Beyond Recognition

with cafes and a quality restaurant or two. Lush wooded hills, densely populated with neighborhoods of two- and three-story clapboard houses built in the city’s first big boom-the timber era-seventy years earlier, rose on three sides, containing the lake in a jeweled bowl of window lights. Green Lake was picturesque and charming, like something from a New England village postcard. South of the lake were recreation fields for softball and soccer, lit at night by steel towers projecting a harsh, stark light visible at a great distance. At 8 P.M. the lake’s running path still saw a great deal of use, men and women running or walking alone for the most part, as contrasted with the pairs of couples and friends and associates that exercised in the early morning and at lunchtime.

Daphne wore jeans and a stone-washed blue silk jacket over a crisp white shirt buttoned to her neck. He joined her and they started walking, holding to the right side of the path, allowing the breathless joggers to pass. The lake was convenient to both their houses. She had recommended they meet there, as they had so many times before.

“Emily Richland uses a shill who checks the cars of her clients. Information about the cars is passed to her, and she can make some damn good educated guesses as to who is sitting in front of her.”

“Am I supposed to be surprised?” he asked, his mind elsewhere.

“The guy with the burned hand came to her place looking to check a couple of dates: October second, two days before Heifitz; and then again on Saturday. Lou, I think it’s the arsonist.” Before he could speak, she said, “His right hand-the last three fingers are fused in a kind of paddle. Badly burned. He’s military. Air Force, maybe. I think she’s holding out on me. I think she has more.”

Boldt’s mind raced away from him, removing his concern about Liz’s affair and focusing solely on the suspect. He realized that he buried himself in work for a reason. “His car?”

“A truck.” She gave Boldt the description that Emily had given her.

“Air Force,” Boldt mumbled.

“She thinks this guy is involved in drug deals, not arson. And maybe that’s right, maybe he’s dealing in drug lab chemicals, maybe that’s how he got the burned hand, maybe it has nothing whatsoever to do with arson, but I think it’s one hell of a lead.”

“A psychic,” Boldt said. “Do you know how Shoswitz is going to react to this?”

“A fraud,” she reminded him. “If we get her accomplice, the one who actually saw this guy’s truck, Jesus, I think we’ve got a hell of a witness. The two of them? Are you kidding me? One of them studied the truck, the other spoke to the man. He was nervous, real concerned about October second.”

“Or maybe he’s just a middleman,” Boldt was thinking aloud. “Maybe he’s selling some chemicals to our boy. Maybe he even thinks they’re for a drug lab. We won’t know until we get there.”

“I paid her two hundred. I think another two and we’ll get more. I think if we sat on the place we’d ID her accomplice. She needs the spy. The scam doesn’t work without the spy. Furthermore,” she added, pulling on his elbow to keep him from interfering with an approaching runner, “she thinks he’ll return.”

Boldt stopped walking. Daphne went on a step or two. He said, “Return?”

“He’s already been there twice,” she said proudly.

“Military? Maybe Garman was military, maybe Air Force. Maybe they served together. Maybe that’s the connection.”

“A woman was involved,” she said, reminding him of the connection between the two victims. “A divorced woman.”

Boldt walked to catch up to her. The two started walking again. “Heifitz was widowed,” he reminded.

“She was separated,” Daphne corrected. “As good as divorced, I’m told, when her former husband up and died on her. Went down on the records as widowed.” She walked a few more steps and then said emphatically, “Divorced single moms, Lou. That’s what we’re looking at. Count on it.”

He was a cop who based his investigations on the information a victim could reveal. He caught himself walking faster, out of excitement. Thoughts sparked in his head; he could barely contain them. “We can link the victims!” he nearly shouted.

“Why do you think I paged you? Link? I don’t know. But we’ve got some obvious common denominators.”

“Divorced single mothers,” Boldt repeated. “Both of them,” he stated. He could barely contain his excitement. He felt like screaming. The victim! he thought. The victim can tell more about a homicide than a pile of crime-scene evidence.

“That’s it,” she confirmed. “Age of the kids?”

“Didn’t check.”

“We need to.” Searching for a way the two women might have been targeted by the killer, Boldt listed, “Group therapy-you know, coping-with-divorce classes-church groups, what else?”

“Book clubs,” she suggested.

“Cooking classes, gyms.”

“Plumbers, electricians-”

“Ladders!” he barked, stopping again. His excitement bubbled out of him. He could see it become contagious in her. “We’re close! Plumbers, electricians …”

“Roofers, masons, chimney sweeps …”

“A house painter!” he exclaimed. “The cotton fibers at the base of the ladder.”

“What?”

He spoke so rapidly that his words blurred. “We found cotton fibers alongside the ladder … at the base of the ladder. Bernie’s working on them. What do you want to bet they come up positive for petroleum products?”

“Slow down,” she said. “I mean, slow your walking. You’re practically running.”

“Both of them divorced,” Boldt repeated for the third time.

“Dating services,” she offered. “It’s hell out there as a single mom.”

“Both divorced,” Boldt said gleefully. He stopped her, grabbing her by the shoulders, overwhelmed with a feeling of accomplishment. “You’re a genius!”

They stood face-to-face, both breathing hard, the path light catching half their faces, their eyes locked, his large hands firmly gripping her narrow shoulders. Electricity sparked between them, a familiar energy, and Boldt sensed how precariously close he was to kissing her.

He released her and backed off.

“Oh, God,” she gasped, maintaining eye contact, confirming her own desires.

Lou Boldt nodded imperceptibly, his heart pounding in his chest and then breaking into pieces.

21

Walking to the school bus stop on a wet Friday morning in mid-October, cars everywhere, their drivers anxious and agitated, everyone in such a hurry, Ben sensed he was being followed. Spilling the beans to Emily had not quieted the sensation, as Ben had hoped. He dreamt about it. He felt it at all times. He had absolutely no doubt that someone was back there. It was not something that needed proof. He knew! If Emily could know things, why couldn’t he? Perhaps he possessed the Power as well.

For Ben, all fear, all terror, all misgiving had previously existed in the form, the shape, the image of his stepfather. He had compartmentalized it, defined it, so that he recognized it. For years it had been the only fear he knew. All else was tame by comparison.

Tame, until that moment when Ben realized a second, more palpable fear: fear of the unknown, the unexpected. He had an idea about the identity of the person following him. And of this he had no doubt: He was being watched. It had to do with the money from the truck. Emily had said that things would work out. Ben was not so sure.

To Ben, the sidewalk suddenly felt soft, spongy, like walking across a mattress, and it took him a few strides to realize it was his knees, not the sidewalk. His vision darkened on the edges, as if he were suddenly walking down a poorly lit hallway. As he hurried, nearly running, he gained the courage to glance over his shoulder and sneak a look.