The Body of David Hayes

TEN

BOLDT MUMBLED THROUGH AN APOLOGY, embarrassed, humiliated, even, that Miles had not been picked up from his piano lesson and was awaiting a ride. Like every aspect of private education, admission to concert pianist Bruce Lavin’s afternoon session had required an application, referrals, a waiting list, and a substantial deposit. Six months later, Miles had finally been “asked to join.”

“A confusion on our end,” Boldt said, sucking up to Lavin and feeling like a sycophant. He realized how stupid this explanation sounded.

“I don’t run a babysitting service,” Lavin clarified. “The schedule here is-”

Boldt interrupted, “-very tight. I know.” Lavin had nearly beaten this mantra into parents. Preparation and punctuality were his credo. As long as his students practiced and showed up on time, Lavin kept them in the program. “I’m on my way.”

“If it should happen again… ”

“It won’t,” Boldt assured the man. The cost of the course, paid in full and up front, was nonrefundable if a child was let go. Expulsions could not be appealed, but the child could reapply for future sessions.

Boldt tried Liz at the office, and then on the cell, ready to give her a piece of his mind. But when she failed to answer either phone, his anger quickly shifted to concern. He hadn’t seen her, hadn’t heard from her since their meeting out at Beth LaRossa’s house, earlier in the day.

Having assigned it himself, he knew that the security duty amounted to a single, unmarked car watching either the bank or their home, depending on her location. By mutual consent, she wasn’t to be followed unless she requested it, and she was asked to make that request if her movement involved contact with Hayes. Otherwise, Boldt and Liz had agreed she should be allowed to “have a life.”

Boldt was informed that “the Sienna was observed leaving the garage about twenty minutes after its return from the LaRossa residence.” That put her leaving work late morning or early afternoon.

“No contact prior or since?”

“No contact, Lieutenant.”

He tried both lines again, and then on a hunch he tried home, but to the same result. A cop with Boldt’s experience didn’t panic; it had been programmed out of him, but a groundswell of internal dialogue ran as background chatter in his thoughts-several voices inside him competing for airtime. Prioritizing his responsibilities, he hurried to the Crown Vic and challenged traffic to reach Miles before Lavin reconsidered and expelled him from the program.

He inched the car up to First Hill, staying on small streets with stop signs every block, trying to avoid the congestion of traffic lights, but he and a few hundred other drivers all had the same idea, and the going remained bumper-to-bumper. When his cell phone rang, he prepared to berate Liz.

He answered, “Yeah?” hoping to project his anger so she couldn’t miss the subtext.

“Lieutenant?”

His expectations flattened, he barked, “What is it?”

“Call for you. Something about your daughter.”

He called the number. A cat did a somersault in his chest.

Mindy Crawford answered-Sarah’s ballet teacher. He knew what was coming and cut in immediately, interrupting her introduction of herself.

“We messed up our pickups today,” he said. “My fault.”

The woman paused, perhaps surprised by his prescience. “I could drop her by your house,” Ms. Crawford offered, “but I’ve another class to teach first. It would be a little after seven, if that’s all right.”

The ballet school was the other end of the world from Madrona, where Boldt was heading. He and Miles could try to make it, but her offer sounded like a better idea. He told her so.

“No problem,” she said so cheerfully as to instill guilt in Boldt. It was a problem, a big problem for the Boldt family. He tempered some of his anger with calls first to SPD’s Metro, and then King County Sheriff’s Traffic Patrol, to make certain Liz hadn’t been in a traffic accident. Then he called LaMoia. Sergeant John LaMoia, who had mentored under Boldt for a good part of his Homicide career, who had stepped in as squad sergeant behind Boldt after Boldt’s promotion to lieutenant, was a man who knew few bounds but got the job done.

“Yo,” LaMoia answered.

Boldt asked how the terrorism seminar was going, unable to jump right in with a request to find his wife.

“I’ve seen shit you wouldn’t believe! Bombs the size of cigarette packs and briefcase gadgets that can zero every computer in a building. This is the ultimate techno-romp, Sarge.” LaMoia continued to call Boldt by his former rank. “If these rag-heads get their mitts on half this shit, we got big problems.”

“Danny Foreman said if you’re our line of defense, heaven help the enemy.”

“Got that right.” LaMoia understood when to rescue Boldt from his own misgivings. “Talk to me about Foreskin.” LaMoia had nicknames for everyone.

“I’ve got some problems of my own,” Boldt said, grateful for the bridge LaMoia offered him. “One I could use your help on.”

“Go.”

Boldt explained his situation-Miles needing to be picked up, and the greater need of finding Liz. He didn’t go into details on Liz’s current situation or the case in general because LaMoia would have picked up most of it already. The ferry surveillance had involved too many people not to get talked up in the department.

“I can cut out of here in ten. I’ll hit all the hot spots, though I can’t exactly see Mrs. B. in a fern bar.”

“I was thinking you could check with Danny Foreman. You should know he’s fresh out of the hospital himself. Make up some excuse that you screwed up surveillance on my wife and don’t want me finding out, and wondered if he knew her ten-twenty.”

“Me screwing up. That would fit. That’s good cover.”

It was generous of him; LaMoia was no screwup. But his reputation as a rogue player would make just about anything he said believable. Ironically, Foreman, of all people, a class-A Lone Ranger, would understand his situation.

Clearly deeply concerned, a different LaMoia asked, “How worried are we here, Sarge?”

“There’s no doubt in my mind that she’s in play. Their first mark, a guy named LaRossa, a friend of ours through the bank, keeled over of a heart attack this morning and is in Intensive Care. The way it plays for me is that the tune-up that Hayes took-this is the night we found Foreman lying in the bushes outside that trailer-was to win some cooperation from him. He ends up accessing a safe-deposit box, where he’d probably hid the software that had cloaked the embezzled money. That software gets passed to LaRossa by whoever’s now running Hayes, because LaRossa can get to the bank’s computers. LaRossa didn’t get the job done for them, so Liz moves to the top of their list. She, too, has access to the bank computers. And now she’s missing.”

“That sounds like something worth a little more than a chat with Foreskin.”

“Danny’s lead on this-at least in his mind he is-and he’s more than a little crazy with it. It’s all tied up with Darlene for him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was running Liz in some covert op that only he knows about.”

“Peachy.”

“That’s why I think we look there first.”

“Got it.” LaMoia hesitated before asking the obvious. “And if that’s not happening?”

“Let me get the kids home. Get them safe. You check with Danny. Then we’ll worry about the next phase, if there is one.” Boldt emphasized, “Lean on him, John. We don’t want to waste resources and energy if Danny’s hiding something from us.”

“Me and Foreskin, we got some history, Sarge. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Bruce Lavin met Boldt out on the curb, Miles in tow. As Miles climbed in the back and buckled himself in, the piano teacher came around and stepped up to Boldt’s window. Boldt prepared himself to be lectured, something he didn’t need right then.

“We need to talk.” Lavin spoke in a whisper, an urgency, his body language punctuating his words. He was a small man with wild, curly hair and piercing eyes. His voice crackled like the sound of a cheap radio.

“Is there a problem?” Boldt spun around to look at Miles so his son could feel the depth of his concern. Miles had been endlessly briefed about the level of privilege these lessons represented.

“Quite the contrary,” Lavin said, his edgy voice still hushed. “Your son, Lieutenant… your boy… is perhaps the most musically gifted child I’ve ever taught, and believe me,” said the teacher, “I’ve taught plenty. He needs testing-mathematically, musically. If he is what I think he is, although I’d be honored to work with him, you can and should do better.”

Boldt felt a father’s pride engulf him. A child prodigy. He’d seen the same aptitude at home, which had inspired these lessons in the first place. He’d been so prepared for Lavin’s abuse about bad parenting that this complete reversal caught him off guard. His throat constricted and he choked out, “You can arrange the testing?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll have to speak to my wife. Is it expensive?”

“Wickedly. As is Juilliard,” the man said, an impish grin satisfying his sense of humor. “And that may be where he’s headed someday.”

“Sorry about the pickup,” Boldt said. “We must have gotten our wires crossed.”

Lavin patted him on the arm-a shocking gesture from what Boldt knew of him-waved good-bye into the backseat, and walked back into the house.

Boldt sat motionless, the tingling sensation only now receding, well aware that this was one of those moments in life he would never forget-a minute-long conversation through a car window. An entirely new world unfolding before him: his son, a musical wizard.

He couldn’t wait to tell Liz.

By midnight, Boldt, LaMoia, Bobbie Gaynes, and Daphne Matthews had all made calls, had driven the streets, had checked with Liz’s friends. LaMoia reported that he’d spoken to Danny Foreman, who had professed to know nothing of Liz’s whereabouts. “But the way he said it, Sarge. He may not be lying, but he isn’t solid. Something’s up with him.” Boldt had the same feeling about Foreman, though there wasn’t much to be done about it. Initiating anything like a formal complaint would require a good deal more than suspicion and bad feelings.

The Boldt kitchen served as the command center, with Boldt acting as both dispatcher and babysitter.

Memories of her imposed themselves, an involuntary reaction to her absence: making a vegetable face for the kids, cucumber eyes, orange mouth. Driving Miles and Sarah amid fits of laughter; to school, to church. Arriving to bed playful and daring. A woman who attacked life, sometimes to the detriment of her popularity. A woman unafraid. Tested, by cancer, by faith, by degrees. Her resolute composure inspired him like wind to a sailor. Not long ago she had suggested that should he want to retire from policing and take up his jazz piano full-time, she would support such a decision even if it meant downscaling their lifestyle. A partner, in full.

Matthews and Boldt shared a volatile history as co-workers who had, for a single night, been much more. The lingering sensations of that night had carried forward years into their relationship. With Matthews now testing a live-in arrangement with LaMoia-no two more opposite people existed on earth, in Boldt’s opinion-new lines had been drawn. The teasing and subtle flirtation was gone for now, and that somehow didn’t feel right. Boldt considered her his closest female friend after Liz, a person he could share himself with honestly. There was no end to his appreciation for her and what she gave back to him. But the spark that existed there now flickered instead of glowed.

Matthews stopped by the house, running out of ideas of where to find Liz. A blue Gore-Tex rain jacket, tight jeans, and a crisp white shirt. Her hair damp, but not stringy. A little more fatigue around her eyes than her office hour cosmetics allowed. She stood just inside the kitchen door, having turned down a chair, not wanting to stay. Boldt knew this had more to do with the current state of their friendship-tested by her decision to be with LaMoia-than it did her schedule. They knew each other a little too well.

When she brought up the unmentionable, he thought it so appropriate to come from her. Only she could ask him such a thing.

Daphne asked, “Have you tried her doctor-the hospital?”

“I’m still hoping Foreman knows where she is.”

“Lou? Have you checked? Have you called?”

“Is that the psychologist or the friend asking?”

She fired back, “Is that the detective or the husband asking?” her skill at twisting things around second only to her ability to keep a straight face.

“I have not.”

“Listen, Lou-”

“Don’t!” he said sharply. “She would have told me. That’s not something she would hide.”

“You have to turn cell phones off in hospitals,” she explained, repeating an argument he’d given Liz earlier that same day. Emotional mirrors. “Things drag out and take twice as long as you thought.”

“She and I went over the arrangements for picking up the kids twice. This is not something she would have forgotten to do. It’s not that it’s just unlike her; it’s impossible.”

“Maybe the first place you should have called was her doctor.”

He checked his watch to see that only a few minutes had passed since his last check. He’d never learned how to wait well. He assigned other people to wait in place of him; he ordered people to wait for him; but he did not wait himself.

“Now it’s midnight, and you’re not going to reach her doctor even if you tried. And you know that,” she said, interpreting his expression.

Busted.

“You did this intentionally, didn’t you? Waited like this?”

“She turns her phone off when she’s praying, too,” he said. “She could have gone to a reading room, a library, any place quiet.”

“And you believe that.” Daphne made it a statement, just to sting him.

When a pair of headlights bumped into the driveway at 12:15, and they both identified Liz’s minivan, Daphne offered to leave by the front door, her car parked out on the curb. She said, “I’ll call off the others,” already moving for the front door. “She won’t be thrilled to discover you called out the bloodhounds. I’ll make sure it’s zipped up on our end, and left between the two of you to handle as you want.” She’d reached the front door, talking softly for the benefit of the sleeping kids. Daphne could juggle a dozen balls at once while riding a unicycle.

“I owe you,” he called out.

“Shut up.” She closed the front door quietly behind her.

Boldt was about to charge out back when he thought better of it, schooling himself to show concern, not anger. Waiting up for her was fine-expected even. Attacking her was unforgivable.

Five long minutes passed and Liz had still not appeared. Boldt finally succumbed and headed outside. On the back steps, he stopped abruptly as the garage door pushed open and Liz staggered out.

As drunk as a skid-row bum.

Liz sputtered as she walked unsteadily forward, unable to enunciate, barely able to walk. “If I don’t pee in about five seconds… ” She looked up, took in Boldt as if just now noticing him, and cocked her head, saying, “Oh, shit.” She crushed a hydrangea on her way to hoisting her skirt and running her panties down to her ankles. She squatted right there and urinated in the garden, then rocked forward, falling onto her knees, and vomited.

He’d nursed her through the evils of chemotherapy, the drain of radiation, the indignities brought on by childbirth, but he’d never seen her stone-cold drunk. Inside the back door he got her out of her suit coat and shirt, both messed with vomit, and left them at the top of the stairs for the basement laundry. He undressed her in the bedroom and placed her sitting up in the tub with a warm shower running. She never said a word, resigned to a dull, stupefied embarrassment. She threw up again in the tub, and yet again into the toilet after he made her drink a full glass of water. When the water finally stayed down, he got three more glasses into her as well, shunning the aspirin that would have helped a good deal but went against her convictions.

She passed out in bed as her head hit the pillow. Boldt stayed awake another forty minutes, adrenalized, making sure she slept on her side in case she vomited in her sleep. He drifted off some time past three.

When Boldt awoke to Miles shaking him at 7 A.M., Liz was already gone from the house, having fled the humiliation.

Flipping pancakes, washing faces, changing clothes, making sandwiches, Boldt worked himself into an angry lather. Isolation. Desertion. Betrayal? Was this about David Hayes? Thirty minutes late for work by the time he’d dropped the kids, he felt he deserved an explanation, believed it up to her to call.

He snatched up the receiver with every incoming call, barking into the phone while expecting to hear Liz’s apologetic voice. Over the past twelve hours, burdened by little sleep and challenged by an emotional abyss, Boldt had traveled through concern, worry, anger and into the depths of infuriation. It now spilled out of his pores as an acrid smell and registered in his bloodshot eyes as venom. Quickly moving silhouettes slipped by the glass wall of his office like shadow puppets, his squad desperately avoiding him.

And then the call came.