The Art of Deception

Buried History

Boldt awoke to the sounds of Liz showering and the fish-eye distortion of his son’s peaceful sleeping face, nose to nose with him. He didn’t remember Miles having snuck into bed with them. For one blissful moment, he lay there staring at the little man, realizing this would likely be the best part of his day-then, like tiny sprouts ripping open the seed husk, thought began to penetrate that peace.

He had an appointment later in the day that might supply answers about both Chen’s death and possibly-he allowed himself to believe-the disappearance of Susan Hebringer. He had at least two administrative budget meetings on the schedule that he dreaded. Liz’s minivan needed to find its way from the bank’s underground parking to a body shop on Broadway. Sarah had after-school ballet, and if Liz’s car wasn’t out of the shop by then Boldt would need to arrange pickup by five.

“What’s your day look like?” Liz stood naked in the doorway, toweling off. She’d added back some of the weight the lymphoma had claimed, finally covering her skeleton again in delicious womanly flesh.

“Not too bad,” he said. “Looking up at the moment.”

“You want to lock the door a minute?” she asked.

“Yes, I do.” Along with her weight, some appetites had returned as well. Boldt slipped out of the covers so as not to wake Miles, crossed the room, and pulled the bathroom door shut behind himself. As he brushed his teeth, she undressed him, pulling down his pajama pants and helping his feet out the same way she did with the kids. He considered teasing her about this, but didn’t want to ruin the moment. He left the sink water running to cover their sounds.

Liz dropped the towel, pulled herself up onto the countertop, and turned to face him. “This okay with you?” she asked.

He stepped up to her, gently eased her legs apart, and they embraced. “Do you hear me complaining?”

Responding to his kissing, she eased her head back against the mirror. Drops of water raced down its smooth surface. Her fingers wormed into what remained of Boldt’s hair as he dropped to one knee. “Good morning,” she said in a husky, appreciative voice.

Starting out that way, Boldt was thinking.

Dr. Sandra Babcock could have modeled in a blue jean ad, and proved to be much younger than what Boldt had expected of a tenured professor of archaeology. Mid-thirties at best, she had a clear complexion, soft green eyes, and a slurry, southern way of speaking. She had a playful sparkle to her eyes and the distracting habit of rolling a mechanical pencil between the fingers of her right hand like a majorette with a baton.

If her office reflected her thought patterns, then they’d get along fine. Neat and tidy, not a paper clip out of place. Two discarded yogurt containers in the trash-nonfat strawberry. He noted that she’d saved the plastic spoon, as it stood out amid a group of pens and pencils in a Weekend Edition coffee mug. But for all the organization, the pretension that accompanied the director of any university department, Dr. Sandra Babcock churned inside, as her fingernails were gnawed to the quick. He appreciated knowing that in advance. Birds of a feather, he thought.

They killed a few minutes in social discourse. Boldt lectured regularly for the criminology courses at the U and Babcock had done her homework. They got through the do-you-knows and have-you-mets without too many overlaps. After a few tentative silences between them, Boldt saw clear to open up the conversation to the purpose of his visit.

He said, “Day before last I interviewed a pair of EMTs. Either they lied to me, or there’s an explanation for events that I’m missing. As I explained over the phone, Dr. Babcock, I need the Cliffs Notes on this city’s Underground and, if possible, access-I need to get under that section of Third Avenue, and the city won’t let me down in.”

“EMTs?”

“They claimed they had not attempted resuscitation on a man who I believe died later than what they put down in their report.

It’s not them I’m after. I just want the right answers.”

“Where exactly on Third?”

“Between Cherry and Columbia.”

She glanced up to a large wall map of downtown Seattle that was nothing like what he’d ever seen-instead of city blocks, a good deal of downtown was represented as excavated walls and floor plans.

Boldt said, “I have only a vague notion of the city’s Underground. A couple of blocks around Pioneer Square. The fire in the late 1800s, the tidal floods, and the decision to elevate the shoreline of the city. But according to these EMTs, they encountered what they believe was Underground clear up on Cherry and Third.”

A few strands of hair broke loose from behind her ear and cascaded into her eyes. She brushed them aside. “Twenty-two city blocks were buried when they filled in the flats a hundred years ago. Retaining walls were built surrounding the old ground level, and then the streets backfilled to elevate them some twenty feet higher. It took over a decade to complete. The Underground tour accounts for only three city blocks. Plenty of other sections of the Underground still exist, most sealed off and awaiting us like time capsules. For the most part, they’re on private property, they’re dangerous, and though we’re constantly trying to gain access in order to inventory and photograph, fears of lawsuits and insurance coverage discourage cooperation. From the early 1920s on, city utilities were run along the old underground sidewalks, the perimeter area between these retaining walls and the brick walls of the old buildings down there. When I read about the sinkhole, I’d hoped the city engineers would allow us access.

But the needs of archaeology took a backseat to getting traffic running again and the complication of much of this being private property. On the other hand, if you could get me-this department-access, you’d be doing the history books a favor. I’d be happy to tell you what you’re looking at.”

“I was hoping this might work out the other way around.”

“I’m afraid not. The city flat-out turned down my request.

But a police lieutenant? Can’t you gain access, even to private property, if you want?”

She’d clearly granted him the interview because she saw Boldt as her ticket into the Underground.

“It doesn’t work like that.” He said this, but his mind ground through the possibilities. Dixon’s confused autopsy might provide enough unknowns to win Boldt the necessary paperwork.

Babcock teased him into wanting this with her explanation.

“As the city streets were filled in, to lift them above the flood levels, people moved block to block by climbing ladders, crossing the new streets still under construction, and then back down a ladder to another block. It went on this way for years.

Eventually, the retail stores moved up to the new street level, but the old storefronts still existed.

“They’re still down there,” she continued. “What used to be Main Street is now underground. I imagine that’s what your EMTs found themselves in: stores and shops and sidewalks that haven’t been touched for over a hundred years. You’re the one with the ruby slippers, Lieutenant.”

Giving in to her urging, he said, “I’ll need the name of the owners.”

“I can get that for you. No problem.”

“It’s to be treated as a crime scene first, an archaeology dig second, if at all.”

“I can live with that.” She extended her hand for him to shake. “I’ll leave the decision to you.”

Boldt accepted her handshake, though somewhat reluctantly.

He had the feeling he’d walked into a trap.

Babcock had the callused hands of a farmer or field-worker.

She said, “Okay, you’ve got yourself a deal.”