through the drawer a third time.
“Only three?” Boldt asked.
The woman hurried from the room. A moment later she returned, several shades paler. “Not in the wash,” she mumbled.
“How many?” Boldt asked her again.
“Three,” she answered. “But how did you know two would be missing?”
Ten minutes later Daphne and Boldt stood by the Chevy. Her eyes sparkled with excitement.
“What about the credit cards? What was that about?” she asked.
“We all buy tickets, we book travel, we charge our meals, our shopping, all on credit cards. If there are any patterns to our lives, the two places they show up are our checkbooks and our credit cards.”
“But Trish Weinstein was at the supermarket at the time of abduction,” she protested.
“Frequent flyer miles. People charge groceries to credit cards now. Liz does it sometimes.”
“Jesus,” she muttered.
“The Bureau gave it away without meaning to. They’ve locked us out of the credit histories on the earlier victims. We’ve been asking for them for weeks. Why hog them all to themselves unless they’ve spotted a pattern?”
“And the blanket?”
“We got lucky,” he said modestly. “No one picked up the pattern.”
“Next?”
“We contact Portland and see if the custom outfit mentioned in that interview had a silk-screened photo on it.”
“We need the name of that company-the silk screens,” she said.
Boldt nodded. “Might be the link we’ve been missing.” He moved toward the driver’s door.
“We’re not done here,” she stated.
“We have to move on this.”
“Look over my shoulder,” she instructed. “I’ll bet you a month’s salary she’s watching us from the window.”
Boldt did as he was told. “Are you showing off?”
“Of course I am. Did you notice the way she kept repositioning her little boy?”
“He’s a heavy little boy.” After a dismissive look from her, he said, “Okay. What’d I miss?”
“Only an eyewitness,” she said.
Boldt opened the car door and retrieved the thick task force book. He sifted through the contents until reaching the Shotz file, mumbling, “Baby sitter … mother and father … neighbor … real estate agent … neighbor … neighbor-”
She interrupted. “John and I did the parents together. Spent a long time. We never spoke one word to little Henry.”
“Little Henry was there.”
“Little Henry is three, keep in mind.”
“Miles is four. I know three very well, thank you,” Boldt said.
“Too young for a witness?”
“Maybe for a courtroom, but not for me. I broke a lamp of Liz’s last year-she’d had it since college. I swept it up and threw it out, and thought I would wait for a good time to tell her. You know,” he explained sheepishly, “there are good times and bad times for that sort of thing. Well, Miles beat me to it. He reported the entire incident, point by point, the minute she got home. Three years old. He not only remembered everything I’d done but articulated it. Three years old? I’ll take a three-year-old witness. Bring him on.” He asked, “Can you deliver little Henry?”
“Not if Mama has anything to say about it. I’d bet anything that Doris knows Henry saw something. Ironically, no matter how much she wants Rhonda back, she can’t bring herself to involve Henry. One child lost, one child left. She won’t do anything to jeopardize that. The guilt we’re seeing all over her face has more to do with her withholding Henry from us than with her being on that dinner train.”
“Then why did you let me leave?”
“Because she needed to see us out here in a discussion. She needs to lose some of that protective confidence before we stand a chance with her. Henry can help Rhonda. The mother in Doris knows that. But she waited too long to tell us, she vented too much anger on us to come creeping back. But now that anger has turned inward. She has dug herself a hole.
“I can offer her a way out,” she continued, “but it will only take if she accepts responsibility for her past actions. Oddly, the way I get her there is fear. Her imagination can make this worse than we will. We need to let that stew.”
Boldt rocked his wrist as if checking his watch. “Yeah? Well, if she won’t talk, I’ll hold her in contempt for obstruction of justice and drag her downtown.” He started walking toward the house, the task force book still in hand.
“Since when did you become cop, judge and juror?” Daphne asked, requiring a half run to keep up with him.
“Shit happens,” he said on the fly.
She stopped abruptly as if slapped, and then hurried to catch back up to him. “Since when do you swear?”
“Same answer.” He reached the front door and knocked more loudly than necessary.
“Lou,” she said, grabbing his upper arm forcibly, “I’m serious. This isn’t you.”
“So am I. Yes it is. This is me, the new me. Take it or leave it.”
“Leave it!” she said. “What’s going on?” She still held him.
“I said no questions,” he whispered dryly. “Remember?”
She released her hold on him. “Let me do the talking,” she demanded. “This one has special handling written all over it. She needs force, but a special kind of force.” They locked eyes. His were sunken and darkly colored. “Please,” she begged.
Footsteps approached.
Her eyes held him, unrelenting. She, of all people, knew this man; and yet she didn’t know him.
“If that kid, if that woman,” he said angrily, “has kept something from us …” He didn’t complete the statement. He said only, “Lives are at stake here!” The front door swung open.
Doris Shotz answered, a mask of concern and caution. Daphne’s attention remained fixed on Boldt. The woman at the door said, “I’ve had about enough for one day-”
“We need to talk,” Daphne interrupted her, still facing Boldt. “Now,” she said strongly, snapping her head toward the woman and pushing her way past and inside. “We need to talk with Henry,” Daphne completed.
“No! You cannot-”
“Yes, we can,” Boldt corrected, cutting her off and silencing her. He and Doris Shotz met eyes, and she cowered under his haunted look.
“Where is he?” Daphne asked once the three of them were inside the living room and Doris Shotz realized they meant business.
“You can’t do this.”
Boldt responded, “You’d prefer attorneys and the press?”
“Your son was never interviewed as a witness,” Daphne stated. The immediate tension in the mother’s eyes confirmed Daphne had guessed correctly. “We understand your reluctance to involve him in-”
“He is three years old!” the mother objected. “How could he possibly help?”
“We also understand how important it is to you that we make every effort to locate Rhonda just as soon as we can.”
If there had been any tears left for Doris Shotz, she might have spilled them, but her well was dry. She shook her head, holding on to what little protest remained in her.
“Let us talk to Henry. Help us find Rhonda,
“He bit the man,” the mother confessed, her chin wobbling. “I know I should have told you. Downtown …
