four-door, racing off to the next emergency.
He looked down at Jenny with sad eyes.
“She called the meeting, Lou,” Jenny said. “Whatever it is, it has to be important. I don’t dare interrupt it.”
Boldt nodded. “It’s important, all right,” he agreed. She had to be offering her resignation. She wanted time with the kids. He felt his throat constrict with grief. Deciding to spare this woman his bubbling and gushing, he forced out the words. “Tell her I came by. Tell her it’s important. I’m on the cellphone,” he said, pulling himself back together. Mention of the phone caused him to check it. LO BAT it read. It was dead-just like everything around him. “I don’t know,” he said to her, feeling beaten. He turned and headed back toward reception.
Jenny followed him the whole way, but she never said a word. She held the door for him and then stepped out into the hall and called an elevator for him, perhaps because he seemed incapable of even the simplest act. Boldt stepped onto the elevator. Their eyes met as the doors closed. Hers were sympathetic and troubled. His were stone-cold dead-and watery, like melting ice.
He reached the office on the radio from the car. The dispatcher put him on hold; he felt it was something of a permanent sentence.
The man came back on the channel and said to Boldt, “Message is from Detective John LaMoia. Would you like me to read it?”
“Go ahead,” answered Boldt, driving the car into traffic.
“Message reads,
Boldt squeezed the talk button and said, “Tell him I’m on my way.”
He felt like a traitor and a cheat.
He stopped at a church on his way downtown. To his surprise, he felt a lot better.
49
As the elevator doors slid open on the fifth floor of the Public Safety Building, the painful silence inside Boldt’s shattered psyche was cracked open by the cacophony of a dozen reporters all shouting at once, boom microphones waving in the air, and the blinding glare of television floodlights. One of the reporters shouted, “Do you have the Scholar in custody or not?” Shoswitz anxiously fought a path through the press, made his way to Boldt, and escorted his sergeant to Homicide’s door, shouting, “No comment! No comment!”
As the door opened for the pair, the press remained at bay, stopping at an unmarked line like a dog pulling up short at a buried invisible fence. But the noise of the reporters was not silenced, only replaced by the comments of half as many of his own people. They fell in around him and behind him like the Texas Rangers. Bobbie Gaynes was speaking, but Boldt couldn’t hear her. LaMoia was there, Bernie Lofgrin from the lab, and several of the uniformed officers who had previously volunteered on the task force. He noticed a woman named Richert from the prosecuting attorney’s office. All spoke at once, some shouting to be heard over others. Shoswitz joined right in with them. They continued as a group, making for the conference room. There was only one person noticeably absent, and then Boldt caught sight of her standing alongside the briefing room door, arms crossed at her chest, hair impeccably groomed, eyes trained on him, an expression of concern worn like a veil. Only she knew him well enough to take note of his condition; Shoswitz had missed it, too concerned with the media; the others had missed it, more intent on reading from their notes than studying their sergeant. But she saw it. She knew, well before the moment they came face-to-face, and asked him, “What is it?”
He felt himself on the verge of telling her, when an exasperated Shoswitz proclaimed, “You know what it is! It’s another poem!”
She informed Boldt privately, as if it hardly mattered, “He’s all worked up because a reporter found it in Garman’s morning mail. Not us.”
“The Scholar is still out there!” Shoswitz declared.
Boldt just looked at him and shook his head. “Everybody out!” he told those gathered. He held Daphne by the elbow, retaining her. “John, you stay.” When the room was empty, Boldt closed the door and the three of them were finally alone.
LaMoia explained. “A reporter for the
Boldt said, “And of course it’s postmarked
LaMoia nodded, “You got it.”
“What is it, Lou?” she repeated, still showing concern.
His look told her to drop it. That hurt her all the more. She turned away briefly.
“The content of the poem.” Boldt asked, “Is it significant?”
She answered with her back to him. “Significant? I fouled up. He’s no scholar, Lou. Probably not well read at all. The profile is off.” She faced them both. Her confession won LaMoia’s undivided attention. Boldt was able to leave his own sorrows briefly and recognize how upset she was. “There’s a park built on top of the I-Ninety tunnel coming in from the floating bridge, a bike path running through it.” She described her discovery of the various drawings and quotations, though she didn’t say she had taken Ben there to meet Emily. She repeated reluctantly, “The profile is all wrong.”
An uncomfortable silence was broken by LaMoia. “How wrong?”
“Uneducated. Sociopathic. If I didn’t know the facts of the case, I would have put money on there being a revenge issue with Garman.”
“That fits with what I’ve found out,” LaMoia said, surprising Boldt, who expected LaMoia to pounce on Daphne’s misfortune. The detective continued, “Garman’s tax returns for the seventies show
“Two?” Boldt echoed curiously, marveling at the detective’s contacts.
LaMoia said defensively, “I tried calling you on the cellular but you weren’t picking up. I wish I could take credit, but Neil”-Neil Bahan, he meant-“has been digging into Garman’s past since the arrest, trying to develop a book on the guy. He’s got the firehouse connections, so it only made sense. He came to me to dig up the tax records. He had evidently heard something. I know you kicked him out of here just now, along with the others, but you may want to talk to him.”
“Get him,” Boldt ordered. LaMoia hurried from the room.
They stood facing each other, Boldt and the woman. He didn’t see her as beautiful at that moment, not like other times. There was no beauty compared to Liz’s. There was only an empty darkness.
“So Garman has a child,” Boldt said, voicing what the tax records confirmed. “Does that fit?” he asked.
“You don’t want to know,” she answered ominously.
“A father would certainly cover for his child,” said Boldt, the father.
“And a child would vent anger against the father. Given the right circumstances, a child might symbolically kill the mother, repeatedly kill the mother-or the mother’s look-alikes. Send the father threats. Do the kills on the father’s turf, using what the child learned from the father: fire.”
Boldt felt a chill, not heat. “Why?”
“Anger.”
“That’s a lot of anger.”
She nodded, then shook her head. “Perhaps Garman’s only guilty of being a protective father,” she whispered. “Probably thought the killings would stop if he took the fall, if he ended up in jail.”
“Will he talk to us?” Boldt asked.
“I’d like hear what Bahan has to say,” she answered. “The more we hit him with, the better our chances. If we go in fishing, he’ll lock up on us. If we go in swinging, it’s a whole ’nother matter.”
“He’s targeted another woman,” Boldt said, referring to the latest mailing. He checked his watch; it wasn’t getting any earlier. “Jesus God. We’ve got to do
“Put someone undercover in the tunnel park. Have them watch the bike path,” she advised. “We have the artist’s rendering. He visits that park, Lou. He must live nearby.”
