'I got a right to an attorney, don't I? So give me one. I got nothing to say to you.'
Boldt said, 'Who's running the organs up to Vancouver for Tegg?
' A sharp knock on the door caught all three of them by surprise. The door opened. The man standing there was all Brooks Brothers-all business. All attorney. He stretched his arm to Boldt first and then to Daphne. She resented that. 'Howard Chamberland,' he introduced himself.
Daphne was thinking: The Howard Chamberland? Where did scum like Maybeck get money for those kinds of fees?
She couldn't believe it. A moment earlier Maybeck had been asking to be assigned an attorney. What was going on here?
Chamberland chided Boldt, 'I had heard such good things about you. I hadn't expected something as cheap as this. A little gaming? Some dog fighting? You-a Homicide lieutenant-'
'Sergeant,' Boldt corrected. 'You've been speaking with him, I presume.' He shook his head in disgust. 'You can forget all that now, of course. You would be wise to forget the charges. Pit bulls? What are we talking here, a hundred dollars and animal confiscation? What are you, the ASPCA? Come on! Whatever your intentions, you had better speak to Bob Proctor. I certainly am going to as soon as I am done here. Are you bringing additional charges against my client?'
'Your client?' Boldt asked. 'At your fee? Or are you doing charity work now?'
'My relationship with Donald is confidential.' Daphne said, 'it must be. He doesn't like that name. Has anyone even introduced you two?' To Maybeck she said, 'You called Tegg, didn't you?' but she watched Chamberland for a reaction. He was expressionless-worth every penny. Daphne felt the frustration as a knot in her throat. So close! What were Sharon's chances now?
Boldt said, 'A few minutes ago your client was requesting to see a public defender, Mr. Chamberland. Are you sure you have the right man?'
'Are you?' asked the attorney, holding the door open for them, waiting for them to leave.
As Boldt and Daphne headed down the narrow hallway leading from Interrogation, Lamoia rushed toward them waving a pink telephone memo, his face a youthful combination of fatigue and exhilaration. Before the detective reached them, Shoswitz appeared behind him at the main door and shouted loudly, 'Everybody-and I mean everybody but uniforms-in the Situation Room now! No tears!' he emphasized, meaning he would take no excuses. 'I don't like the sound of that,' Boldt warned. 'I don't like a sharpshooter with Chamberland's reputation representing Maybeck.' She added, 'He's a heavy hitter.' 'Agreed. We've lost Maybeck.'
'I'm about to scream.'
'Better not.' Boldt happened to catch the lieutenant's eye, just a fleeting glimpse that caused him to make an aside to Daphne. 'We're baked.' He had worked with Shoswitz for over eleven of his seventeen years with the department and had learned to measure even the slightest nuance in his expression.
Such a sixth sense was a prerequisite to a successful career in Homicide; it told you when to shut up and when to push hard. This was one of the times to shut up. 'I think you're right. The last time he called for all of us,' she reminded, 'was that neo-Nazi thing three years ago.'
'Lamoia!' Shoswitz chastised, stopping the man. 'The Situation Room is the other way! I said nowill Lamoia switched directions abruptly. He shoved the memo into his pocket. The two sergeants increased their strides, attempting to catch up with Lamoia. They entered the large, open room with its folding chairs and tables.
Daphne rushed to a spot along the wall closest to the room's only other door, hoping to sneak out if necessary. Shoswitz could be long-winded. Sharon couldn't afford long-winded.
The room was in a temporary state of chaos, as investigators of all ranks flooded the seats and established leaning zones. There were two other women in the room besides Daphne, both detectives: Bobbie Gaynes and Anita Desilva. The two women on loan from Sexual Assault for the pawn shop sting were back on their regular assignments. 'Sit down and put a lid on it!' Shoswitz ordered.
Lamoia reached them and stood behind Daphne, leaning against the door. Facing Shoswitz along with the two men, she said, 'What have you got, John?'
'The name of the courier,' he whispered.
He pulled out the memo again, and Daphne snatched it from him without looking, stunning him. 'The employee lists arrived on my E-Mail while you two were in Interrogation. I called over to Port of Seattle Police and they started running the names through the airliner computers. We got luck on two counts: One, she used an airline early in the alphabet, which was how we started our search-Alaska Air; two, she was greedy-she credited every single flight to her mileage program. It was my buddy's idea, the first place he tried, because the data is essentially already sorted for you, and barn: Twenty-some-odd flights stacked right in a row, all to Vancouver International, all on the dates of the previous harvests.'
'What's the name?' Boldt asked anxiously, cocking his head just slightly over his shoulder. 'Listen up, people, and listen up good. Come on. Quiet!' Shoswitz roared. 'Meyers, put a sock in it! Boldt, you done having your meeting? I'd like to get on with mine.'
Daphne, who was just about to read the name to Boldt, slipped the memo back into her pocket. She felt her face burn.
Shoswitz became intensely serious. 'Listen up. Five minutes ago, a little after 4 P.m., a male Caucasian entered the Stoneway Safeway and opened fire with a semiautomatic weapon as yet unidentified.'
'The guy or the gun?' an anonymous, disguised voice shouted out. It won some limited laughter.
Shoswitz wasn't having any of it. His face remained rigid and impassive as he continued, 'Eleven known dead.' A hush swept the room. Maybe no one was breathing. 'Including two children, an infant and seven women. One of those women was the daughter of state Senator Baker. SPD and County Police vehicles are presently in pursuit of the suspect-five-foot-eight inches, brown hair, camo clothing, jump boots-believed to be headed north on Aurora around the Eighty-fifth Street crossing. You're all assigned to this one, people.' There was a major grumbling of protest throughout the room. 'All other investigations, except-' he pulled out a cheat sheet, 'the docklands bombing, the Toyland rape/assault, and the harvester kidnapping take backseat to this. On those cases just mentioned, only, I repeat-ONLY! — the lead detective remains active.' More grumbling from his audience. 'All support activities, including surveillance, are terminated until notified.' That really stirred up the crowd. 'Listen! Listen! This is from the top down okay? Don't kill the fucking messenger-excuse the French. I want you all to roll to the crime scene immediately, but watch your driving, especially you, Lamoia-no stunts. We want witness reports, a full ID workup; you know the drill. 'We're going to be under a microscope on this one, people. National news affiliates are already working with Public Information. This has got to be first-class police work. Let's see that it is. Let's zip it up. I will be coordinating along with the Bureau's boys-those experts in homicide.' This finally won him some sympathy. A ripple of laughter swept the room. The FBI, who taught homicide investigative techniques, annually conducted fewer homicide investigations on a national basis that a even a small experience, they occasionally caused bad blood by exerting that authority. 'Matthews, we'll want you to interface with the FBI on a psych-' He paused. 'Where the hell is Matthews? Matthews, pipe up. Raise your hand or something! Boldt!' he hollered, 'wasn't she standing right behind you?'
'I'm not sure, Lieutenant,' Boldt lied cautiously, his hand curled around the note she had slipped there. He had felt her writing against him, using his back as a desk, just before she slipped out. 'Maybe the little girls' room,' Lamoia offered. He knew better.
'Gaynes, find her!' Shoswitz ordered. The detective hurried from the room. 'Don't look too hard,' Boldt advised from the corner of his mouth as Gaynes passed. She turned and winked at him. Wherever Daphne was headed, she would make it.
He opened his hand and read the crumpled note, written in mascara on the back of Lamoia's pink memo. It read: 'You take Maybeck. I've got her.' An arrow lead around the note to the other side where the name was boldly circled: Pamela Chase.
Boldt aimed his back squarely at Lamoia and asked, 'Hey, did she get any of that stuff on my coat?'
Situated in the northern reaches of the university district, Pamela Chase's apartment building was around the corner from a Greek restaurant, a stationery store and a sewing shop. It looked more like a double-decker motel. Daphne was driving her own Honda Prelude because her assigned vehicle had yet to be returned by the airport security personnel; she would probably never see the car again. As she was checking to make sure her Beretta semiautomatic was secured in its holster up under her jacket, her pager began beeping. She unclipped it from her
