Beyond Recognition

than let Boldt have him for a while, but there were no second chances to be given. The finality of his position was all-important. And besides, she thought, it was embarrassing to have the mark settle on a request for an attorney during her turn at bat. Hall had the look of terror. Better to give him a few minutes and let Boldt go at him for a while. But she gave him up reluctantly, like a pitcher coming off the mound in the early innings.

“Okay, here’s the shit,” John LaMoia said, approaching Boldt, who stood on the other side of the one-way glass watching Daphne debate her exit.

Boldt didn’t like being interrupted, not even by LaMoia, to whom he granted an unfair amount of liberties. “I’m busy here, Detective,” he said sternly.

“The … rocket … fuel,” LaMoia said slowly, reminding Boldt of the way he talked to Miles when he wanted to get a point across. “The … suspect. That … suspect,” the detective continued, pointing through the glass.

Boldt’s mind wandered from fatigue. He spoke to Liz each night and some mornings. Though grateful at first for his efforts to protect his family, she was increasingly angry at him for her isolation at the cabin. She had spent nine days up there, and he had forbidden her to tell any friends or bank associates where she was, even though a close friend could guess immediately. The Sheriff’s Department had two men assigned to her twenty-four hours a day, one guarding the road, one watching the cabin. She was feeling captive. He told her little of the investigation, just as she said nothing of the bank, with whom he knew she was in touch.

They ended up discussing social engagements, as if it were any other week in their lives. She sought the comfort of familiarity. He allowed it. There was a dinner party being thrown by one of her vice-presidents that she felt they were obligated to attend. Boldt hated these bank dinners, having little in common with the country club set. She then pressed him about the upcoming Fireman’s Ball, a downtown gala fund-raiser they attended each year, again, Boldt reluctantly.

He softened and agreed to both, at which point she dropped the real bombshell. “I have to be back in the city on Tuesday. No questions asked, I have to be.” Jealousy welled up within him and he nearly confronted her, but whereas confronting a suspect was easy for him, confronting his wife had never been simple. It was far easier for him to attempt a noncommittal statement such as, “We’ll see,” but he knew it wouldn’t carry the day. He wanted to corner her into explaining the urgency, and yet he didn’t want to know. He ended up procrastinating-putting off agreeing with her until another call.

LaMoia’s voice brought him back. “What I’ve found out is this: The Air Force, in all its wisdom, decommissioned the Titan missile program in phases. The rocket fuel back then was either two liquids, or a liquid and a solid, that when combined self-ignited. No need for an igniter. Part A meets part B and kablaam! — fire, controlled burn. The chemical reaction produced its own oxygen, making it perfect for burns that continued up into space. The term is hypergolic: binary self- igniting rocket fuel. There’s a whole family of them. But the point is, it takes the two parts to tango. They moved the two parts to separate locations, keeping them as far from each other as possible. The Minute Man program took its place. There was evidently talk of disposing of the two parts, but some fucking genius decided we might be able to sell the stuff abroad and make back some of the taxpayers’ investment. It probably cost more money to ship it and store it than it did to make it,” he snapped sarcastically. “So they didn’t destroy it. They stored it. Part A went to Idaho, part B to California. Part A went to Texas; part B to Nevada. Keep brother and sister far apart. And then the base closures began. Base inventories were moved around like chess pieces. Some of that goes here, some of that goes there. Things get a little fuzzy at this point, but it would appear that either by just plain old government stupidity, or-if you accept the rumors-because a potential buyer came on the scene, parts A and B were moved onto nearby bases here in Washington. But if that’s true, the buyer must have fallen through, because parts A and B ended up here to stay, at which point, of course, we entered the second round of base closures, the second round of moving inventories like chess pieces, and-lo and behold! — parts A and B end up in separate storage facilities but both on the same base: Chief Joseph Air Force Base.”

Boldt said, “Which was closed down in round three.”

“But round three was not full closure for a lot of the bases. They reduced them to something called maintenance status. They maintained inventory but shut down barracks-it was a pork-barrel scheme to maintain the bases in an election year; no one had to say the bases were being closed, just scaled down. Fluff. The result was, a few administrators stayed on at each of these bases, a few MPs to watch the place, guard the gates. But for all purposes there was no one left. And the security details are less than twenty-five percent of what they were at full operation.”

“Vulnerable.”

“Exactly. Especially to an inside job.”

Boldt speculated, “Nicholas Hall was an MP at Chief Joseph.”

“That he was. Whether he figured it out himself or was paid off to do an inside job, who knows? But Mr. Paddle Paw in there skimmed off a little juice and cashed in his retirement plan.” Looking through the one-way glass at the suspect, LaMoia said, “I wonder if he’s considered a career in Ping-Pong.”

Boldt exhaled loudly said, “Good work, John.”

“Damn right. I’d say it earns me ten minutes with him, right, Sarge?”

Daphne stepped out of the Box at that moment and, overhearing the request, objected. “Let’s give him a rest. Please. Then the sergeant will go back at him.”

LaMoia had proved himself incredibly effective in past interrogations. Boldt thought of him as his wild card. He knew few boundaries. He could be a suspect’s instant friend, or worst enemy. Boldt told his detective, “Don’t touch him.”

Daphne, knowing Boldt’s mind was made up, advised LaMoia, “Don’t ask any questions. Just statements, John.”

“Matthews,” LaMoia said, “have I told you lately that I like you?”

She repeated, “No questions. Push him with statements.”

LaMoia moved to the Box, pulled up his pants at the waist, and opened the door. Facing Boldt, he whispered, “You might want to turn off the tape.”

He walked in with a swagger-in his trademark pressed jeans.

Boldt and Daphne watched and listened. Through the speaker mounted below the one-way glass they heard LaMoia say, “I bet you’re a killer at handball, Nicky.” He kicked the empty chair away from the desk and sat down in it, craned forward on the edge. “You could always get a job as an inspector at a mitten factory. You know: Inspected by number thirteen. That kinda shit.”

LaMoia stared for a moment.

“What was life like out at Chief Joseph once everybody left?”

The suspect paled noticeably.

He asked this, breaking Daphne’s request immediately. No answer from the suspect.

“What else?” he asked. “You could play bass drum in a marching band. Direct traffic! Hey, what about that? You could be a traffic cop, Nicky. Pay sucks, and the company you keep isn’t so great, but you always have the fact that you’re working for the betterment of society, you know?” Then he said, “You could drive a pickup truck, I bet. One-handed, but so what? You could sell out your country. You could probably shove that thing up your cell mate’s ass, with a little help.

“You know who I am, Nicky? I’m the one you’ve been worried about. I’m the one you’ve been thinking was going to come through that door. You met me in boot camp. You see me in some of your nightmares. I’m the one that those guys”-he said pointed to the glass-“can’t control. I’m the one who doesn’t give a shit. Boldt and Matthews, they’re on a break. But not me. I’m the one who does the dirty work around here. You know football at all? I’m the safety, the last guy on the field between you and the end zone. Safeties are always the crazy motherfuckers, you know? Stand in the way of a three-hundred-pound running back. You gotta be crazy, right? So what?” LaMoia slapped the table so loudly that the speaker went fuzzy. “You worked security at Chief Joseph. You decided to make a few bucks. Don’t shake your fucking head, pal, because I know what I know. And I know all about you. You know I do. You want to nod, that’s okay. But don’t lie to me. Don’t fuck with me. Matthews, she’s the exception to the rule around here. And that makes me the rule. You’re going to live with that, or you’re going to die with that-I don’t give a shit. But you’re not going to lie to me. Under no circumstances are you to lie to me.

“Maybe I need a little introduction,” LaMoia continued. “I’m the guy who knows everybody. Ask anyone. I’m