No Witnesses

“But you didn’t tell Fowler that.”

“He didn’t ask.”

LaMoia said, “You had to get rid of him, so you gave him the name of another company.”

“No. Nothing like that. I got rid of him. That’s all.”

Boldt said, “Are Pacer’s colors red, yellow, and blue?”

“No,” the man answered. “Black and green, I think.”

Boldt tried again. “One of your customers, then. A food product company uses red, yellow, and blue in their labels.”

“You remember first grade, Sergeant Blot? The primary colors are in every other color,” he instructed.

“Just those colors. Only the primary colors. Red. Yellow. Blue. One of your food accounts uses just those colors.”

“Food companies are our specialty-our niche. All right? You know how many there are in this state? You know how many customers we have?” Fione asked rhetorically, answering, “Maybe sixty or seventy. You know how often those customers change their designs, their colors, their look? You expect me to identify one of our customers by their colors? Do you know anything about this business?”

“Heavy metals,” Boldt stated.

“My son listens to that shit,” Fione said.

LaMoia stepped closer, “Not the music, asshole. Ink.”

The man looked ready to fight. “Heavy metals? Those aren’t in your primary colors-those are your silvers and golds, your foils.”

Boldt said, “So okay. How about a customer of yours that uses red, blue, yellow, and a foil? Does that clarify matters for you?”

Fione warned, “If you’re going to treat me like some ignorant asshole, you can go suck wind, far as I’m concerned, Sergeant. The door is right behind you. You got it?”

He turned back to his computer and started typing.

LaMoia checked with Boldt, who nodded, then the detective stepped forward and spun the man around in his chair. He leaned in close and said with intentional dramatics, “We’re with Homicide, asshole. There’s some guy killing people, and your labels are part of it, and that could drag you in deep. We need some fucking answers here. Right now! You got it?”

The man’s face went scarlet. He met eyes with Boldt, and looked back at LaMoia. “I’ll pull the artwork for you.”

Back in the garish car, LaMoia asked, “Where to?”

“Let’s say you’re Caulfield. You’re out on parole, and you’re determined to make Adler pay. First place you apply for a job-”

“Is Adler Foods.”

“But you’re turned down-let’s say because of your record. Next?” Boldt asked, while at the same time seeing the fallacy of keeping Caulfield’s name away from Fowler and Taplin, and regretting that decision.

“You go to the source: Grambling Printers.”

“But they turn you down, too. No one wants you.”

“You find out who trucks the labels. You try to go to work for them, or maybe you steal a couple of boxes out of the back when the driver’s in making another delivery.”

“Exactly. And you put the boxes under your work-bench,” Boldt said. “And you go to work.”

“Pacer Trucking?” LaMoia asked.

“I’ll call for the address.”

LaMoia and Bobbie Gaynes kept the south entrance of Pacer Trucking under surveillance while the back entrance was covered by Freddie Guccianno, back from vacation, and Don Chun, on loan to Shoswitz from Major Crimes.

Boldt and Daphne waited for Jerry Pacer in a booth at a Denny’s restaurant. Daphne ordered an English muffin with cream cheese. Boldt ordered a hot dog with everything, fries, and a side of cottage cheese. Pacer arrived and took coffee with cream and sugar and made them switch to a smoking table. He had basset hound eyes and a double chin, and his hair seemed to be two different colors, indicating a rug. He was the kind of man who would be bored in the middle of an earthquake.

He handed Boldt an employment form for Harold Caulfield. Boldt recognized the residential address as a rooming house by the community college. Only a matter of blocks from the Broadway Foodland, it was within the designated area where Dr. Richard Clements had stated the killer would be found.

Pacer took one quick glance at the mug shot and pointed to it. “He’s younger, but that’s him.” His voice sounded like a cement mixer slowed down. “Are we done now? I got trucks to move.”

Boldt felt both the surge of excitement and the wash of relief. He felt a knot in his throat. He felt like laughing.

Daphne said, “You don’t seem too surprised.”

“In this business, lady? What do you think, I deal with college grads? I probably know more cops than you do.” He added: “We done?”

“Is he on the schedule today?” Boldt asked hopefully.

“Wouldn’t matter he is or he isn’t. Not working for me, this kid. No calls, no nothing. Just stood me up. Happens all the time, but it still pisses me off. You figure they’re in trouble when they don’t even pick up the back pay. His is sitting in on my desk. So I wasn’t exactly shocked and stunned to get your call. That’s what I mean. I really can’t help you. Is that all? Can I get back now? Please?” he added sarcastically.

“Stay,” Boldt said firmly, waving the hot dog at the seat. Some mustard dripped onto the table.

Pacer sighed heavily and glared at him indignantly. Boldt realized the man had indeed spent a lot of time with police when he began answering questions without being asked. “This kid was okay. All right? So why do the cops care?”

“Did he socialize with the other drivers?” she asked.

“No. A loner. So what? I ain’t much for beveraging, either.”

“What kind of cat do you have?” Boldt asked. He liked throwing questions that broke a person’s train of thought. Pacer had cat hairs all over the sleeves of his shirt.

The man’s face twisted, and only part of his hair moved. Definitely a rug, Boldt realized. “Just a street cat is all. What’s it matter?”

“What’s its name?” Boldt asked between bites. He was starving.

The man shrugged. “Trix. Trixie. What the hell’s my cat got to do with this?” He asked this of Daphne, who returned his shrug.

“Any inventory ever missing from Caulfield’s trucks?” Boldt asked.

“Stuff gets mixed up all the time.”

“But Caulfield in particular?”

“Hell, I don’t know.”

“Is there a way to check that?”

“We got manifests, we got paperwork up the ying yang, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“So it could be checked,” Boldt stated.

“Not by my people, it couldn’t,” Jerry Pacer said defensively. “Not on my nickel.”

“But you would supply us the paperwork,” Daphne suggested. “Without a lot of attorneys.”

“No problem whatsoever.”

“Do you file invoices by driver?” Boldt added.

“No way. We file by customer. Our drivers mix up the routes, because some damn insurance study showed that it reduced accidents. I gotta tell you, I think it works, but as far as administration goes, it’s a real pain in the ass.” He checked his watch. “You gotta understand, the place goes to shit without me this time of day. Can we speed this up any?”

Boldt pretended not to hear him. “One of your clients is Grambling Printers.”