There was a party of three having cocktails in the cockpit of a twenty-one-foot ketch pulled up to the fuel dock. All were task force, all expert shots. The cocktails were ice tea in a bourbon bottle. There was a guy having engine trouble, and another helping him-both bent under the hood of a Chevy, where a pair of handguns remained within easy reach. Hidden inside the clubhouse were six Special Forces agents, and in the bathhouse, six more.
Twenty-four cops and agents in all, eight on radios. The dispatcher nimbly maintained constant communications with all elements, continually updating and informing, and ready to relay the latest input.
In the distance, Boldt heard the approach of the radio station chopper as it reported on traffic on the floating bridge. The Birdman was riding with this pilot and reporting on a separate frequency to dispatch. This was a man who could spot a fox in a thicket from a thousand feet up. If Caulfield’s refrigerated truck was in the area, the Birdman would find it.
His efforts were aided by fourteen unmarked cars casually patrolling the seventeen streets that fed the two roadways that fed the dirt road at the end of which was this clubhouse. Phone line work was being conducted on these two feeder roads by FBI agents manned with communications and firearms.
The door-to-door salesman lugging his Naugahyde box from his backseat to the front door of every house on the approach street was in fact Detective Guccianno. He wasn’t selling anything; he was informing all residents to get their kids into the house, lock their doors, and await an all-clear. He was also showing each a photo of Caulfield, in case the man had been staking out the neighborhood prior to today.
“Don’t worry so much, Sarge,” LaMoia said nonchalantly, digging the hole a little deeper.
Static spit in Boldt’s ear. “The sailboats are about five minutes out and closing,” Dispatch reported. “Alpha is four minutes ETA.” That was Adler. “P-one and P-two, make your move, please.” Parents-one. Parents-two. A 700 series BMW and a Mercedes sedan, both repossessed in drug convictions, turned onto the final approach road, passing beneath the overhead phone line repair crew and pulling into the clubhouse parking lot-make-believe parents about to join their children at the party. For the last thirty minutes, police communications had busily sought out parents of the mostly girls in the sailing party. Of the eighteen kids, the parents of eleven had been contacted, and undercover police were to take their places. The whereabouts of the remaining seven were unknown.
The helicopter, displaying the station call letters, swooped low overhead and banked, as if to return for another pass over the floating bridge. Boldt glanced up. On the other side of the mirrored plastic bubble, the Birdman was scrutinizing the landscape through his binoculars. The Birdman, who could count eyelashes on a flea.
Several more cars arrived-some police, some not. Boldt felt a stream of sweat trickle down his side. Civilians in the mix. He wished there had been a way to prevent that. “You okay?” he asked LaMoia.
LaMoia rested the pickax, looked up at his sergeant, and nodded gravely. “Digging holes is shitty work.”
“You’ve got your line all memorized?”
“I’m ready, Sarge. Relax.”
Boldt heard the barking of the dogs, but did not see them yet. There were three scheduled, all German shepherds. Diana, who ran the K-9 squad and trained the dogs, was dressed in jeans and a Bob Dylan T-shirt: out for an afternoon stroll, down to watch the boats come in. Down to wreak some havoc. Another actor in a play so hastily written.
In Boldt’s right ear the dispatcher’s voice said plainly, “We have hard contact. Repeat:
“Hold on!” Boldt whispered hotly to LaMoia, who stopped midswing and set down the tool.
Boldt listened and reported, “Birdman’s spotted a gray roof of a decent-size truck parked in a stand of trees about a quarter-mile from here.”
“He got here early,” LaMoia said, “just as Clements said he would. I bet Clements was a Boy Scout.” He added, “I always hated Boy Scouts. Now,
“Cut the chatter,” Boldt said.
The chopper pulled up to a new elevation high over the bridge. Boldt assumed that from there the Birdman could keep an eye on the truck. Responding to a question from Shoswitz relayed through Dispatch, Boldt spoke into the radio, “No drive-bys. Nothing to rattle him. Copy?” He nodded and went back to leaning on his shovel.
Boldt pressed his ear and reported to LaMoia, “A second truck, just entering the road … Hold it! It has pulled off…. Something’s wrong…. Tires are out. Birdman has
LaMoia said, “He spiked the road.”
Boldt said, “He spiked the road.” And LaMoia grinned for guessing right.
“Take out the competition,” LaMoia said. “Make sure the truck that was hired is a no-show. The guy is smart, Sarge.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You nervous?” LaMoia asked, his concentration fully on his work. “There’s nothing quite like an operation, you think? But I never really recover. It’s like putting too much postage on a letter, you know? You can never get it back.” He added, “Your postman ever return any money to you?”
He reminded Boldt of Liz’s mother, who tended to rattle on when she became nervous or anxious, switching subjects randomly and somehow stringing them all together.
Boldt checked the roof. The sharpshooter had his hand inside the roll of tar paper. One of the two pool cleaners was scrubbing the steps of the high dive, making sure he had an elevated vantage point in case he had the only shot. All cogs of the same wheel. It rolled slowly toward Harold Caulfield.
“Boats are two minutes out,” Dispatch reported into Boldt’s ear. Then, after a spit of static, “Suspect vehicle is rolling.” Calmly, he stated: “All stations, suspect is rolling. Good luck, everyone.” SPD dispatchers rarely added such editorials, but Boldt was glad to have it.
The dispatcher traced the route of Caulfield’s Monty-mobile as it passed under the first of the phone crews. “We have confirmation of vehicle registration.”
“We’re on,” Boldt told LaMoia.
“Show time,” said the detective. “Don’t forget to smile.”
Boldt heard the first sailboat thump against the float, and then the shrieks of excited, childish laughter. One of the parents passed by on the way down the dock, but rubbernecked the two cops, and Boldt realized she was looking at LaMoia’s cowboy boots and probably wondering what a guy wearing a gorgeous pair of ostrich boots was doing digging a hole at her club. But she didn’t say anything. She ran her hand along the rail, though she walked more slowly, apprehensively, and looked back one more time, her face still caught in curiosity.
“Don’t do it, Sarge,” LaMoia said, reading his thoughts. “We’ve got this bastard. Five minutes and it’s all over.”
The inevitable question came into his ear; it was the voice of Phil Shoswitz. “Decision time. He’s thirty seconds out.” Hesitation as he awaited Boldt’s signal to arrest now or play it out.
LaMoia stared at him.
The anxious mother, far down the dock, reached the arriving boats and grabbed hold of a line tossed to her. Other parents waited in the party area. Boldt caught Daphne’s eye, where he saw both worry and concern, yes-but determination as well.
Boldt considered a sentence of twenty years-out in six with good behavior.
LaMoia, serious now and sensing Boldt’s struggle, looked into the man’s eyes and said, “Slater Lowry.”
In the distance the jingle of cheap bells filled the air.
Boldt depressed the radio button hidden at his chest. “Go,” he said.
Dispatch said into his ear, “All stations: green light.” He repeated this and then added, “Suspect vehicle has arrived on-site.”
Boldt glanced up to check the sharpshooter: The man had changed positions, and now hid behind the chimney where it would be easier to steady a rifle barrel. It occurred to Boldt that in the next few minutes they might kill a man-might get several more killed if they were not careful. For what? To appease the legal process?
