The Angel Maker

The Angel Maker

By Ridley Pearson

Synopsis:

Potent blend of medical thriller and police procedural that resurrects the cop-hero of Pearson's Undercurrents (1988) and pits him against--of all things--a maniacal veterinarian. Lou Boldt has been off the Seattle force for two years, tending his infant son and playing jazz piano at a local dive, but his extraordinary empathy for murder victims won't let him refuse the request of police shrink and ex-lover Daphne Matthews (whose throat was slashed in Undercurrents) to help with her new case--a series of street kids found dead and missing a kidney, liver, or lung. Immediately suspecting that a transplant surgeon is "harvesting" the organs and selling them at great profit, Boldt rejoins the SPD and pushes for advice from the medical examiner. The narrative bristles with the sort of forensic detail that informed Undercurrents. Meanwhile, Pearson bares his villain- - sociopathic society vet Elden Tegg--as we see him snatching social-worker Sharon Shaffer with an eye to selling her heart to a mobster whose wife is dying from heart disease. Unlike Undercurrents, then, where suspense derived from "whodunit," the tension here is strictly--and tightly--time-wound: Can Boldt i.d. the killer and rescue Sharon--or can Sharon herself escape from the remote dog kennel where Tegg's imprisoned her, naked and terrified- -before the vet wields his scalpel? Thriller fans will note that this setup strongly echoes Thomas Harris's The Silence of the Lambs--but Pearson matches Harris's pace as the hours tick down, marking off twists (a hiker chancing on the kennel) and hot suspense sequences (a pawnshop sting to break into Tegg's computer) until the cathartic, brutal climax. Exceptionally gripping and full of amazing forensic lore (e.g., that Band-Aids emit low-level radioactivity from being sterilized): a top-flight offering from an author who's clearly found his groove.

"THIS IS A HARD BOOK TO PUT DOWN AND I HAVE AN IDEA IT'S GOING TO BE AN EVEN HARDER BOOK TO FORGET...SMOOTH, STATE-OF-THE-ART SUSPENSE WHICH COMBINES FORENSIC MEDICINE, MODERN POLICE INVESTIGATION TECHNIQUES AND CHARACTERS WE CARE ABOUT." Stephen King

PRAISE FOR RIDLEY PEARSON

"One hell of a writer!"

Clive Cussler

"IF YOU LOVE TO SLEEP, FORGET THE ANGEL MAKER. Don't even peek at Ridley Pearson's new thriller. Once you start reading, you won't be able to stop ... A compelling story of a nightmare subject."

Idaho Statesman

"The Pearson trademarks are here: meticulous attention to forensic detail, tightly written scenes where every word is calculated to give you the creeps, and a careful buildup of evidence ... In Pearson's gripping style, this unconscionable story is completely plausible." Seattle Times

"Pearson's engaging forensic detail-and brisk prose will have readers racing to the cliffhanger climax."

Publishers Weekly

"Potent blend of medical thriller and police procedural ... exceptionally gripping and full of amazing forensic lore ... a top-flight offering from an author who's clearly found his groove."

Kirkus Reviews

Also by Ridley Pearson

NEVER LOOK BACK ,

BLOOD OF THE ALBATROSS

THE SEIZING OF YANKEE GREEN MALL

PROBABLE CAUSE

HARD FALL

Again, for Colleen. You keep me in stitches.

I am a sort of phantom in life who has lost all beginning and end, and who has even forgotten his own name.

-Fyodor Dostoyevski, The Brothers

The original story that inspired The Angel Maker was told to me by Tona Backman on an autumnal evening in Hamstead, England. I owe a huge debt of thanks to her and to Clarence Stilwill.

I would also like to acknowledge the help and assistance of a variety of experts who educated and guided me through the maze of organ transplantation and criminal investigation, including but not limited to: Frances Campbell, psychotherapist; Dr. James B. Perkins, F.A.C.S., director, Division of Transplantation, University of Washington; Dr. Royal McClure, Sun Valley, Idaho; Donna Oiland, director, Lions Eye Bank, Seattle, Washington; Dr. Christian Harris, forensic psychiatrist, Seattle, Washington; Larry Merkle, U.S. Army Corps of Engineers; Joe Weber, U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, Hydrology and Hydraulics Branch; Dr. Donald Reay, King County Medical Examiner; Lieutenant David Reichert, King County Police; Charles H. Duke, Bureau Chief, Bureau of Forensic Services, Idaho Department of Law Enforcement; Pamela J. Marcum, Principal Criminalist, Bureau of Forensic Services, IDLE; Mark Acker, D.M.V.; Randy Acker, D.M.V.; and Steve Edsall, D.M.V. (Thanks also to those who wished to remain anonymous!)

Readers: Premi Pearson, Brad Pearson, Karen Oswalt, Colleen Daly, Ollie Cossman, Franklin Heller. Office management, Mary Peterson; manuscript preparation, typesetting, and proofing, Maida Spaulding; office assistance, jenny Femling.

Special thanks to: Mr. Albert Zuckerman, Ms. Carole Baron, Mr. Brian DeFiore, and Mr. Chuck Adams.

Also thanks to: The Fulbright Commission; Wadham College, Oxford- , England; and to Sue-Todd and Chuck Yates, Mino Tomacelli and the gang at Kailuum, Michael Lewis, and all The Rockbottom Remainders.

_________________

The young woman's pale, lifeless expression cried out to Daphne Matthews from across the room. Nearly all of the kids who sought out The Shelter were high on something. The hollow cheeks and dirty hair were common to all the runaways, as were the torn jeans, the soiled T-shirts, and the disturbing smell.

The windowless basement room in the King Center Baptist Church on South Jackson held thirteen beds and was void of any color except for the odd assortment of unframed art posters. The beds, arranged in perfect rows, were each covered with a gray wool blanket atop which had been placed a white towel and a dull green cardboard box containing a toothbrush, comb, bar of soap, a package of condoms, and a leaflet on AIDS.

The boys' dorm, across the hall and next to the room where the choir robes were kept, held only eight beds, because teenage boys were less likely to seek help from such places and because girls between the ages of thirteen and eighteen accounted for a larger percentage of the runaways who wandered Seattle's streets.

The other volunteers at The Shelter welcomed Daphne's expertise as a psychologist as much as her being a member of the Seattle Police Department, though this latter qualification was rarely called upon and never mentioned in front of the girls. For Daphne, each young woman who passed through The Shelter's door represented a challenge, each had her own unique, often terrifying story. By coming here they called out for help. Homeless. Penniless. Distrustful. Addicted. Pregnant. Filthy. Diseased. The job of each volunteer was to reverse all of that, to connect the runaway with counselors, doctors, halfway houses, government funds, jobs, housing, recovery programs and safety. To rescue and rebuild a life.

Daphne sat down quietly and slowly on the bed opposite the girl and forced a welcoming smile that made her feel cheap and dishonest: There was nothing to smile about here. She noticed a tiny scab on 'the inside of the girl's elbow joint and felt her heart sink. To her relief, she didn't see any other needle marks. Perhaps this was the girl's first time. With any luck, her last.. The girl never looked at her; she just stared off into the room in a catatonic daze.

Daphne suggested gently, "Would you like to lie down?"

The girl nodded slightly. Daphne moved aside the towel and box and supported her head as it traveled to the pillow. Some of the drunks felt this hot, some of the druggies, but this contact gave Daphne a sickening feeling in her stomach that told her this was something worse. Exactly what, she wasn't sure. She wasn't even sure she wanted to find out.

The girl cried out sharply as she leaned back, clutching her side.

Daphne cleared the tangled hair from her face, wincing as she noticed a pink circle on the girl's temple. Without looking, she knew there would be an identical mark opposite this: electroshock.

"Cold," the girl complained in a dry, raspy voice. Daphne covered her with a blanket, told her she would "be right back," and hurried over to Sharon Shaffer, who had just arrived. Sharon, a remarkably petite woman with large gray eyes and an oversized mouth, a former graduate of The Shelter, was now its spokesperson, working the circuit of Rotary Clubs and ladies' luncheons in fund-raising efforts. To both the volunteers and the community, she was a symbol of everything right about The Shelter, its leader and patron saint. To Daphne, she was a dear friend.

Daphne asked one of the other volunteers to check the hospitals for a psych ward discharge or escapee. She briefed Sharon on the recent arrival as the two of them crossed the room: the needle mark, the evidence of electroshock therapy, the girl clutching her side. "Are you thinking restraints?" Sharon asked. She had a way of reading Daphne's thoughts. Before Daphne could answer, Sharon said, "Let's hold off on that, okay? There's nothing more frustrating than a tie-down. It's horrible. I've been there." Daphne didn't argue. Reaching the girl, they perched themselves on opposite sides of her bed. "Where am I?" the girl wondered aloud. "Why am I here?" "The only requirement for being here," Sharon explained in a comforting voice, "is your desire to be off the streets." She hesitated. "Okay?"

The girl squinted painfully. It hurt Daphne to see that kind of pain-psychological or physical?-and it worried her too: The druggies usually felt nothing. Again, the combination of electroshock and that needle mark warned Daphne of an institution. Her policewoman instincts kicked in-this girl could turn violent without warning.

Sharon said calmly, "You're safe now. My name is Sharon. I'm a runaway. This is Daphne. We're all women here. Okay? We can keep you warm. We can feed you. We want nothing from you.

Nothing at all." The girl began to cry. "We are not going to notify the police or your parents-you're home. You're safe here. Whatever you have done is behind you. Here, you are safe. If you need medical attention, you will have it. We want nothing more of you than your name. Something to call you. A first name is all. Can you tell us your name?"

"Cindy," the girl answered. "Can't you stop them?" she asked desperately.

Sharon repeated, "You're safe here, Cindy." She reached out and took the girl's limp hand.

The girl attempted to sit up. She cried out painfully, once again clutching her abdomen, and then shielded her ears. "Can't you stop them?" she pleaded.

The blanket fell away from her. A wet bloodstain colored her side. A stabbing? Daphne wondered. How had she missed the wound earlier? The girl pleaded, "Do you hear that barking? Can't you stop that barking?"

Daphne reached out and lifted the girl's shirt. Her skin was colored an iodine-brown from surgery. At the center of this stain was a three-inch incision laced with broken stitches. It was so fresh, it had yet to scab. She was losing an enormous amount of blood. "Call 911!" Sharon shouted across the room. "We need an ambulance, pronto!" She caught eyes with Daphne then and whispered, "What the hell is this?"

Daphne's fingers gripped the handle, but she couldn't quite bring herself to open the door. From inside the nightclub came the muted melody of his jazz piano. She had carefully avoided coming to The Big joke because new lives came at a price, and that price was distance. Two years had passed since that evening spent with him. A single evening, a single event long since over, but her nearly tactile memory of it remained. She had her feet firmly on the ground now; and he had a family. Why challenge any of that? She answered herself: She needed the best cop available; she needed Lou Boldt, retired or not.

A car pulled up. A young couple climbed out and approached. She had to make up her mind-turn back or go through with it. There were other people to whom she could turn. Not as good as Boldt, but certainly qualified.

To hell with it! She went inside. A short, stocky doorman with no head hair but a mustache waxed like an airplane propeller requested a two-dollar cover charge for the piano player. The piano player, she thought. The sergeant, she felt like correcting. The most celebrated cop in this city to ever walk away from the job-so important to Homicide that his departure was still technically termed an extended leave. She intended to play upon that fact. She handed the doorman the money. Cheap, at twice the price.

The club was dingier than she remembered. Its low ceiling hung over a roomful of small, cigarette scarred tables and an army of armless chairs. Inset into the brick wall was a handsome fireplace. It was fake. So were the bricks.

The piano's sounds filled a pair of overhead speakers. To her left some guys were busy playing video games. To her right the piano, and the man behind it, remained hidden on the other side of an imitation Chinese screen, perched on the far left of a small stage where comedians performed stand-up on the weekends. She crossed the room toward the tables, nervous and even a little afraid. A single blue light shone down on him, his head trained on the keys in strict concentration. He shouldn't be in blue light, she thought, because it makes him look older than his forty-five. So did the thinning hair-a shade more gray if the light could be trusted. If there had been any question about the identity of the player, the half-empty glass of milk answered it. With his eyes in shadow, he looked kind of like an owl up there. This was how she thought of him, she realized as an owl up on a branch, out of reach, wise, silent, even majestic. Terrifying to some, inspiring to others, he was both to her.

She negotiated her way through the tight furniture. Not a very good crowd tonight. Boldt was the kind to take that personally. She wondered if this was something to use in her attempt to win his help with her investigation.

The walnut bar had been imported from a British pub by the owner, Bear Berenson. Attached to the mirror using a decal from a local brewery, a happy hour menu advertised peanuts, french fries and fresh oysters. A hard-faced woman wearing too much makeup stood watch behind beer taps, a hopeful gaze fixed on her customers, like that of a fisherman scanning the sea.

Daphne slipped into an empty chair and flagged down the room's only waitress, a tall black woman built like a dancer. In the process, Daphne caught Boldt's attention as well. He looked up, and their eyes met.

God, how she'd missed him.

Boldt felt her presence before he saw her, as close friends or former lovers often do. As they caught eyes he dropped a stitch, necessitating the recovery of the lost beat in the next measure. He felt himself blush-everyone had noticed the error, everyone but the bartender, Mallory, who never noticed anything but an empty glass or a waiting tip.

She looked real good. High, strong cheekbones, heavy eyebrows and shoulder-length brown hair that in certain light held a rusty red. Intense, concentrating eyes, and an outdoors complexion. He knew damn well she'd been home to fix herself up, and that made him wonder, all of a sudden, about her intentions. She didn't wear silk blouses and pearl necklaces around the fourth floor, unless a hell of a lot had changed in the past two years. Would she comment about the way he looked? A jazz rat wearing the same pair of khakis for a week. You could track his meals on these pants. His shirt was on its second day. He generally did laundry Mondays and Thursdays.

It was kind of strange to see her again, strange to have not seen her for so long. Not that he hadn't kept up with her through others, but seeing her in the flesh was altogether different. Nice flesh at that. But he felt none of the lusty urges he had been caught up in two years earlier. She felt to him more like a high school sweetheart, someone from long ago whom he had known before the rules had changed. Of course, the rules hadn't changed, he thought; he had.

He and his wife, Liz, had rebuilt their relationship from the ashes of overwork, failed promises, and a disintegration of purpose, interest, and spirit. it had required enormous sacrifices on both their parts: Boldt had left the department; Liz had borne the burden of pregnancy and a difficult delivery to bring them a son. New roles now: Liz, the provider, mother, and lover; Boldt, part-time jazz rat, full-time house husband and Mr. Mom. Together they had found a new rhythm, carved out a new existence.

Now, here was Daffy glowing in the limited light of the cheap seats, nervous eyes seeking him out.

He bought himself a few precious moments by delaying the ending of the song with a long improvisation. It would all be improvisation from here on out, He rose from the bench and interrupted Mallory before she could complain about the length of the set. "Push drinks on them," he suggested, feeding her one instinct. "I'll stretch the next set to compensate." Mallory grimaced but didn't argue. Daphne would call that a learned behavior.

He finger-combed what hair he could find up there. She kept her eyes on him as he approached. He wiped his palms on his pants and offered a smile. Two years had passed, and all he could think to say was, "Hey there."

She grinned and nudged a chair away from the table with her foot.

He felt big and clumsy as he sat down in the chair. He had added a dozen pounds and knew he looked it. Not her. They shook hands, and he was thankful for that. No need to be weird about this. He said, "Can/t even see the scar " though he wasn't sure what possessed him to do 'so.

She tugged at the scarf and revealed it to him: three or four inches long, still slightly pink. It would always be there to remind her. He remembered the knife held there as if it were yesterday, Daffy attempting to talk a known killer out of using the knife on her; Boldt, the one with the gun. She in the way of the bullet, her throat in the way of that blade. Her weapons were her words and they had failed her. Boldt wondered if she had recovered from that one yet. Those things tended to haunt you. "That was a stupid thing to say," he admitted. "Is this the new you? Looking for my flaws?"

"Let me tell you something: There are women who would kill to have flaws like yours." He hoped a compliment might erase his mistake. "Keep your shorts on, Casanova. That's all behind us."

"Hey, you think I don't know? I'm a father now. Though that's probably news to you." "I keep up," she said. "I didn't think it would have been too appropriate for me to throw you and Liz a baby shower."

"it must have taken some courage to break a two-year habit of staying away. This is no visit, is it? Not dressed like that, it isn't. Have you been somewhere? Going somewhere? Are you selling something? Why are you here? Not that I'm complaining."

"I heard the piano player is terrific."

"Mediocre on his best nights," Boldt replied. "You must be hanging around with some critically tone-deaf people."

"They're your friends- "My point exactly. Homicide, right? You are selling something." "How is the baby?" she asked. "Miles? Terrific, thanks." just the mention of the boy made Boldt homesick. "And Liz?"

That took some real courage.

"Fine," he answered honestly. "Happy, I think.- "And how about you?" she asked. He nodded. "The same," Why should it feel odd to admit such a thing? "You?"

"I'm good. I'm volunteering at The Shelter now."

"So I've heard," he said. "I've kept up, too," he added, wanting her to hear this. "Through Dixie," she said, referring to King County medical examiner Dr. Ronald Dixon, a close friend of Boldt's. A short silence fell between them. "Are you going to tell me about it?" he asked. "The case," he added, trying to sound smart. It worked; she gave him one of those impressed looks. "She's sixteen-years old."

"Is or was."

"Is," she confirmed. "She walked into The Shelter this afternoon in real bad shape. Drugs. Evidence suggesting the use of electroshock therapy. A fresh incision right here," she touched her side. "Too fresh. The bleeding kind of fresh.

We thought she might be an escapee. We checked with hospitals and institutions. No one had record of her. Her stitches had popped, hence the blood. We admitted her to the Medical Center. I can't tell you what drew me to her, Lou. Not exactly. It was more than curiosity, more than sympathy. You run out of those after a few weeks at The Shelter. You're the one who taught me to listen to the victim-"

"Victim?,, he interrupted. "They got her stitched back up, I take it." Exactly what was Daffy after? Why the compliments? She was a professional manipulator-he had to watch that. She knew her way around the human mind. Dealing with her was like playing blackjack with someone who could count cards.

She answered "They stitched her back up. But they took X-rays. She's missing a kidney." She let it hang there a second.

"No hospital record of any such operation. She has no memory of any surgery. None. No explanation at all. I'm looking for the explanation."

"Phil went along with this?" he asked curiously.

As staff psychologist, Daphne reported to Lieutenant Phil Shoswitz, Homicide, the logic of which was known only to the upper brass. if there were to be an investigation and she part of it, it would more than likely be overseen by Shoswitz. "He doesn't even know about it yet," she admitted, looking away-an uncommon gesture for her. "That's one of the reasons I've come to you," she added. "I need your help, your expertise."

Trouble! He knew her too well. "Help?"

"Her name is Cindy Chapman. She's been on the road for seven months. Left Arizona last winter after her stepfather sexually abused her. She went through Flagstaff, Salt Lake City, and ended up here about a month ago. Her long-term memory is fine. But she's lost a twenty-four-hour period during which she was exposed to electroshock and her kidney was removed. Let me tell you this: No two medical procedures could be less related to one another. I've studied this stuff, Lou. This is my turf. But investigating it? That's why I'm here."

He felt the stability of his marriage was at stake. Police work swallowed him whole. He and Liz had come to certain agreements. "What are you saying? Someone stole her kidney?"

"if a hospital or an institution is involved, it has to be local. These kids stick to a pretty small area. They develop small societies of self-help or selfabuse. When they move away, it's forever. On to Portland, San Francisco, L.A. You champion the cause of the victim. it's the victim that can tell you the most about a case, dead or alive. Right? You're the expert on the victim."

more compliments. He fought like hell to maintain his guard. "She may have been raped. She won't admit to consensual sex. The evidence is there, but she doesn't remember. That's the electroshock. You see?" She was beginning to frighten him. "No," he admitted, "I don't see."

A commotion at the front door attempted to steal his attention but failed. Daphne's eyes-convincing, terrified, searching, hopeful-held him firmly. "someone cut this girl open and stole her kidney. I'm convinced of it. The electroshock was used to ensure she didn't remember anything about it." Fire filled her eyes. "I can't prove it. Not yet." She placed her hand on her chest. "But I feel it in here. You know that feeling, don't you? I know you do."

He resented being cornered by her. Yes, he knew that feeling.

Yes, he had been forced to defend it on a dozen occasions; and no, there was no real sense to it. But this was her feeling, not his, he reminded himself; her case, her instincts, not his.

"What evidence is there?" he asked coldly.

She winced. "I'm not an investigator. I can't even take this to Shoswitz until I have something convincing. Hell he's Homicide. He may not want it even then: She's alive after all. What do I do? Where do I turn?"

"The helpless female? I don't buy it."

She glared. "This young woman was violated in the worst, most heinous sense. Some monster"monster was not a word that Daphne Matthews, the psychologist, often used-"cut her open, reached inside her, and removed an organ-a physical part of her! MY God! Phil Shoswitz may be committed more to the dead than the living, but you? After they stole her kidney, they burned her short-term memory with electroshock. Am I getting through? Maybe one of them raped her just for fun. Evidence? Do I need probable cause, Sergeant, in order to investigate, or just the suspicion that a crime has been committed?" She stared him down. "Will you help me or not?" she asked, adding, "if for no other reason than as a parent."

He couldn't help but picture Miles-Einstein, the nickname belonging to his blond, curly haired son-involuntarily under the knife of such a butcher. She interrupted his thoughts. "The electroshock may have done permanent damage to her memory, not to mention her mind: She hears a constant barking."

"I'm out of the business. I'm off the force. My badge is collecting dust in Shoswitz's drawer."

"You're on extended leave."

"That's just Phil's way of holding a carrot out to me, of keeping my chance at twenty alive. That's the way it reads on paper, Daffy, but in here?" he said, repeating her gesture of placing his hand on his chest. "In here, I'm a father and a hack pianist."

He had never dared speak the words aloud, had seldom even thought them, for he wasn't one to lie, and he couldn't be sure this was the truth: "It's over." It felt sacrilegious to say such a thing. just hearing it spoken confirmed its falsehood. He felt a terrifying loss of control, as if hitting a patch of ice on a dangerous curve. it wasn't over, was it? Someone out there had torn the guts out of a young girl. What surprised him most of all was the way he took to it so quickly. He wanted whatever evidence she had. He wanted the pieces of the puzzle. He wanted to put a stop to it before it happened again. Cop instincts-she was counting on them. Perhaps it was because the victim was alive.

A voice-a man's, big and thunderous-reverberated through the club. "Party's over, everyone. No more drinks. I'm going to have to ask you all to leave." Boldt looked over his shoulder expecting to see some drunk on the stage, but instead he saw a crew cut wearing a ten-year-old gray suit and scuffed wingtips with worn heels. A badge hung out of the breast pocket of the suit. Four or five clones of the man swept quickly into the club, fanning out to various responsibilities. It felt like a bank job to Boldt, an organized robbery. But when this guy announced, "Treasury Department," he realized what it was. The man continued, "These premises are being sealed." He repeated loudly over protests, "I'm going to have to ask you all to leave."

"Your idea?" Boldt asked her, nodding toward the Tman. "Trying to pressure me into this?"

She grimaced, looking past him toward the stage. One of the suits was screwing a padlock clasp into the piano's keyboard cover. Boldt could feel the screws biting into the wood as if they were drilling into his own flesh. He rose angrily, Daphne following. "What the hell?" Boldt hollered as he closed the distance. "That's a musical instrument, goddamn it!" The one with the big voice was smart enough to step aside. The assistant kept right on twisting the screwdriver. "Stop that! Now!"

"Don't make any trouble, pal," the assistant cautioned.

The screw chewed more deeply into the wood. "You don't do that to a musical instrument," Boldt repeated, wrapping one of his big hands around the boy's wrist. "You just don't do that."

The agent threatened, "You want me to call the cops?"

"I am a cop," Boldt declared. His eyes met Daphne's; she wasn't going to let him live that one down. Boldt released the man. "So am I," Daphne informed the agent, producing her identification. "I'd sure as hell like to see the warrant that authorizes the destruction of private property in the process of seizure. You want to show me that document, please, Agent-" she craned forward to read his nametag. -"-Campbell?"

The man's face went crimson. He looked first at her then at Boldt, then over at his superior. "You want to see warrants, you'll have to talk to Agent Majorksi. I got a job to do here." "Leave it be," Boldt said definitively, grabbing his wrist again. Two screws had already violated the ebony.

Across the room, bartender Mallory struggled with one of the agents in an effort to lock the cash register, but lost. The agent took the key from her. They had practiced this drill well or had performed it enough times to execute it flawlessly. Piece by piece, stage by stage, the agents took control in a matter of minutes, Confused patrons were herded toward the door, several chugging beers on the way. Another commotion-Bear's arrest-grabbed Boldt's attention as the agent started twisting that screwdriver again.

The club owner was placed in handcuffs and read his rights. He glanced over at Boldt, shrugged, and smiled. "I should have hired H&R Block," Bear shouted over to Boldt. That was Bear: ever the comic. He threw a couple of one-liners at the agents who had him, but they didn't seem to appreciate the humor. "Drinks are on the house, fellas," he tried one last time as they escorted him toward the door. "Hey, Monk," he called out, using his nickname for Boldt, "I thought all you badgers were on the same team. Hey, Elliot Ness," he called to the gray suit, Majorski, "this here is Lou Boldt. The Lou Boldt of the Seattle Police Department! Have a heart!" He was ushered out of the building. "Louis Boldt?" Agent Majorski asked. "That's right," Boldt answered, surprised to hear his proper name come from the mouth of a stranger. These guys were as stiff as cardboard. "You mind calling this guy off? He's screwing a friend of mine."

Daphne displayed her I.D. for the second time. "I'd like to see the warrant that permits him to do that."

Majorski looked over her badge and photo. "Tommy," he said, stopping the one at the piano. "Why don't you help with the files?" Reluctantly, the rookie abandoned his task. Boldt and Daphne briefly exchanged looks of triumph.

The euphoria was short-lived. Majorski consulted a typed list he withdrew from his coat pocket. "You'll be hearing from the IRS," he said to Boldt with a disturbing smugness. "I'd speak to my accountant if I were you." He moved off to reorganize his people. "My accountant?" Boldt responded desperately, the man not listening. Liz handled their tax returns.

Daphne and Boldt were herded toward the door. "Just let me use you as a sounding board," Daphne pleaded, ever persistent. "I can bounce my ideas off you. Show you what I've got." She feared she had lost him, that her effort had been overshadowed by the raid, that all was for naught. She couldn't leave it as it was, she couldn't bear the thought of facing Shoswitz alone; she needed Boldt. "Daffy, I can sleep at night. My stomach is better than it's been in years. I take naps in the afternoon, with my little Einstein purring in his crib. I read books imagine that! Liz and I actually find time to speak a few complete sentences to each other.

You know what you're asking?"

"Please," she tried. II The way she said it. Boldt looked at her intently.

As a sounding board, but that's all." "Sure," she said, unconvincingly. "That's all." He hated losing.

THURSDAY February 2

Sharon Shaffer, barely tall enough to see over the wheel even with a cushion under her, was driving her seven-year-old Ford Escort, Daphne in the passenger seat. Daphne lived on a houseboat at Gas Works Park; Sharon lived about a mile away on Linden, a block from the Freemont Baptist Church. They carpooled together whenever possible, mostly for the company. Following her meeting with Boldt at the hbrary, Daphne was going to spend the evening at The Shelter and then ride home with Sharon.

Crossing the colorful Freemont Bridge toward town, Daphne strained to see her marina but couldn't. With Lake Union to their left, they drove along Westlake, cluttered marinas gradually evolving into condos and corporate headquarters as they drew closer to town. Ninth Avenue was a no-man's land of struggling small businesses. Then it was the fast-food and franchised commercialism of Denny Way.

A ferry horn sounded, dull and low, like the groan of a huge animal. Daphne's watch read three twenty-eight. The ferries represented a kind of freedom-island life. Isolation, escape.

"Judging by yesterday's weather," Daphne said, "I'd say the groundhog drowned,""We're halfway through the rinse cycle," Sharon agreed. "Four more weeks of this at least."

"Makes you really love the place, doesn't it?"

"You look a little tired," Sharon said. "I spent the day poring over some autopsy files the medical examiner wanted me to see. It's exhausting."

"Sounds disgusting."

"I made some headway. I'm not sure Cindy Chapman is all alone in this."

"Meaning?"

"I need to run it all by a friend and see what he thinks," Daphne explained. "I don't like the sound of your voice."

"I'm a little scared, that's all."

"I don't think I could ever be a cop," Sharon said. She ruminated on this for a moment. "Three years ago, if someone had tried to tell me that someday one of my best friends would be a cop, and a forensic psychologist at that, I would have tagged them for the bird house-the loony bin. It's weird how things work out."

"In your case, they've worked out rather nicely."

"It'll happen to you," Sharon encouraged. "It's all in your attitude, and your attitude is improving. Something's working."

"It's the therapy."

"Whatever it is, it's good to see."

"Have you ever worked with someone after you've had a thing with him?"

Astonished, Sharon cried, "Did, you sleep with your therapist?

"I "Not my therapist, dummy. just answer the question." Sharon stopped at a light and said, "On the street I slept with everyone. You'd sleep with someone because they had the coke that week. Coke whores. We were all coke whores." She drifted off for a moment. When she spoke again, the pain was gone from her voice. "But I know what you're asking about, and it did happen to me once. I slept a couple of times with a guy I met in A.A. Then it fizzled out. I'm not sure why. But we kept running into each other at all the meetings. It worked out okay, except that no matter what we talked about on the surface, there was always this sexual tension-at least for me-going on underneath, you know? I wasn't after him-nothing like that-but you don't forget the really good ones, and this guy was really tuned in, really good for me."

"But you don't forget, do you?" Daphne asked, repeating her friend's comment. "I sure don't."

"And it worked out?"

"Depending on who you ask. He's got a woman now. I have The Shelter. But," and she laughed, "it's hard to curl up with The Shelter. And there are times ... Well, you know. But you can't project. "One day at a time/ girl.

"An attitude of gratitude."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't preach," Daphne chided. "Sometimes I think I'm lucky I got so messed up on the streets. Without A.A. Well, you've heard all of this."

"A number of times." Even three years into the program, Sharon was still on a sort of honeymoon. Sometimes it was all she could find to talk about. "Who's the guy?" Sharon asked. "Just that: a guy."

"Don't give me that." She laughed. "If you slept with him, he's not just a guy, he's an endangered species."

"Once.

Only once. And I didn't even spend the night. It isn't the sex."

"Those are the dangerous ones," Sharon said, turning the corner and pulling over to the curb. "Yeah, I know," agreed Daphne. She looked at her watch. Thirty minutes in which to do her research. "You're meeting someone here, aren't you?" Sharon asked. "Him," she stated. "I'll catch up with you later," Daphne reminded. She climbed out of the car, wondering why she felt so damned nervous.

The Lakeview Animal Clinic veterinarian offices occupied the ground floor of a relatively new business complex facing Madison. The reception area had vinyl flooring in a brick pattern and long benches against each wall. In huge letters a sign read: Keep Animals Caged or Leashed At All Times. Dogs, to the left benches. Cats to the right. There were a few of each in the small room, the air electric with possible conflict.

Pamela Chase, short and overweight, wore a yellow crew shirt with the words

"Lakeview Animal Clinic" embroidered on her breast pocket. She inspected the form that belonged to the cat she was carrying. Camile hadn't eaten in three days. When she had managed to get food down, she vomited it back up. Camile, like so much of their work, was a referral-Dr. Elden Tegg was the one vet to whom the other vets turned.

The examination room had a chart on the wall that diagramed the nerves, lenses, and muscles in a cat's eye. There was a large, framed color photograph of Puget Sound at dawn, a nuclear submarine just barely visible alongside a pod of surfacing Orca whales. The room had no window but did possess a large air grate in the ceiling. It smelled of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant.

Camile wrestled to be free but lacked the energy for a prolonged struggle. She resigned herself to Pamela's hold.

A moment later the door swung open and the veterinarian stepped inside. Dr. Elden Tegg, D.V.M., as his name plaque introduced him, stood close to six feet tall, in a wiry frame, with a dark complexion, brown eyes, and a black beard carefully trimmed. He wore a white lab coat, khaki pants, and brown leather walking shoes with rawhide trim. He had a protruding Adam's apple that bobbed as he spoke in a grating voice. His attention fixed immediately upon his patient.

Pamela Chase passed him the cat as he nodded. He had exceptionally long fingers, immaculately clean hands, perfectly manicured nails, and he wore a gold wedding ring.

He studied the cat thoughtfully, squeezing, probing. He looked into her eyes and glanced quickly into her ears. "Loss of appetite and vomiting," Pamela Chase informed him. He grunted an acknowledgment. "They sent pictures along." Tegg returned the cat to his assistant and approached the light board, turning it on and studying the X-rays. "Well," he asked in a professorial tone, "did you have a look at these?"

She answered, "I was thinking we should try a milk shake," referring to a barium upper G.I. "Have I told you how fortunate I am to have you?" he asked She glowed with the compliment.

"Let's sedate her," he said, "shall we?"

Fifteen minutes later, she reentered carrying both the cat and the new X-rays. Tegg slapped the large negatives into the clamps on the light box, studied them carefully, and signaled Pamela over to him. She responded without thought. "Here's what the others missed," he said confidently, running one of his clean fingernails over a section of the X-ray. "See here, and here?" he asked. "It's not what you see," he advised, "it's what you don't see, which might explain how it was missed so easily. just a ghost, see?"

"Yes, now I do."

"There's some kind of obstruction in the stomach. Maybe a fur-ball, but I doubt it. Let's try an endoscopy and have a look." Pamela Chase prepared all the necessary equipment for the procedure and stood alongside him like a corporal at the side of a general. He inserted the black eel of plastic tubing down the cat's throat. The tiny fiber optic camera inside the animal's stomach sent back black-and-white pictures to the small SONY television that Tegg studied. "The problem with something plastic like this is that the veterinarian cannot feel it in the exam, cannot see it clearly in an X-ray, and yet to this poor creature it feels like her tummy is full all the time. She tries to crap, but the stomach rejects it. Probably picked it up off the floor," On the screen, under his direction, a small set of pinchers moved like jaws. Tegg deftly maneuvered them to apprehend the foreign object. A moment later he extruded the endoscopy tube from the cat.

A small piece of soft plastic-a swimmer's ear plug-fell into the stainless steel dish that Pamela held.

Tegg stated clinically, "That should do it. Send along the usual instructions regarding the anesthesia. Also some buffers to help out with the abrasion to the stomach lining. If the vomiting continues, they should reschedule immediately."

He moved toward the door. "What's next?" he asked her. "You haven't taken a break all day," she said. "What's next?" he repeated. "A toy poodle," she advised, checking a list. "Blood in the urine."

"Are we set up for surgery?" he asked. "All set," she replied. "Give me five minutes," he told her. Then he added sincerely, "I hate toy poodles."

The downtown branch of Seattle's public library is two blocks from the Public Safety building, the police department's central offices. it is overshadowed by an intriguing skyline sprouting new glass and steel in amounts that ten years earlier would have seemed inconceivable. The Big Money had hit Seattle in the mid-80's, bringing with it a renewed downtown, renovations, public transit, and the ubiquitous shopping centers. The thirty- and forty-story towers competed for the best view of breathtaking Elliott Bay and Puget Sound to the west and the majesty of glacier-capped Mount Rainier to the southeast. By city standards, Seattle's downtown is remarkably small, contained to the south by the Kingdome and to the north by the Seattle Center, a holdover from the 1962 World's Fair. To the west is the green-marble estuary with its gray ferries and black freighters; to the east, downtown is stopped by Interstate 5, Pill Hill and Seattle College. Downtown is surrounded for miles by rolling hills blanketed in two-story clapboard homes and communities like Ballard, Ravenna, Northgate and Richmond Highlands. It is a city of water: the Sound, lakes, canals and rivers. For Boldt's taste, the city's growth and expansion was happening too quickly, seemed too uncontrolled. Seattle was learning life the hard way: theft, drugs, organized crime and shrinking budgets. Its art, culture and traditions kept it vital and unique: its music, dance, fine arts; its fishing, sailing, and Native American history; its festivals and celebrations; its libraries, museums, theaters and public market.

The library is a mixture of formed concrete and garden. Plate glass windows and deciduous trees. As with any such library, entering it is like stepping into a silent movie. On the Thursday afternoon of their meeting, it was a little busier than usual, probably because of the drizzle, Boldt thought. In a city with a winter climate like Seattle's, the library took on a position of great importance, a kind of Mecca for the mind. The faces in these rooms were not pale, nor were they dispirited. The people of Seattle were a vibrant, red-cheeked, resilient bunch, whom Boldt counted as his own. The wet winter weather, extremely temperate considering the latitude, was essential-a few years of drought had taught the locals that much. This weather--or its reputation was what kept the masses away. It was the city's best defense in its increasing battle against Californication.

Boldt entered wearing a baby carrier that supported his son Miles. He joined Daphne at one of the large reading tables on the second floor, as far away from others as possible. She steeled herself for what lay ahead. This was her chance to convince him they had a case-to win him over. That child hanging around his neck represented his other life. She couldn't allow herself to think of it in those terms. Boldt was a friend, certainly. But more importantly, he was a cop with the connections and talent to make this case happen. This was her focus. The image of Cindy Chapman's bleeding incision was lodged in her mind.

On the table in front of her lay three Pendaflex folders and a pile of photocopies from her research at the library. She felt both exhausted and afraid, and the two sensations fed on each other, injecting her with an anxiety she found difficult to overcome. Without him, without some male to support her god, how she resented it-she had little or no chance of convincing Lieutenant Phil Shoswitz to open this investigation.

She wore gray stirrup pants, a white blouse buttoned high, and a crimson scarf to hide her scar. She had her brown-red hair pulled back off her face, a pair of simple silver studs in her ears. Boldt was, as always, disheveled, wrinkled, worn. Khakis, a Tattersall shirt, brown walking shoes with thick rubber hiking tread. He looked tired-probably was-and older than he had last night at The Big Joke. "Meet my son, Miles," Boldt said proudly, speaking in a hushed voice, dropping into a chair and putting down the baby bag he carried with him.

"Miles," he said to his sleeping six-month-old child in the carrier, "this is the 'other woman' I've told you so much about."

"He's adorable."

"I hope he gets his mother's hair." ,,And her brains," Daphne said. He glanced down at the folders and then up at her, disapprovingly. "You're not supposed to take these out of the office," he declared. "They aren't ours. Dixie gave them to me," she said, referring to the chief pathologist of the medical examiner's office. "He thought they might help convince you that we have something."

"We?"

"I need a partner, someone with whom Shoswitz will allow me to partner. As of this morning, Dixie is a believer, but I can't very well partner with a pathologist."

"Wait a minute! I agreed to be a sounding board, that's all. There are a dozen guys who could run with this thing." His eyes strayed to the folders again, and she realized she was taking the wrong approach with him. For Lou Boldt, it was always the victims-the evidence-that did the talking.

She said, "You take each one of these autopsies separately, and they don't say much. You add them up, and we've got a problem."

Boldt leaned forward, his big hand shielding the boy's small head, and dragged the folders across the table. "Maybe I don't want to read these," he said, sensing the trap they represented. She willed him to open the top folder-just get him started, that was all it would take. "Sure you do," she argued. "Three of them? You're suggesting a pattern?" he said, thinking aloud. "Pathology reports-so they're dead. They're connected to what happened to Cindy Chapman, or I wouldn't be here, would I?"

She leaned forward and nudged the files even closer. "If Dixie came up with these, then the pattern, the similarity between them, has to do with the way in which they were killed."

"The way they died," she corrected. "And who they were or weren't. All three filed as unsolved cases. There may be more." "Runaways?"

"They make such nice victims: No one knows they're here; no one knows they're gone."

"Don't do this to me."

"To you? This isn't about you.- She ran her red nail down the spine of each folder. "This is about Glenda Sherman, Peter Blumenthal and Julia Walker."

He reached for the first folder, but stopped himself once again.

She said, "How do you prove something like this? He's counting on that-whoever is doing this. He's counting on our paying no attention. These kids are as good as John Does to us. They're nobodies."

"I want to help, to do what I can, but it's not easy. There are a lot of forces at play here. Even if I did reactivate, there's no saying I'd end up on this particular ticket."

"I'm not buying that. The lieutenant would do anything to have you back. He'd meet any conditions you laid out. Scheduling, day care, anything. What's the latest with the IRS? I I "You don't miss a beat, do you?"

The baby spit out the pacifier. Boldt caught it in a reflex only time or instinct had developed. She was in over her head. There were a lot of forces at play. He returned the pacifier to the waiting lips. He placed his huge hand on the boy's tiny head and encouraged him back to sleep. "You're a natural."

"Cherish or perish."

"Maybe you're right. Maybe you shouldn't read these files. I don't want to take you away from him."

"Smooth. Very smooth."

"I mean it."

"I know you mean it. That's the problem." /'You didn't answer me-about the IRS? I I "We have to make an appointment. Liz and I. She's our accountant."

"Is it a big deal?"

"If it means more money, yes, it's a big deal. Liz had a horrible delivery ..

"Yes, I heard."

"It ran into some serious money. Insurance companies are wonderful until you show them the bill. Anyway ... You want to remind me that I'm in a financial bind and that Liz and I could use a second income, that I could borrow from the credit union. I know what you're up to. Point taken. Okay?" He scrunched his nose. "Do you smell something?" He grabbed the bag and stood. "In a minute everyone in the library will smell it. My son and I are going to pay a little visit to the boy's room."

"You read these," she persisted, "and you realize he's a surgeon. Has to be. That gives us a place to start." "A surgeon?" he asked, eyeing the folders.

She reached over and hoisted the top folder. "Can you read and change diapers at the same time?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then let me," she said, motioning for the baby. "You won't like it. It's messy."

"You read the files, I'll handle Mr. Miles."

"You're a poet."

She motioned again for the child. Boldt unfastened the carrier and passed his son to her, along with the bag. "Cloth diapers," she noticed. "Classy."

"Environmentally sound. That's Liz-ever the proper mother and citizen. "Read," she chided. She didn't want to hear about Liz.

When she returned, wondering whether she could ever live with doing that several times a day, his face was buried in one of the files. The two others were spread open in front of him. Fast reader. Fast learner. Lou Boldt. "How sure are you about this?" he asked. Accepting Miles, he thanked her and attempted to return him to the carrier. Fully awake, the boy struggled to be free, tying up Boldt's hands and attention. "Cindy Chapman the woman who sought out The Shelter-is missing a kidney." She touched the files. "All three of these kids died from hemorrhaging associated with a," and she quoted," 'surgically absent' organ. Two kidneys: Walker and Sherman. Blumenthal was missing a lung. I think we may have a doctor selling stolen organs on the black market."

"A black market for organs?"

She fingered the photocopies in front of her. "Is it so impossible a thought? I have a half-dozen articles here: Wall Street Journal, New York Times, The New Yorker, Vanity Fair, fama, New England Journal of Medicine. In Third World countries, harvesting is an everyday occurrence. That's what it's called: organ harvesting. Nice ring to it, huh? Organized, well run. Quite the business. Fifteen thousand dollars a kidney-that's the going rate. Fifteen thousand. it's so obvious that something like this would grow out of the lack of donor organs. Transplant technology has outraced supply. It's all in here," she said, again tapping her copies of the articles. "There are not enough far-sighted people out there who think to become donors prior to their deaths. Livers, kidneys, lungs, hearts, ovaries, testicles, eyes, bone marrow, you name it. There's a shortage in nearly every category. And what happens when there's a shortage? It's simple economics. Third World countries are hit the worst because they lack the technology for life-support: the dialysis machines, the respirators. Egypt, India, Argentina, Brazil-kidneys practically trade on the open market. If you're an Egyptian farmer who's had a bad crop, you go into the city and sell one of your kidneys. You come home a few weeks later with ten years' worth of income. And when those organs are in short supply? Maybe the doctors there turn to their colleagues overseas."

"Fifteen grand a kidney?"

"Lungs about the same. Livers and hearts go for ten to twenty times that."

"But not here. Not in this country."

"Not in my backyard? Come on! What would you pay to stay alive? What happens when you find yourself number one hundred and fifty on an organ donor list where they're averaging three transplants a month and your doctor has given you six months to live? You start making inquiries. You beg, borrow, or steal the money necessary, and you buy what no one will donate. You establish a market. Where there's demand, someone will supply. It never fails. If you're a doctor, can you imagine how frustrating it must be to see your patients die because so few people will take the time to fill out a couple of forms?"

"You're right about it giving us a way to investigate it." "Us? You said 'us."' "What you do is identify their method of selection."

"Meaning?"

"If it is organized-if it is a business just as You've suggested-then this surgeon must have some way of identifying, of selecting his donors."

"Meaning?" she asked, wanting to hear him think this through aloud. She could feel his enthusiasm. She almost had him. "Listen, either they're stealing them, in which case Chapman and these others are innocent victims, or they're buying them, contracting them from people either desperate for money or sympathetic to their cause or both. Like your Egyptian farmer, right? Unfortunately, we don't know which. We need to establish that first. We need to know their game plan. How do they identify their donors? That comes first."

"These organs are perishable goods," she reminded. "There are time factors involved."

"Do they kidnap the donor, steal some kid off the streets? That's a hell of a risk to take."

"They're runaways. Who's going to notice?"

"But why take that kind of risk if you can cut a deal instead? What if the donor comes into the plan willingly? That makes a lot more sense."

"Cindy Chapman's a victim, Lou," Daphne said obstinately. "We don't know that. What if she offered to sell her kidney? What if it was voluntary? Runaway teenagers are not exactly long on cash."

"I don't believe that.

Why use electroshock if they're part of your conspiracy? She sure as hell didn't volunteer for that."

"Don't get all high and mighty, damn it. Your point is well-taken, okay? I agree with you. The electroshock doesn't fit. Okay?"

"You agree with me, but you won't help me."

"I will help you.

All I can."

"But you won't take it to the lieutenant?"

"I can't get that involved. Not yet, anyway." He looked down, wiped some drool from the baby's mouth. "Extenuating circumstances." He added quickly, "But I will help."

"if Cindy Chapman dies, then will you take it to Shoswitz for me? Is that what you need, a fresh victim? She's in bad shape, you know." "You can really piss me off when you try."

"Good. I'm trying real hard."

"I noticed. Have you run Chapman's clothes through the lab?" he asked.

She had been withholding this and another file from him, hoping to time their delivery correctly and. sink the hook. Leave it to him to ask, she thought. "Courtesy of the Professor," she explained, referring to the head of the department's forensic sciences unit. She handed the first of the two files to Boldt. "He rushed this for me." It was the state lab's preliminary hairs and fibers report. "I used your name," she added reluctantly. She pulled both files to the table top, handing him only the one.

He opened it and read. The top of the page listed the identification numbers followed by how they had been received, in this case hand-delivered by Sgt. Daphne Matthews, SPD. The next section was divided into two columns: EVIDENCE DESCRIPTION and CONCLUSION. Boldt scanned the conclusions. He suggested, "Lamoia could handle this."

She answered quickly, "As good as his instincts are, John is about ten years short on experience and a lifetime short on manners. He just doesn't have the qualifications you do."

He waved a finger at her. "You're playing with me again. "I "Don't you wish," she teased. "Not in your wildest dreams.,, It provoked a grin. "What do you know about my dreams?" he teased right back. "Animal hairs found on her jeans," he said. "We dismiss them. Too common. Blood type O-positive." He rummaged through the other files before him. She filled in, "These other three were also type O-positive." She indicated the stack next to her. "And when you read these medical stories, you'll understand why. Type O is the biggest blood group, the biggest market."

He glanced up, understanding. "They're all four the same blood type. They select their donors by blood type! That's our lead!"

"The Professor forwarded the animal hairs to the U-Dub," she said, meaning the University of Washington, "to attempt to identify the particular breeds," "You're getting off track!

It's the blood group match that's important. Let's stick with that for a minute!"

"The animal hairs are important too."

"I can't get too excited over some animal hairs. We all have pets, and if we don't, our friends do. Most of us come in contact with pet hairs on a daily basis."

"Most of us," she agreed, handing him the last file, "but not Cindy Chapman."

He started to say something but caught himself and opened the file containing a copy of Cindy Chapman's hospital admission forns. Scanning the contents quickly, he said, "You have been busy."

"Allergies," she hinted. She watched his eyes track down the form. "Allergic to house pets," he read aloud. "Severe reactions. Shallow breathing, elevated pulse rate." It was how she felt at the moment. "There's no way she would have voluntarily been in a situation that would literally cover her clothing with animal hair."

"That's good police work, Daffy," he said, complimenting her, but she could sense a reluctance in him. "But ... ?" she said, waiting. "But it's too broad a field. Too difficult to trace."

"It was the Professor's idea to run them over to the university, not mine. There were some white hairs that sparked his interest."

"The Professor will run down any hair or fiber. It's his job. It doesn't mean it's worth getting excited about."

She was excited. She hated to admit it. She also hated it when he was right-when he could read her so easily. She had long hours invested in this. She wanted something to show for it. How could guys like Lou Boldt stay with an investigation without victories along the way? Miles spit out his pacifier. Boldt plugged it back in.

Boldt said, "I'd say we focus on this blood group overlap.

That's the closest thing to hard evidence we have, and it isn't much. Animal hairs won't convince Shoswitz you have a case."

"We have three victims-four, including Cindy," she complained, masking her relief at his use of we, "Unfortunately, we can't choose the evidence these people leave behind."

"Dixie says each file indicates that there was some physical evidence stored from each autopsy. Tissue samples, that kind of thing. They do that for the unsolveds and John Does. He's having the evidence brought up. He seemed pretty optimistic.- "Dixie's always optimistic."

"He says that surgeons sometimes leave 'signatures' in their work. Style. Technique. He's going to review and compare autopsy photos when he has the time."

"That would help," Boldt said, "but knowing his workload I wouldn't count on it being very soon." He reviewed the files again. "So we're looking for a surgeon. That's another avenue worth pursuing. When in doubt, take the direct route."

"Not necessarily just surgeons," she corrected him.

He nodded. "A surgeon, another kind of specialist who wishes he were a surgeon, a medical student, an impersonator-a fake, a retiree. But of all of these, a surgeon is still the most likely. Can you draw up a profile for us?"

She nodded. She could feel him committing to the investigation.

She wanted to hear it spoken. She wanted to snare him beyond any chance of retreat. She asked, "How many surgeons are there in Seattle? And of these, how many are transplant surgeons? A handful. And if we were both to question them-I mean you and I together-you could ask your questions and I could ask mine and we just might find this person. There are certain traps I could lay-psychological traps-that he might fall into."

"You don't want to tangle with somebody like this, Daffy. I don't have to remind you of that, His cruelty hit her hard. Involuntarily, she tugged her collar up higher on her neck as she glared at him, hiding that scar. For an instant she hated him. "There was no need for that," she snapped. "Sometimes you're just another insensitive ape. You know that?"

He apologized several times, but she didn't buy it. He had wanted to remind her of her mistake. She had failed to react she knew that; she didn't need him to remind her. She let it go; back to business. "When we talk to the girls at The Shelter about how they raise money out on the streets, one thing that comes up, besides selling sex, or running drugs, is selling their blood. They've all done it; all it takes is a fake I.D.

Even Sharon's done it." She passed him several photocopies.

They were from back issues of medical journals. "Both blood and tissue type are extremely important in transplants. That's where a doctor begins in what can sometimes be a long process of matching a donor with a recipient. These articles will fill you in."

He scanned the articles quickly. "Blood banks," he mumbled.

Then he said outright, "They select their potential donors from blood banks?" She said, "It's certainly a strong possibility. One worth following up."

"We'll divide and conquer," Boldt said. "Talk to Cindy Chapman. Press her for information. Did she sell her kidney? Did she sell her blood? I'll pay a visit to our local blood banks." He supported Miles as he stood.

She caught his eyes. She held him there, waiting. "Say it," she said. He stared at her. "You can't just walk out of here after all of this and not say it."

"Is it so important?" Boldt asked. "It's a young woman's life," she reminded. "You tell me."

He nodded in resignation. "I'm in."

Dr. Elden Tegg retained the only key to the Lakeview Animal Clinic's refrigerated walk-in because of the drugs it contained. He never would have chosen to install the walk-in himself; but this office had previously been a small Italian restaurant, and the walk-in served a useful purpose, both as the repository for the medications and as a holding closet for the surgical waste and dead animals that were byproducts of any busy surgical clinic.

The man he met at the clinic's back door was short and stocky, dressed in a black-leather jacket, with black hair that peaked sharply in the center of his forehead. Donnie Maybeck was hired freelance to drive the clinic's "chuck wagon"-transporting the various bags of organic waste to a private incinerator. Because they would temporarily store this waste in the walk-in, he made only two trips a week.

Tegg unlocked the heavy door to the walk-in and stepped back, allowing the man to do his job but keeping an eye on him because of the abundance of controlled substances. "Wanna gimme a hand with this?" Maybeck asked Tegg. He had horrible teeth, chipped and gray with decay.

This question, posed as it was, signaled Tegg. He stepped inside the cooler and pulled the door behind him until it thumped shut, closing them in. "Make it quick," he said. You could see your breath in here. Tegg crossed his arms to fend off the cold.

The man in the black-leather jacket spoke softly. "Some guy called me about a meeting. Said it can't wait."

"What can't wait? What guy?" "Sounded like a Chink. Said a doc up in Vancouver recommended you. Asked me to set up a meet with you. Wanted it ASAP. Like tonight."

"Vancouver?" Tegg knew this could only mean one thing. He felt hot all of a sudden. "The guy says either you agree to meet him or no. There's no bullshit with this guy.,, Tegg felt his knees go weak. The man next to him continued, "Said he was prepared to pay some major bucks."

"And what did you say?" Tegg asked anxiously. "I didn't tell him squat. Okay? I'd like to know how the fuck he got my name. I'm checking with you, Doc. That's all. No need to sprout a fuckin' hemmi! I got this covered."

Tegg attempted some measure of self-control. He slowed his thoughts down, separated them, and dealt with them one by one.

His thoughts tended to leap ahead of him, making the present something he saw only upon reflection, so that much of his life felt more like instant replay than the real thing. He lived life as much from recalling that which had just occurred as he did from experiencing it, making him feel like two different people-one moving through life and the other attempting to come to grips with his actions.

Could he allow an opportunity like this to pass him by? On the other hand, could he protect himself well enough from the possible dangers? "Listen," the other man said, "you're my needle man for Felix tonight. Don't forget you agreed to do that for me. So, what if I got this guy to meet us out there?"

Tegg had forgotten about this commitment. It rattled him-it wasn't like him to forget anything, even something so distasteful.

Maybeck added, "Listen, I could run point for you. Get this Chink out there ahead of you. Check him out. Keep you close by. If it's cool, I give you a shout on the car phone. if you don't hear from me by, say, nine o'clock, I get rid- of him and you hang until it's clear to come in and help me out with Felix. One thing about these fights, we got bitchin' security. If this guy's trouble, he's gonna wish he stayed home. Know what I mean?"

Tegg suddenly realized that in surgery his thoughts did not get ahead of him-his hands kept up effortlessly. He wondered if this explained his love of surgery.

He said to this other man, "What if he doesn't like the setup? I sure as hell wouldn't meet somebody at a dog fight! I've never even been to a dog fight."

"Hey, it's not our problem. Okay?

This is pay or play," he said misquoting things he knew nothing about. This man's vocal drivel always set Tegg on edge. "If he doesn't want to show, tough titties for him."

Tegg contemplated all of this while the other man gathered the plastic bags of contaminated waste. "Set it up," Tegg ordered. He turned and punched the large throw-bar that released the walkin's outside latch. He walked slowly down the hall, pensive and concentrating. He sensed that everything had changed. The closer he drew to the examination room, the more put off he was by the thought of cats and dogs. Boring, meaningless work.

Earlier in the day, he had simply wanted to do his job well-get through another day. Have some fun. Earn some good money, listen to some Wagner, all the while working a blade.

Now all he wanted was to meet this unidentified man. He glanced at his watch impatiently: hours to go.

He looked in on Pamela Chase, who was just bringing up another set of X-rays. Ever the diligent assistant. "We didn't get much on our first series," she explained. "You do good work." She glowed at this comment. Tegg knew exactly how to play her, how to feed her needs. She fed his in her own way-her unending compliments, her adoring glances. Other ways, too.

He stepped up to the X-rays. Child's play, compared to the real work that lay ahead of him. He could feel her sweet breath warm against his cheek as she leaned in to share in this exploration. He moved over so that she could see better and allowed his hand to gently brush her bottom, as if accidentally. She didn't flinch, her eyes searching out the elusive fracture in the fuzzy black-and-gray images.

Besides, he thought, self-amused, she knew this contact was no accident. She loved it. She loved everything about him.

"Whose turn is it to heat up dinner?" Boldt asked his wife, feeling a little apprehensive about how to steer the conversation to the subject of his returning to work. How to negotiate his future with her. They had found a routine that worked. He was about to challenge all that, and he knew before he began that flexibility was not her long suit. She was changing clothes, out of her executive-banker look and into some blue jeans and a cotton sweater she had tossed onto the bed. It was past seven-he was starved.

Liz answered, "I suppose it's mine, but I refuse. Let's go out."

"What about Einstein?" Boldt asked, looking over at Miles, who was fighting to keep his eyes open, not wanting to miss anything. All so new to him. Each of his expressions meant the world to Boldt: an inquisitive glance, a furrowed brow. Simple pleasures. "Okay," she said. "You win. Take-out, and I'm buying. If I make the call, will you pick it up?" He asked, "Have you noticed how much we negotiate everything?"

"Chinese, Vietnamese, Thai? You name it."

"Fish and chips," he suggested. "Too fattening." "You said I could name it."

"I lied." She patted her belly. "How about sushi?"

"Where's your wallet?"

"The front hall I think."

"Make it a big order.

I'm starved, and that stuff never stays with me."

"And get some beer, would you?"

While Boldt was gone, Liz had put Miles to sleep. When they finished eating, Boldt caught her hand and led her out to the living room where he sat her down. It was after nine. "The IRS shut down The joke last night. Confiscated all the books." "The IRS? So that's what's bothering you."

"They want to talk to us."

Disbelief came over her eyes. "Us? Oh, God, I hope they don't know about the cash income."

"I don't see what else it could be."

"Oh, shit. I signed that return."

"We both signed the return."

"But cash? Cash under the table?

How could they ... ? Goddamn that Bear Berenson. He must have tried to deduct it. Damn it all. You realize the penalty we'll face? Oh, my God.- "And The joke is closed down. I can look around for other work, but no one's going to pay me like Bear did."

"Oh, God. You realize the penalty? I wonder if they can send you to jail for something like this."

"Money's all they want. It's all anybody wants."

"But that's just the point!

What money? Every available cent we have is going to pay off the hospital."

Boldt didn't want her thinking about this. He glanced back toward the room where Miles now slept and remembered the complications of his delivery as if it had been yesterday. Would he ever forget that night? Could any price tag be put on having them both alive? "We'll manage."

"Manage? You don't do the books. I do. We won't manage, that's just the point. We need that income. Are they going to audit us? Is that what you mean? Oh, God, I don't believe this."

He hated himself for manipulating her like this, for doing to her what in her own way Daphne had done to him, but on this subject Liz had Special Handling written all over her. "I heard an awful story today about a girl named Cindy Chapman."

"They nail you for unreported income, you know. You know that, don't you?" "She's a sixteen-year-old runaway."

As he had hoped, Liz momentarily forgot about the IRS. "What are you talking about?"

"They stole her kidney," Boldt explained.

"Who did?" she gasped. "Worse than that: She hemorrhaged. She almost died. Sixteen-years old," he repeated.

"Lou?" There it was, that flicker of recognition he had been expecting, but dreading. "If I go active again, I'm eligible for a loan through the credit union."

Her eyes grew sad and then found his. She didn't speak, just stared. Boldt said, "We'd have to juggle Miles. I realize that. Maybe day care," he said tentatively, expecting an eruption.

Instead, she turned a ghastly pale. She rose, her back to him, and walked into their bedroom. She shut the door behind her, closing him out. He loved this woman. Her sense of humor. Her courage. The way she laughed when it was least expected. The way she reached into the shower to test the temperature. Little things, all of them important. The way she hummed to herself when she didn't know he could hear. Her sense of organization. The silly presents she would show up with on no particular occasion. Her pursuit of pleasure. The way she made love when she was really happy.

He could hear the radio through the closed door. The news. The weather. More rain. They couldn't take any more rain. The flooding was as bad as it had ever been. Suicide rate was up: bungie jumping off Aurora Bridge, without the bungie cords.

He looked around for something to do. Lately, Miles, this woman, and The Big joke had been his whole life. Now he found himself thinking about Cindy Chapman and Daphne Matthews.

Maybe he'd try to talk her into this in the morning. Maybe he would admit to a promise already made. Maybe Cindy Chapman was an isolated case. Maybe there wasn't some guy out there carving up runaways after all. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He went to the bedroom door and opened it cautiously. "Mind if I join you?"

She was on the bed, her jeans unbuttoned. She shrugged. "More rain," she said, as if nothing had come before. "Yeah, I heard."

She patted the comforter beside her. He knew that look.

Forgiving. Cautiously optimistic. He loved her for it.

Boldt stepped inside, kicking off his shoes, and shut the door.

A hundred yards down the dark, narrow, overgrown lane, Elden Tegg encountered a truck blocking his way. A huge man with an untrimmed beard asked him his name 'checked his driver's license, consulted a list, and finally backed out of the way, allowing him to pass.

He drove under a canopy formed by the limbs of trees. The road was all mud and leaves. He parked the Trooper amid a group of battered pickup trucks and hurried through the rain toward the large barn. A yellow light escaped the slats in the wood. He pulled open the door and stepped inside.

He smelled cigarettes, hay, manure and musty, rotting wood. He smelled a metallic, salty odor as well, one that as a veterinarian he knew only too well: animal blood. He stepped into shadow and studied the scene before him.

The fighting ring, a wooden box ten-feet square, had been hastily constructed out of gray barn wood. It occupied an area in the middle of the wide dirt aisle between the stalls. A hayloft, cloaked in darkness, loomed above them. The building's only light came from a single bare bulb suspended directly above the center of the ring. It cast harsh shadows on the rough faces of the nearly twenty men in attendance.

This scene repulsed him. Pitting dogs to the death. He repaired life; he did not waste it.

A head in the crowd turned and faced him. The same man from earlier in the day, Donnie Maybeck. His gold Rolex winked at Tegg as it caught the light. He approached Tegg with an exaggerated stride. He smiled, flashing his ragged gray-brown teeth at Tegg like an old whore lifting her skirt at a would-be John. "Are we set?" Tegg asked. "Everything's cool." He indicated the loft with a nod. "But before we get to that, we gotta do Felix."

Spurred by an act of local government that amounted to canine genocide for all pit bulls, Tegg had rescued Felix and others from certain death in favor of lives devoted to science and research. These dogs-his creations, in a way-were now hidden out at Tegg's farm, where he maintained a surgical research laboratory. As much as Tegg hated the idea, the only way to fully test the success of the latest surgery was to fight this dog in the ring. Although Maybeck had assured him that there was always someone "competent" on hand to sew up any inflicted wounds-a so-called needle man-Tegg did not want anybody else doctoring the dog. Besides, he thought, this dog's insides would only confuse another vet, and raise suspicions about Tegg's practices. "I'm not here to fight him, only to provide medical attention if he needs it," Tegg reminded. "He's up next," Maybeck explained. "Up against Stormin' Norman. You understand. Norman ain't lost no fight in six go's. But I'm gonna need your help, Doc. You're the only one can handle him."

"Where is he?" Tegg asked. Donnie Maybeck led him to a cream-colored airline travel cage perched high on a hay bale. The animal inside bared its razor-sharp teeth and growled ferociously at Donnie, who grinned back with his own ragged teeth, pressing his face close to the grid of bars on the door, teasing the dog with a growl. The pit bull charged the door so strongly that the cage nearly slid off the bale. "Don't taunt him," Tegg protested. At the sound of Tegg's voice, the dog's behavior reversed. It quieted and pushed its wet nose tightly into the bars of the cage toward Tegg. "See? This here is your dog, Doe. You're the one who saved him-and he knows it. You gotta help me do this."

"I showed you how to work the collar.

What kind of fool can't work a shock collar? You can push a button, can't you?" it was a rare display of spleen for Tegg, a terrible sign of weakness. He regretted it immediately. Maybeck did not take well to denigrating comments about his intelligence or lack thereof.

Maybeck's eyes hardened. "I don't want to use no collar before the fight. it might weaken him, and I would hate to lose him."

The idea that Felix might lose cut Tegg to the quick. Maybeck was right-this was no time to shock the dog.

Tegg kept the shock collar's remote device in hand as he led Felix from the cage, leashed him, and led him toward the ring. To Tegg's delight, Felix behaved impeccably under escort. Maybeck followed, but at a distance.

Once alongside the ring, Tegg cradled Felix in his arms and removed the shock collar. Felix's opponent, Stormin' Norman, waited in the far corner. Around his throat he carried a dozen healed scars of a warrior.

A three-hundred-pound man with a beard of barbed wire peered out from beneath a John Deere farmer's cap and declared solemnly, "To the death."

The announcement sobered and silenced the spectators. The rain drummed on the roof. The air went electric with anticipation. Felix fixed his attention on his opponent. "I can't do this," Tegg told Maybeck. "Even in the name of research."

He was spared any such decision. As the other dog was released, Felix broke loose and dove into the ring. The dogs exploded at one another. A roar went up from the crowd. Tegg withdrew to the shadows.

He suddenly felt as if he was being watched. He looked around.

No one. Again he scanned the barn's interior and again could identify no one interested in him. Then he looked up into the hayloft.

There in the soft shadows stood a man dressed in a business suit, his full attention focused on Tegg, who recognized him immediately as Wong Kei, an infamous Seattle mob boss. His face was constantly in the news. Though this was a different face tonight: pale skin stretched tightly across sharp bones. Hard, spiritless eyes. A man desperately sad.

An explosion of applause from the audience signaled the end of the fight, Maybeck tugged on Tegg's arm and pulled him toward the ring. Felix was circling the bloodied corpse of his failed opponent. "Not a scratch on him, Doe. You understand? He dropped Norman like he was a toy poodle. Norman! Not a scratch! You're a fucking genius, Doc. A real fucking genius."

Expressionless, disgusted, Tegg collected the dog and returned him to the travel cage. Tegg glanced up into the loft. He told Maybeck, "I'll see him now."

By the time they reached the hayloft via a set of rickety stairs, and Tegg had submitted himself to a frisksearch by one of Wong Kei's two stocky bodyguards, another contest had begun below.

There were no introductions; a man of Wong Keis reputation needed none. In and out of the courts-always acquitted. They sat opposite each other on hay bales. Maybeck and the bodyguards remained standing.

Wong Kei got to the point. "My wife is fifty-seven years old.

She is suffering from unstable angina that will shortly claim her life if nothing is done. She had her first myocardial infarction two years ago. As I am sure you are aware," he said venomously, "heart transplants are refused to anyone over the age of fifty-five. My wife's case is made worse by both a rare blood type-AB-negative-and the fact that she's an extremely small woman.

"I arranged a 'private' transplant surgeon some time ago. A man willing to help. He's out of Vancouver. He attempted to locate an unregistered donor heart but to date has been unsuccessful. He recommended I contact your associate. I understand you have found him a kidney from time to time. I must admit that I am not terribly comfortable turning to a veterinarian for a human heart. That is one of the reasons I wanted this meeting: to meet you." He paused as the crowd below erupted in cheers. "I make no promises," Tegg stated. "I have done my homework," the Asian said. "I would not be here had I not. As a veterinarian you have few equals."

"In a situation such as your wife's-one of life and death-time is the real enemy. Time forces certain decisions. I'm perfectly aware of that. How long does your wife have?" he asked, taking charge. But time wasn't Tegg's real enemy. Internally, a dialogue of a different sort began: Now that the opportunity had presented itself, how far would he go to erase a mistake he had made nearly twenty years earlier? Could he knowingly sacrifice a human being? "She will be strong enough to move in a few days."

"To Vancouver?"

"Yes. "Days?

"If I Put MY wife's life into your hands, I will expect results," he announced sternly. "if you can't help me, you must say so now. If it's a question of money ... " Tegg waved his hand to stop the man. He did not want Maybeck to hear the amount being offered. A heart was worth no less than five-hundred thousand. If Wong Kei had indeed done his homework, as he claimed, then he knew that much. "I'm sure you'll be generous," Tegg said. The money accounted for only a part of his stake in this. There was more to be gained here. "Are you interested?"

"Extremely."

"May I count on you?"

Tegg glanced briefly at Maybeck. The man looked frightened. You didn't fail a man of Wong Kei's reputation. The mobster was telling him that much by just the look in his eye. He wanted a commitment.

Tegg answered, "I will have to do my homework, hmm? We'll have to see what's available." He pointed to a file folder on a bale of hay. "Her records?" Seize control: That's how you dealt with people like Wong Kei. The Asian passed him the folder. "We will begin looking for a donor immediately. How do I reach you?"

Wong Kei removed a business card, wrote a phone number on the back of it, and handed it to Tegg.

"you'll be hearing from me," Tegg said confidently.

They didn't shake hands. Wong Kei rose, crossed the darkened loft and disappeared down the stairs.

Maybeck sat in the shadow of a post. "We'll have to zoom the donor to get the heart. Am I right?" Maybeck asked.

Believing Maybeck was nervous about this, Tegg returned to a justification decided upon many months earlier: "If one human life is sacrificed to save many, then what harm is done? If not one, but four, five, six lives are saved, does this not balance the scales?"

Maybeck answered, "I just mean in terms of what we gotta do. We go zooming someone, this had better be big money."

Reading the file in the limited light, Tegg spoke without looking up, "Check the database for an AB-NEGATIVE. She'll have to be small: a hundred pounds tops. All you do is bring me the donor. You'll be rich after this. Fifty thousand for your part. That's what you want, isn't it?"

Through the cavity in the hayloft came the chorus of barking dogs. Among them, Tegg could hear Felix as clearly as if he alone were barking. Felix's superiority in the ring confirmed Tegg's brilliance. There would be more tests, of course; there always were. Life, it seemed, was one long test. Victory came not from a single win but from a series of accomplishments.

He stopped to take one last look at Donnie Maybeck, who still hadn't moved. Mention of that number had numbed him. just right.

As Tegg descended the stairs, he felt exhilarated. This was his chance to erase the slate, to prove something to himself, to give something back, He intended to make the most of it.

juggling his household chores and his role as Mr. Mom, Boldt visited two area blood banks Friday morning with his son Miles in tow. It was not until the second interview that he learned that the donation of whole blood was strictly voluntary. He had neglected to raise this question at the first location. Plasma centers paid, not blood banks.

Bloodlines Incorporated, Seattle's only plasma center, occupied the back half of the ground floor of a former First Avenue warehouse which had, years before, been converted into retail space, then a dry cleaner/laundromat. Boldt remembered them both. A uniform rental shop now occupied the half that fronted First Avenue. Mannequins dressed as nurses and security guards stood at inanimate mock attention in the display windows. The entrance to the plasma center was from the side street, up four cement steps, through a set of glass doors stenciled in blue with the name Bloodlines as well as a parent corporation, Lifeways Inc.-which in finer print turned out to be a subsidiary of The Atlanta Charter and Group Health Foundation. Boxes inside boxes, a reminder of Liz's banking world.

Reception held two orange-vinyl padded benches, each fronted by an oak-veneer coffee table stained with white rings and littered with thumb- worn, outdated copies of People Magazine. A pair of dusty-leafed silk ficus trees stood forlorn in opposing corners. The dirt bucket that held the closest one had been used as an ashtray. A large sign thanked you for not smoking. A Coke machine, its light burned out, hummed from across the expanse of institutional gray carpet. There were several doors leading from this room. The one most often used, Boldt saw-noticing the accumulated dirt around the doorknob-was to the left of reception, a high counter attended by a matronly woman wearing a nurse's uniform that had probably been rented from next door. Behind her were shelves filled with files, marked with colorful alphabetized index tabs. Her name tag read, Mildred Hatch. She looked tired, suspicious and unhappy. A couple of Gary Larson cartoons were taped up for everyone to see. "You been with us before?" she asked. She was apparently used to a regular clientele. Boldt's face didn't jog her memory. "I'd like to speak to someone in administration, if I may." Miles nearly got his hand on one of the cartoons. Boldt arranged himself to prevent another attempt. "Concerning?"

"One of your donors."

"Not possible. That's strictly confidential information. Can't help you.- She pointed out a paragraph on a photocopied flyer, a stack of which waited to the right of a computer terminal.

Boldt explained, "I'm not trying to find out who the person is.

I already know that. I just need a few questions answered.

Someone in administration, if You Please."

"I don't Please.

Not easily," she warned. She found a pen. "Your name?" He told her. "Your company?" Boldt said, "Seattle Police Department." It shocked her. She flushed. "Why didn't you say so?" she asked angrily. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to." "The baby threw me off," she explained. "You always lug her around?"

"Him," Boldt corrected.

She looked closely at Miles for the first time. Briefly, she softened. He knew in an instant that she didn't have any kids; and by her ring finger, no husband either. "Name of the donor?" she asked. "That's strictly confidential," Boldt said.

Her eyes flashed cold like green glass marbles. She had plucked her eyebrows thin and bleached the hair above her lip. A real beauty. She had missed with her eye shadow. "Cynthia Chapman," Boldt told her. "The donor's name is Cynthia Chapman." She consulted her terminal, striking the keyboard with blunt, stubby fingers. When she paused, there was something in her eyes that confirmed she had found the name. "She's in there?" Boldt asked, his heart racing.

The woman didn't answer. She picked up the phone and spoke too softly for Boldt to hear. By the time she started her third call he said, "Today, if possible."

A street person entered, a bum in his mid-fifties, although a quick glance and the clothes might have fooled you. Not quite pressed but not all that wrinkled. Not exactly clean-shaven but not disgusting by any means. It was his worn-heeled, unpolished shoes that gave him away. That and the pungent scent of a cheap after-shave which attempted to cover a week without a shower. Boldt watched as this man located the clipboard and ran the attached pen through the multiple-choice boxes with the practiced efficiency of a regular. The man knew the routine. He signed it, handed it to Miss Mildred Hatch, and headed for the Coke machine. Blood sugar, Boldt thought. They drink the pops to keep from getting light-headed. He seemed a man more accustomed to Muscatel. He headed over to the orange seats and a back issue of People.

Boldt wondered how they guaranteed a clean blood supply. Then he took one of the flyers and read, while Miss Hatch continued her two jobs simultaneously, the phone pasted in the crook of her neck, the bum's application form being studied boxby-box, answer-by-answer. The blood was thoroughly tested for drugs, alcohol and AIDS, the flyer explained, a process that took four to seven days. Donors were personally interviewed each time they gave blood. By signing the form you were verifying your personal activities, sexual preferences and your working knowledge of the condition of your blood. Anyone caught lying would be permanently refused acceptance by any branch of Bloodlines. The plasma was paid for only after it had cleared the testing labs. They paid fifteen dollars a pint. You could donate every forty-eight hours but no more than three times a week. It seemed impossible. "How can a person give blood three times a week?" he blurted out.

Without looking up from her terminal, Mildred Hatch answered automatically, "We don't take your blood, only the plasma. The red blood cells are returned to you during the process. The plasma is removed by a centrifuge. Your body replaces the plasma within twenty-four hours." She glanced at him then, as if to say, "Don't you know anything? Boldt folded up the flyer and slipped it in behind Miles, who chose that moment to become vocal. Boldt found himself bouncing around the room in an effort to settle the boy down, the waiting donor's attention fixed on him in a puzzled expression. Embarrassed, Boldt found the Men's Room and prepared Miles a bottle. Little murmurs of satisfaction, little slurps of joy.

Mildred Hatch signaled the man, who went through the more-often used door A, the source of the medicinal odors that permeated this place. Five minutes later, following two more extended phone calls, Miss Hatch gave Boldt the nod, permitting him to enter the inner sanctum which, as it turned out, was through door B-just to the left of the Coke machine. He helped steady his son's bottle and found his way down a narrow corridor flanked by several workers tending computer work stations. Was the database of their donors available to any one of them? Was one of these persons directly or indirectly involved in the harvests? With this the only plasma bank in the city and a policeman's knowledge that something connected the four runaways, Boldt experienced the electricity of anticipation. He didn't believe much in "sixth-sense" phenomena, but there was no denying the quick beating of his heart and the internal sense that there was evidence to be uncovered here.

He put questions to a Ms. Dundee, a two-seater black woman with no neck and huge breasts. Her hands were swollen like some corpses Boldt had seen, and she wheezed when she spoke. She guarded all her explanations, and smiled in the same contrived manner as a used-car salesman. Her face was so bloated he could barely see any eyes and so round and wide that she seemed more a caricature of herself. Miles didn't like her either. On first sight of her he started crying and became a pest. He pushed his bottle aside demanding Boldt's repeated attention. An ever cautious Ms. Dundee requested Boldt's police identification.

Boldt went through the ruse of pretending to search for it, realizing at that moment that events had led him to the inevitable. Would she call downtown and ask after him? Whether she did or not, Boldt now had no choice but to pay Lieutenant Phil Shoswitz a visit. Technically, he was impersonating a police officer. It seemed ludicrous to him, but he could be arrested for it. "Just answer me this, please," he said to the huge woman. "Is Cynthia Chapman in your database or not?" She nodded reluctantly. Boldt felt a flood of relief. Curiosity surged through him. So many questions to ask. Could the harvester have selected Cindy from this database? Had he kidnapped her, or was a child desperate enough to sell her blood also willing to sell a kidney? Were the names of Dixie's other three "victims" in this database as well? "Does Bloodlines keep an active database of all its previous donors?" he asked.

She viewed him suspiciously. Their eyes met. "This can all be done formally," he informed her. "Warrants, subpoenas. Attorneys. Press. Have you ever been to our city police department, Ms. Dundee?"

"There is a database of all our donors, yes."

Boldt withdrew his notebook from his coat pocket. "I have three other names I'd like to check," he said. He supplied her with the names of the three runaways-Julia Walker, Glenda Sherman and Peter Blumenthal-all of whom had been missing an organ at the time of death. Ms. Dundee entered these names into her computer terminal.

A moment later she said, "Nope. None of them."

"Damn it all!" he protested in disappointment. Then a thought occurred to him: "How far back do your records go?"

"A donor is kept active twelve months. The database is swept monthly."

"Swept?"

"Cleaned up.- "And what happens to those records?" he asked. "Our data processing department in our home office maintains a complete donor list. That's required by the federal government in case health problems arise in the blood supply." She added, as a way of showing off the care they took, "You can't donate without a social security number, a current address and a phone number."

Boldt, having witnessed the street person in the reception area, wondered how careful they were in obtaining accurate identification, but he didn't press the issue. "Can you check these three names with the home office?"

Another expression of disapproval. Boldt's patience was running thin. How much could he tell her? "This isn't about traffic tickets, Ms. Dundee. A little cooperation now could go a long way toward protecting your company's image later. This branch's image."

"Just what kind of trouble are you talking about?"

"Why don't you make that call for me, and let's see where it leads? Then maybe we'll discuss it."

A few minutes and a brief phone conversation later, she informed him, "They'll call back. It won't take long."

Boldt used the down time to press for more information. Miles had dozed off. "How many of your employees would have access to your donor database?" he asked. She hesitated, unsure how much to share with him. "A woman was kidnapped, Ms. Dundee. Kidnapping is a federal offense. The kidnapping may or may not be related to her association with Bloodlines. Am I getting through?"

She answered, "At this branch, about two dozen of us would have access to our client base, maybe more. Hard copies of the files are kept behind registration."

"And is registration manned constantly?"

"Constantly? No, I would doubt it. No."

"You said 'this' branch? How many are there?"

"In Seattle? just this one."

"And the others?"

"We're a regional corporation, Mr. ... Boldt. Twenty-four branches in eleven states. I can give you the literature if you want. Or I could put you in touch with our home office in San Francisco."

"The database would contain a donor's blood type, would it not?"

"Blood groups. Of course."

"And personal information?"

"Meaning?"

d'you tell me. You mentioned home address. How about age?

Marital status?"

"All of those, yes."

"Accessible from any terminal?"

"No, the terminals deal with donors only by donor number. The personal information requires an access code. Only I have the access code, and only two terminals share the complete database: reception and mine. But there are the hard copies, as I mentioned, though they are locked up in a vault at night. We don't take our situation lightly, Lieutenant." "Sergeant," he corrected. "No, I'm sure you don't."

"We take client confidentiality quite seriously." Miles stirred. Boldt asked, "What if I entered a particular blood type into the computer. Would it be able to give me back the names of all those donors with that particular blood type? Can it sort that way?"

"You should talk to our data processing about that."

He hated these kinds of answers. "Back to your employees. How many of them do you know well?"

"Depends what you mean. I know them all. I hired them. I don't know about how well I know them."

"How long have you been with Bloodlines?" he asked.

"Me? Going' on nine years now."

"And your employees? Have any of them been with you, say, two or three years?"

She considered this. "Three or four, maybe. I could check for you if I had the home office's permission."

"And that would be up to me to obtain," he reasoned. "Yes, it would."

Miles was awake and quickly losing control. Boldt resigned himself to leaving. He tried a long shot. "Of those three or four long-time employees, one of them has shown a particular interest in your computer system. Which one would that be? Maybe he or she helps you out with the system now and then."

She appeared both surprised and impressed by what he'd said.

"You never did show me any identification," she reminded. "No, I didn't." He paused. "Which employee?" he repeated, sensing she had the name on the tip of her tongue. "I need that name."

Her phone rang, sparing her from answering. When she hung up, she faced him with a dazed expression. "That was your call.

The three names you gave me? They're all on our list. They were all clients of this office. Seattle. Were they kidnapped, too?"

Boldt repeated softly but severely, "I need the name of that employee. The one who helps you with the computer."

Ms. Dundee nodded ever so slightly, muttered, "I hate computers." She picked up her pen and wrote out the name: Connie Chi.

By five-thirty that afternoon, over one hundred cars had filled the lower parking area of the Broadmoor Golf Club. Mercedes, BMWS, Acuras, the occasional Cadillac and Olds. A spectacular turnout. in one corner of the enormous walled party tent, high-spirited kids dressed in Ralph Lauren's finest took turns, blindfolded, swinging a Louisville Slugger at a yellowand-black phiata in the shape of a toucan. Heaters hummed softly, the champagne flowed, and the conversation reached a feverish pitch that all but drowned out the announcer's running commentary on the dog show taking place just off the practice putting green. A string quartet was all set up on a small platform stage at the far end of the tent, the musicians, in their formal wear, sampling the buffet as they awaited the "special guest" and a cue from their hostess.

Dr. Elden Tegg moved through his guests agreeably, if not comfortably, taking their hands, making small talk-charming, flattering. He wore a navy blue cashmere sport coat, a turquoise Polo shirt, khakis, and brand new leather deck shoes. He glanced over at his wife, Peggy, and offered a soft, appreciative smile-everything was going well. Two weeks earlier, Peggy had turned forty; to look at her, you might have guessed thirty. She was in her element here, mingling with the top of the heap, rubbing elbows with the real power of the city.

The banner behind the buffet read: 3rd Annual Friends of Animals Benefit Tegg mentally ran down the list of the day's events: the dog trials, a small wine auction, an awards presentation, and then the special entertainment Peggy had arranged. A few of the members of the opera's board of directors were already here.

All of them had been invited. Tegg spotted James Hall and his wife, Julie, and crossed over to them. "This is a better turnout than even last year," Jim Hall said, shaking Tegg's hand. "You'll raise a fortune."

"You must stay for the entertainment, James." To his wife the man said, "The mystery musical guest. I've been hearing about this all week."

"Peggy's trying awfully hard to curry favor with the board, Elden. Don't you think?" Julie asked. She had a way of speaking her mind, of speaking the truth, that put you on the spot. "How's the art world?" Tegg asked her, attempting to steer her clear of his wife's ambitions. "Dodging the question, are we?" she replied.

One of the kids broke open the pfflata right then, sparing Tegg an embarrassing moment. Peggy most certainly was trying to win favor with the board. Julie knew it. Everyone knew it. But it wasn't the type of thing you talked about! He had personally paid to fly in the winner of the Milano Festival to sing two arias here today. The string quartet, also brought in specially, had wowed Aspen last August. It had cost him a fortune! If this didn't impress the board, nothing would, except perhaps the donation he was planning to make.

With the prospect of the heart harvest now on the immediate horizon, Tegg faced the difficult decision of what to do with the enormous sum of money it would generate. He could "buy" his wife a seat on the opera board, or he could "buy" himself a transplant practice in Brazil. He knew whom to pay off; he knew which wheels to grease. Elden Tegg, M.D., F.A.C.S. Her dream or his? Could he leave all this behind?

He excused himself and hurried over to the children who were collecting the candy that had spilled. His son, Albert, and his daughter, Britany, ran up to show him their take, offering it like pirates' treasure. A bunch of the children gathered at his feet, excited eyes sparkling. They wanted another pihata, another game. It gave him great pleasure to bring the children this kind of joy, to include them in the event this way. How could you possibly benefit animals without involving children? The two seemed fundamentally linked.

Tegg signaled his veterinary assistant, the plump d officious Pamela Chase, and turned the children over to her. Pin the Tail on the Zebra was next. Last Year some Democrats had complained about using a donkey.

Everywhere he went people called out softly, "Wonderful party!"

"Terrific event!"

"Having a great time, Elden!" He felt like Santa Claus, pleasing so many people at once.

He glanced out the door in time to see a collieelsie was her name-paraded on leash around the circle. As Dr. Elden Tegg, he had healed a gunshot wound to Elsie's humerus. Scanning the field of contestants, he recognized several animals as patients of his. He knew each by name, knew each case history in detail; in a way, he regarded them as members of his own family. He hoped that Elsie won something-if for no other reason than to prove his own expertise with a scalpel. In another vet's hands, she would have been a three-legged dog today.

His wife's nervous voice came from behind him. "It's going beautifully, don't you think?" He turned and kissed her. "Splendidly. The food is excellent. You've done a wonderful job."

"We might consider using these same caterers at our party next week. If we could get them. What do you think?"

I/Itts a great idea." This, he knew from the hopeful glint in her eye, was what she wanted to hear, so this was what he told her.

She kissed him lightly, as an excuse to whisper into his ear.

"Be nice to the Feldsteins. He's had prostate cancer, you know?"

"Alan has?" He relied on Peggy to keep him up on such things. How she kept it all straight was anybody's guess.

She reminded, "Alan is very close with Byron. He has his ear."

The aging Byron Endicott, who ran a multinational shipping company, was City Opera's chairman and someone Peggy would have to win over in order to be invited onto the board. "So, basically, what you're saying," he teased, "is I should avoid asking Alan what it feels like to be reamed with something slightly larger than a penlight."

She winced and chased a waving hand aimed at her from the crowd.

Tegg headed straight to Alan Feldstein. "Feeling better, Alan?

Hmm?"

"They got it all, I'm told. Nothing like the big C to get you thinking, I'll tell you that." He studied Tegg and said confidentially, "You're a doctor. How much of what you tell your patients is B.S.? I don't believe half of what my doctor tells me."

"my patients have four legs. We don't enter into a lot of conversation."

"I suppose not."

"Have you seen Byron this afternoon?"

"I don't believe he's here," Alan Feldstein said, stretching his neck. He added, "if you had a wife that young, would you be here?"

"Well, at least we know your operation was successful," Tegg whispered quietly to the man. Feldstein grinned. Tegg bailed out while he was still ahead.

He was on his way to check how Pamela was handling Pin the Tail on the Zebra when he spotted a leather jacket out of the corner of his eye. Maybeck pretending to be one of the public spectators of K dog show.

Tegg did his best to contain his anger. He brushed off several attempts to snag him, cut outside the tent, and walked over to stand beside the man, facing in the direction of the dog show. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "Connie found an AB-NEGATIVE in the database," Maybeck said softly, screening those horrible teeth from sight with his hand. "Ninety-five pounds. Single. She ain't been an active donor in over two years, but she's in the phone book--lives in Wallingford.Tegg experienced that weightless feeling in his stomach of being in an elevator that was falling too quickly. It was one thing to consider performing a heart harvest, another thing entirely to actually set it in motion. "Can you deliver?" Tegg inquired. They had never attempted a kidnapping. "This ain't pizza we're talking about."

"Don't toy with me, Donald," Tegg said, knowing how the man disliked the use of his proper name. "Are there any other AB-negs?" Tegg asked rhetorically, knowing AB-negative accounted for less than four percent of the population. He was one himself. They were extremely lucky to have found even a single match. "None.'/ "Age?"

"She'd be. Maybeck attempted to add in his head. It bothered Tegg it should take him so long. "About twenty-six."

"That's very good."

"Why you think I'm here? I know it's good."

"Look into it. Find out if it can be done."

"We can do it. I already got it figured. I been watching her place. Back door is fucking perfect for this."

Tegg didn't trust his assessment. Maybeck was more than likely blinded by the possible money. What wouldn't he risk for that? "But I'm gonna need your help."

"My help?" Tegg asked.

"You're the one who's going to get her to open the door for us."

Us? Tegg was thinking. Their relationship was symbiotic: Tegg needed a flunky, a go-between with the runaways and with Connie Chi at Bloodlines; Maybeck liked the idea of large amounts of cash for relatively little work. But us? Tegg seldom thought of them as any kind of team. It was an arrangement, was all often an unpleasant one at that. "I'm telling you, Doc. I got it all worked out. We go for it tomorrow morning."

Tomorrow? Tegg wanted this chance at a heart. But how badly?

How far was he willing to go? He glanced at his watch; he would have to make arrangements with Wong Kei. Could he arrange a meeting for later tonight?

it started to sprinkle. Rain would put a quick end to the dog show.

Maybeck said, "One phone call from you to this girl, Doc, and she's not only going to let us into her home, but she's going to make sure no one else is there. You want me to tell you about it?"

Tomorrow? Tegg was still thinking. "I'll call you," he said, turning and walking away. Then he changed his mind and headed toward his Trooper parked alongside the Pro Shop. He could use the cellular to call Wong Kei.

He could put this in motion immediately.

Dr. Ronald Dixon had something to tell him, and it pertained to Daphne's investigation-Boldt knew that much from the way Dixie had phrased the unexpected invitation to this dinner show.

The entrance to Dimiti's jazz Alley is, appropriately enough, down an alley, opposite a parking garage. Boldt parked his seven-year-old Toyota and crossed the alley, feeling out of place. He was accustomed to The Big joke's sticky floors and chairs with uneven legs. This place was aimed more at the BMW crowd.

Dixie's wife had allegedly been called to an emergency session of the local Girl Scout chapter, freeing the ticket he now handed to Boldt as the two met at the front door. Boldt didn't believe the story for a minute. Nancy Dixon didn't like clubs. That was just Dixie's way of sparing Boldt the fifteen-dollar ticket. Dixie confirmed his status as a regular when the two men were greeted warmly by the host and shown immediately to one of the best tables. Dixon placed a flight bag on the floor but kept it within reach. He could have checked it upstairs along with their coats. Why hadn't he?

Boldt ordered a glass of milk from the waiter who delivered a Scotch for Dixie-they knew his drink. The house began to fill. Good-looking women with good-looking guys. Computer whiz kids and aerospace experts. Older couples who remembered 78s and Big Noise From Winnetka-false teeth, false hair, but real lives. A couple of smokers relegated to the distant seats under the air vents. Bread roll baskets passing by in a blur. Nylons. Even a few spike heels. God, it was good to get out now and then, good to be out with Dixie again. "I bet it's been a year since I've been here," Boldt said. "Kids do that. it'll change."

"I hope not. I like things the way they are." Some part of Boldt, in spite of his rampant curiosity, wanted Dixie to leave that bag on the floor, wanted to keep the conversation personal, and off whatever that bag contained. "I want to tell you a story," Dixie announced. Boldt's skin prickled with anticipation.

"What happens in my line of work as in yours is that cases come and go. Some are solved, some are filed. Some go dormant, though they never quite leave your mind." He sampled the Scotch and clearly approved. "Every now and then something triggers you, something goes off in your brain, and you think: "I've seen this before." or "Didn't I hear somebody talking about something like this?" or "I know this is familiar to me." You know what I'm talking about. It happens to all of us."

Boldt nodded. He felt impatient and restless. "Cases overlap," he went on. Boldt fidgeted with his spoon, barely containing himself. "It happens all the time-more often than seems possible. There are reasons for such overlaps: There are only a limited number of murderers in King County at any one time-at least we hope so-more often than not, a relatively small number given the population base. We average less than ten in any given month. Sometimes zero. Right? From my viewpoint, it means there's a good possibility-even a probability-that any two bodies discovered around the same time, or in the same area, or relating to a similar cause of unnatural death may in fact be the work of the same person. It takes a certain jump in logic, however, to immediately reach that conclusion in this particular case, but that's my job, isn't it? Damn right it is. That's exactly what I'm here for. And my job is to pass along my concerns to the police if and when such suspicions bear investigation. In this instance, you, my friend, are the police, and I'll explain why."

"Nearly six months ago now," he continued, "a man carrying a brown paper bag arrived unannounced at our offices requesting to see "whoever's in charge." That's me, of course. He was of average height, in his early forties, with graying curly hair.

e was of a slight build-a hundred and forty-five Pounds maybe-the kind of guy who stays thin from an excess of nervous energy. You've met a dozen just like him. He was wearing a suit-a nice suit. This was his lunch hour. He was a corporate attorney by trade, name of Carsman.

"Mr. Carsman was a hunter. A bird hunter. Talked about not liking to kill. Talked about no one understanding hunting except other hunters. Said he liked to listen to the wind blow, the rain fall. "The rain?" I asked. "Is that why you're here?" He said no, it was on account of his dog. His dog? I verified that, then he lifted this paper bag, this grocery bag, the top of which was choked down tight so it looks like an old man's neck. He'd been sitting there holding it between his knees. I'm starting to think this guy is over the top and I'm part of his plan somehow. I'm starting to wish I carry some kind of revolver in my desk. I'm about to come out of my chair when he hoists this bag onto my desk. Thump, it goes. That thump worried me because I knew that sound: bone. I'm thinking it's a head maybe. He says he wasn't sure what to do with something like this. He said Stu Coleman's a neighbor of his. I know Stu from the state lab. Stu's all right. Stu told him to bring it to me. I asked him if I could see the bone. That threw him, but like I said: I knew that sound. There's no mistaking the sound of a bone on your desk." "Whatever you say," Boldt said.

His palms were moist. He wanted to order his dinner. He wanted Dixie to stop with his storytelling and get to the point, but Dixie spent a lot of hours with the dead, and he appreciated someone alive to talk to when he got the chance. "He was hunting in a very remote location, timberland northeast of the city. He shoots a bird-a blue grouse, I think it was-and he sends his dog after it. Dog disappears a long time. When he comes back-the dog, that is-he has ..." Dixie leaned over with some effort. Boldt heard the sound of a zipper. The bag. Dixie righted himself saying " ... this in his mouth."

Dixon let the large bone down gently onto the table. To him, it was perfectly normal to show someone a bone-a human femur. Big and unmistakable. To the people passing by their table, it proved a source of great curiosity-and for some, disgust.

Boldt studied it, turning it over repeatedly, and said, "You could have waited until I ordered my dinner."

"After a little bit of searching the stream, he found this as well," Dixon informed him, placing another, much smaller bone on the table. "This is the one that interests you-it's a rib."

"What if I was planning on ordering barbecue?"

"I thought Liz had you eating vegetarian."

"Who told you that?"

"Word gets around."

"Well ... What if I am?"

"Then you're not ordering barbecue," Dixon said.

The second Scotch arrived. This was followed by a dinner waiter whose attention kept drifting to the two bones. Boldt ordered the Greek salad. Dixon just to be spiteful-ordered a rich pasta with smoked turkey and prosciutto.

When the waiter left, Boldt handled the rib. "I'm supposed to be interested in this?"

"Yes, you are, It's human. just like the femur. Just like you." Dixie stared him down. "I took a personal interest in locating the rest of the corpse. Human bones discovered in such an isolated area suggest a buried body and buried bodies seem to be epidemic these days. The discovery of any human remains has to be investigated if for no other reason than that it is illegal to bury a corpse in the watershed area where Carsman's dog discovered the bone. Maybe you remember Monty, my assistant, Lewis Montgomery? He's our forensic anthropologist-and he's very good. Monty coordinated a search team using Boy Scout troops because at the time Search and Rescue wouldn't touch it."

Boldt interrupted, "Boy Scouts?" Dixie ignored him. "Nothing turned up and the case was filed under Unsolveds. I haven't spoken to Monty about the bones since. He and I ran some tests on them back when Carsman turned them over to us. Measurement and calcification tests indicated this femur had once belonged to a woman between the ages of eighteen and twenty-eight. The pelvis, if it can be found, will not only confirm this but will also tell us whether or not this woman had children." --Dixon continued "To formally identify a person from his or her bones, one needs more bones than this, and a lot of luck. A young woman in her mid-twenties, buried fifty miles from nowhere suggests the obvious to me - - ."

"Homicide," Boldt finished for him.

He toyed with the partial bone on the table. "Look at the rib, would you?" Boldt studied the rib more closely, taking it into his hands and spinning it around. The waiter arrived with their meals. Boldt moved his arms to accommodate the man, who remained fascinated by the bones. He bumped a water glass, nearly spilling it. The waiter offered ground pepper, which both men declined, and he left, backing away, still fascinated.

Boldt ran his index finger along the square end of the bone.

"Some kind of surgical technique?"

"Interesting, isn't it?"

Boldt waited him out. "We use gardening shears. They work the best."

"We?" Boldt asked. "My office," Dixon replied. "For the autopsies," he clarified. "You've seen me use them; you just don't remember."

"But this was no autopsy," Boldt said. "I have some serious hunches about that rib, about this skeleton, and the young woman it once danced inside. Once slept inside.

The woman inside whom it grew and developed. My office closed the case' Another department could reopen it." He stabbed some of the salad. "You're the investigator."

"Boy Scouts. What did you expect?"

"We had some good people leading them.

Nothing wrong with young eyes, young legs. That's rough country out there."

Boldt asked, "Did they look up river for the rest of her?"

"Of course. And found nothing. But there must be some way to find her."

"You want my advice?"

"I want more than your advice. I want your participation. How would you go about it?"

"I'd talk to the experts. Water Resources or Army Corps of Engineers. Someone responsible for flood predictions, for the way water would move a bone like that. We had some heavy rains last fall. Was that six months ago? I think it was. Those rains let up right after Miles was born. That's how I measure the world now, you know? In terms of when my boy was born." Dixie said, "People bury bodies along rivers for two reasons.

The wet soil speeds decay-7Boldt interrupted, "And it's easier to dig in."

"Matthews showed you the autopsy files on those three runaways. I've put in a request for the tissue samples from those cases. But this ... I had forgotten all about this case." He touched the long femur that remained between them on the table just as a young man in his twenties passed, noticed the bone and nudged his girlfriend.

"Oh, look. They have leg-o-man tonight." She giggled.

Boldt did not laugh. He was staring intently at Dixon.

"Patterns, my friend. We're in the patterns business-cops and interior decorators. This bone," he said, shifting his attention to the rib, "never healed. Never had time to heal. See the different color here? That means it was buried within a few days of the operation. Oh, yes: operation. This woman was cut open, either to heal her or to steal from her. But not at a hospital, not as part of the system. Quite possibly it killed her, if she wasn't dead already. Cut open by a surgeon-someone who has done enough rib work to use snippers instead of the medical school tools we're told to use. Snippers work better. Those runaways, the files I gave Matthews-Walker-, Sherman, Blumenthal-they were also cut open by a surgeon. The same guy? The same reason? He wasn't after a kidney, I can tell you that. Lung or liver, those are your choices, the way he cut that rib. Are all these the work of the same doctor? Patterns. We both know that it's patterns that hang these guys. We're all-every one of us-victims of our own inescapable patterns."

inescapable patterns Boldt thought. He examined the bones once again. "An organ harvest?"

"It's a strong possibility. We have a lot of questions to answer: How long ago was she buried? Who was she? What procedure was done? We need the rest of her, Lou, or a good portion thereof - Why did he bury this one and not the others? She's been in the ground a long time. Those bones are picked clean. What sets her apart?" only Boldt sensed something in the man, a friends can. "You're jumping ahead of yourself. You're linking her to the others with only supposition. Or are you? You wouldn't get this excited over hunches," Boldt realized, thinking aloud. "There's something else in that bag of yours, isn't there? Something even more convincing?"

You were born a detective. Did you know that?" He seemed a little disappointed that Boldt had second-guessed him. Boldt's heart rate increased. Now, more than ever, he wanted the rest of the evidence. Dixie dug out a pair of black-and-white photographs which, because of their magnification, Boldt immediately recognized as lab work. "Peter Blumenthal-one of the runaways who died as a result of surgery-also had several ribs snipped. He was a lung harvest. We saved one of his ribs, as is our custom with possible evidence. Yesterday, when those files reminded me of Mr. Carsman's visit, I ran both ribsblumenthal's and this mystery woman's-by the lab for comparison tool markings. Here's what they came up with." He handed Boldt the photos. He had studied hundreds of such photographs. When any tool-a knife, pliers, a wrench, wire cutters-interacts with a material-wood, wire, metal, in this case, bone-it leaves a distinct "fingerprint." A cutting tool leaves grooves that A under magnification resemble scratch marks. These scratch marks form distinct patterns, like a comb with some of the teeth missing. In the photo, the two sets of scratch marks had been perfectly aligned, indicating the work of the same tool.

Boldt caught himself holding his breath. Whoever was responsible for the death of Peter Blumenthal and the two other runaways had also performed surgery on the woman who had once lived inside these bones. The cases were inexorably linked by this evidence.

Reading his thoughts, Dixie said, "The harvester buried this one, Lou. Why? Why when he turned the other three, and Chapman, back into the streets? Why treat this mystery woman any different?"

"Because she died on him."

"Maybe. But the way these bones were picked clean, this woman predates these other harvests by several years. These recent ones may have died by accident. He may not even know they're dead yet. But with her," he said, pointing to the bones, "he certainly knew."

"His first? Is that what you're saying?" Boldt knew the importance of such a find. The first incident in any criminal pattern typically told the investigator more than did any of the subsequent crimes or victims. it established method, motivation and a key look into the demographics of future victims. These bones suddenly took on an additional importance. This woman-whoever she was-just might tell them who the harvester was.

Dixon had reached the same conclusion. "If we locate the rest of her remains, she can tell us more." Toying with the bones again, Boldt asked, "May I keep these?"

Dixon grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."

Tegg boarded the ten-fifteen ferry for Bainbridge Island at Pier 52 and waited until the ship was under steam. The wind blew out of the west, bitter cold upon his face. Gunmetal clouds moved overhead like a giant door shutting. When the ferry whistle reverberated out across the water, Tegg shuddered. As ordered-he hated taking orders!-he worked his way down a series of steep metal ladders into the car hold.

it was dark down here, despite the occasional bare bulb and the wide openings at either end. Empty cars parked in long, tight rows. The smell of car exhaust and sea salt, kelp and fish. He wandered the aisles, as instructed, twisting and turning to worm his way through the cars. Sea spray kicked up by the wind blew through the open bow and misted across him, blurring the windshields. Many of the cars showed excessive body rot-even a few of the newer ones; these were the regular commuters. When Tegg turned around at the stern and started up the next aisle, he spotted a hulk of a figure some yards away. As he drew closer, he recognized the ape as one of Wong Kei's bodyguards. This was Wong Kei's world, not his. Wong Kei's rules. The ape stood alongside a black Chrysler New Yorker with mirrored windows. He opened the car door and signaled Tegg inside.

Tegg found himself alone with Wong Kei in the back seat. The emaciated man was drinking a diet Coke, holding the can with fingers as long and thin as chopsticks. "You are able to help me?" he said in an old man's voice. "You wouldn't have called otherwise, would you?,, "We have a possibility. What's your wife's present condition?"

"She's being flown north tomorrow, Saturday. I am told that surgery could follow immediately providing there are no setbacks. That will leave us in your hands, Dr. Tegg. We will be awaiting your call that the heart is on its way. She is running out of time. You understand this, I hope."

"I understand."

"You have found someone, I assume.

Brain-dead? Dying? How long do we have?"

"You know as much as you need to." He didn't like the change in the man's eyes. Had he angered him? The Chinese are so inscrutable, he thought. "It's for your own good as well as mine," he added. "I have a down payment for you. Call it good faith," he said. He pointed to the front seat where the ape belonged. The money was evidently up there. "No money. Not yet. We can do that when it's over."

Wong Kei persisted, "I have a sum for you now which, as I have just said, is to show my good faith. Yours as well as mine. Please take it."

No mention of a final figure. Tegg liked it that way. "No hurry," he said.

The ferry rocked violently to the left. Dozens of cars complained. "You are a trusting man," Won Kei put forward. "Not really," Tegg said. "If you don't pay me, I'll take the heart back." He waited. "It was a joke," Tegg added. "You joke about my wife's life?" His chin trembled. "Is that what I am hearing from you?" He drank more of the Coke, spilling some. "Allow me to explain something, Dr. Tegg. Allow me to explain the obvious." He finished the drink. He studied the empty can as if reading it. "I am relying on you. That is all I am going to say about it. That should be selfexplanatory. Yes?"

Tegg didn't like the sound of that. "You will call me when your wife is admitted and ready to go," Tegg instructed. He wrote out his cellular number on a blank memo pad from his Daytimer. No name, just the number. "Only the cellular. If you call me on the land lines, I will hang up."

Wong Kei sat forward, reached over the seat and dragged a small Alaskan Airlines flight bag to him. He looked incredibly tired. Anxiety and grief were swallowing him whole. Tegg knew the symptoms. "Take this. This is the purpose for this meeting my purpose. Our time is wasted otherwise. I insist." He didn't shove it at him, but he made its handle available.

Tegg accepted the bag, his curiosity mounting. He understood the commitment his acceptance of it represented. He was crossing a dangerous threshold: He would now owe this man. He immediately regretted his acceptance of the bag, but knew it would ' be impossible to return it. Wong Kei's expression told him as much.

For emphasis, the Asian added, "We must not overlook the seriousness of the situation. Time is everything. There is nothing I will not do to restore my wife to health. Yes?"

Tegg thought he meant it as some sort of veiled threat, although it was difficult to interpret exactly. Perhaps he was offering his help. Tegg said, "If I don't hear from you first, I'll call when we're set to go.

The man nodded. The ferry slowed and bumped the loading dock.

From the ferry's deck, Tegg, all alone in the wind and the night, watched the black car as it and the others disembarked. in the glow of a few meager street lamps and a mercury light far in the distance, he watched sea gulls resting on pilings, standing on one leg. Balanced.

Tegg felt delicately balanced as well. Pamela would not assist in the heart harvest. They had discussed the possibility of it before-it was constantly on Tegg's mind-and she had rejected it outright. It would have to be a solo harvest, even more challenging. More risky. Perhaps it was time to sacrifice one of the dogs to practice. "Practice makes perfect," he said into the wind as the ferry lumbered through the chop and headed back toward Seattle. Toward his family. His children. And yet away from all of that at the same time.

Toward his future, he thought, however it was now defined.

SATURDAY February 4

Dr. Elden Tegg attempted not to touch anything in Donnie Maybeck's van. Concern about leaving fingerprints behind had nothing to do with it-he was wearing gloves. The place was a cesspool. For a man repulsed by dirty environments, a man who had a fetish about cleanliness, this vehicle was a nightmare. A thick layer of dust and grime had baked onto the cracked vinyl of the dashboard. Some kind of solidified scum-soda? beer? coffee? worse?-had drooled over the engine cover that separated the two front seats and was now fuzzy with lint. The windows were tinted in a yellow filth, and the carpet what was left of it-was matted like the hair on the backside of an incontinent dog. For a man accustomed to the sights and smells associated with invasive surgery, it was strange, nauseous. "You don't look so hot," Donnie Maybeck said. "Drive."

"Hey, I know you don't like this, but I ain't doing this alone. And Connie ain't no help in this kinda thing."

"We've been over this."

"Don't be so fucking pissed about it, because there's nothing can be done."

just drive.

its not the same as the others. You said so yourself. This here is kidnapping. This here is some serious shit. Connie could never do this," ,You shouldn't involve her in any of it." He saw no point in attempting to reason with a little person like Maybeck. There were fly specks along the bottom of the windshield. Donnie Maybeck was a fly speck. And what was that lodged into the defrost slot? A discarded plastic wrapper for a Sheik Elite with Spermicide! He recoiled, wanting to levitate and not have to touch anything. "Hey, she's involved in it, all right. Okay? She's in this up to her short hairs. Ain't nothing can be done about it. Without her, without updating the database, how we gonna pick which donor to approach? "Humor me: Shut up and drive." Tegg felt uneasy. A mistake he had made years earlier had cost a human life. Now he possessed the skills and abilities to correct that wrong, even though it came at the cost of deepening his involvement with Maybeck. "You're sure she's alone?" Tegg asked. "You're the one who talked to her, not me."

Tegg had called Sharon Shaffer twenty minutes earlier and had introduced himself as a public health official. He apologized for calling on a Saturday but explained that this was something that couldn't wait. It was a question of some plasma donations she had made several years back. He suggested he and his assistant pay her a visit and that for confidentiality's sake, she would probably prefer to be alone. She had taken the bait, and she had sounded scared: just right. "You understand she could recognize me," Maybeck said to him, interrupting his thoughts. "I mean chances are, since she's in the database, that I mighta sold her a fake I.D. at some point."

"If she says anything, tell her you work for Bloodlines. We know she hasn't sold her plasma for over two years. She won't remember you. I do all the talking. Not a peep out of you. You're only there for control purposes-if things get out of hand, and only then if I tell you to act. Hmm?" The man didn't answer. Tegg felt nervous, a condition so foreign to him that at first it was unrecognizable. He thought maybe he was sick.

Maybeck sold fake I.D.s to underage runaways who needed them to sell their plasma. In this way, he won their confidence and obtained their vital statistics. He had been ' doing this ever since he had stumbled upon Tegg's Secret. The Secret had led to blackmail, the blackmail to a certain draining of Tegg's available cash, and subsequently to a new business for both of them: harvesting. With Maybeck assuming the streetside risks and logistics, connecting Tegg to the donors, this shaky alliance had begun. Now a kidnapping-their biggest risk to date. Tegg searched the dashboard's control panel, looking for a way to get more air.

Maybeck was in it for the money. Tegg, on the other hand, felt uncomfortable with the money. He gave every last cent of his share to charities in his wife's name, enhancing their social prominence. Feeling Maybeck's recklessness, he wondered how he would handle the man if he went too far-if he asked for too much. You had to watch the little pe-people when they cottoned on to the smell of money.

Tegg knew they couldn't screw this up. Wong Kei was unlikely to be a man with a predisposition toward forgiveness. He had a mobster's reputation. If Tegg failed this harvest, it might be his last. His moral salvation commanded a high price.

Tegg finally threw a lever, and a gust of dusty air dislodged the condom wrapper from the defrost vent. He swatted at it frantically.

Maybeck slowed and turned into Freemont Lane, a dead end servicing a pair of apartment buildings to the right and, to the left, the back doors of houses on Lyden Avenue, including the green one, thirty-six thirty-nine and a half. "Bring the laptop with you-it'll make you look more official. And remember to keep your mouth shut," Tegg reminded. He meant this literally: those teeth were enough to terrify anyone.

Sharon Shaffer had spent the last twenty minutes in terror. She had tried to drown out her recollection of that phone call by cleaning up, by running the vacuum. Public Health. The blood supply. It could only mean one thing ... She answered the knock on her back door.

Two men. The bearded one was well dressed and looked distinguished, especially compared to his assistant, who reminded her of an aging James Dean. He carried the Toshiba laptop computer in his right hand. "May we come in?" the distinguished one asked. She knew that voice from the phone call.

She felt afraid. If she refused them entry, would the reason for their being here leave with them? There were men she had been with during her years on the streets, complete strangers. There were things she had done that now, a few years later, she could hardly believe possible. She had not blocked them out, for she had no desire to forget her past; it was memories of her past that inspired her present work, that enabled her to so easily relate to the women who found their way to The Shelter. In an odd way, she was even proud of her past. But the characters she had encountered during that time were behind her now. She felt terrified. Was it true that your past always catches up with you?

She stepped back and admitted them. She knew what this was about. It was about dirty needles. About sex. About a different life, a different Sharon Shaffer. These two were about to ruin her new life. She felt faint. She waved them toward the dining table, for the place was small and there were only two stuffed chairs over by the television, and she wanted them all to sit. She had to sit no matter what.

The bearded man said, "Bloodlines Incorporated maintains an active database of all of its donors, past and present." James Dean patted the laptop and set it down. The bearded man explained, "The donated blood is tested prior to distribution for disease."

There was the word she had dreaded. Fear turned her palms icy.

Her eyes threatened tears. As hard as the streets had made her, as welcome as death would have been back then, she felt weak and terrified now by this one word. "What has happened," the man continued, "is that the state's department of health, in a routine audit, discovered a glitch in the software that drives the Bloodlines' database. With that glitch removed, certain donors appear in an at-risk category, as concerns certain diseases."

"HIV," Sharon said. It was no guess. They didn't come to your door on a Saturday morning over measles. "Yes, but we needn't jump to conclusions."

"AIDS," she whispered softly.

"What we need," the man continued professionally, "is a fresh blood sample. There's no need to jump to any conclusions until the results of those tests are in. No need at all," he emphasized. "The computer has been wrong once. It could certainly be wrong a second time."

"i/in shown as positive," she stated. "It's only a computer. We need to run the tests again. I'm a doctor. We can take your blood now, or you can come downtown later in the week. It's entirely up to you." The doctor added, "it won't take us five minutes, if you'd care to get it over with now."

"Are you expecting anyone?" James Dean asked.

She shook her head. She found it difficult to speak.

The doctor said encouragingly, "One thing in favor of doing this now is that you will get the results much sooner."

"Let's do it now," she said. "How long until I know?"

"A few days. Four or five working days, usually."

"Oh, God. That'll seem like forever."

The doctor addressed his assistant, "I've left my case in the van. Go and get it for me." It was an order, not a request, and it struck her that there was no love lost between these two.

James Dean stood and left through the back door, leaving the laptop computer standing on the carpet. "Our apologies for coming to your back door," the doctor said. "We've found most people would just as soon not explain anything to the neighbors. We try to park in the back and keep a low profile."

Again, she couldn't find any words. She nodded, just barely holding on. A lifetime lost? "It's probably nothing more than a computer error. Really."

"That's what your voice says, but that's not what your eyes say," she wanted to tell him. He knew something, all right. He was as nervous as she was.

His lips tensed and his eyes hardened, and for the second time she felt a nauseating fear. She put her hands into her lap so he wouldn't see them shaking. "I wouldn't worry," he said. "Yes, you would. If you were me, you would." She stared at him. "You frighten me," she said without meaning to. "It's the possibility of the matter that frightens you, not me," he explained in that harsh, grating voice he seemed stuck with.

James Dean returned with a small soft-plastic case and handed it to the doctor. It had tiered shelves, like a fishing tackle box. He tore a plastic bag off of a disposable syringe and took hold of her wrist to time her pulse. His fingers were ice cold. He did some more preparations below the lip of the table, out of sight from her, and then slipped on a pair of surgical gloves.

He's afraid of contamination, she thought. She felt dizzy.

He swabbed her upper forearm with alcohol and then wrapped surgical tubing tightly around her upper arm. He asked her to make a fist. She looked away. These days, she hated the sight of needles. "I'll need to take three samples," the doctor explained. "But just the one needle. it shouldn't hurt too much."

He pricked her arm then. She jumped with the sensation. All the ramifications, all the possibilities of what had been said here in the last few minutes swam through her head. Her life was finished. Contaminated. Contact with anyone at The Shelter would be minimized and eventually terminated. Worse than a leper. Society would shun her. She would eventually fall victim to the virus. They all did. There would be AZT-at a few thousand dollars a month! There would be counseling. There would be tears and lost friendships. There would be a long, grueling illness, weight loss, and death. She started to cry.

As she blinked away her tears, she focused on the contents of his medical case. She noticed an electric shaver, some leather strapping that looked more like a muzzle-a dog's muzzle? Next to it, a choke collar chain! This man wasn't a doctor, he was . "A veterinarian?" she asked.

At that same instant a stunning warmth surged through her system.

It flooded into her like hot water. She knew that feeling only too well. Valium and some kind of narcotic. A slam like codeine. They weren't taking her blood, they were drugging her.

She snapped her head around in time to see the last of the injection administered. She looked up at the doctor-the veterinarian!-whose full concentration remained focused on the injection. She glanced up at James Dean, realizing now, for the first time, that they had not given her any identification. He was smiling at her. He had a mouth full of the worst teeth she had ever seen, like a rotten picket fence.

She tried to pull her arm away, but it barely moved-ninety-five pounds of dead flesh. She felt too slow, too heavy to offer much resistance. She felt terrified. She felt marvelously content. She felt tired, incredibly relaxed. "You're going to be fine," he said in a fuzzy voice as if miles away.

Helpless. Powerless. Nothing she could do. Across the room she saw a shadow move along the floor and believed at first it was another effect of the drug, but realized all at once that it was her housemate and hoped that she might yet be rescued. Agnes came around the corner, her seventy-year-old blind eyes open wide in curiosity.

"Help!" Sharen forced out numbly. Loudly enough to be heard?

Had any sound come out at all?

The invasive warmth loosened every muscle. it felt like love. Pure and perfect love. Liquid love. Her eyes grew hot, and her lids fell like dark blue curtains. Agnes? Was Agnes out there? Anything but this, she thought. "Give me more," she felt like saying. "Sharon?" It was Agnes.

Sharon Shaffer struggled to open her eyes, but only managed one last fleeting glimpse of the woman's silver-blue hair and pale white skin. Someone was dragging her.

The last thing she heard was the doctor's angry whisper-like cracking ice-as he demanded of his accomplice: "Who the hell is that?"

Homicide Lieutenant Phil Shoswitz loved baseball. He arranged his working hours around Mariners' home games and captained the police softball team. One of his favorite and most overused jokes was that he was the only guy on the force who was a captain and a lieutenant at the same time. His office, which remained constantly cluttered with stacks of pending case files, since Boldt's last visit had become something of a combination baseball locker room/ museum. Its walls were crowded with autographed artifacts, photographs, and shelves of championship trophies.

As Boldt shut the door, one of the boys called outa warm greeting. You don't know how many friends you have, he thought, until you return to a place after a long absence. He hadn't realized how good how right-coming back here would feel. "Thanks for coming," Shoswitz said in his typically tense voice. "I know it's a Saturday, but this is important." He had a dark complexion, a long, thin face, and ever-vigilant eyes, not unlike the hardened criminals he dealt with so regularly. A high-strung type, he chose his clothes poorly and shaved too fast. Married once, he was a weekend father now-at least if he wasn't stuck with a Saturday rotation. He had been a fair detective but was a brilliant lieutenant. Some people were made for a position of authority and a series of endless meetings. "What are you and Matthews up to? First, she pays you a visit at The joke. Now I get some inquiry from a place called ..." he checked a memo on his desk, "Bloodlines. A woman named Dundee is asking if we've got a cop named Boldt on our line-up. I in wondering: Do we?"

"What'd you tell her?" Shoswitz said, "That's not an answer to my question. ,,Is that why the stern face?"

"That's why."

"maybe we should get Daffy in here."

"maybe we shouldn't. She's a cop, Lou, but she's not an investigator. You're an investigator, but you're not a cop-not active anyway."

"Ergo: We make the perfect team," Boldt said sarcastically. "I decide the teams around here. I may manage from the dugout, Lou, but I manage. I don't need my players out on the field calling plays. Especially players who are sitting up in the stands, by choice."

"Foul ball," Boldt teased.

Shoswitz didn't appreciate it. "You learn to watch the foul balls. Sometimes they pull fair."

"Bloodlines was just a quick little question-and-answer session, Phil. If I hadn't said I was a cop ... "What's Matthews working on, Lou?"

Boldt felt that sinking sensation of losing your balance when it's too late to do anything about it. He had committed to Daphne, but he didn't want that to be the same thing as committing to Phil Shoswitz. If he handled this incorrectly, he would end up back on the force but off Daphne's investigation-if she was even allowed to continue with the case. Shoswitz was a tough negotiator. Boldt gave him the details, starting with Cindy Chapman's appearance at the homeless shelter, up to and including the "coincidence" that four out of four names were in the Bloodlines' database. For now, he left out Dixie's matching tool markings, saving himself a trump card in case he needed it. He concluded, "You see why we were hesitant to bring this to you? We're a long way from any hard evidence. Bob Proctor wouldn't give me five minutes with what I've got." Proctor was the King County prosecuting attorney.

Shoswitz stared off blankly, deep in thought. He mumbled something about

"Matthew's responsibility to involve the department."

Boldt fired back, "You just said she doesn't qualify as an investigator-which is unfair, mind you, since she took highest honors at the academy." He suggested, "She only came to me because she knew I would listen objectively."

"Objectively?" he asked. "She doesn't want objectivity. She's into the overwork phase. She's going through 'mental pause." That incident with the knife set her way back. She's still not over it. You know how it goes: When you start to fight back you go too far. She's haunted by that incident. She wants to prove herself as a detective, wants to be more than a psychologist. She's itching to get out of the office and into the squad car. She tried to talk her way out of something and it didn't work, so now she wants it again, wants a chance to prove to herself that she's over it. I see what you're thinking," he added, heading Boldt off, "but it isn't that easy. I can't very well recommend her for another rotation when she's the only shrink on the force. That's her specialty-that's what we took her on for, even if she is qualified for investigations. Besides she hasn't asked for any kind of active duty.,, "What if she did? What if I signed back up on the condition that we be allowed to partner together on this harvester investigation? Fifty-fifty partners, no seniority on my part, but I would be there to help her out, maybe work her through this. At this Same time, she'd agree to continue to handle the more pressing aspects of her job as departmental psychologist. "You've thought this out, haven't you?" Shoswitz said. "I know you, Phil. If I sign back up, You'll yank me over to some murder-one ticket, and I'll never see this thing again."

What thing? You're the one pointing out the of evidence in this thing.lac@ Give me the manpower and authority to run with this. Give me a few weeks to come up with something to convince Proctor we have a case. If I can't, I'm yours-I'll see out my twenty."

"One week, no more."