Pied Piper

“I zap the sitter in the kitchen and grab the kid out of the crib,” Rodriguez said, getting into it. “Wrap it up in something, I suppose. I don’t know.”

“She’s not an ‘it,’” Boldt corrected harshly. “She’s a four-month-old baby girl who has been abducted from her home.” Boldt had kids of his own; kids LaMoia thought of as his own niece and nephew.

LaMoia patted the uniformed officer on the cheek. “You’re excused.”

They found Mulwright on the back stoop smoking a nonfilter cigarette. He looked about sixty. He was forty- one. Part Native American Indian, part Irish with a liver to prove it. Teeth that looked like a rotted picket fence hit by a truck. Skin that made enough oil for a refinery. Black hair and unibrow and five o’clock shadow. One eye green, the other nearly brown, like a junkyard dog. He held the constant expression of a person who didn’t feel well.

“Lieutenant,” Boldt said from a distance.

“Well, look what the fucking dog drug in.” Mulwright’s resentment of LaMoia’s assignment to lead the task force was public knowledge. The task force itself was the source of much politicking because it had been formed ahead of any kidnapping, effectively limiting the FBI’s powers by assuming that power for itself. It was the brainchild of Sheila Hill, captain of Crimes Against Persons, who now commanded the task force she had created. Mulwright was next in line seniority-wise, but as lieutenant of Special Operations he was more accustomed to surveillance and busting down doors than conducting an evidence-driven investigation. For that reason, Hill had chosen LaMoia, whose experience was mainly as a homicide detective, as lead investigator, which left Mulwright with an ambiguous job assignment until and unless they had surveillance to conduct.

To make matters worse, Mulwright blamed Boldt for ending his twenty-seven-year drinking spree, which had culminated in suspension and treatment programs. Rumor had it that the latter had not worked. The thick cone of cigarette smoke he blew into the air fairly reeked of resentment.

“Who called you to the scene, Lieutenant?” Boldt asked.

“I got a scanner in the kitchen. You? You got no business being here. You ain’t got nothing to do with this task force.”

“Adviser,” Boldt reminded. As a division, Intelligence intimidated some detectives, especially those like Mulwright who got themselves into trouble. “I’m one of the task force links to the Bureau.” It occurred to Boldt that Mulwright should not have arrived on the scene until after a call from LaMoia. “I’m also supposed to prevent press leaks.”

“Is that right?”

LaMoia said, “The National Insider is offering two grand for task force information.”

“Don’t know nothing about it.”

“So who called it in?” Boldt asked.

“I don’t have to answer to you.”

“No, you don’t.” Boldt waited along with the man through several long seconds of silence.

“A neighbor lady.” Mulwright had no fondness for women, other than as the objects of obscene humor. “Name of Wasserman. Tina. Down the street.” He checked his notes-every detective carried a notebook, even Mulwright. “Fifty-three hundred, Fifty-first North. Was asked to check on the place by the mother when the baby sitter failed to answer the phone. You ever heard of a dinner train takes off from Renton?”

“Sure,” LaMoia answered.

“Yeah? Well, I hadn’t. The parents are still stuck on the train. Due back any minute.”

Boldt asked, “Does the press know about this neighbor?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“Do we have someone meeting the parents?”

“I put someone with the neighbor. That redhead with the big tits. You know her? Motor patrol?”

“McKinney,” LaMoia supplied.

“McKinney’s with her.”

“And who’s meeting the parents at the station?” Boldt asked, checking his watch.

“Don’t know,” Mulwright answered.

LaMoia said, “You did or did not assign someone to pick up the parents?”

“This isn’t my scene,” Mulwright reminded.

“You’re senior officer present,” LaMoia countered. “Are the parents covered or not?”

Boldt turned to LaMoia, “What are the chances our kidnapper has someone watching the parents to make sure they don’t return unexpectedly?”

LaMoia judged the question, hesitated, then nodded. “I can see that.”

“He’d be on the fucking dinner train,” Mulwright answered, tossing his cigarette into the grass. Boldt took note of where it landed; the cigarette had contaminated the crime scene.

Mulwright’s eyes awakened, his face expanding. “We should have both the train station and the parents under surveillance.”

“Can we handle that?” LaMoia asked, as innocent-sounding as possible. He agreed with Boldt’s attempt to lead Mulwright away from the crime scene. Few officers, despite all the training, understood the delicate nature of a crime scene. LaMoia realized that if Mulwright had read the advance briefing papers he would have known the FBI had all but ruled out surveillance by the kidnapper-he was believed to be a solo operator.

“Got it,” Mulwright announced, standing. “We’ll watch the station and the train for strays. We’ll work out a way to notify the parents we’re with them. We’ll make sure they head straight to the neighbors.” He asked, “ID? How do we ID them?”

“Wait here a moment,” Boldt said, leaning his weight against a sapling and slipping on a pair of paper shoe covers. He donned a pair of latex gloves and entered the kitchen, stepping carefully. Mulwright or the first officer on the scene had used blue painter’s tape to indicate the position of the baby sitter’s body on the floor. Boldt stayed clear of what looked like red confetti and the medical litter the paramedics had left behind. He located a family photo hanging to the side of the kitchen sink. It reminded him of his four favorite photos of Liz and the kids-three at home, one at the office. He suddenly wished that he had more photos of Liz in the prime of her health-he thought of her this way: her face full of color, her limbs lean but strong.

He removed the photo from the wall feeling pained-he hated to disturb any evidence no matter its apparent insignificance.

He renegotiated his way out of the house and handed the framed photo to Mulwright. “If you spot a suspect,” he said, “he’s better followed than confronted.”

“I know the drill, Boldt. I’ve worked a hell of a lot more hostage situations than you.”

LaMoia believed that Boldt could probably recite the names of each of those hostages for Mulwright if pushed. But it wasn’t Boldt’s way to throw around his knowledge; he hid himself from all but the most intimate friends.

“What time’s that train arrive?” Boldt asked, checking his watch.

Mulwright hurried off, calling back to them, “Tell Hill we’re on it.”

LaMoia watched him go and said with admiration, “You knew he’d take the bait, knew he hadn’t read the briefings.”

“Mulwright is Special Ops-translated, he’s a thrill seeker and likes working from the seat of his pants. He needs credibility to shore up support after this drinking thing. He stays around here, he looks bad. He goes off on surveillance, he’s on familiar ground.”

“You hosed him.”

Pocketing Mulwright’s discarded cigarette butt, Boldt said, “I offered him what he wanted: a dignified way out. The meet and greet with the parents is important; he wants to feel important. Daphne plays those head games every day. Maybe she’s rubbing off on me.”

“I wouldn’t mind if she rubbed off on me,” LaMoia said.

“Spare me.”

Daphne Matthews, the department’s resident psychologist, was good-looking to a fault. As an interrogation team, few were better than Boldt and Matthews.

LaMoia and Boldt stood just inside the kitchen door studying the litter of the discarded gauze left behind by the medics and the unusual red confetti sprinkled across the floor. LaMoia snapped his gloves in place.

“What’s with the red shit?” LaMoia asked.

“AFIDs,” Boldt answered.