much as a dress rehearsal. If Svengrad or Foreman had a plan to abduct Liz, Boldt had just beaten them to it. He’d abducted his own wife by arranging the costume, by buying the ticket to The Sound of Music ahead of time. By having it delivered by taxi. However tenuous, he controlled the strings now, though for how long was anyone’s guess.

LaMoia felt awkward dressed in his black funeral suit, a white shirt, dark vest, Stewart plaid bow tie, and gray felt hat. With his hair pulled into a small ponytail and tucked down his collar, even his colleagues were unlikely to recognize him-which was, of course, the point.

Fifth Avenue, Seattle’s most posh shopping street, was crammed with traffic, the sidewalks overflowing with both the dinner crowd and theatergoers. The 5th Avenue Theatre stood directly across the street from the WestCorp Bank Center. The Four Seasons Olympic Hotel occupied the opposite corner.

He stood in a line of several hundred people, families, kids, full-bodied coeds in tight, colorful shorts, all dressed from various scenes in the movie. Women in full skirts and high heels-Maria. Men dressed as boys in lederhosen with its latzbund and schlitzfleck . More nuns than in a convent. But the real shocker was the uniformed Nazis-enough to run a concentration camp. It was as if the film had given an excuse to the white supremacists to play dress-up.

LaMoia was one of only a handful of Max Detweilers, giving him the feeling that he’d chosen the least inspired costume in the bunch. For her part, Matthews, as always, looked astonishingly perfect as a rosy-cheeked Maria, turning more than a few heads as she and LaMoia had found their places in the long line that awaited a slow box office.

The earpiece from his cell phone alerted him to the arrival of Liz Boldt’s taxi just west of the theater. Pahwan Riz’s team had followed her but were scrambling to get people costumed and on the ground in order to stay with her.