Pied Piper

CHAPTER 50

Boldt returned to the office as fast as the Chevy would safely take him, a dozen ideas competing inside his head for his attention. Kalidja. Hale. Sarah’s situation. Time running out. He couldn’t hold all the loose ends together.

LaMoia pushed shut both doors to the fifth-floor corner coffee lounge, windows overlooking the secretary pool to one side and the bullpen to the other. The situation room, which offered far more privacy, had become task force headquarters and churned with activity. Daphne warmed her hands on a tea cup. There were no smiles, only anxiety-ridden expressions.

“I’m toast,” LaMoia said. “I’m out of here.” He had called the others to the impromptu meeting.

“Boise?” Boldt asked.

“Sheila-Hill,” he corrected himself, a little late, “wants me on the six o’clock flight, wants me running down every stinking piece of evidence there is-some of which I’ve already done, incidentally, though I didn’t tell her.”

“Econo-Drive,” Boldt supplied. He had asked LaMoia to look into the car rental records.

“Yeah. I had no trouble getting that: The abandoned car in the pileup,” LaMoia said, “was rented to one Lena Robertson.”

“A woman,” Daphne said. “Then it is a team.” Boldt could feel her processing the information. She had been among the first to insist that the kidnapped children were intended for illegal adoption, and that if true, the Pied Piper more than likely needed an accomplice to help care for and transport the infants. Boldt’s revelation of two uniformed cops, a man and a woman, abducting Sarah from day care had supported her theory and led her to investigate previously arrested or convicted con artist couples on a national level. Con games were often played out in pairs.

“Hold that thought right there,” Boldt said, hurrying from the coffee lounge. Once through Homicide’s secure door he started for the elevator but changed his mind and ran the stairs. The climb up was arduous and reinforced his utter exhaustion, reminding him of how little sleep he had gotten over the past ten days and how poorly he had eaten. He reached for some of those dangling strings, knowing that the SPD task force-and their FBI counterpart-was, at the very least, close to identifying and arresting the kidnapper’s accomplice. If he could only count on a few pieces of good luck, he might yet beat Hale or Flemming to his daughter’s abductor. But luck rarely ran when one needed it. It ran when least expected.

Boldt ran the hallway to his office, unlocked his file cabinet and secured the Spitting Image customer list. He was halfway back downstairs when he located the name on the run: Robertson, a baby quilt shipped in care of Durrel Robertson of Oakland, California.

“You look like you’re about to come out of your skin,” Daphne observed of Boldt on his return.

“Robertson was a Spitting Image customer. A baby blanket was shipped to that name in care of Durrel Robertson at what looks like a home address. It was charged to a VISA in the name of Lena Robertson.” Daphne and LaMoia looked back at him blankly. He explained Bowler’s visit and the possible connection-never proved and never brought to anyone’s attention because of Penny’s kidnapping-between the Pied Piper’s possible identities and the Spitting Image customer list.

“You’re telling me Bowler suddenly got a conscience?” LaMoia said skeptically, finding it impossible to conceal his dislike of a cop who would intentionally throw an investigation. “Or did he drive up here to sell you a bill of goods and stay with his original game plan?”

“You are the all-time cynic,” Daphne said.

“Bowler put together Spitting Image just as we did. But he made a leap in logic that we did not: With a bunch of valid credit card numbers at your fingertips, why not put them to good use? It works for me,” Boldt impressed upon LaMoia, referring to the customer list. “Robertson’s card was used to rent a car here in Seattle that’s later abandoned on the way to God knows where. Do we need it any clearer?”

“It’s your call,” LaMoia said irritably.

“You’re just pissed that Hill can call the shots,” Daphne, the psychologist, explained to him. LaMoia was no fan of her psychological evaluations. “You don’t like a woman bossing you around. I know you, John. I know where this is coming from.”

“You don’t know shit about it.”

“Hey!” Boldt chided. He told LaMoia, “The Bureau blocked the financial records of the victims, we assume so they could have it all to themselves. But we can pull credit card statements for the Spitting Image customers and look for charges that coincide with the Pied Piper’s calendar. You see what they’ve done?” he asked, tapping the Spitting Image records. “The Pied Piper uses fresh, valid credit cards-Robertson ordered that blanket just last week. If he has the access we think he does, then he knows her statement dates; he knows she won’t actually see any of his charges for a month or more. He’s protected from discovery. What we want to do is get to those statements electronically ahead of time-we can do that-then we focus on car rentals in and around the abduction dates; gas charges, airfare, lodging, restaurants.”

“They won’t use the cards for small-ticket items,” LaMoia countered. “The car rentals, sure-you have to show a card.”

Daphne said, “And that card has to match your driver’s license.”

“Fake ID?” LaMoia asked. “So they could use a card and license to board a plane as well. I’d buy that.” He added for Boldt’s sake, “But I’m off to Boise to measure skid marks and work a traffic accident. That’s what this is, you know?” he complained. “Hill is knocking me down to metro.”

“I need both of you with me in New Orleans, if any of this pans out,” Boldt announced. “Hill will have to settle for Mulwright.”

LaMoia snapped, “Forget it. She’s talking a minimum of two or three days over there.”

“She’s going too, isn’t she?” Daphne speculated.

“It’s where the press will be,” LaMoia said, though he blushed and squirmed in his chair. “What do you think?”

“The press, are you sure?” Boldt questioned, the ramifications for Sarah echoing in his thoughts.

“I’m sure. They’re all over it.”

“Already?”

“Already.”

“That couldn’t have been what Flemming wanted,” Boldt pointed out.

“Ten to one, the Captain did it, Sarge-Hill. She wanted Flemming slowed down; she wanted to punish him for trying the end run. What better way than to dump the press in his lap?”

“Games,” Matthews said, disgusted.

“You gotta get me off the Boise assignment, Sarge. You’ve got tattoos to run, con artists, adoption records. A foreign town.”

“How badly do you want off?”

“Whatever it takes,” LaMoia answered.

“I’ll go,” Daphne confirmed. “I won’t be missed.”

Boldt asked LaMoia, “Straight answer. Is there any reason Hill would be mad at you?”

“Moi?”

“I need it straight, John, because from here, from what we know about what you face in Boise — ”

LaMoia interrupted, “You mean failure? Trying to track down this driver and child after the Bureau has a substantial lead on us.”

“It looks more like a setup. This may be the investigation’s biggest lead, and if it goes nowhere-”

“Hill needs a scapegoat,” Daphne said, following Boldt’s reasoning.

“Or else there’s a personal agenda at play,” Boldt said, challenging LaMoia directly, “and she’s either intentionally sending you off to Siberia, or getting you out of the way so you can’t screw things up for her at home.” He added, “How ’bout it?”

LaMoia didn’t answer. He looked searchingly back and forth between Boldt and Matthews.

Boldt said, “Sarah’s out of time. If the press picks up on the abandoned car …” His throat caught. To Daphne, he said, “Better go pack. We have seats on the red-eye.”