“Susan’s letting let him stay with me-the boy,” she stated.
“A hardware store,” Boldt said, not wanting to look at her. “Might be a connection.”
“It’s that or some halfway house till things are sorted out, and I just can’t do that to him. They have this thing called a Big Sister sponsorship. Susan has to bend the rules a little, but by tomorrow afternoon he’s mine. And he won’t run away, because we’ve told him that if he does, Emily Richland goes out of business, maybe to jail. He won’t do that to her. See how good I am at my job? I thought you’d be proud. It’s down to threatening twelve- year-olds.”
“It’s never easy,” he answered. “Especially where kids are involved. Remember Justin Levitt?”
“They
“Sure I do.”
“She’s got you forever. That’s the thing. The day Miles was born I knew I’d lost you forever.”
This was exactly where he didn’t want the conversation straying. “What will Owen think about the boy?”
“I’ll stay at the houseboat,” she answered. “Owen and I …” she didn’t finish, electing to drink the beer instead. “Really quite good,” she said.
“You haven’t lost me,” he said.
“Of course I have.” She wouldn’t look at him. “We had our chance,” she reminded him. “I’m not sour grapes.” She said thoughtfully, “Maybe it wouldn’t have worked with us. Who knows?”
They both knew better, he thought; it would have worked. It had always worked between them. He was thinking that, but he said, “I was separated at the time. Married.”
“Don’t remind me. Believe me, I remember that night well. Funny, what sticks with you and what doesn’t. I’m the one who’s supposed to be able to explain all that, right? All this training. But when it’s my life? Forget it. That’s the thing: objective, subjective. ‘Tangled up in blue.’ Was that Dylan or Joni Mitchell? Probably both. Hey,” she added playfully, “did you grow up liking jazz, or was there a transition period? Folk rock? Rock? Or were you jazz right from the crib?”
“There may come a day when we’re old, and our spouses have died off. For us, I mean.” He wasn’t sure why he was saying any of this.
“Like
“Never read it.”
“Your loss.” She said dreamily, “That’s us, I suppose. Maybe you’re right.” She added, “It’s a little morbid, though.”
“The thing of it is,” he said, changing the subject, “the boy may break this open.”
The way she positioned herself on the bed-rolled up on one hip, her legs split, up on an elbow with her hand supporting her head-was too much. That lush hair, eyes a little drunk and dreamy. She said, “I wonder why I’m so hung up on you.”
“You’re not.”
“Oh, but I am. We both know it.”
“We’ll place Richland under surveillance,” Boldt said. “Garman also, I think.”
She added, “I see the way you look at me sometimes. You don’t think I feel that same stuff? Right down to my … bones,” she said.
“She’ll call us if he shows up?” he stated.
Without missing a beat, Daphne answered, “As long as we have the boy, she will. If I’m her, my big worry is that the state gets him in their system and never lets him out.”
“Will Human Services ever let him go back to her?” Boldt inquired dubiously. “There’s no blood relation, is there?”
“He loves her,” Daphne said painfully. “And she him. Does it really matter?”
A cellular phone rang. Boldt stood and reached for his, but it was hers, coming from her purse. She answered and listened. She mumbled, “Yes, I heard you.” She flipped the phone shut. To Boldt she said, “We used the last name of the crawl space suspect. Susan cross-checked school enrollment. We know the boy’s name: It’s Benjamin Santori.” She misted. “Nice name, isn’t it?”
“It’s a start,” he said, trying to be upbeat.
“Just the point,” she fired back. “A start for us, an end for him. Twelve years old, Lou. Murder. Some kind of exchange at the airport. She was protecting him from us: the courts, the truth. Can you blame her?” She sucked down a good deal of beer.
“I’ll drive you and take a cab back. I insist.”
“Then I’ll take another,” she said, holding up the empty can.
The beers were on ice in the ice bucket.
“First class service,” Boldt said nervously, delivering the beer.
“I won’t bite,” she said, popping the top.
But Boldt wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. The cellular phone rang for a second time. Boldt didn’t even bother going for his, but when Daphne answered hers and shook her head, the sergeant thought better and lunged across the small room.
“Boldt!” he answered curtly. Cupping the phone, he told her, “LaMoia.” He grunted into the receiver several times, impatient for his detective to get to the point. He was talking excitedly about scanners and hits and making a big point about his personal contacts in the banking industry.
Boldt listened intently as LaMoia finally got to the point. Boldt disconnected the call with a heart in his chest that couldn’t find the beat.
“Good God!” she said, seeing his reaction. “What was that?”
Boldt took a deep breath, exhaled, and closed his eyes. When he opened them he said, “He got back the information on the ladders, the credit card accounts, and the bank accounts-the names, the mailing addresses …” She knew better than to interrupt. Boldt met her eyes and said, “Steven Garman bought one of the Werner ladders two years ago at a hardware store up on Eighty-fifth.” He took a breath. “The thing to do now is see if he still has it.”
Boldt did not drive Daphne home. Having interviewed Garman in the first place, she insisted on tagging along. During the hurried drive to a neighborhood twenty blocks north of Boldt’s house, she spared no opportunity of reminding Boldt of that initial assessment of hers.
“One doesn’t make arrests based on opinion,” he replied, following her third reminder.
“It’s the beer talking, not me,” she apologized.
“Well, please ask the beer to be quiet when we get there,” he snapped testily. “This is an inquiry, nothing more.”
But the beer spoke again. “Bullshit, and you know it. If that ladder’s there, its pads match. But it won’t be. He knows all about that evidence.”
“Which leads one to ask,” Boldt countered, “why, if he knew about the impressions found at Enwright, did he use the same ladder at my house?”
The words flew around the inside of the car like trapped birds. Boldt ducked from them, shrinking from the logic of his own statement. Why indeed?
“You’re not going there just to chat him up, and we both know it. Why did you ask for a patrol backup? I’ll tell you why: Because you intend to cuff him and bring him downtown for the Box. That’s why you need me along.” She grabbed for the dash as Boldt pulled sharply off the road. “What are you doing?”
“I never thought I’d be glad about an espresso shop on every corner.” She looked blank. He told her, “You’re right. We had better get you a cup of strong coffee.”
Despite her protests, at Garman’s Daphne remained in the car. Boldt and LaMoia, who arrived only two minutes behind, approached the front door. The patrol car and its solo uniformed officer idled at the curb.
Garman wore reading glasses, a cotton sweater, and blue jeans. His pager was clipped to his belt. “Gentlemen,” he said, not a trace of concern or anguish in his voice.
There were times when Boldt liked to skirt the issue, make small talk, or bring up a subject completely away from his central point, establish a rapport, and ease his way into it, but he had a working relationship with Garman,
