No Witnesses

access to my dispatch center. There’s any number of ways I could help out. You’ve gotta see that. You can’t tell me you got enough guys on this. Hell, you guys are still using open-channel radios-tell me you aren’t. I’m decades ahead of you on this. All our shit is digital, fully restricted, and encoded; we can help in a big way-I’m telling you!”

Boldt suddenly understood the pitch. He felt stupid that he had missed it at first. “You’re already watching the ATMs, aren’t you?” Boldt inquired rhetorically. “Just the Pac-West machines, or others as well? You’re trying to avoid possible charges later by making yourself included. Am I reading this right?”

“Lou …”

“How many machines, Kenny? What kind of access to the system do you have?”

Fowler would not look at Boldt. He rose, crossed the room, and finished pouring that drink for himself. To the mirror behind the wet bar, he said, “A list would do, Lou. Just the list of the ATMs you people are covering. No reason to have two guys playing second base. ’Kay? Spread out the team. I know you won’t let a private in on the surveillance. I accept that. But me and my people-my resources-can help out. We can cover the areas that you’re not. ’Kay? You see that, don’t you? Is that wrong? Or is that cooperation? Coordination? I want to help, and no one, including you, will fucking let me. What kind of fucking ass- backwards sense does that make? Am I talking nonsense here? Tell me. Am I?” The drink was mixed and he carried it over to his chair and sat down carefully so as not to spill it, because he had poured it tall. “My guys are good, Lou-you know some of them as well as I do. They were your guys not long ago: Hal Fredricks, Jonny Chi, Mac Mackensie-quality guys. With me and my guys working some of the ATMs, you get more coverage. Isn’t that what you want?” He met eyes with Boldt. “How about this? You supply me with a list of the ATMs, your guys are watching. Just the list, Lou. That’s all. So we don’t overlap.” He sipped the gin while Boldt considered the deal. “You keep me current on that list and I’ll give you Danielson’s deepest, darkest secrets.” He waited. “How ’bout it?”

Boldt attempted to gain some air. The apartment, despite its substantial size, despite its stunning view, suddenly felt claustrophobic to him. He weighed his choices: If he wanted the book on Danielson, Fowler could have it for him nearly overnight. Was it so stupid to avoid duplicating surveillance of the ATMs? He clarified, “I need the background work on Danielson done quickly. I need the surveillance conducted without his or anyone else’s knowledge. No slipups. No risks that could jeopardize that.”

“I understand, Lou, I understand.”

“Fredricks, Chi, Mackensie-he’d recognize any of them.”

Somewhat angrily Fowler said, “I can run a surveillance, friend. Would you be asking if I couldn’t? What the hell do you think we did in Major Crimes, eat pizza all day and talk sports?” It was a stab at the Fraud division, but Boldt let it pass.

The sergeant asked, “Matthews was going to ask you for some help?”

“Got her place wired up good and tight. Nice stuff. She won’t be having any more prowlers.” He added in a bellicose fashion, “We take care of our people. Someone has a problem, we fix it. That’s what we’re here for. It’s a lot simpler than wearing that badge of yours, believe me.”

Boldt’s cell phone rang, and for a moment he did not know the sound was coming from his own pocket.

“I think that’s you,” Fowler encouraged him.

Boldt, feeling self-conscious, was not terribly comfortable with the device, and he thought that Fowler probably sensed this as he turned it on. His awkwardness seemed to lend weight to Fowler’s claim of technical superiority, and this bothered the sergeant.

He spoke in blunt, terse acknowledgments. Grunts. As he did, Fowler’s phone rang, though the security man did not move. He watched Boldt intently, allowing an unseen answering machine to take the call. Boldt shut off the phone and said, “You want some involvement?” He was already out of his chair. “We’ve got an ATM hit going down.”

There was no hope of catching the extortionist during this first withdrawal; but if this night were like the others, there would be a second hit. Boldt wanted to be there.

He was on the phone with Lucille Guillard at Pac-West Bank by the time he ran the red light on First Avenue. Fowler secured his seat belt. They ran another light heading north toward Queen Anne and Ballard. The first withdrawal had been made in the U district; Lucille Guillard was playing percentages, believing a cluster of four banks on North Forty-fifth Street presented the next closest target. “How many people do you have in the field?” Fowler asked. The blue light of the dash-mounted police bubble played off his face, doing cruel things to his looks.

“We have three roamers. KCP has loaned us another five-they’re at fixed locations.”

“Eight people?” Fowler gasped. “Eight fucking people to cover every ATM in the city? You’re fucking kidding me?” Fowler confessed, “I have four stationaries. They are each within a two-block distance of three or more separate ATM locations. I have another four people on unmarked patrol, but with very definite territories. All told, I figure I’ve got somewhere around thirty-five of the fifty most active ATMs in the city covered. But I bet you’re covering some of the same ones.”

Boldt withheld comment. Fowler was organized, well financed, and obviously had a reserve of manpower on which to draw. For someone in Boldt’s position, it was discouraging.

The second ATM hit occurred at position 33, according to the police dispatcher whose constant running commentary and absurdly calm instructions could be heard from beneath the dash. On the off-chance that a savvy reporter had figured a way to eavesdrop on this or any of the other secure radio frequencies, the surveillance team was utilizing these reference numbers. Fowler spread it open on his lap. He studied it a moment and said, “North Forty-fifth Street.”

Boldt turned right, passing the Waiting for the Interurban sculpture, and Fowler said, “Nice system. Nice and private. I like it. Do you pretty much stick with this, or mix it up?”

“We’re going to start mixing it up,” Boldt informed him.

“This is all I need, Lou. You give me this map and at least we won’t be stepping on each other’s toes.”

“Hang on!” Boldt interrupted, recognizing Adrian Walcott’s voice as he announced his location as North Forty-fifth and Latona.

Boldt put his foot down hard and blew past traffic. He turned left on Stoneway, ran two lights while sounding his horn, and skidded the back end of the car through a yellow light at Forty-fifth, as Fowler pointed right.

Walcott announced in a harried voice: “I’m stuck in traffic.”

Fowler said to Boldt, “Friday night. Forty-fifth street-it’s a good place to disappear in a hurry if you have to. A good place to lose the cops.”

The maximum amount of time Boldt could hope for was fifteen to twenty seconds per transaction. He estimated that this time was about up, confirmed when the dispatcher’s voice said, “Transaction is complete. Repeat: Transaction is complete.”

“I’m going on foot,” announced an anxious-voiced Walcott. “Passing Meridian.”

Three blocks to go, thought Boldt.

“Are you there?” Lucille Guillard asked over the cell phone.

“Right here.”

“That’s twelve hundred. We could still see more.”

From beneath the dash, a winded Adrian Walcott announced, “I’m at position thirty-three. There’s no one using the machines.”

Boldt pulled over, slammed the car into Park, taking the key, and cut through the stalled westbound lane of traffic. Car horns sounded. Fowler cut to the right, increasing the distance between them.

Face after face of what were mostly young college students streamed past. Seeing his intensity, these kid strangers looked away uneasily. He encountered no six-foot male wearing a greatcoat. He caught up to Walcott, who, sweating, shook his head and cursed.

Fowler said eagerly to Boldt, “Let’s stay with this.”

Dodging traffic, the two men ran back to the waiting car.

Boldt grabbed the police radio handset. He was willing to play a gamble. “Cover the banks to the south. And