No Witnesses

“You have explained this case to me-at least some of it, the ATM part-and yet you never asked my advice. The one area I know something about, and you didn’t ask.”

“I didn’t think-”

“No, you didn’t,” she interrupted, in order to make her own point. “And I didn’t know if it was because you didn’t want my input, didn’t want to cross that line we keep so delicately stretched between us, or because it never occurred to you to ask.”

Boldt did not like car discussions, and his wife knew it. He had to wonder why she had waited until now to start this conversation. They had just spent twenty-four hours in the solitude and quiet of the lake, and she waits for the morning commute that affords no eye contact, no real contact at all, to launch into this.

“You’re upset,” she said.

“The timing is all.”

“Car talk.”

“Right.”

“But it’s easier sometimes for me. Can you see that? For all the reasons you don’t like it, it makes it easier for me. I can avoid those hard looks of yours even though I feel them.”

“I never mean to exclude you from anything,” he apologized.

“I know that. You do it, but I know you don’t mean to.”

“And I can use all the help I can get.”

“That’s all I needed to hear,” she said, and she reached for the radio knob. This time, Boldt stopped her.

“Are you going to tell me?”

“I need to make some phone calls, research a few things. But I didn’t want to put the time into it, I didn’t want to do it, if it was something that might cause us problems. We have enough of those.”

Boldt took his eyes off the road briefly and met hers. He went back to the dotted lines and the turn signals, but that look of hers hung like a transparency through which he saw all else. She was as terrified of their future as he was, and for some inexplicable reason, he found this comforting.

He slid his hand down onto the seat and inched it over and found hers, and they rode down into the city’s sparkling skyline hand in hand, Miles grunting and fidgeting from his car seat. Part of Boldt wished he could just keep on driving.

It was clear from looking at her that Daphne Matthews had not taken the weekend off. “I spent most of Saturday and all of Sunday and Sunday night with Dr. Clements, going over the profile. He’s upset about those two faxes coming in on the same day and the lack of any attempt to place blame in the extortionist’s demand.”

“So you were right about that,” he reminded her, trying to cheer her up. But it was not the opinion of Dr. Richard Clements that was troubling her, it was the fax she handed to Boldt.

“This just came in,” she told him.

HAVING A CRAVING FOR SWEETS?

MOTHER WARNED THAT CANDY IS BAD.

BUT YOU DO NOT LISTEN, DO YOU?

YOU WILL WISH YOU HAD.

Boldt reread the message several times, though there was no need to do so. She pointed out that in this fax the placement of blame had returned, and she did so in a forceful way that carried a subtext that she failed to explain to him.

“Caulfield bought those candy bars at Foodland for a reason,” he said. He had sensed this from the moment of discovery, but had hoped differently.

“They substituted all their candy products,” she reminded, though she gave away her own fears in the tight knitting of her brow and the way she entwined her hands in a squirming knot. “He told me about your conversation.”

“You’ve seen him?” Boldt protested.

“No, not in the flesh. But we call each other, both of us from pay phones-it’s really a perfect arrangement,” she snapped sarcastically. “Don’t worry, Sergeant,” she said caustically, annoyed with him, “we’re taking all necessary precautions.” She added, “And let me say that I consider my private phone calls my own damn business.”

“I respect that.”

“I certainly hope so.” She was clearly miffed. Her exhaustion hung over her face like a veil. “He’s incredibly angry over the possible cover-up. He offered to help get any paperwork we need, but I told him that we were more likely to subpoena what we’re after from here on out, so that we kept it admissible. I can see you’re worried, but let me tell you something: Owen Adler can handle any amount of stress and keep a poker face through any dealings. We don’t have to worry about him, Lou. He’s not going to give any secrets away.”

“I know this must be hard on you,” he offered.

“It’s hard on all of us. But thank you. Yes, it is.” She still was angry, though less so perhaps. With him, or with the situation-he was not certain.

He placed the fax down onto his desk. “I would hope that we’ve learned enough from his earlier threats to issue a second recall immediately. Threat or no threat. Freeze all sales at the retail level and try to trade out product again. Restock the shelves overnight and hope that Harry Caulfield doesn’t hear about it.”

She agreed that he should fax Adler with the request immediately.

“You know what really ticks me off?” Boldt said. “Another couple of days, the new soup labels will be ready to go. And now he goes switching products on us. And more curious to me-is he just lucky, or does he know which ATM machines we’ve got under surveillance?” On his desk were field reports for the ATM hits that had occurred both Saturday and Sunday nights. A combined amount of forty-two hundred dollars had been withdrawn. No agent had been within ten blocks of the ATM machines chosen for the hits. He did not tell her that Fowler now had a copy of the surveillance map and that they had effectively doubled their team, because to include her was to involve her-and if it went up in flames, he did not want her part of it. Boldt said, “He’s got over ten grand already.”

“Not bad for less than a week of work.”

“A little more than my take-home.” He won a slight grin from her, though it did not qualify as a smile. “So we wait for him to kill someone?” he asked. He reminded himself that Adler had offered to pull all their product and that he, Boldt, had talked him out of it. He reminded himself of the lab’s discovery of strychnine in the Longview ashes, Bernie Lofgrin’s reference to the Jim Jones tragedy, and his reasons for convincing Adler not to panic. But it was Lou Boldt who now felt in a state of panic.

“Call Clements,” he told her, passing her the phone. “Ask his opinion about pulling the candy bars immediately instead of waiting until tonight. And see what he would think about putting out the recall on the news-about warning the public about this.”

She looked as terrified as he felt. She dialed the number from memory to the room, and was put through. They talked for the better part of five minutes in the middle of which she shook her head at Boldt-Clements was advising against violating the conditions of the threats. She hung up and said, “He’s taking Caulfield at his word. But it’s still your call.”

He tasted biting sarcasm on the tip of his tongue, but kept it in. He kept in his fear as well, as best he could. Over the next few hours the clock hands actually seemed to slow down, and it seemed incredible to him that these were the same minutes by which he lived his life. They seemed hardly related at all. He willed his phone not to ring, and yet heard the endless ringing of the phones around him in a way he had never before experienced. There was rarely a moment of silence on this floor. There always seemed to be someone talking, a phone ringing, a door shutting, a shout, a reprimand, a curse. He wanted to yell for them all to shut up. Each time a phone purred, he thought it signaled the end of a life. And many of these calls did, even though they had nothing to do with the work of Harry Caulfield. The business of Homicide went right on without Lou Boldt. The teenagers, the lovers, the drownings-all required investigation. Pasquini’s squad was up to their waists in new cases.

But the department’s only black hole belonged solely to Lou Boldt, and the fax staring back at him was a signpost of what lay around the next curve-and Boldt had no desire to get there. He mentally backpedaled, knowing full well it was as useless as swimming from a waterfall.

At a few minutes past six o’clock, Owen Adler instituted the second secret recall of all Go-Bars and Mocha- Latte Peanut Crunches, a costly, time-consuming effort that Boldt feared would prove too late. To date, as far as