and that evening he went straight for the jugular. “You bought a twenty-four-foot extension ladder manufactured by Werner Ladders from Delliser Brothers up on Eighty-fifth.”
“Summer before last,” Garman informed him, nodding. “You boys are thorough. I’ll say that. You might have asked. I could have saved you the trouble.”
Boldt and LaMoia engaged in a quick eye check, both surprised by Garman’s forthcoming nature.
“We’d like to see that ladder,” LaMoia told the fire inspector. The detective had called in a telephone search warrant that had been authorized by Judge Fitz. He informed Garman of this, hoping he might ruffle the man.
“You’re welcome to come inside,” Garman offered, opening his door wide. “You don’t need a flipping warrant.” The two detectives stepped in. Boldt heard a car door shut. He didn’t need to look to know it was Daphne. “But you won’t find a Werner ladder,” Garman added, without a hint of remorse. “I replaced it with a different brand, one of those aluminum numbers that hinges in a couple of places. You know the kind?”
“Replaced it?” Boldt asked.
“It was stolen,” Garman informed them. “Six, maybe seven months ago.” He nodded, his lips pursed. “Swear to God.” Daphne knocked. Garman admitted her. They shook hands. “Listen,” Garman said, “you want to do this downtown, or can we do it here?”
Boldt felt out of sync, the fireman anticipating his every move, his every question. He wanted to take him downtown, use the Box, intimidate the man. Work a team interrogation, LaMoia the bad guy, Boldt the friend, Daphne the outsider. Loosen him up at the edges. Trip him up. But he wondered all of a sudden if it would work with a man accustomed to conducting his own investigations, his own interrogations. It felt a little bit like looking at himself in the mirror.
“Here will do,” Boldt said, wanting to give the man nothing, wanting an explanation for the two dead women and the threat on his own family, but torn by the necessity of an assumption of innocence. Cops didn’t work from such an assumption, they left it to the judges and juries. Boldt saw the man as a killer-clever, perhaps, professional, but a killer nonetheless. He owed him nothing.
“I’ll look around,” LaMoia said, directing one of his patented expressions of loathing toward the suspect. LaMoia was a cop who cut to the chase, rarely, if ever, electing subtleties. His method was more head-butting, beating a suspect down into submission. He produced a flattened Dunkin’ Donuts bag with a bunch of writing on it. He said, “Just to make it official. This is the warrant the judge signed off on.”
The bag was oil-stained, the writing illegible. Garman accepted it, looked it over, nodded, and handed it back. “Very official,” he said, trying for a joke.
LaMoia recited the Miranda. Garman just smiled, miming the words along with him.
Boldt wanted to pop the guy. Garman was too smug, too prepared-or innocent as the day he was born. Boldt knew before they started that they weren’t going anywhere with this one. Daphne asked for a cup of coffee. Garman made her a cup of instant; made one for himself as well. Boldt and Daphne sat on a couch that had seen better days. Garman took the La-Z-Boy recliner upholstered in a maroon Naugahyde.
Fifteen minutes into the questioning, Boldt taking furious notes and double-checking Garman’s exact language, LaMoia joined them. He shook his head at Boldt from behind Garman and held both hands into a large zero. Boldt was hardly surprised.
They talked in circles for the better part of the next hour, returning to some of Garman’s statements and attempting to catch him in a misspeak, but the Marshal Five’s performance-if that’s what it was-seemed utterly convincing. Here, Boldt realized, was a man who had achieved an honored position among firemen. He had served his city well, earning several merits of distinction for both his professional life and his volunteer work with teens. Put him in front of a jury with all the damning evidence in the world, and you might not win a conviction.
One hour and twenty-two minutes into the interrogation, Daphne scored the first big points. “Tell us again about your service in the Air Force.”
He nodded. “I was stationed two years at Grand Forks AFB and six at Minot. I was married then. Young. Good times, for the most part.”
“Not much up there,” Daphne said.
“Even less than that,” Garman replied, winning a smile from her.
“Must get to know the other guys real well,” she said.
“You know everybody real well: guys, wives, families. Grand Forks is a big base. It’s a town, a small city really.”
LaMoia said, “Those are missile bases, aren’t they?”
Garman smirked at the question. “Look it up, Detective. It’ll give you something to do.”
LaMoia bristled and shifted uncomfortably where he stood. He sought out a kitchen chair, brought it around to face Garman, and straddled it backward.
The lines were drawn-and by Garman himself, Boldt noted. He would work with Daphne, respect Boldt at a distance, and spar with LaMoia. What bothered Boldt the most was that he had sussed out the exact way Boldt would have done it.
“Your marriage?” Daphne asked.
“Out of bounds, counselor,” Garman replied.
“I’m not a lawyer.”
Garman stared at her. “We never did establish your exact role in this, did we? As I recall, you kind of skirted the question.”
LaMoia said, “Look it up. It’ll give you something to do.”
That caused a brief crack in Garman’s armor.
Boldt felt a little more optimistic. He said, “So you didn’t lose the ladder or loan it to a friend-it was stolen.”
“I’ll answer for a fourth time if you want,” Garman replied. He pursed his lips, looked each of them directly in the eye and said, “You’ll find this out anyway. The ladder was the least of my concerns. It was my truck that was stolen. A white pickup. Damn nice one, too. Ford. Bucket seats. Electric windows. The ladder, some turnout gear, my clipboard. Cars … trucks … stolen every day in this city, right? I figured it was probably chopped and on its way by ship to Singapore or wherever they end up. Until the poems, the notes. Then I wondered if maybe I was some kind of target all along.” He looked directly at LaMoia. “Of course, maybe I stole it myself and stashed it somewhere to use later in these arsons. Great excuse, a stolen truck.”
LaMoia had his hands full. Boldt was used to rapid-fire comebacks, but the detective was slow off the blocks. All he managed to say was, “Yeah, great excuse.”
They did the dance for the next forty minutes, but nothing worthwhile surfaced. Only LaMoia’s questions were answered sarcastically. If Daphne repeated the question, Garman answered it. Boldt saw through the ruse. It meant that Garman feared LaMoia most of all-and he was correct in doing so. LaMoia didn’t do the dance, he just stepped on toes and crashed his way through. When he got on a roll, when he got hot, he could pin a suspect in a matter of a couple of questions. Garman had sensed this quickly and did his best to prevent LaMoia from getting a rhythm going. That particular session was won by Garman, but there would be others.
He was the closest thing they had to a suspect, and Boldt was not about to let him go. He would cut him distance, give him some rope-hopefully enough to let him hang himself.
The interrogation was, in fact, little more than a stall for time.
Twenty-four-hour surveillance began thirty minutes before their departure.
Steven Garman was suspect number one.
35
Ben’s world had gone down in flames. First the guy trying to kill him, then the discovery of the body … he couldn’t even think about it. Calling 911 and returning to watch his stepfather being arrested. It had a dreamlike quality, distant and yet present at the same time.
And whereas he had forgotten so much of his mother, her reality clouded by his stepfather’s unyielding demands and punishments, she was suddenly a much greater part of him. He found her present in his thoughts, before him as a vision, a soothing, calming force at once transparent and yet palpably real, like an ocean current.
