No Witnesses

THIRTY-FOUR

Boldt entered NetLinQ’s “war room” on Sunday night, losing faith that the ATMs might ever be used to trap Caulfield. For too many nights now he had sat in a chair and stared at the electronic map projected onto the huge screen. For too many nights he had gone home with nothing more than a headache.

Special Agent Sheila Locke was about twenty-six years old, with short brown hair, a thin pale face, and enormous eyes. She wore a blue blazer that hid her figure, and a wireless headset that covered her right ear and a foam-covered microphone that hid her generous mouth. Using the newly added FBI communications, Locke and another agent, whom Boldt knew only as Billy, were in constant touch with the nearly seventy-five men and women watching ATMs in King County. Although Boldt’s tiny squad of eleven was keeping tabs on downtown ATMs, the FBI special agents and King County undercover officers had been deployed in the outlying regions, including Kirkland-Bellevue and SEATAC-Renton.

Ted Perch was chatting up Lucille Guillard, who monitored a computer terminal allowing her personal control of all Pac-West ATMs. She would also get a real-time look at the extortionist’s account balance so that if a hit slipped through the screening software again, they would at least see a balance change indicating a hit.

Over seventeen hundred ATMs under NetLinQ’s control were now subject to the time-trap software. In the past forty-eight hours, the system had not crashed once. Publicly, the delay was still being attributed to maintenance.

The electronic wall map was peppered with different-colored dots: Red represented cash machines not under direct surveillance, of which there seemed to be hundreds. Green, considerably fewer, depicted the ATMs under covert surveillance. No ATM had been hit twice, and the amber dots represented the machines previously hit.

It was indeed a remarkable display of technology, he realized, though it did little to buoy his mood. NetLinQ’s two other enormous screens, part of the switching station’s regular command center, displayed ATM traffic as blinking orange-and-green lines. These colorful lines shot across the maps like arrows, reaching hubs that represented banks’ mainframes, changed color, and traveled on. There were six people from NetLinQ tracking these screens, though they were generally disregarded by the law enforcement visitors.

“Ready, Billy?” Locke asked the male dispatcher after several minutes of relative silence. Billy rolled his chair forward to a computer terminal that was positioned central to the wall maps. He adjusted his headset and tested it twice. He typed into the keyboard, checking his monitor and the maps, and spoke in a soft, even monotone: “Check seventeen.” He listened, typed again, and said into the headset, “Check forty-six.” Again. “Check sixty.” He did this for several minutes before giving a nod to Locke.

Dispatchers, Boldt thought, were a different life-form. They needed nerves of steel and a steady monotone voice to go with them. In the middle of the most complex, chaotic, life-threatening emergency, they were paid to keep calm and direct human beings and vehicles as if they were chess pieces.

Twenty minutes of silence followed, punctuated only by the clicking of computer keys. Boldt had nodded off when he was pulled awake by the sound of a human voice.

“We have a hit! Three seconds and counting.”

Where once this announcement had brought excitement, now it brought only frustration.

On the display a bright white light flashed in Earlington, indicating the hit. A digital display ran in the upper right-hand corner, counting off the passing seconds of the active ATM transaction.

Billy dispatched two of the field agents, directing one to the north of the hit, and the other directly to the ATM. Not surprisingly, given the odds, this ATM was not under direct surveillance.

Guillard called out: “It’s not ours.”

Perch shouted, “Ten seconds elapsed.” He hawked instructions at an assistant who worked furiously at the keyboard. “Twenty seconds.”

To Billy, Perch said, “Where the hell are your people?”

The dispatcher, maintaining his calm, did not reply.

Boldt watched as Perch’s assistant shook his head and announced, “Transaction complete.”

Boldt said, “We need more time,” and cued Billy to rush the surveillance teams. A volley of calm instructions followed. Billy informed Boldt, “Surveillance nine is closing. Also fourteen.”

Perch, Guillard, and Boldt all fixed their attention on the two dispatchers, motionlessly, silently. Cars racing down streets. Caulfield calmly walking away.

Billy finally looked up. “Surveillance reports no visual contact. The ATM is empty.”

Perch slammed the desk violently. “I’m increasing the window of time.” He added, “The system had better hold together.”

The room settled into an uncomfortable but workmanlike atmosphere. For the next thirty minutes Boldt checked his watch frequently, glancing between Billy and the overhead screen.

For NetLinQ, it was business as usual. The rows of technicians monitored the endless transfer of money as hundreds of transactions representing thousands of dollars raced through the NetLinQ computers.

At five minutes to nine, Guillard announced excitedly, “We have a second hit. I’m pushing the time delay to thirty-five seconds. Objections?” She had independent control of the time-trap software for her bank’s ATMs.

Perch sounded apoplectic as he questioned the wisdom of such a long WOT. “Thirty-five seconds?”

Boldt glanced at him hotly.

Perch said, “Fuck it. Just do it!” he okayed.

Boldt stood to his feet as the screen changed to an enlargement of the Earlington area, showing all its streets. The small dots were now large circles with numbers inside them. Each surveillance agent carried a Global Positioning System transmitter, relaying back his or her exact real-time location, which the electronic map then displayed. A blue triangle bearing the number 6 moved steadily toward the yellow ATM on Southwest Seventh. Another blue dot numbered 4 moved north on highway 167, and another, under Billy’s monotone instructions, north on the 405.

“Authorization requested.”

Boldt could picture Caulfield at the ATM waiting for the cash. Would he notice the added time? Would he have heard the fabricated news stories that the entire Northwest system was experiencing delays due to maintenance operations?

“Authorization approved,” Perch called out, reading over Jimmy’s shoulders.

Twenty seconds.

“Currency delivery in progress,” Guillard announced.

The time-trap software included a routine to slow the actual delivery of the bills. This was because Perch had explained that a customer can hear the machine counting out the cash, and he believed that once the suspect heard and recognized this sound, psychologically it would be much more difficult to walk away from the machine.

Thirty seconds.

Billy said into his microphone, “I copy, six.” To Boldt he said calmly, “We have visual contact.” He handed Boldt a headset.

At that moment there were no sweeter words for Lou Boldt. Given all their efforts, this was the first time anyone had actually seen Caulfield. “Description?” Boldt asked.

He did not recognize the voice of field agent number 6. It belonged to one of the dozens of FBI agents who were now participating. He did not recognize the description of the suspect either, which was when his head felt faint and dizzy.

“Five foot seven or eight. Motorcycle helmet. Leather jacket.”

“Repeat height,” Boldt ordered. Harry Caulfield stood an even six feet.

“Five foot eight.”

“Sex?”

“Female.”

“Repeat.”

“Definitely female. I’m looking at her backside, don’t forget.”

Boldt recognized the description well enough: Lucille Guillard had shown him a photograph. Disappointed it was not Caulfield himself, he settled for the accomplice.

“Orders?” Boldt heard through the headphones.

He glanced around the room. All eyes were on him.

Billy asked calmly, “Instructions, Sergeant?”

He felt cheated. He sorted through his choices as the accomplice stood waiting for her cash, and the field agent stood waiting for instructions.

“Maintain visual,” Boldt said, though barely loud enough to be heard.

Perch jumped forward and complained, “But the software worked! You’ve got her!”

“Back off!” Boldt ordered the man. “Maintain visual,” he repeated calmly to Billy, feeling himself again, his eyes glued to the electronic map.

The dispatcher repeated the command with all the energy of ordering a tuna sandwich.

“How long to throw a net around it, Billy?” Boldt inquired. The plan all along had been for one or two surveillance personnel to make the bust. Patrol cars readied as backup, in case it went sour. But now, all that had changed.

Billy and Sheila Locke consulted several screens. Locke said, “Two minutes and we can have all the major routes in and out with a minimum of single-agent coverage. I can put the bird up if you want.” She checked a mileage chart. “Seven minutes and we’re there. That would give us backup support, although it’s a dark night out there tonight.”

“Do it. Tighten it up and close it down.” He ignored Perch, who hovered alongside. “Maintain visual surveillance only.”

“Right.”

“Transaction complete,” Guillard announced from her corner.

“What the hell are you doing?” Perch implored.

“I heard you the first time. Thank you,” Boldt said. He had other answers, all cliches: “My job.” “What they pay me to do.” But he held his tongue, wondering if a civilian could be made to understand the balance of risk and assets.

Billy deployed the agents to cover on-ramps and intersections, bus stops, bike routes, and running paths. Not taking his eyes off his work, he explained to Boldt, “If she goes too far south of town too quickly, I may lose her. We’re not set up for that.”

“I understand,” Boldt returned. “She won’t go south,” he predicted. Clements and a pair of FBI experts had studied the ATM hit patterns from the previous nights and had determined that the extortionist always moved toward the city and I-5 as the hits progressed. It was assumed that I-5, possibly in combination with other major highways, was seen by the extortionist as an escape route. In truth, law enforcement welcomed the use of limited-access highways.

Lucille Guillard’s telephone purred softly, and she answered it. A moment later she hung up and informed Boldt, “We have a stop-motion video image of the hit.” To Locke she said, “Your techs have been informed.”

Locke said to Boldt, “We may be able to pull a video feed for us here.”

Boldt had seen the satellite van outside in the parking lot and had wondered what it was for.

He had no chance to doubt his decision. With the suspect clearly not Caulfield, and Caulfield the only person of interest to him, he felt he had no choice but to follow the suspect, hoping she would lead them back to him. The thought crossed his mind that Caulfield had never been any part of the extortion, but he could not allow himself to give any weight to this, given his current commitment both mentally and logistically to the surveillance operation.

“The chopper is picking up the video for us,” Billy told Boldt, a finger pushed to his ear. “We should have it back here in a matter of minutes.” He returned to his keyboard.

Locke indicated Boldt’s headphones, which the sergeant had slipped down around his neck. He pulled them back on in time to hear the same field agent describe the suspect moving northwest on foot.

“Turning left at the corner,” the voice said.

Boldt caught himself holding his breath.

The agent announced in a low voice, “I’m about thirty yards back. Maintaining visual contact.”

Pointing to the screen, Billy told Boldt, “We’ll have another agent in play at the next intersection.”

“Possible vehicle spotted,” the field agent announced.

“A motorcycle?” Boldt asked him through the headset.

“Negative. A brown Datsun, Washington vehicle registration: Nine-four-five-one-one.”

Billy repeated the number into his headset and told Boldt, “Your people are running the plate through DMV.”

“I’ve got it,” Locke announced, freeing Billy of this communication. A minute later she leaned into her headset and, having been instructed not to repeat such a thing aloud, wrote out for Boldt,

Vehicle registration: Cornelia Uli, 26, female, Caucasian. Address: 517? Airport Way, Seattle.

Boldt folded the piece of paper and placed it in his pocket. Assigning this a top priority, he instructed Locke to place the residence under tight surveillance. She went about redeploying the field surveillance personnel in order to accommodate this change.

“She’s getting into the vehicle,” the field agent announced. “I’m on foot, I’m going to lose her.”

“Likewise,” said the second agent to arrive in the area.

Boldt, terrified they were about to lose her, checked with his dispatcher, who went off-mike, grinned, and said, “Don’t worry, Sergeant. We’ve got this tighter than a gnat’s ass.” He pointed to the screen. “I’ve got five vehicles within a four-block area. Unless she beams herself up, we’ve got her.”

The radio traffic in Boldt’s headset heated up as Billy orchestrated the vehicular handoffs. No one car stayed with the target vehicle for more than six blocks or two miles of highway. On the screen, the blue triangles representing the agents’ location transmitters clustered in and around an area where Billy kept manually moving a white flashing dot indicating the suspect.

The white dot left I-5. Billy announced, “Suspect is coming to a stop.”

Boldt listened in on the continuous dialogue between dispatcher and field agents. He closed his eyes and tried to picture a sidewalk ATM on a not-too-busy street, the approach of a petite woman wearing a motorcycle helmet in the faint glow of the streetlights, and the swarm of police that now surrounded her and would continue to monitor her every moment. She was, as of that moment, public property. Cornelia Uli would be stripped down to her moles and birthmarks if necessary-all in due time. For the moment, under the duress of a nervous stomach, he sat back, consulting a printout listing the various field agents and assignments, and listened to his team at work under the unusual calm of the FBI dispatcher.

DISPATCH: Twenty-six … Give us a walk-by visual.

TWENTY-SIX: Twenty-six. Confirm. Walk-by visual.

DISPATCH: Affirmative. Walk-by, please.

T WENTY-SIX: Roger.

A few anxious seconds passed.

TWENTY-SIX: Affirmative, suspect is standing at the machine.

Boldt consulted the deployment printout. Number 26-James Flynn-was dressed as a pizza delivery man tonight. Carrying his pizzas, he was passing the ATM, glancing briefly at the mark, never breaking stride. No wide eyes of recognition, no probing stare. Professional. Sure.

Lucille Guillard announced, “We have a hit.”

A hit flashed on the wall map, surrounded by a sea of blue triangles.

Boldt instructed the dispatcher. “Can we kill the Datsun on the run?”

Billy held up a finger and talked rapidly into this mouthpiece.

DISPATCH: Tech Services mobile: Request a car kill on the suspect’s vehicle. Copy?

TECH SERVICES VAN: Car kill. Affirmative. One minute, please.

Boldt and Billy met eyes. The dispatcher looked completely relaxed.

T ECH SERVICES VAN: Suspect’s vehicle is parked one-and-one-half blocks north-repeat, north-of the ATM location. Looks good for a kill, Billy.

Guillard announced, “Fifteen seconds have elapsed. Twenty seconds left.”

Boldt told Guillard, “Extend the time trap. Give us a few seconds longer.”

Boldt asked Billy, “Can they do it in thirty seconds or less?”

“Extending to forty-five seconds,” Guillard confirmed. “We should not go beyond this, Sergeant.”

T

ECH SERVICES VAN

: Thirty seconds is an affirmative. Deploy?

Billy glanced at Boldt, who hit the transmit button and said sharply, “Go!”

DISPATCH: Forty-four. Keep us alert to any change in suspect’s position.

FORTY-FIVE: Roger, Dispatch. Will do.

TECH SERVICES OPERATIVE: I’m going in.

Boldt could picture the man hurrying down a quiet street to one of many parked cars. In his pocket would be an oil-filter wrench.

TECH SERVICES OPERATIVE: Dispatch? Problem. I have a couple out for a stroll. I’m aborting this pass.

Guillard counted off, “Ten seconds to go.”

DISPATCH: Time’s a-wasting.

TECH SERVICES OPERATIVE: Affirmative. Making another pass.

Guillard announced, “Five seconds.”

DISPATCH: Five seconds until transaction is complete.

T ECH SERVICES OPERATIVE: Affirmative, Dispatch. Five seconds. Making a second pass…. All clear. I’m going under the car.

Sheila Locke said, “Tech has live video for us. Coming on-screen.”

All eyes riveted to the screen, now divided, showing two black-and-white images. On the left was a wavy telephoto image of the helmeted woman standing at the ATM. On the right of a split screen, the Tech Services man in eerie night-sight video slid under the parked Datsun and disappeared. Boldt caught himself white-knuckling the chair.

How the FBI personnel managed this live video was beyond him. But he did not question it. Tech Services in every department was famous for performing miracles.

“Transaction complete,” Guillard announced.

The video followed this woman as she left the ATM and rounded the corner heading toward her car. Once a good distance away, she pulled off the helmet and shook out her hair.

DISPATCH: Tech operative. Suspect on her way. Do you copy?

There was no response from the operative, whose feet could be seen on the screen sticking out from under the suspect’s car.

Billy calmly reported to Boldt, “He’s not responding. Must be radio interference.”

The suspect was now less than a half-block away and closing quickly. “Get him out of there!” Boldt ordered.

DISPATCH: Tech Services? Request an interrupt. Repeat: Physical interrupt requested on the car kill.

TECH SERVICES: Roger, Dispatch.

On the screen, a woman dressed casually in blue jeans and a T-shirt hurried out of the van, moving quickly down the street toward the car. She made no effort to look in the direction of the suspect, now but a few yards away and coming up the sidewalk.

As the Tech Services woman came alongside the suspect’s vehicle, she flung her purse to the pavement, intentionally spilling its contents.

Boldt watched the overhead screen, hearing only the hum of the computers, Billy’s soft mumble, and the endless tapping of the computer keyboards. The woman field agent threw her head under the vehicle and said something as the suspect rounded the final corner, now only two cars away. The Tech Services man scrambled out, came to his knees, and immediately began helping her to clean up the contents of her spilled purse.

Cornelia Uli approached the driver’s door and encountered them both. The field agent laughed and shook her head at Uli as if embarrassed to have spilled her purse. She said something, as did the Tech Services man. The last of the purse contents were collected as Uli unlocked the Datsun’s trunk and set the helmet inside. She acted as casually about possessing a motorcycle helmet while driving a car as the two field agents did about collecting the items from the spilled purse. Their job completed, the field agents made no sudden moves, no panic. Together they headed down the sidewalk in the opposite direction from the van and the camera that recorded them.

The Datsun pulled away from the curb and drove off.

“Stay with her,” Boldt ordered Billy. He was thinking: These next few minutes are critical.

There were two ways that Boldt could play this woman whom he considered Caulfield’s accomplice, and he had already made the choice. The first, and most conservative, was to keep his distance and sit on her. Obtain the necessary warrants and tap her phone, perhaps even install video surveillance in her residence, record her every move, her every spoken word, and hope for the contact with Caulfield. The second-and the method he had elected to follow-was the more aggressive: to force a problem onto her and hope that in her moment of panic, she turned to Caulfield for help, either identifying his location, or luring him to her.

He felt powerless not being in the field with the others, and he sensed that by staying behind and coordinating the effort, he had crossed the imaginary line to desk jockey-and did not care for it one bit. Following the radio traffic in the headphones, he pictured the cars swapping responsibility for surveillance of the Datsun. He rejoiced with the others as the stream of leaking oil was spotted behind the vehicle, and he alerted Locke to open a line to U.S. West; they were going to need a listing of all pay-phone locations.

Three minutes later the Datsun pulled over, stopped dead in the middle of a strip of fast-food, quick lube, and car lots. One surveillance car pulled past and into the parking lot of a burger joint. Two others stopped fifty yards short, and divided to either side of the road.

“Billy, what’s the address?” Boldt asked hurriedly.

The dispatcher checked with the field agents and reported back.

Boldt signaled Locke like a conductor, and she repeated the address to the Ma Bell supervisor she had on the line. Within seconds, her pen was moving rapidly. She tore off the piece of paper and handed it to Boldt, who scanned it quickly and passed it to Billy, asking him to put them up on the screen. A minute later, six pink stars with a T in the middle appeared on the electronic map.

Over the course of the next few minutes, reports streamed in that the suspect was repeatedly attempting to start her car. During this time, Sheila Locke determined the physical locations of the pay phones according to their addresses: Two were behind the suspect in a McDonald’s and a Burger King, respectively; one was across and up the street in a strip mall; one each in a pair of competing gas stations nearly half a mile in front of her, near the interstate; and one in a booth adjacent to a bus stop not a hundred yards ahead.

Boldt instructed the trailing Tech Services van to set up with a view of both the Datsun and this bus-stop pay phone. Three minutes later, NetLinQ’s center screen showed a grainy black-and-white telephoto image of the sad-looking Datsun pulled awkwardly onto the shoulder of soft grass.

“Suspect is moving,” announced a male voice in the headset.

Boldt and Billy met eyes. Billy’s earlier doubt that had been present when Boldt elected to follow rather than apprehend was now gone, replaced instead by a confidence that bordered on admiration.

On the screen, the woman climbed out of the car, clearly disgusted. She looked both ways, trying to decide where to find a phone. Boldt silently urged her to head back toward the fast-food chains; he did not want her seeing the bus stop. But as if hearing him and going against his wishes, she elected to walk in the direction her car was headed.

Trying to consider every possibility, Boldt advised Locke, “Get in touch with the local bus service and find out their schedule. Any bus due at that stop in the next ten minutes we want detoured. Tell them we’ll want an empty bus on standby ten blocks back. And get the chopper back here. I may want a lift.” She scribbled all of this down. “And let’s see how many taxi companies cover that area. We’ll want our people in as the cabbies. And no patrol cars,” he emphasized. “I don’t want to see a patrol within ten blocks of that area.”

For the next several minutes, Locke and Billy occupied themselves with Boldt’s requests. Field agents were deployed to two area cab companies and the bus company. The regularly scheduled bus was diverted, the driver telling her passengers that an accident blocked the road ahead and thereby required a detour.

The camera followed Cornelia Uli, who was by no means a fast walker. Nervous, or perhaps just worried about her car, she continually checked over her shoulder, island-hopping from one parking lot to the next in search of a pay phone.

Overhead, Boldt heard the mechanical thunder of the helicopter.

“It’s going to be the bus stop,” Boldt predicted.

“Chopper’s down,” Locke announced.

Boldt said to her, “Tell the phone company which phone we think it’s going to be and that we need a realtime report on whatever numbers she calls.”

“Got it.”

To Billy he said, “I want seven passengers and a driver on our bus. Mix it up. More of our people on the stops along the route, with everyone keeping a strict eye out for Caulfield. We’re going to have to allow civilians onto the bus, in case Caulfield sends a go-between, so I want to make it real clear: No cowboy theatrics. We consider her armed, but any civilians are our first priority. If she calls for a stop near her place on Airport Way, that’s our cue to take her. I don’t want her getting inside her place before we do. Got it?” He added, “And give me someone at the bus stop now. Right away. I want to hear what’s said, if at all possible.”

Billy had to work quickly, though his motions conserved energy and his voice never indicated the slightest degree of excitement.

Sheila Locke turned and told the sergeant that the phone company was all set.

On the screen Boldt saw the suspect cross one final parking lot and quicken her step as she spotted a pay phone. In the distance of the same frame, a young woman approached the bus stop. Boldt asked, “Is she ours?”

Billy nodded.

Boldt thought to himself, These people are amazing.

He asked Locke, “Do we have an open line to the phone company?” She nodded confirmation.

The suspect stepped up to the phone and seconds later was dialing.

Boldt sat half off his chair, his attention split between the giant television projection on the wall and the back of Sheila Locke’s head.

For these few seconds, the room went absolutely silent save for the hum of the equipment, everyone hanging on this phone call.

The agent on foot arrived at the bus stop late. The suspect dialed, waited, and hung up. There was no way to tell from the camera’s angle and distance if she ever spoke.

“What the hell?” Boldt let slip. Both Billy’s and Boldt’s attention focused on Sheila Locke, who thanked someone, asked this person to “stand by, please,” and turned to tell Boldt, “It’s a business number. They’re searching.” Boldt wished there were a way to effect a line interrupt and to listen in on whatever conversation took place, well aware of the technological ease with which such an interrupt could be accomplished. But he was equally aware that any such interrupt required warrants and legal red tape that, where pay phones were concerned, took a minimum of several hours to accomplish. The same system established to protect a person’s rights limited Boldt’s ability to carry out his job.

Locke touched her finger to her earphone, listened, and then told Boldt, “It’s a paging service. She would have keyed in a personal identification code, but the phone company’s software doesn’t trap any numbers dialed following line connection.”

Boldt felt crushed by this news. Over his headphones, a woman’s voice spoke incredibly softly: “The phone’s ringing. Whoever she paged is calling her back.” He could hear the ringing of the phone. It was the field agent at the bus stop, a few short yards from the suspect.

“Sergeant?” It was Billy. He directed Boldt’s attention to the screen.

Cornelia Uli answered the phone.

Boldt said to Locke, “Get in touch with the-”

“Paging company,” Locke interrupted. “Already on it.”

Billy said, “Turn up your headphones, Sergeant. We’re going to try something here.”

Boldt adjusted the knob. He heard a raspy, steady breathing loudly in the headphones, and then in the background he picked up a woman’s voice bitching about the “stupid car.” In a pause, Billy explained quickly, “That background noise is the agent’s breathing. We have a thirty-DB boost on her condenser.” The suspect mentioned the bus stop. She paused. She said “okay” twice, and left the phone dangling as she approached the bus stop. There was a tremendously loud click in the phones, prompting Boldt to jettison his headset. It tumbled into his lap. Grinning, Billy said, “That was the agent turning off her mike.” He added, “But we should thank her. If she had spoken she might have made us deaf.”

“I’m going out there,” Boldt announced. “Can you communicate with the chopper?”

Billy said in that unnaturally calm voice of his, “Sergeant, Tech Services can do anything.”

The chopper ride was brief, and a little terrifying at night. They stayed low, and the buildings swept beneath them with ridiculous speed, toylike in appearance. Boldt was left off in a school soccer field, seven blocks from the waiting bus, so that there would be no sound of a chopper anywhere near the suspect. He was met there by a field agent by the name of Nathan Jones, whom he recognized as King County Police. “We’re all ready for you,” the agent announced, showing Boldt into the car and racing down the streets, oblivious to any of the traffic signs.

As they approached the bus, it looked ominous to Boldt. It was parked alongside the road, its interior lights shining yellow. As he stepped aboard, there were seven people sitting in the various seats. He introduced himself, studied them briefly, and asked two to exchange seats and two to sit together. If she looked closely, Cornelia Uli might notice a similarity in age and appearance among several of them. Only one of them looked over fifty: another KCP detective Boldt knew casually, though he could not remember his name. “We’re going to give her a lot of room,” he announced. “If she signals early, then you”-he pointed to one of the three women-“will get off at the same stop. Don’t follow too closely, but keep us advised. Remember,” he said, addressing all of them, “we’ll have support all around us, in every direction. My information is that she’ll have to switch lines to head toward town. I think we can safely afford for four of us-me, and you three-to make that switch with her. We are going to make every attempt to have that be a dummy bus as well. Our people will be coming onto the bus at various stops. You two will disembark at the third and fifth stop, respectively. If we go the distance. If she holds off and stays on until the five-hundred block of Airport Way, when she stands, we take her. We do it fast and without fanfare, and she does not get off this bus. Any questions?”

There were none.

“Roll,” he said, grabbing for a handhold as the bus door closed and the vehicle started off down the road.

They rounded a corner. Two of the agents were reading papers, another a paperback. Two stared blankly out the window. Boldt tried to settle himself. He leaned against the window and relaxed, feigning an exhausted man taking a nap-at any other time, something that would have required very little acting.

He had abandoned his radio earpiece, stuffing it down inside his collar. The bus and all its occupants, except for the driver, were now isolated from Billy the dispatcher, Sheila Locke, Phil Shoswitz back at the department, and all the support vehicles in place and ready to assist them. They passed the disabled Datsun, the heads of several of the passengers craning to see it, and the bus slowed as it approached the stop.

The door hissed open.

Boldt recognized the agent from the live surveillance video. She boarded first, and took several seconds to come up with the right amount of money. Then Cornelia Uli stepped up and called out, “Excuse me!” to the woman agent. Boldt’s heart pounded heavily. He wanted that door closed, and Uli trapped inside the bus. The agent turned. “Do you have change?” Uli asked. She waved a crisp twenty-dollar bill, and Boldt realized this had come from the cash machine. The woman agent seemed paralyzed.

Boldt silently urged the driver to shut the door.

The younger man sitting ahead of Boldt jumped up and said, “I do,” fishing his wallet from his back pocket. He gave her an assortment of bills, accepting the twenty from her, and Uli fed one of the ones into the driver’s pay machine. Uli asked the driver, a KCP man, about the route. Fortunately, someone had thought ahead to have a local in the driver’s seat, and the man informed her about the line change that Boldt had just mentioned at the outset.

Everyone took separate seats.

The door hissed closed.

Boldt’s sense of tension increased with every mile. His stomach grumbled noisily. He glanced up just once to look at her. No staring. She wore tight-fitting jeans and that black leather jacket. She had brown eyes, no makeup, and full, pouty lips. She scratched the back of her neck, and when she did this, Boldt’s first reaction was that he had seen this woman before, somewhere other than in the surveillance video, and this continued to trouble him as the bus drove on.

The driver announced a stop, and handled the bus poorly as they slowed. Boldt faced himself so that he looked out a window, when in fact he was using the reflection to watch the suspect’s profile. If she moved toward the rear exit door, he intended to follow. There was no one at this stop, and without a call signal, the front door never opened. The bus gained speed and continued on.

At the third stop, an agent disembarked. Another boarded, a pretty woman: FBI, with a simple face and inquisitive eyes. She sat directly across from Uli, who occupied one of the front wall benches. This agent took a look around for any leftover papers, then pulled out a nail file and went to work on her nails.

As a signal of their identity, all agents had been instructed to touch their left ear prior to boarding, which was why Boldt occupied a seat on the right side of the bus-and he was grateful that Uli had her back to this same side. In this way, Boldt knew ahead of time the status of his passengers. At the fourth stop, a civilian boarded: a portly, toothless man. He showed his pass and asked the driver, “So where’s Danny tonight?”

The driver answered, “You’re stuck with me.”

“Never seen you before,” the man said.

In the window’s reflection, Boldt studied Uli’s response. She seemed to take no notice. The driver handled himself well, though the bus poorly. He lunged ahead too quickly, sending the teetering newcomer charging down the aisle, barely keeping his balance. He smelled of cigarettes and booze as he passed. “Nice job!” he hollered. He took a seat immediately behind Boldt, which made the sergeant uncomfortable. He leaned forward over Boldt’s shoulder and said, “Got a rookie behind the wheel, friend. I can drive blindfolded better than that. Hmm?”

Boldt made a point of not engaging in any conversation. This man had the feel of a nonstop talker, and that was the last thing he wanted at this point. One of the agents, sensing this, rose and came to this man’s seat. “You mind?” he asked, and without awaiting a response, took the aisle seat next to this man and started him talking, taking him away from pestering Boldt.

The bus motored along, whining and hissing, one red light to the next. The following bus stop was again void of passengers. At the next, another agent disembarked. The one after that, two more boarded-both agents.

The bus driver announced the stop. He turned to Uli and said, “Here’s your connection.” Boldt hesitated. He did not want to commit to leaving the bus until he was sure Uli was also.

As the bus slowed, she rose. Boldt came out of his seat and headed for the front door. Three of the others joined him. They all disembarked, receiving transfers from the driver. They joined two others at this stop. Boldt guessed them both as agents, though there was no easy way for either to offer the signal, so he could not be certain. The bus drove away.

The night was calm, the air warm. Above them in the darkness two white seagulls swooped over the street and one cried at the other, then they disappeared. Two of the agents discussed a Mariners game. The woman with the paperback found some street light and opened her book. Boldt said to one of the strangers, “Is this the line going into the city?” This man scratched his ear as he thought about it. “International district and downtown,” he said. “You want the U, you gotta change downtown.”

Boldt thanked him.

Cornelia Uli asked the woman next to her for the time. She looked restless, and the way she guarded her purse, Boldt assumed it contained the ransom money.

By now a police car would have pulled alongside Uli’s Datsun. On the off-chance Caulfield was coming for the car while Uli headed home, this was handled in a straightforward manner. The patrolman wrote up the citation and called in a tow truck. The truck took ten minutes to arrive. It would be towed via a combination of the highway and streets-intentionally avoiding the bus route-to the police garage, where it would be given the full treatment by the grease-monkey division of Bernie Lofgrin’s ID unit.

The bus pulled up to the stop. The driver was cleaning wax out of his left ear with his index finger. As Boldt climbed aboard and showed his transfer, the driver met eyes with him, revealing absolutely nothing in his face, but in the eyes themselves there was a keen energy.

Bobbie Gaynes was in the fifth seat back.

There were six others on the bus, all SPD. Seeing these familiar faces, Boldt felt an immediate sense of relief. No matter how much he respected the other agencies assisting him, nothing felt quite as good as seeing family again.

Uli took the first seat. It faced the front window. The bus bounced over broken roads and sagged through dips and rounded corners clumsily, cutting them a little too tight.

As it slowed to the third stop, Boldt looked out the window and felt a rush of heat up his spine. There were two people waiting for this bus. One of them was Digger Shupe, a retired Major Crimes detective. He would recognize at least half the faces on this bus. The other man Boldt did not recognize, and there was no move toward the left ear. He carried a pair of grocery bags in his arms.

The doors opened and Digger Shupe climbed aboard. The driver shot Boldt one quick, intense look, and then averted his own face so that Shupe would not recognize him. An electricity sparked inside the bus. The two new passengers paid, and as Shupe looked up and saw Boldt he said, “Well, I’ll be damned-” But the driver hit the gas, the brake, and the gas again, and sent the two newcomers sailing. Danny Levin feigned an attempt to help Digger Shupe to his feet, and in the process bent and pressed his lips close to the man’s ear, and Boldt saw him say something. Shupe’s head nodded, and when he climbed to his feet and collected himself, he walked to the rear of the bus, ever the professional, and took his seat.

The bus driver apologized profusely, especially to the man who had spilled his groceries. The groceries were gathered up, and this man took a seat by Bobbie Gaynes. The bus set off.

Two stops later Boldt saw LaMoia waiting in the shelter, and again felt a sense of relief to see one of his own people. There was a push to the back as several of the agents selected this stop to disembark.

LaMoia paid, walked right up to the suspect, and sat down next to her. Boldt, two seats back, felt his stomach roll. Only LaMoia would hit on a suspect.

“Finally some nice weather,” LaMoia said to her.

She offered him a weak smile.

“Of course, summers are the best anyway,” he said.

No reply.

“You do any windsurfing?” he asked her.

She shook her head, but smiled a little at the attention he gave her.

“Terrific sport,” he told her. “Better on the lakes because they’re not as cold. Spend any time on the lakes, do you?”

She looked ahead, paying him no mind.

“Do you ride?” he asked. “The jacket … Is that a fashion statement, or do you ride?”

“A Sportster.”

“A Harley. I can’t believe this! You ride a Harley?”

Boldt turned to the window and smiled to himself. They passed another stop, the driver swooping in but not stopping.

Cornelia Uli peered out the window, reached up, and signaled the driver with the obnoxious electronic call.

Again Boldt felt the tension inside the bus, despite the passive faces and the casual expressions.

One hundred yards to go.

“This your stop?” LaMoia asked, indicating by body language that he could get out of her way.

“Yeah, thanks.”

LaMoia stood.

The driver’s eyes caught Boldt in the rearview mirror. He gave a faint nod, gripped the stainless steel bar tightly, and reached in for his weapon.

The bus slowed toward the stop, then pulled a power turn to the left and sent Cornelia Uli hard up against the window and wall. LaMoia, reacting with the reflexes of a cat, planted his shield practically on her nose, spun her around violently, and pinned her, shouting: “Seattle Police! You are under arrest! Do not move! Don’t do it!” he added, driving his knee into the small of her back to hold her steady.

The bus pulled off into a vacant lot.

Cornelia Uli screamed for help and glanced over her shoulder, only to be faced with the sight of a half-dozen handguns trained onto her. Some of the agents were shielded by the seats, some standing and fully exposed. A set of handcuffs clicked onto her wrist. “You fuckhead!” she shouted at LaMoia, wiggling to break free.

“The purse!” Boldt shouted.

An agent dropped to her knees and scouted under the seat.

“The purse,” Boldt repeated, worried now. The evidence: the money, the cash card. He saw LaMoia, still holding the suspect, looking everywhere for the all-important purse. Two others now searched the floor of the bus. One came up slowly, met eyes with Boldt, and hoisted it in the air. The purse.

A cheer went up spontaneously.

Boldt shouted out loudly, “Drive this thing downtown.”

LaMoia added, “And watch the goddamn brakes!”