“Five foot eight.”
“Sex?”
“Female.”
“Repeat.”
“Definitely female. I’m looking at her backside, don’t forget.”
Boldt recognized the description well enough: Lucille Guillard had shown him a photograph. Disappointed it was not Caulfield himself, he settled for the accomplice.
“Orders?” Boldt heard through the headphones.
He glanced around the room. All eyes were on him.
Billy asked calmly, “Instructions, Sergeant?”
He felt cheated. He sorted through his choices as the accomplice stood waiting for her cash, and the field agent stood waiting for instructions.
“Maintain visual,” Boldt said, though barely loud enough to be heard.
Perch jumped forward and complained, “But the software
“Back off!” Boldt ordered the man. “Maintain visual,” he repeated calmly to Billy, feeling himself again, his eyes glued to the electronic map.
The dispatcher repeated the command with all the energy of ordering a tuna sandwich.
“How long to throw a net around it, Billy?” Boldt inquired. The plan all along had been for one or two surveillance personnel to make the bust. Patrol cars readied as backup, in case it went sour. But now, all that had changed.
Billy and Sheila Locke consulted several screens. Locke said, “Two minutes and we can have all the major routes in and out with a minimum of single-agent coverage. I can put the bird up if you want.” She checked a mileage chart. “Seven minutes and we’re there. That would give us backup support, although it’s a dark night out there tonight.”
“Do it. Tighten it up and close it down.” He ignored Perch, who hovered alongside. “Maintain visual surveillance only.”
“Right.”
“Transaction complete,” Guillard announced from her corner.
“What the hell are you doing?” Perch implored.
“I heard you the first time. Thank you,” Boldt said. He had other answers, all cliches: “My job.” “What they pay me to do.” But he held his tongue, wondering if a civilian could be made to understand the balance of risk and assets.
Billy deployed the agents to cover on-ramps and intersections, bus stops, bike routes, and running paths. Not taking his eyes off his work, he explained to Boldt, “If she goes too far south of town too quickly, I may lose her. We’re not set up for that.”
“I understand,” Boldt returned. “She won’t go south,” he predicted. Clements and a pair of FBI experts had studied the ATM hit patterns from the previous nights and had determined that the extortionist always moved toward the city and I-5 as the hits progressed. It was assumed that I-5, possibly in combination with other major highways, was seen by the extortionist as an escape route. In truth, law enforcement welcomed the use of limited-access highways.
Lucille Guillard’s telephone purred softly, and she answered it. A moment later she hung up and informed Boldt, “We have a stop-motion video image of the hit.” To Locke she said, “Your techs have been informed.”
Locke said to Boldt, “We may be able to pull a video feed for us here.”
Boldt had seen the satellite van outside in the parking lot and had wondered what it was for.
He had no chance to doubt his decision. With the suspect clearly not Caulfield, and Caulfield the only person of interest to him, he felt he had no choice but to follow the suspect, hoping she would lead them back to him. The thought crossed his mind that Caulfield had never been any part of the extortion, but he could not allow himself to give any weight to this, given his current commitment both mentally and logistically to the surveillance operation.
“The chopper is picking up the video for us,” Billy told Boldt, a finger pushed to his ear. “We should have it back here in a matter of minutes.” He returned to his keyboard.
Locke indicated Boldt’s headphones, which the sergeant had slipped down around his neck. He pulled them back on in time to hear the same field agent describe the suspect moving northwest on foot.
“Turning left at the corner,” the voice said.
Boldt caught himself holding his breath.
The agent announced in a low voice, “I’m about thirty yards back. Maintaining visual contact.”
Pointing to the screen, Billy told Boldt, “We’ll have another agent in play at the next intersection.”
“Possible vehicle spotted,” the field agent announced.
“A motorcycle?” Boldt asked him through the headset.
“Negative. A brown Datsun, Washington vehicle registration: Nine-four-five-one-one.”
Billy repeated the number into his headset and told Boldt, “Your people are running the plate through DMV.”
“I’ve got it,” Locke announced, freeing Billy of this communication. A minute later she leaned into her headset and, having been instructed not to repeat such a thing aloud, wrote out for Boldt,
Boldt folded the piece of paper and placed it in his pocket. Assigning this a top priority, he instructed Locke to place the residence under tight surveillance. She went about redeploying the field surveillance personnel in order to accommodate this change.
“She’s getting into the vehicle,” the field agent announced. “I’m on foot, I’m going to lose her.”
“Likewise,” said the second agent to arrive in the area.
Boldt, terrified they were about to lose her, checked with his dispatcher, who went off-mike, grinned, and said, “Don’t worry, Sergeant. We’ve got this tighter than a gnat’s ass.” He pointed to the screen. “I’ve got five vehicles within a four-block area. Unless she beams herself up, we’ve got her.”
The radio traffic in Boldt’s headset heated up as Billy orchestrated the vehicular handoffs. No one car stayed with the target vehicle for more than six blocks or two miles of highway. On the screen, the blue triangles representing the agents’ location transmitters clustered in and around an area where Billy kept manually moving a white flashing dot indicating the suspect.
The white dot left I-5. Billy announced, “Suspect is coming to a stop.”
Boldt listened in on the continuous dialogue between dispatcher and field agents. He closed his eyes and tried to picture a sidewalk ATM on a not-too-busy street, the approach of a petite woman wearing a motorcycle helmet in the faint glow of the streetlights, and the swarm of police that now surrounded her and would continue to monitor her every moment. She was, as of that moment, public property. Cornelia Uli would be stripped down to her moles and birthmarks if necessary-all in due time. For the moment, under the duress of a nervous stomach, he sat back, consulting a printout listing the various field agents and assignments, and listened to his team at work under the unusual calm of the FBI dispatcher.
DISPATCH: Twenty-six … Give us a walk-by visual.
TWENTY-SIX: Twenty-six. Confirm. Walk-by visual.
DISPATCH: Affirmative. Walk-by, please.
T WENTY-SIX: Roger.
A few anxious seconds passed.
TWENTY-SIX: Affirmative, suspect is standing at the machine.
Boldt consulted the deployment printout. Number 26-James Flynn-was dressed as a pizza delivery man tonight. Carrying his pizzas, he was passing the ATM, glancing briefly at the mark, never breaking stride. No wide eyes of recognition, no probing stare. Professional. Sure.
Lucille Guillard announced, “We have a hit.”
A hit flashed on the wall map, surrounded by a sea of blue triangles.
Boldt instructed the dispatcher. “Can we kill the Datsun on the run?”
