No Witnesses

secret.”

Boldt asked, “When did you receive this phone call?”

“A little after ten.”

“At the office?”

“Yeah, the office.”

“And is that number published?”

Striker nodded. “I see what you’re getting at, Lou, but it’s no good. I didn’t recognize the voice. I’m being straight with you on that.”

“You were set up, Razor,” Boldt informed the man. “Someone wanted you or Danielson or both of you out of the way.”

“Yeah?” Striker said angrily. “Well, I couldn’t care less about that. If I got that phone call again, I would go right back there and finish up what I started. I swear I would. My one and only one regret is that I missed. I wasn’t aiming to kill him. A PA knows the difference between assault and murder one. But I missed, goddamn it. Four shots and I couldn’t hit the damn thing. Four damn tries. Not that it was very big anyway. So much for the myth-I’m here to tell you.”

At first the laughter seemed all right, though Daphne looked concerned. And then Boldt realized that the laughter would not quit, and after a minute it frightened him, because Striker had lost all control. He was crying and laughing and looking at them desperately as though he did not understand where it came from and that they should pull the plug and shut off the machine. He was laughing ten minutes later, when the male nurse kicked them out and delivered a shot of something that Daphne said would take care of it. But it did not. When they reached the car, Boldt imagined he could still hear the man’s laughter, as if it had penetrated the electronic window, reverberating down to the parking lot below. Even the car door closing did not shut it out for Boldt. And he told Daphne this.

“You know what those two words are together?” she asked, placing the car in reverse. “Man’s laughter? Combined?” she asked. “What we witnessed up there is how most of them pay for it.”

Boldt combined the words in his head and spoke softly: “Manslaughter.”

She said, “Michael Striker has a long road ahead of him.”

He placed his hand on hers and stopped her from backing up the car. “How good is your memory?” he asked, taking his hand away.

“You know damn well that I pride myself on it.”

“I forget who it was,” Boldt said, “but someone told me that the bump on your forehead was from a box coming down off a shelf.”

“That was Lofgrin or LaMoia or Bobbie. They were the only ones who asked.” She said, “It’s after seven, aren’t you supposed to be over at NetLinQ? You want me to drop you?”

Boldt asked, “Why? Why did you invent the box coming down?”

“Because we agreed to keep my break-in at the houseboat between us, and trying to explain running into a post in the dark was a little much. It was a white lie, Lou. So what?” Again she asked, “You want me to drop you or not?”

“And what about Fowler? If you told the others one thing, why tell Fowler something different?”

“I’ve never told Fowler anything about it. I’ve hardly seen the man since then.”

“But he’s seen you,” Boldt said. And her face froze. “I made him nervous with a question, and in trying to get out of it, he made reference to your hitting that post.” He hesitated. “So how did he know?”

“Exactly what are you saying?” Her lips quivered and she crossed her arms tightly. She knew.

“When they put in your security system, they swept your house for bugs, right?”

She gasped. “Fowler’s people.”

Bear Berenson had told him that some people could feel the camera’s presence. Boldt said, “But that feeling never went away, did it?”

She threw her head back as if to keep her tears from running. “Why?” She choked out.

“Longview Farms,” Boldt answered.

She looked over and met eyes with Boldt and tried to speak, but nothing came out.

“I’ve got an idea,” Boldt said.

The device looked like a small squash racquet, or an electric charcoal starter, though it worked more like one of those hand-held metal detectors used at airports. The people in Technical Services referred to it simply as Clark, for Clark Kent, he of the X-ray vision. There was said to be a flyswatter variety, and another in the form of a feather duster that came with a four-foot extension, both of which could be used without telegraphing that the room was being swept for electronic bugs. Detective Laura Battles carried Clark in her briefcase; a wire ran to her ear and would emit a beep if a bug were encountered.

Once activated, a microprocessor inside the device continuously checked for magnetic fields caused by hidden microphones, and was said to be 95 percent effective in detecting them. It was less dependable in the detection of fiber-optic cameras, the latest generation of which were smaller than a shirt button and emitted no magnetic field whatsoever. But Clark, through some advanced technology that no one had ever bothered to attempt to explain to Boldt, scored in the 67 percentile in this department as well.

Daphne, accompanied by Battles, entered through the houseboat’s front door-and by agreement, already in the midst of a real estate discussion. Daphne the seller, Laura Battles the agent. They toured the houseboat room to room. Battles took detailed notes on a clipboard-the studious type.

Back in the parking lot where he had waited, she told them both, “The place is a floating sound studio. Sorry, Daphne,” she apologized. Checking her notes, she informed them, “Audio in the galley, sitting area, head, bedroom, back deck, top deck, and telephone line.” She hesitated, uncomfortable with this. “Fiber-optic in the bathroom, sitting room, and bedroom.” Daphne sank to the gravel. Boldt tried to catch her, but she fought him off. Battles said, “Most of them these days are infrared, night-vision, sensitive.”

“Everything,” Daphne stated. She looked up at Boldt with eyes he had never witnessed in her. He said, “We’ll want to keep them in place, I think.” She sprang to her feet and began hitting Boldt ferociously. He tried to hold her off, but she was hurting him, and as Laura Battles climbed out of the car, Daphne threw her knee into the car door, turned, and threw her knee into Boldt’s crotch and sent him down to the gravel. He heard her say, “Oh my God!” and then her feet took off at a run.

Laura Battles helped him up and seemed more bothered by the dent in her car door than Boldt’s condition. They drove around the neighborhood for the better part of an hour and checked the houseboat twice. “I’ll keep looking,” Battles offered.

Boldt was due for yet another night at NetLinQ. And this time, he had an army at his disposal.

Another night spent at NetLinQ passed without success, the main problems being logistical. With so many people added to the surveillance team, and virtually overnight, tracking them and deploying them proved a technical nightmare. It left Boldt watching technicians switch wires and install sophisticated radio receivers while the extortionist walked away with another $2,400 in cash.

Depressed, he left for home at two in the morning. But on the way he made a detour, after a sleep- interrupting call to Laura Battles confirmed that Daphne Matthews had not been found.

He stopped at the houseboat first.

She was not home. He pounded on both the front and back doors, and was beginning to worry, when it occurred to him to check his voice mail. No message there, either.

He finally thought to call her cellular, and she answered on the first ring.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Room six-fourteen.”

“A hotel?”

“Inn At The Market. Interesting view.”

She sounded terrible. “Daffy? You okay?”

“Peachy.”