No Witnesses

bent like leaves stretching for the sun. People called him “Razor” because his voice sounded like someone humming into wax paper wrapped around a comb. At the end of his right arm he carried a metal claw that served as his hand. As a barroom stunt, Razor would stack matchsticks into four-inch-tall wooden chimneys using only his prosthesis. When he was nervous it chattered involuntarily, sounding like an eggbeater hitting the side of the bowl.

The support of the prosecuting attorney was critical to any investigation. A PA did not run an investigation, but he steered it in the necessary legal directions that winning convictions required. The lead detective-the “primary”-and the PA formed a team that was sometimes comfortable, sometimes not. Most warrant affidavits went through the PA or were hot-rodded directly to a judge with the PA’s approval. Being around Michael Striker when he was nervous took some getting used to, as did adjusting to his volatile temper, but Boldt enjoyed the man. He was among the top five PAs in King County, and some people had him picked for a Superior Court appointment within the year.

Boldt, Matthews, and Striker were escorted to an elevator and shown up to the sixth floor, where a set of fake trees and the faint twinge of disinfectant welcomed them to an executive wing.

Lucille Guillard, a cream-skinned black woman in her late twenties with a glorious French accent, an exceptionally long neck, and penetrating black eyes, wore a blue linen suit and white blouse combo that could have been stolen from Liz’s closet. An overriding confidence permeated a smile that was at once both expressive but controlled. She shook hands all around, offered them seats, and got right down to business. An assistant delivered three photocopies of the computerized account information.

“A woman!” Daphne was the first to notice.

Boldt felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. The Shop-Alert video had suggested the involvement of a woman, but the torture-homicide of Sheriff Turner Bramm had convinced him that he was after a man.

“No such address,” Striker declared. “I’ve got a cousin who lives in the fifty-nine-hundred block on the even- numbered side. There’s a park across the street from him. There’s no such number as 5908.” To Guillard he said sharply, “Do you people ever check these things?”

Guillard bristled. “I am not New Accounts,” she clarified, as if it were a banking disease.

“Well, let’s see the original application. We’re a little rushed.” Striker’s prosthesis began chattering.

“We’re okay, Razor,” Boldt said, trying to calm him.

Guillard reread her copy of the computerized sheet. “This account was opened last week. That means that the original application would be destroyed by now.”

“Destroyed?” Striker inquired, leaning forward in his seat. “What the hell do you mean, ‘destroyed’?”

“Razor,” Boldt said. He could feel the man about to explode.

She complained, “Pac-West is a paperless workplace. We’re all E-mail and voice mailboxes around here. Not that I like it. The bottom line for you guys is that the original application would have been scanned and downloaded to the mainframe in San Francisco five working days after the account opened. I can get you a facsimile of that original-the quality is exceptional-but not the original itself, I’m afraid.”

“Fucking bean counters,” Striker complained. “You can’t develop latent prints off a copy, lady. You know what we’re up against here? A facsimile? You think a facsimile is going to help the sergeant?”

Boldt said, “It was a long shot anyway, Mikey. This is hardly Ms. Guillard’s fault. We had expected a bogus address, a bogus name.”

“I would doubt that,” Guillard said. To Striker she said sternly, “The applications are checked out.”

Striker objected. “You want to know what you’re looking at here? Ten to one this name belongs to a recently deceased female. The false identity gives this person a Social Security number that matches the name just in case your bank actually does run a check-which I still doubt. Federal agencies have taken steps for years to automate and cross-reference their orbit databases in order to prevent what we call mortuary fraud, but, like banks, they are a bunch of bureaucrats, and they move about as fast as slugs and are about as intelligent-”

Daphne interrupted. “She would need a current mailing address, wouldn’t she? For the statements?”

“Absolutely. If more than two statements are returned to us, we suspend the account immediately.” For Boldt, Guillard’s French accent turned her words into whipped cream.

“But that means she has two months before you close the account,” Daphne pointed out.

Striker said, “That’s what I’m telling you: slow as slugs.” His right hand sounded like a fence gate in a strong wind.

“If this address is fraudulent, as Mr. Striker is suggesting, we will cancel the account today.”

“No,” Boldt cautioned. “You mustn’t do that.”

Guillard eyed him curiously, confused.

Daphne explained, “If an exception can be made, we would prefer the account remain open.”

“I don’t understand,” Guillard complained.

“Of course you don’t!” Striker hollered. “Jesus!”

Boldt grabbed Striker by the arm and led him into the hall, shutting the office door. “Enough, Razor!”

“I’m sorry, Lou.” His metal claw ticked loudly. “You can see what she is: a foreigner, a minority, a woman- that’s a quota position, for Christ’s sake.”

“She’s an executive vice president, Razor. One of twelve. You’re way out of line here.” Striker was breathing heavily. He nodded.

“Things have been shitty for me at home, Lou. You’re probably right.”

“Why don’t you talk to Legal-see if we can’t get any documentation on this account without jumping through the hoops. And be professional about it, Razor. We need these people.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay?”

“Apologize for me.” Striker headed to the elevator without another word.

Boldt returned to the office and apologized profusely to Ms. Guillard. He said, “It’s personal problems.”

“We all have them,” Guillard replied understandingly. “Still, I am glad he is gone.” She allowed a warm smile. Her eyes met the two of them. “This is something serious, is it not?”

“For the moment I’m afraid you’ll have to go mostly on faith.” He hesitated and then informed her. “I’m with Homicide. Mr. Striker is a prosecuting attorney. And Ms. Matthews is the police department’s forensic psychologist. We’re after a person who is committing particularly heinous crimes.”

“And this is the person you’re after? This Sheila Dan-forth?”

“Possibly,” Boldt conditioned. “We don’t know that for certain.”

She appeared more than a little overwhelmed. In her smooth French accent, Guillard said, “Very well. How may I help you?”

“The application was made in person?” Boldt asked hopefully.

Checking the printout, Guillard said, “No. By mail.”

“Mail?” Daphne asked.

“It is done all the time. Nothing unusual there.”

“Avoid the cameras,” Daphne said to Boldt.

“Exactly,” he answered, then inquired of Guillard, “and the opening deposit?”

She located a code on the document and used her computer terminal to look it up. “Postal money order.”

Daphne said, “Difficult if not impossible to trace. She thought of everything.”

“And this number?” Boldt asked, leaning over her desk and pointing it out to Guillard. “A credit card?” If it was a credit card, the charges could be traced-just the kind of paper trail he was hoping for.

“No. It begins with the digit eight. That is an ATM card,” she replied.

“She ordered an ATM card?” Boldt said uneasily.

“By now she has it,” Guillard informed him. “Our latest marketing campaign. Have you not seen the advertisements? We guarantee an ATM debit card within two business days of opening a new account. No usage