just doing something wrong and doing it in order to do good. He didn’t need any more trouble. He had plenty. He was all through with trouble.
He checked for traffic and began to climb.
It surprised him how loud the fence was. It rattled like a bunch of cans. Scared the life out of him the way it made so much noise. The more noise, the faster he climbed; the faster he climbed, the more noise. His brain told him to slow down, take his time. His legs went like mad. But the faster he went, the worse his toeholds; his feet kept slipping out from under him, leaving him dangling and scraping for purchase, his toes attempting to run up the fence, his fingers pinched against the wire and hurting badly.
Finally, he reached the very top and threw a leg over, but the fence was cut ragged along the top edge. His pants caught and the wire bit into his thigh, stabbing him, and before he could stop himself he let out a shout that cut off halfway out when his brain kicked in and told him to shut up. He threw himself over to the other side, clawed his way down a few feet, and then bailed out, letting go and dropping to the blacktop.
What a mess, he thought, sprinting for the phone. A person would have to be deaf not to have heard that. What a stupid jerk! What a mess.
It was one of those things he knew without needing anyone to tell him: He’d screwed up big time. He’d screwed up so badly that halfway across the vast sea of blacktop separating the fence from the phone, he chickened out and froze, feeling the urgency to get back over that fence and flee. But then his legs moved again and the phone drew ever closer, looking to him like an oasis to a man too long in the desert.
He scooped a hungry hand down into his pocket and came up empty. No quarter. No way to make the phone call. He punched in 911-a number he was getting kind of used to.
“Emergency Services,” a man’s voice said.
“This is Ben … Ben Santori.” He hated using that last name; his father’s name had been Rice, and it seemed more right to him. “You gotta get a message to Daphne Matthews. She’s a cop.”
“I’m sorry, fella, we don’t-”
“She’s a cop. Listen to me!” he hissed in a whisper. “She’s at my house: S-A-N-T-O-R-I.” Ben spelled it for him. “Call her. Tell her I followed the guy with the face. The
The storage units were built in long rows, Ben closest to the end near the gate. He spied more fence at the far end of the units and wondered if it wouldn’t be safer to try getting over down there, somewhere away from the entrance. He sneaked off along the side of the building, in the building’s shadow, more scared than he had ever been of Jack Santori. He moved a few feet and paused, listening, looking, his heart hurting in his chest.
And then he saw a man’s long thin shadow stretch across the pavement to his right. It was the Face, out prowling the grounds.
Out looking for him.
67
Bernie Lofgrin came through. An 800 number for the St. Louis pen company’s twenty-four-hour catalog had in their possession a phone number for the manager. Marv Caldwell kept his client information on a laptop computer that he took with him everywhere, even home at night. Along with relevant contact information, the client list also showed what product had been ordered and the quantity and date of the last order.
Within fifteen minutes of Lofgrin’s first call, the printout from the rooming house video that showed a close-up of three similar pens had been faxed to Caldwell’s laptop and the manager had identified the product as most closely resembling their model AL-440 ballpoint. His client list showed eleven Washington State customers as having ordered AL-440s, four of them in the Seattle area: a golf course north of town, a dry cleaner in Ballard, a self-storage company on Airport Way, and a Japanese restaurant on 5th Avenue.
Without hesitation, Boldt, sitting at Lofgrin’s side, took the self-storage company. Marv Caldwell had three phone numbers on his client list for U-Stor-It, including the supervisor’s home number. Boldt telephoned that number but got a message machine.
He double-checked with both of his detectives on surveillance, LaMoia and Gaynes. Neither reported any activity at their locations. He filled them in on the most recent lead and left them both with the address of the storage facility, a nagging sense of urgency getting the better of him. He couldn’t free LaMoia from his post, because he couldn’t put Martinelli at risk. Likewise, he wanted Gaynes to keep an eye on the rooming house in case Garman returned. He debated calling Shoswitz at home and requesting additional manpower, but knew in advance the lieutenant would want some confirmation of Garman renting at the site before committing any additional manpower or resources. He could practically hear the man saying, “Scout the place and let me know. We’ll reassess at that time.”
He decided to place the storage facility under surveillance for a few hours, though he didn’t want to drive too close without a first look. He stopped three blocks short on Airport Way and shut down the car’s radio and turned off his cellular phone so it wouldn’t suddenly ring and announce his whereabouts in the middle of his poking around. He left his pager on but switched it to vibrate.
He parked in a parking lot for a helicopter maintenance company, locked the car, and headed off on foot, the U-Stor-It sign dimly visible a hundred yards ahead. The optimism that had begun with the discovery of the rooming house, and then spread to Lofgrin’s identification of the ink, built to a drumming of adrenaline through his system. He experienced an increasing sense of certainty with each step that brought him closer to the storage facility. Garman could keep his father’s stolen pickup truck there, could have his lab there, or both. Self-store units were the perfect anonymous address. Used in drug deals, as chop shops, and even as body storage in homicides, they proved to be fertile ground for criminal activity of every sort. That Garman might have an unknown quantity of rocket fuel stored there did little to settle Boldt’s nerves.
He moved along fence lines and detoured into parking lots whenever possible, in an attempt to avoid being seen by traffic on Airport Way on the off-chance Garman was in the area. As distant as it seemed, he couldn’t completely rule out the possibility that Garman was at the facility. The man had not been home in several hours. Without a fire reported, Boldt believed that Daphne might have been right after all: Garman could have taken the bait offered at the car wash. That suggested the possibility-however remote-that he might be preparing for another arson. And where better, Boldt wondered, than at a self-storage facility late at night?
The telephone rang, filling Daphne with anxiety. Her hand hovered above the cradle. At last, on the fourth ring, she answered. “Hello?”
“Daphne Matthews, please.”
She wasn’t sure how to answer. She was playing the roll of Marianne Martinelli, and it occurred to her that Garman might verify his victims by placing a call. How he might know that she was here was beyond her, but she wasn’t going to fall prey to a ruse.
“My name’s Marianne,” she answered. “May I help you?”
“Listen, I’m calling for a Daphne Matthews. This is Seattle Communications Center. My name’s Victor.” He gave her the number.
She knew the number. She cut him off. “This is Matthews,” she answered, her system charged with expectation.
“Is it or isn’t it? I got a weird message for a Daphne Matthews. And I gotta tell you, I’m not in the habit of playing receptionist, okay?”
“Lieutenant Matthews, Seattle Police. You can verify that with the department, if you want.”
“The message was from some kid named Ben San-”
“Go ahead.” She sat down, her legs no longer capable of supporting her.
The man read her Ben’s exact words. “We’ve got it on tape, of course,” he added.
“An address? Do you have an address?” she called out hysterically.
