No Witnesses

“Just don’t go picking any fights.” Striker had a reputation for challenging thirty-year-olds to one-handed fights-and winning. And sometimes there was no challenge. Just an explosion, and Striker was on someone.

“Well, there he is,” he said, noticing Danielson glaring at Boldt from the parked car. “That warrant must have done the trick, huh?”

“Which warrant?” Boldt asked. “Holly MacNamara?”

“The klepto? Hell no. I mean his. Danielson’s. The W-2s on Longview Farms. I had to bitch and scream to get you those. Fucking tax boys have assholes as tight as squirrels’.”

Boldt did his best to hide his shock. He looked away, as if still interested in the house. “The W-2s,” he repeated.

“Right. Going after the Longview employees. That’s how you got Caulfield’s name. Right? And all thanks to yours truly. And Danielson, too, maybe-or was he just your go-boy on that?” He poked Boldt a little too hard with his metal claw. “You can thank me. I won’t complain.”

“Yeah, thanks, Razor.” Boldt’s words barely left his mouth.

“You don’t have to sound so overjoyed,” Striker stabbed sarcastically.

“No. I appreciate it. Really,” Boldt said, sounding stronger, his attention focused across the lawn on Daniel- son’s profile. “The Longview tax records,” he repeated.

“Damn straight. You ought to try going up against the tax boys sometimes. It ain’t all fun and games, believe me.”

Boldt had LaMoia drive him downtown. He left the car before it came to a full stop and hurried to the door with the detective shouting loudly from behind him, “Wait up!”

Boldt was not waiting. He took the stairs two at a time, descending into the basement. He had his key out for the Boneyard before reaching the door. Through the door, then the chain-link gate. He found the light switch without looking.

Several long strides down the second aisle, around the corner to the shelf so familiar to him. C-A-U-

And there it was: the arrest file for Harold Emerson Caulfield. Exactly where it belonged.

TWENTY-FOUR

Armed with a variety of mug shots, including those of Harry Caulfield that had been given to her by Boldt, Daphne approached Holly MacNamara the following Friday morning before the young woman left for summer school.

Holly was dressed in blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and black running shoes. The mother continually tried to push herself on them, and to prevent her from interfering, Daphne and the young woman sought privacy in Holly’s bedroom. The walls were covered with posters of grunge bands. The bed was on the floor, and the room smelled of incense.

“You see what I live with?” she asked Daphne.

“Mothers can be harsh,” Daphne agreed.

“Yeah?”

“My mother was a real jerk when I was in high school. She thought I was going to get pregnant and become a junkie.”

“You?”

“Me,” she answered. She placed the first series of mug shots in front of the girl, withholding Caulfield’s for the third or fourth group. She wanted to get her acquainted with the process before risking their prize. But more than that, she wanted to help this young woman if possible.

Holly MacNamara studied them all carefully, picked one of them up, placed it down, and shook her head. “Not here,” she said.

“The thing is,” Daphne told her, “the more time I spent at home, the worse it was, because it seemed like everything I did was wrong. My mother wanted me to be her cute little girl. She couldn’t handle that I had breasts and my period, and that I was curious to find out what drinking beer was like.” None of this reflected her high school years in the least, but she had studied the Holly MacNamaras and she thought she knew the general situation well enough to establish a rapport.

“Talk to me.”

“Same with you?”

“Absolutely.”

Daphne laid out another set of four mug shots. “How about these?” she asked.

Holly was not looking at the photographs, but at Daphne instead. “The thing is, she never lets up. And all I want is for her to chill and give me some space. You know? She doesn’t have a clue who I am.”

“Maybe a clue,” Daphne said, “but not much of one.”

“Exactly.”

Daphne indicated the photos for a second time, and Holly studied them carefully-perhaps more carefully, Daphne hoped, than had they not had this conversation.

“No, I don’t think so,” Holly said.

“Make sure.”

“No. Definitely not.”

Daphne picked up these, but waited before placing down the next, for the photo of Harry Caulfield was among these. She said, “I volunteer at the Shelter-”

“The place for runaways?”

“Yes. A close friend of mine is the spokesperson, and I put in about eight hours a week there-evenings mostly. Have you ever considered volunteer work?”

“Me?”

“I know it’s not the same as hanging out at the mall, as hanging out with your friends. But the girls are about your age-closer to your age than mine, that’s for sure-and more than anything, they need contact with people, they need to find a base, to get themselves centered again. Volunteers do everything from serve meals to change beds to just sit around talking. What I was thinking-you’re kind of in a bad scene here. Your sentencing requires you to stay home, but this is where a lot of your problems seem to stem from. What if I could convince the judge to allow you to spend some time volunteering at the Shelter? Maybe the same hours I’m there-at least at first. Would you have any interest in that?”

“I could try it.”

“Is that a yes?”

Holly studied Daphne’s face. “Yeah, that’s a yes.”

“Good,” Daphne said, grinning.

She laid out the next series of mug shots. First one, then the second, then Harry Caulfield, then a fourth. “What about these?” She watched the girl’s face carefully, as Holly’s eyes moved progressively down the row. When she reached Caulfield, her eyes widened and she bit her lip. Then, without saying anything, she looked at the fourth in the line.

“Let me ask you something,” Holly MacNamara said. Daphne nodded. “If I did recognize this guy-not that I’m saying I do-then I become involved, right? I become a snitch.” Her voice changed, driven by anger. “You know how much trouble I’ve gotten in because someone ratted on me? Do you know what that feels like? And now you expect me to rat on some guy? Do you see anything wrong with this picture?”

“I’m going to tell you something that I’m not allowed to tell you. I’m going to tell you because I trust you never to repeat it. If you were to repeat it, you could get me in some serious shit-maybe even cost me my job-it’s that secret. I don’t know you well, Holly, but I like you-and this is one time I had better be a good judge of character.” She hesitated, to allow this to sink in. “I know what you’re saying about snitching. I think I understand where you’re coming from. And I can see how it would be hard for you. Especially if you were turning in a shoplifter. Shoplifting is nothing to be proud of, Holly, but I can see how that would be difficult for you. But the person we’re after is not a shoplifter.” Caulfield stared back at her from the mug