No Witnesses

her off, then we’ve lost whatever we had.”

“But on the other hand,” he countered, “if they caught the person and we could have a little chat, we might be light-years ahead.”

“Point taken,” she said. “I could fax Owen and ask.”

He offered her an expression that said, “I would if I were you.”

“And meanwhile, Sergeant?”

“We tear into Longview Farms. Physically, we already have: The lab is busy on a dozen fronts. But I mean historically. We find the wife. We find the people who worked there. We chat up the neighbors, the meat inspectors, the UPS driver. Anyone and everyone. My bet is that that’s where we’re going to find our boy.”

“Boy?”

He mocked, “You get this feeling when you’re a homicide dick.”

“And New Leaf?”

“Yes. I think we keep going … you keep going. If you’re up to it. We want that connection, if it’s there. From where I’m sitting, we want whatever the hell we can come up with.”

“The sheriff,” she said, coming back to Boldt’s nightmare. “Police involvement.”

“He warned us, and I blew it.”

“You didn’t blow anything.”

He gave her a look. Enough was enough. He knew what he knew. “You okay?” he asked, coming off the stool.

“Fine. Get out of here,” she teased.

“You sure?”

“Go.”

He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She blew him one back.

She stopped him when he reached the door. “Just one thing, Sergeant.”

He turned to her.

“You might want to take that hat off before someone sees you.”

He felt up there, realizing he had been wearing it-looking stupid-for the better part of two hours. “Jesus,” he said, throwing it at the rocking chair. “You could have said something.”

“Yes, I could have,” she admitted, laughing, and wincing with the pain.

TWENTY

On Wednesday morning, two weeks since Daphne had involved him in the case, Boldt was in the midst of dealing with the first ATM withdrawal when LaMoia arrived and made his announcement. This first hit had come at eleven-thirty the night before: Twelve hundred dollars had been withdrawn in three consecutive transactions. The nearest surveillance personnel had been eleven blocks away. By the time this undercover cop reached the first ATM, a second machine was hit, this time another ten blocks away. The dance had continued for ninety minutes, at the end of which thirty-six hundred dollars had been withdrawn, the police never anywhere near a transaction. It was an embarrassing display of Boldt’s lack of manpower; Shoswitz was chewed out by Captain Rankin, and in turn spoke his mind to Boldt: They would have to do better …

Boldt thought one answer might be the ATM card’s PIN number. Lucille Guillard, the Pac-West bank executive, had informed him that the PIN number had indeed been requested by the account holder. People requested specific numbers because they were easier to remember; and they were easier to remember because they held some significance to the account holder.

Therefore, Boldt reasoned, this number-8165-held some significance to the killer. It was a piece of evidence that Boldt intended to follow.

Data processing was presently searching these four digits against phone numbers, driver’s licenses, vehicle registration numbers, Social Security numbers, other credit card PINs, active credit card account numbers, and bank account numbers. He even went so far as to request a list from the Washington State Department of Revenue for all individuals born on August 1, 1965, or January 8, 1965. The Postal Service was to provide the names of any individuals owning post office box number 8165. He used the tax assessor’s office to generate the names of residents at any addresses that included 8165. Somehow this number meant something to the killer, and Boldt was pursuing every possibility.

LaMoia charged through the security door that accessed the fifth floor’s Homicide unit, looked around quickly, and shouted to Boldt, “I found a witness!”

Boldt led him around the corner and into the privacy of a tiny interrogation room that smelled like sweat and cigarettes. When LaMoia became excited, his brown eyes grew large, his face thinned, and his voice cracked.

“Okay, so here’s the thing. I’m doing an interview, right? I mean typical WASP housewife: Volvo. Hardwood floors. You know the type. And when I introduce myself at the door, she kind of sags, right? Like she’s seen cops before. Maybe too often. I’m thinking her husband’s a drunk, or a gambler, or is a regular at Vice. Or maybe he’s using or dealing or something, and she’s worried sick. We get talking about Foodland-because she’s one of the ones shopping-one of the ones on the list of thirty-four-and she’s noticeably upset, right? And she is a major strikeout. I mean, before I can ask her the question, this one is already shaking her head at me and glancing toward the door. You know the kind? She wants me gone. I’m thinking maybe the husband is expected home early. Then I’m thinking maybe it’s her-maybe she’s getting some on the side. What do I know? But she’s a mess. And then I hear the back door, and the mother practically does an Exorcist thing with her neck-like an owl-trying to cop a look into the kitchen, but I beat her to it, right? and who do I see but her?”

“Her?” Boldt inquired.

“Our vidqueen, Miss Foodland. The one with the floppy hat and the pierced ears.”

“Her?” Boldt repeated, excited now.

“You’re thinking there’s no way I could make her considering we hardly got a look at her in that video-but what I’m telling you: You know me, right? I know women. What can I say? We’ve all watched that video how many times? And this MacNamara girl had the exact same moves. Right down to the way she turned her head when she saw her mother talking to me. And another thing: She knew I was a cop. You know what I’m saying? You can feel it. She knew-and she wasn’t sticking around to small talk.”

“Did you interview her?”

“Hell no. A minor. The mother seeming the protective type, figured you’d want to maybe try for a warrant. See if we could turn up the clothes we saw in the video.”

“We’d never get a warrant,” Boldt said.

The detective reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Striker took care of it. Said because she’s a minor and we’d never get a look at her record without someone like him requesting it.”

“Her record? A minor?” Boldt asked.

“She’s a klepto. Seven arrests for shoplifting in the last six months. And I mean klepto! Drugstores, department stores, hardware stores-you name it. Big-ticket items. Stuff it’s damn near impossible to get out of a store without getting caught. So maybe it’s a game for her.”

“But if she’s a kleptomaniac-” Boldt began.

“Then chances are she was lifting, not putting poisoned soup onto the shelves.”

“Which means she’s not our suspect. But she may have seen him. The timing is right, after all. There’s only a seven-second envelope during which someone put those five cans of soup onto the shelf.”

“When can we interview her?”

“Do we know that the girl will be home?”

“She’s on a juvenile home-release program. Summer school and not much more. Comes home from school and stays put. At least, she’s supposed to. That Foodland tape is time-stamped. Holly was a bad girl; she wasn’t supposed to be in that store.”