present. She looked and dressed like an art student returned from Europe. She sat at the head of the table and remained silent. Boldt’s plan was a simple one: Hit the man with everything they had.
On paper, Jeffry McNee was not someone Daphne had expected to find cooking at a meth lab: white, mid- twenties, with a degree in chemistry. Daphne had coached Boldt that McNee would likely test them to measure his opponents. He would sort them out, identify the weak player and work only with this person. She advised Boldt that if he wanted to lead, he should play dumb.
McNee being assigned a public defender surprised Boldt. It implied he hadn’t the money or contacts to hire a lawyer specializing in drug defense. That fact suggested a rogue, freelance operation and offered Boldt some leverage. He might fear returning to the street more than going to jail. Drug turf was violently defended.
McNee had a boyish face with alert green eyes. With his black hair and ruddy complexion he belonged either in a Scottish kilt or selling junk bonds on Wall Street. The orange jumpsuit marked KING CO JAIL on the back did him an injustice. His attorney was a hundred and seventy pounds of Hawaiian mama, with enough mascara and lizard green eye shadow to qualify for stage work. She chewed gum vigorously and wore smudged eyeglasses. Her tent dress hung from her enormous breasts like a waterfall of lime green in a loud print. Her voice was a deep baritone, her teeth fake.
“My client wants to know what’s in this for him,” she said, from a chair all but swallowed by its gelatinous occupant.
“We’re part of a homicide investigation,” Daphne said, playing the role of the intelligent one. To the suspect she said, “A man who may have had your drug lab under surveillance was found murdered. Anyone in your position would take a dim view of such surveillance-”
“Give me a break!” the Muumuu sputtered like a big truck attempting to start.
“A conviction for which will earn you life,” Daphne addressed McNee. “Not ten years. Not sixteen. Not with the current administration. Life without parole.” McNee didn’t seem the least bit ruffled. As she had expected. The stage was set for Boldt to do some damage.
“You sure about that?” Boldt asked Daphne, wearing a gumshoe expression of fatigue. “Can’t we plea him down if we want to?”
“Trust me on this,” Daphne said while simultaneously measuring the Muumuu for her take on Boldt. He had a reputation. If she knew of him, their ruse was unlikely to work. But she was unfamiliar to them both, most likely a newcomer to the public defender’s rotation.
“You’ll pardon me for interrupting,” the suspect said calmly, “but do I detect a presumption of guilt or innocence?”
“Assumption of innocence,” Daphne told him, “is a luxury afforded by those across the street.” Her superior air helped McNee to quickly identify her as the enemy. Boldt was not yet so clearly defined.
The man addressed Boldt, “My pals and I were doing a little chemistry experiment. What’s the big deal?”
“A man is dead,” Daphne replied. “You have plenty of motive to want him that way. We can connect him to investigating a person or persons at the address of your lab. We will have documentation of that shortly. You would be well advised to play ball. Your attorney’s shaking her head, telling you not to talk, but we can offer you a plea position on the dope charge.”
“This is entirely inappropriate,” Muumuu said. To her client she explained, “They can’t offer this.”
Daphne said, “No one can make any promises. But one thing is for sure, you go up for this, in the state of Washington, and you’re gone for good. The key is tossed out. Ask her,” she said, indicating the dress and the chewing gum.
“What do you want?” McNee asked Boldt. “What is it you want?”
“Don’t do this,” the attorney advised halfheartedly.
“What we want are a couple very simple answers,” Boldt explained calmly. “What we have to offer is protection.”
“Oh! This is bullshit!” the Muumuu complained. “Do
Ignoring her, Boldt informed McNee, “You take the dive and you end up in our big house. Everyone who’s anyone in drugs has their people there. It isn’t me that’s been pinching Tommy Chen’s turf. What do you suppose your life expectancy is?”
Daphne supplied the important piece of the puzzle. “A federal conviction would move you out of state.”
“Safer,” Boldt said. They had won McNee’s interest.
“Don’t threaten, people,” Muumuu warned them. “And don’t make promises you can’t keep.” But now even she seemed interested.
The suspect, who had acquired a sheen on his brow, looked silently between the two police officers.
Daphne said, “We’ll put in a recommendation that the Feds take your case.”
“How much do you know about Tommy Chen?” Boldt asked.
McNee did not answer.
“What about your parents?” Daphne inquired, thinking McNee too clean cut and too young. A degree in chemistry and nowhere to hide.
McNee went scarlet.
“Have you called them?” she drilled.
The suspect glared.
“The wire services have picked up the story,” she explained. “Do your parents watch CNN?”
“My parents are not part of this.”
“They could be, if you want them here,” Boldt said naively.
Daphne asked, “Do I start the tape now? Or do we move this same offer down the hall?”
“Go,” the suspect said.
“Under protest of counsel,” the Muumuu growled.
Boldt started the cassette recording. He recited the particulars: date, time, location and the names of those in attendance.
Daphne went first. McNee had been recruited out of graduate school by Asians offering three times the starting salaries of other biochemical firms. Two months into his work McNee had faced the reality he was supplying elements to cook street drugs. Six months later, he asked for more money, and was threatened. McNee ran to Seattle, set up a roaming meth lab and sold wholesale to a street gang he refused to name.
Boldt asked, “Run it by me again how you picked your safe houses? Did you know the owner or what? Someone next door? Down the street? I forget.”
“I didn’t say,” the suspect answered.
The Muumuu fiddled with her watchband. It carried big lumps of turquoise fashioned as small turtles. “I don’t see the relevancy,” she complained, impatient now.
“Humor me,” Boldt said to her. “I’m curious.”
Muumuu glanced at her client and nodded.
Boldt appeared casually disinterested. In fact, the task force needed to know if the exterminator had a system for identifying his surveillance points.
McNee’s face revealed a man wanting to guard a secret.
Boldt pretended to read some notes. “Okay. So tell me this: Did you use a point man? Was that exterminator yours?”
“What are you talking about?”
Daphne answered, “How you IDed the vacant house.”
Boldt said, “A man was seen with a tank and a hose. An exterminator.”
McNee looked confused. Daphne wondered if he was a good actor or ignorant.
The attorney said, “This exterminator wouldn’t happen to be your vic, would he?” To her client she said, “Don’t answer this.” Her face flushed with anger and suspicion.
“Junk mail piling up by the door,” Daphne guessed.
“No,” McNee said.
“Don’t answer this,” the Muumuu repeated, sitting as tall as possible, a difficult task.
Boldt said, “You know about the exterminator,” recalling his conversation with the snitch Raymond.
