Boldt And Matthews: No Witnesses Part 13

A man was following her-she was convinced of it. She would have to lose him or miss the emergency meeting. She was already late. Monday mornings were always a nightmare.

The meeting had been hastily arranged by Fowler and was to be held at a neutral site. They were all to arrive within a few minutes of one another-Boldt, Fowler, Adler, Taplin, and Matthews-all having used different modes of transportation, or at the very least, different entrances to the Seattle Center. The idea was to make it impossible for one man-following any one of them-to connect them to this meeting. A pair of Fowler's undercover security people were to keep Adler under constant surveillance while watching for someone keeping him under surveillance. If such a person were identified, a police patrol, under the direction of Phil Shoswitz, was prepared to detain him or her.

If Adler was free of any surveillance, then the meeting would go ahead as planned.

But now it was Matthews, not Adler, who was being followed, or so she believed, and there were no contingencies for this.

At first it had just been a sixth sense, a bout of intuition, a feeling as if one too many b.u.t.tons were undone and every male on the street had his eyes on her. Or maybe her wraparound skirt was not fully wrapped. Only she was not wearing a wraparound skirt today, but a pair of forest-green denim jeans, and the oversize white b.u.t.ton-down oxford was properly b.u.t.toned right up to her collarbone, with the shirt collar flipped up to help hide the scar that had been the gift of a psychopath some years before.

The Westlake Center was just down the hill now. She had been a.s.signed the monorail. She debated taking a quick detour through Eddie Bauer, a chance to waste a few extra minutes-she was always early to everything-and maybe even a chance to ditch or identify whoever was back there. She could not be sure she was right about this.

In the back of Daphne's mind always lingered the possibility of retaliation, of becoming a target of one of the criminals she had helped to convict. As the department's forensic psychologist, she saw more of the witness chair than many of her colleagues did, testifying ninety-nine times out of a hundred that the suspect was legally sane and therefore able to stand trial. Such testimony carried long-range implications: If and when the suspect was subsequently convicted and sentenced, the sentencing time for a suspect deemed mentally healthy was specified as hard time instead of the more gentle "hospital time" given to those identified with psychological problems. For those serving the time, a big difference indeed. To make matters worse, she knew that the cases involving her services were for criminals with unstable personalities. Or perhaps, she thought, her being followed had to do with her current efforts-the break-ins at the Mansion and the archives. The Tin Man himself, or at least the New Leaf contamination.

She did not get a good look at him, and that worried her all the more because he was good. If there was someone back there, he remained well back, and seemed to always antic.i.p.ate her inquiries. The very first time she turned, she had seen a reaction in a man about a block in back of her; but the next time she looked, he had stopped nonchalantly, turned, and walked away from her, quickly rounding a corner. Twice more, sensing his presence again, she stopped cold and turned around abruptly. But both times she failed to identify any pursuer. Even so, the feeling, once inside her, did not go away; and she was talking no chances.

She pa.s.sed over the Eddie Bauer idea, deciding instead to make her move once inside the Westlake Center, which was the departure point for the monorail. The tourist crowds were large this morning-there were two conventions in town, a greeting card sales conference and a water sports equipment show-and Fifth Avenue teemed with coffee-carrying, camera-laden, T-shirt-clad enthusiasts, a swarming hive of Middle America in search of retail therapy.

The Westlake Center was just what such people were looking for: a minimall that included some impressive anchors as well as decidedly upmarket outlets for everything from jelly beans to three-hundred-dollar fountain pens. It had size without losing its substance. It catered to the gold cards, leaving the Discover set to find their thrills out on the streets amid the homeless and Seattle's unpredictable weather.

Daphne headed straight to Fireworks, not only because she enjoyed the often bizarre merchandise, but also because of its central location and floor-to-ceiling gla.s.s walls that enabled her to keep a close watch on both the escalators and the people emerging from the building's only elevator.

She declined the a.s.sistance of an eighteen-year-old windup Barbie doll whose exposed cleavage was enough to keep any warm-blooded male shopping for hours, and confined herself to the front shelves that provided her the perfect location for her vigil.

She had the monorail timed perfectly. In five minutes she would head two floors upstairs, buy her ticket, and board.

After her first few minutes of observation, she began to doubt herself. She saw no one who even vaguely reminded her of that man whom she had seen duck around the street corner. She, of all people, knew the power of imagination, the power of the mind, and she, too, knew the dangers of paranoia. She could not allow herself to be convinced of anything without solid proof. She could tolerate suspicion, but only for so long. Just as she nearly had herself convinced that this was nothing but delusion, she saw him.

How he had reached the Westlake's Metro level she had no idea, but there he was below her-at least the back of him; she had yet to see his face. But the clothes looked familiar, as did the general height and size of him. And he had that bloodhound body language about him-attentive to the crowd around him but not the stores. Maybe he had taken a bus and entered through the Metro tunnel; she had been watching the street-level entrances. But what sense did that make? How could he be following her if he rode a bus to get here? Was there more than one man involved? She willed him to come closer, to turn around and face her, but he continued away from her, and as she glanced at her wrist.w.a.tch she saw that she had run out of time: Less than two minutes until the monorail's arrival.

There was no decision to make-she was expected at this meeting. She left the store, dodging a final attack by the bouncing Barbie who nearly caught up to her at the door. Her attention remained almost entirely on the man who circulated on the floor below her. She gripped the handrail and moved slowly toward the ascending escalators. He wore a khaki windbreaker, blue jeans, and boat shoes, but so did half the males in Seattle this time of year. He wasn't alone in this look, even in the Westlake-and again she found herself mired in self-doubt. Another man perhaps, not the one she had seen earlier.

As she took her attention off him to board the escalator, she suddenly felt his eyes find her. She strained to lean over the escalator and look down-to confirm this-but in those few spent seconds he was gone. Try as she did, she could not locate him.

With this man in sight she had felt okay, but now that she had lost him, her paranoia returned and she punched her way rudely up the stairs of the moving escalator, as if running from someone she could not see. Get hold of yourself, she cautioned internally, knowing the dangers of such behavior-fear fed on fear and could run out of control in situations like this. But she felt him back there, like her brother chasing her as a child, like her drunken uncle chasing her around her bedroom, reaching out for her-and she could not help but experience the terror of being caught. Wild with this fear, she charged out of the escalator, took the corner, and ran to the next and final escalator up, knowing somewhere within her-but not realizing-that the more she ran, the more attention she drew to herself. The easier a target.

As she entered the ticket line for the monorail with her heart in her throat, she knew she wasn't thinking clearly. She bought a round-trip, impatiently checking over her shoulder, and then moved on to join the waiting crowd. The monorail surged around the bend and slowed for its arrival. Her agitation increased with each pa.s.sing minute. The two train cars pulled to a stop and a handful of pa.s.sengers disembarked. A moment later she and the others crossed the steel catwalk into the train and took seats. No one in a khaki windbreaker, she realized to great relief. The sliding doors clapped shut, and she exhausted a huge sigh. She moved forward to the lead car where there was more room, instinctively distancing herself.

But the doors, previously shut, hissed open admitting three latecomers, including a man in a khaki windbreaker whose back was already to Daphne by the time she realized these others had boarded. When she spotted that jacket, she nearly let out a small scream, but muzzled herself and faked a sneeze to cover. She could not allow herself this kind of fear. She knew that once a cop allowed him- or herself this kind of paranoia, it was difficult if not impossible to stop it. You saw the faces of killers you had helped to convict in every crowd, on every street. You imagined where no imagination should be allowed. She felt through her purse at her side to the small police-issue handgun it contained.

She collected her strength, stood, and walked back to this other car, her full attention on the khaki windbreaker. She pa.s.sed the circular bench, took a handhold on an overhead rail, and turned to face him. She stared at him until he finally looked up. He was a small man, midforties, with a tiny scar by his left eye. With boyish curiosity he said, "Hi."

"Do you know me?" she asked, not knowing where the words came from, not recognizing him.

"I think I'd like to," he said.

"Why are you following me?" she asked.

He looked around nervously at the people around them, all of whom Daphne was using intentionally. Confront, intimidate. He could not do anything to her here. "What?" he replied. If he was acting, he was quite good.

"Go away," she said, "or I'll have you arrested." She took one step away and then added as an afterthought, "If you know anything about me, you know I'm capable of delivering on that."

"Listen-" he said. But she would not give him any chance at an explanation. The worst possible thing she could do, she had just done, responding to emotion rather than logic. If he was for real, she should have played him out, should have arranged to have him followed, to turn the tables on him, to get something out of it. Instead she had felt the need to prove herself, and had blown whatever advantage she might have had over him. She handled this all wrong. She knew all this, and yet she felt satisfied as she sat back down, because it had taken nerve to do what she had done-and right then she had needed proof of that nerve. Now she did not, but now it was too late.

The monorail came to a stop after its brief trip to the Seattle Center. She wandered the Center for longer than she had intended, keeping an eye on this man who, paying her no mind whatsoever, headed straight to a crafts show, confusing her all the more.

With this confusion charging her system, she headed toward the crafts fair at a full run. To h.e.l.l with the meeting. She would follow him. She would call in backup and stay with him.

But he was gone. She spent ten minutes searching the grounds, the rides, a few of the displays. He had disappeared again, as quickly as he had at the Westlake.

Or maybe, she thought, glancing around quickly, he was once again watching her, only this time more cautiously. This time vowing to make no mistakes.

The felt board outside the Seattle Center's planetarium was the kind used in hotel lobbies for seminar announcements. It read, NEXT SHOW: 12 NOON, with a listing of the planetarium's regular summer schedule in a smaller white press type below.

The center was mobbed with families overcome by the interactive science exhibits, providing the exact cover that Boldt had hoped for in calling the meeting here. Boldt discreetly showed his badge and gave his name to a security guard who stood sentry by the planetarium's door, and getting the nod, let himself in. Taplin and Fowler were already waiting.

Boldt had to convince Adler to pay the extortion money. He expected the man to flat-out refuse.

The room was a twenty-foot-diameter circular enclosure, its perimeter entirely surrounded by a padded couch. In its center was a large, fixed desktop covered with an abundance of gray-metal projection gear that looked to Boldt as if it were straight off the set of Buck Rogers. The room had only one entrance and it was sound-proofed, the two qualities that when combined with its extremely busy public setting made it the perfect location for a covert meeting.

Boldt had seen the real show a few months ago while here to meet a snitch who had whispered right over the words of the college-age woman with her red-light pointer narrating "a voyage into the night sky." Pretty good show at that-terrific for the under-twelves. Miles would need a few years before he could get anything out of it.

"You look a little whipped," Fowler said, coming over to him. Taplin, an open briefcase next to him, was focused on a stack of papers on his lap. "You're supposed to sleep every week or so, whether you need it or not," Fowler quipped.

"Glad to be out of it?" Boldt asked.

"Am I out of it? I feel like you're keeping me out of it," he complained.

"I didn't mean it like that. I meant the department."

"Hang on," Fowler said, pressing his finger into his left ear. Only then did Boldt notice a tiny, flesh-colored wire running from his shirt collar. "The boss is here." Fowler had his people in the area, and as a result felt in control. It bothered Boldt, who was accustomed to running things.

The padded door opened and Adler entered.

Howard Taplin put the paperwork aside and stood. He appeared to have lost another five pounds, emaciated by stress and fatigue.

Adler crossed the room and shook hands with Boldt. "You look about like I feel," he said sympathetically.

"I'm not sure how to take that."

"Here comes trouble," Fowler announced. "And way off schedule, I might add."

Daphne entered, looking frayed. Fowler locked the door behind her.

"If you've got problems with your watch," Fowler said nastily, "we'll get you another."

"I was delayed," Daphne said.

"I was supposed to be ten-minute intervals," Fowler reminded her. "You were due here before Boldt."

"I was delayed," she repeated, glancing at Boldt, who sensed immediately that something was terribly wrong.

"Let's get started," Taplin complained irritably. "We have a lot of ground to cover." He handed both Boldt and Matthews a photocopy of a fax. "This is the first of the two faxes we received."

"Two?" Boldt asked, reading.

YOU BROKE THE RULES.

YOU HAVE ONLY YOURSELF TO BLAME.

I SAID NO COPS AND I MEANT IT.

Fowler said, "I've got a staff of fifteen in a two-shift rotation. Three of the guys wore badges before this. We've got experience, we've got the best gear. Basically, I think what Mr. Taplin is thinking is that we should take over. We can't risk any more killings."

"You're trying to fire me?" Boldt asked Taplin.

Daphne asked disbelievingly, "Owen?"

Admonishing Fowler, Adler said, "We're here to discuss this. No decisions have been made."

"You can't fire the police," Boldt explained angrily. He did not want to be forced into telling them about the murder of Sheriff Bramm. Longview Farms had once had direct links to Adler's former company, though Boldt was waiting for the lab report on the State Health doc.u.ment before informing any of these three. "If we need to take additional precautions to prevent leaks, we will."

"It goes well beyond that," Taplin protested. "You're going to have to shut down your side of this investigation-whatever that entails-and turn it over to us. Mr. Fowler has been handling the details of our side of this investigation, and has not involved the police once to my knowledge-so the leak certainly did not come from our side."

Adler complained to his counsel, "Let's dispense with this partisan att.i.tude, Tap. I don't like it one bit."

Boldt saw no way around exposing the murder of Sheriff Bramm. It was the only way to settle this. "We're investigating the homicide of a law enforcement officer who may have been a victim of your blackmailer. The murder occurred at Longview Farms sometime early last night."

Adler, Fowler, and Taplin all shared expressions of shock. No one spoke until Boldt broke the silence.

"I want to remind you that the evidence collected from the poisonings suggests an Adler Foods employee. But this murder is now being investigated as well. Although we have no evidence yet to corroborate this, we have to consider the possibility that a former Longview employee, or someone hired by one of the Meriweather family, is currently on your payroll and is perpetrating these crimes. The point being that he killed a police officer whom we asked to look around the farm for us-and that is what this fax is in reference to."

"Why weren't we informed of this?" Taplin complained.

"We just were," Adler interjected, losing his patience with his attorney. His eyes betrayed his anger with the man.

"What about your side of this?" Boldt asked Fowler. "Have you gotten anywhere with possible employees, past or present? Why haven't I seen any reports?"

"I've got all that for you," Fowler said defensively. Pointing to the attorney, he explained, "Mr. Taplin was just going over it. Nothing looks very good, I gotta tell you. I was focusing on guys-okay? And then you throw this curveball that it's a girl we're after-that Foodland video-and there I am starting all over. It takes time to do this without attracting attention. You know that." Fowler asked, "What about the Longview investigation?"

"Matthews is continuing to look into the possibility of a Longview connection," Boldt replied.

Fowler glanced over at Daphne and nodded. "If you need my help ..." he offered.

"Thanks."

Adler instructed, "Let's show them the other fax, Howard." Boldt noted the harsh tone of voice and the use of Taplin's proper first name instead of the nickname Tap. The tension between these two was palpable.

"Another fax?" Daphne questioned. "A second fax on the same day?" she attempted to clarify.

Fowler shifted restlessly. "You're seeing 'em in the order we did."

Boldt read: MOM' S HOME RECIPE: $100,000 IN PAC-WEST #435-98-8332.

BY FRIDAY, OR HUNDREDS WILL DIE.

"Sent to the same fax machine?" Boldt asked.

Adler confirmed with a disappointed nod.

Boldt asked Fowler, "What about caller-ID? I take it you got a number?"

"A pay phone in the U district. By the time we reached it, whoever sent this-he? she?-was long gone."

"We should have been informed, Kenny," Boldt chastised, furious to have been excluded. "That's what we have patrol cars for."

"You didn't notify the police? Why wasn't he notified?" Adler inquired. He was doing a fair job of keeping his cool, but he seemed right on the edge of losing it.

"It was a matter of reaction time," Fowler explained. "I make the phone call ... Boldt notifies dispatch ... Dispatch notifies the radio cars ... I've been there, sir." He grimaced. Boldt got the feeling Kenny Fowler did not appreciate calling anyone sir. "The fastest, most efficient way of handling this," he said, playing to Adler's priorities, "was to jump right on it and handle it ourselves."

"Well it failed-how's that for efficient? Next time," Adler corrected, "the police will be notified immediately. Are we all in agreement on that?"

Fowler flushed with embarra.s.sment; he did not like reprimands, either. Boldt felt the meeting falling apart. All three men seemed ready to go at one another's throats.

Boldt asked Daphne, "What have we got?"

"It uses the same language-this threat to kill hundreds. It has to be taken seriously." Boldt knew her well enough to sense something troubling her, but he was not going to push, given their present company.

"What bothers me," Adler said, "is that it seems such a chance to take just to send these faxes-so why send two? Why not combine them?"

"Maybe," Fowler theorized, "the extortion is what has been planned all along, and it just took pushing him over the top to trigger the demand." He put Daphne on the spot by asking, "Were the poisonings the setup? First, prove his power, then move in for the real hit-the extortion?"

Daphne chose her words carefully. Glancing quickly to Boldt and then back to Fowler, she repeated, "The extortion threat must be taken seriously. This opening line is another reference to Mom's Soup, which fits his earlier style. I think he means business. My advice, if that's what you're asking for, is to pay the ransom demand."

Taplin said, "Out of the question. We will not give in to acts of terrorism." To Adler he said sternly, "We have to draw a line in the sand somewhere."

Boldt hurried to interrupt. He asked Fowler, "What about the bank account?"