No Witnesses

“Frankie?”

“We’re on a first-name basis. He’s big on cop shows. He promised to keep our visit quiet, but only if I got his keys back to him.”

Pop! The elevator could be heard descending.

Boldt snapped his head in that direction. “Let’s go!”

“The lab report!” Daphne said, running down the aisle. “Help me with this.”

“No time,” he objected.

“Help me!” she leaned her weight into the loader and heaved. She glared at him. Together, they wrestled the loader around the corner and raced it down the aisle, the hum of the descending elevator pressing them on.

“I think we should leave it,” Boldt said nervously. “Technically, we should have a warrant.”

“We have Owen’s approval,” she reminded him, scrambling up the ladder to a line of boxes marked NLF-Legal.

“Even so,” Boldt said.

The boxes were alphabetized, and Daphne was forced to make a choice C for Contamination? L for Lawsuit? S for State Health? She chose S-Z, tearing the lid off the box and searching its contents.

The hum of the elevator grew distant. It was nearly down.

“Leave it,” Boldt encouraged.

“No way.” She clicked her index finger along the file tabs, and there it was: State Health. She yanked the entire file, returned the box, and skipped steps coming down the ladder.

The elevator stopped. Its opening grate echoed up the shaft, and pop! it began its ascent.

“Give me the keys,” Daphne demanded of him. She snared them in one quick swipe. “Get this back around the corner and then get out of here. Meet you at the bottom of the stairs.”

Without further explanation Daphne ran out of the room, crossed the hall, pushed through the exit door, and descended the stairs two at a time, determined to keep Taplin from knowing about her search of the files.

This being a three-story building, she had only the one floor-the second-to pass the keys. The elevator opened from either side, and she knew from her ride up that after entering it, the passengers stood facing away from the gate that accessed the room to the Adler archives.

She cracked open the door to the second-floor hallway and peered out. The elevator was just reaching this level. At first she saw the backs of three heads: Frankie, the security guard, Taplin, and Fowler. Now their shoulders. The elevator climbed. Pressed against the wall, she hurried toward them.

The elevator was moving too fast to offer her more than one attempt. She closed the distance. Fifteen feet … Ten … Five …

Their waists. The backs of their legs. The elevator was dead even with the second floor. It continued to climb.

Daphne reached the stationary floor gate, diamonds of accordion steel. By contrast, the elevator’s gate was slanted slats of wood. In order to pass the keys into the elevator, Daphne would have to negotiate both patterns at once. Her plan was to toss them inside and duck out of sight, at which point Frankie could claim he dropped them.

The floor of the elevator ascended past her ankles.

She held the keys, debating when to throw them. Started to, but stopped. Lifted her arm.

Frankie turned and looked right into her eyes. He must have sensed her, for his attention fell immediately to her hand-the keys-and without thinking, she lunged her arm through the steel grate attempting to pass them.

For Daphne, all motion slowed.

“Hell of a rain,” Frankie said to Taplin’s bald spot, taking a step back, his fingers twitching behind him for the outstretched keys. “Give me them!” this hand seemed to say. But as the elevator continued its steady rise, the pass became impossible, and worse, Daphne suddenly realized her arm was in too far: the bottom lip of the elevator could take off her hand at the wrist like a paper cutter.

Taplin’s bald spot moved, as he swung his head to speak to Frankie.

Daphne ducked from sight, her arm high overhead, the steel lip of the elevator heading for her forearm like a butcher’s cleaver. Her watch caught on the diamond steel gate, trapping her hand. Inches to go!

She tossed the keys, jerked her hand hard, and broke her watchband.

The keys splashed to the floor of the elevator.

Daphne flattened onto the floor.

Something thumped softly onto her back. Her watch. Frankie had kicked it out of the elevator while bending to retrieve his keys.

“Man, but I’m clumsy,” she heard Frankie say, his voice rising with the elevator. “Damn near lost these.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Taplin said. “I’ve got my key with me.”

All for nothing! Daphne realized, heading back to the stairs and descending quickly. Boldt had the file, and she was anxious to see what it contained.

When she reached her car she leafed through the file quickly, nervously, eyes alert for the document that had become so familiar to her. Buried in the middle, she found it: the State Health lab report-and by the look of it, this was no copy.

SIXTEEN

The hours passed slowly while they awaited the initial results of the lab tests on the State Health document. The interviews with the Foodland customers dragged out, and those reports Boldt did receive suggested to him that too much time had passed. People simply did not remember much about grocery shopping.

Several calls placed to Sheriff Turner Bramm went unanswered and unreturned, infuriating Boldt. As Boldt’s shift came to an end, replaced by DeAngelo’s squad, there was a good deal of mumbling about what Boldt was really up to. Danielson had cleared a hit-and-run and they had leads in a liquor store assault, but it was clear to all from looking at the Book that most of Boldt’s squad was, admittedly or not, detailed to whatever consumed Sergeant Boldt. Danielson was running a one-man show; Lou Boldt, in effect, was running a small task force.

On Friday morning, with the discovery of three hospitalizations in Portland that matched the symptoms of cholera-395, Boldt flew down for an eleven o’clock meeting with the Portland Police Department. At the same time, because the crime had now crossed state lines, the local field office of the FBI was alerted, and two Special Agents attended this meeting. Fortunately for Boldt and the investigation, he knew both agents personally and there was a good deal of mutual respect between them.

In an act of cooperation, the FBI field office deferred to Boldt’s request for advice and assistance but not intervention. For the time being, the Bureau agreed to stay on the sidelines, offering its services but not its leadership. The SPD would continue to run the investigation with the PPD and the FBI as silent partners. The FBI’s Hoover Building lab was made available, and Boldt passed along Daphne’s request that the Bureau’s behavioral psychiatrist, Dr. Richard Clements, contribute to a psychological profile. This was met with enthusiasm.

By four o’clock that Friday afternoon, some of the energy and urgency of the Tin Man investigation had begun to dissipate because of general inactivity and a lack of leads. Shoswitz settled back into his normal routine and left for home with the shift change. Lou Boldt did not.

Once again he telephoned the office first and then the residence of Sasquaw’s sheriff, Turner Bramm. On the sixth ring the man’s wife answered. Boldt had a brief conversation and hung up. He felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

Detective John LaMoia entered Boldt’s office cubicle saying, “Narc, narc, anybody home? Feel like a pizza?”

LaMoia, in his late thirties, was a twelve-year SPD veteran, and had spent six years on Boldt’s homicide squad. He stood six feet one with curly brown hair, a mustache, and had a drawn face, high cheekbones, and large brown eyes. He wore pressed blue jeans that carried a heavy crease down the center of both pant legs; he worked