Pied Piper

Daphne requested printouts-the number of parishes stunned Boldt. Realizing he had the search dates wrong, Daphne explained patiently to Walter, “We’re particularly interested in adoptions registered from sometime in the last five to six months, right up to the present.”

“Nineteen hundred and eighty-eight to nineteen hundred and ninety-two, I wouldn’t been able to help you.” Hep you. “Ninety-two on they gone directly to the screen. Afore that we still done all the paperwork, but they filed it on computer and archived it on fiche. Now it’s straight to the computer and they run two of ’em-two different locations-one watching the other, backing it up, you know. Only paperwork is the signatures and the court documents. They can’t seem to figure this thing out completely. Always some kind of paperwork involved.”

Boldt’s patience, on the other hand, had run out. He kept his mouth shut and tried to stay out of things. Trudy Kittridge was going to be sold into adoption within a day or two-Boldt felt convinced of this.

With each search, Daphne requested another printout and then studied the results while Walter again isolated a particular parish and conducted the search. Boldt had the feeling that Amy might have accomplished this all much faster, but Walter and Miss Lucy shared an aunt or grandparent-some blood relative-and Walter was their man.

“Lou,” Daphne whispered, gaining his attention.

He joined her at a metal desk, taking a rolling chair that squeaked when he leaned forward.

She contained her excitement, using only her index finger to direct him, so as not to be overheard. No telling who else Walter might know or be related to. Her nails held a clear finish and were cut short. She had filed them recently.

Boldt’s eye followed the line she indicated. The filing was for January. The judge of record was Judge Terence Adams; the attorney, one Vincent Chevalier, whose mailing address placed him in the city. The very next adoption, recorded three weeks later, was again the work of Judge Adams and Vincent Chevalier. Her finger danced down the page. She glanced up and looked at him with wet, excited eyes.

Boldt withdrew his notebook and flipped pages hurriedly. The dates fit into the Pied Piper’s schedule remarkably well-the adoptions coming four to eight working days after each of the abductions. He counted back and realized that if these entries indeed belonged to the Pied Piper, as he now believed, then he still had between two and six days in which to find Kittridge. The adoption process took slightly longer to arrange than he had foreseen. It was the first ray of hope he had felt.

The printout for Tanipahoa Parish showed eleven adoptions performed over the most recent six-month period, all with the same pair: Adams and Chevalier. All but two of the children had been placed with couples living out of state. Prior to November there had been no adoptions in the parish for five months.

“We’ve got them,” Boldt whispered, disbelief permeating his words.

Daphne folded the printout, carefully aligning the corners and using her nail to make the fold. She said, “Now let’s hope we’re not too late.”

CHAPTER 57

Central air-conditioning provided the New Orleans downtown public library with a large population of homeless, some of whom were effective at passing themselves off as readers, others who abandoned the ruse altogether, sitting at tables while fighting off the exhaustion of walking the streets at night. Technically, the library could not ask them to leave unless they fell asleep. Eyelids fluttered. An occasional page of a newspaper turned in keeping with the act.

The homeless seemed to collect in the periodicals section, perhaps because of its abundance of chairs and tables. Perhaps because of the sports section. Boldt and Daphne split up. Most of the news they sought they believed too recent to have reached microfiche.

Boldt refused Daphne’s suggestion to approach NOPD’s Detective Broole about the attorney Chevalier’s dealings, this based on the assumption that a cop’s curiosity could put the word out on the street, which in turn could jeopardize their efforts.

LaMoia, who wanted to work the husband and wife conviction, also wanted to consult Broole. “Cops know more than newspapers,” he repeated one too many times, bringing Boldt’s wrath down upon him. Assigned surveillance of the attorney, Chevalier, LaMoia was halfway across town. He intended not only “to sit on the man” but to install a caller-ID box on Chevalier’s phone lines in order to monitor the attorney’s incoming calls. Legality was no longer an issue; they had no way to trace Chevalier’s outgoing calls without the involvement of Broole. A warrant would have to be justified. LaMoia had to justify that warrant, as well as keep an eye out for Hale.

Boldt denied both suggestions, electing instead to gather intelligence. The more fact, the more hard information they brought Broole, the better.

Boldt searched newspaper indexes for Vincent Chevalier. Daphne took Judge Adams of Tanipahoa Parish. Thankfully, the Times-Picayune ran a good crime beat.

The Times-Picayune was indexed monthly, available on the fifteenth of every month. The most recent index was for articles published in February. Boldt searched the months of January and February and found no reference on any Chevalier, including Vincent. He then waited his turn to access a reference computer terminal that at peak hours allowed each user only three consecutive searches, and maintained a line a half-dozen deep. Boldt was not used to waiting in lines, except for the office copier. His shield generally moved him to the front of any line.

Boldt restricted the search to the Times-Picayune database and then typed in the name:

V_I_N_C_E_N_T__C_H_E_V_A_L_I_E_R

The computer considered the request. Boldt caught himself holding his breath. A moment later seven listings scrolled down the screen, including publication date, partial headlines, page and column numbers. Five of the seven articles had been published in the paper nearly five years earlier. The first two listings had been page 3 stories, implying a relative importance to them. The last two were barely twelve months out of date. The partial headline on the opening hit read: “POLICE DISCONNECT 911 SCAM …” The last article listed had a title that began: “APPEALS COURT SHOOTS …” That first listing swimming in his head, Boldt signaled Daphne-and half those in the reference section-with a frantic wave of the hand. He asked the person in line behind him how to print out a copy of his search results. A few minutes later, he and Daphne took seats in adjacent microfiche viewing stations, the appropriately boxed issues in hand.

“A nine-one-one scam,” he reminded urgently, clumsily threading the cumbersome roll of film into the antiquated machine. He threaded it upside down on his first effort; reversed, his second try.

“Yes, I caught that,” Daphne said calmly, trying to contain him. She threaded her machine correctly the first time and was reading text before Boldt.

“As in Millie Wiggins’ day care center,” Boldt said, still fumbling.

“Yes.”

“It’s them,” Boldt emphasized.

“It suggests a strong possibility, doesn’t it?”

He glanced at her incredulously, as he failed with the machine for the third time. “Goddamn it!” he hollered too loudly, his fingers refusing to cooperate.

“Here.” She leaned across him, corrected his mistake and restored the machine.

Boldt sped ahead to the article written five years earlier as Daphne returned to her station. “It was page three,” he said, prior to actually locating the article. “You’ve got to think that means it was pretty big news at the time.”

“Shh,” Daphne chided. “I’m on to something here.” But a moment later, as Boldt went silent, she couldn’t resist. She slid her fiberglass chair up against Boldt’s and looked on.

“Two hundred and eighty thousand,” she read. “It was run on the elderly.”

Boldt heard her but did not acknowledge. He read slowly and intently. He wanted every last detail committed to memory.