“This is weird,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“I think I snore,” she said.
“That makes two of us.”
He ate the chocolate that had been left and read the “tomorrow’s forecast” card. Stormy. When she switched off the bedside lamp a knife blade of light sliced through a crack in the drapes, bathing the bedroom in an artificial dusk.
He rolled onto his stomach, thinking that Liz occupied a bed far from here, alone, frightened, concerned about their baby girl.
It was for her sake he said his prayer.
“Good night,” Daphne sighed, exhausted.
“Good night,” Boldt replied, knowing sleep would elude him once again.
At 8:00 A.M. exactly, the telephone rang in room 22 of the Soniat House. Daphne Matthews, wrapped in her hotel robe and drinking a cup of hot chocolate, secure beneath the porch overhang in one of the green wicker chairs, sat with her legs tucked up under her as a light rain stained the stone facade of the convent across the street. She placed down the hot chocolate cradled in her hands and hurried into the suite’s antebellum sitting room hoping to give Boldt the needed rest, but he snagged the telephone.
“Hello? … Speaking … yes, Mr. Chevalier … ten o’clock? No, no. That’s why we’re here. We can’t wait. Ten o’clock then.” He hung up. “I guess we passed the test.”
“I’ll order up some tea.” She felt as hungry as she’d ever been. Room service offered biscuits, and only biscuits. She ordered for two.
LaMoia heard from Boldt five separate times between 8:15 and 9:45 that Friday morning. They discussed photography, the importance of field notes, surveillance position, retrieving numbers from the caller-ID box LaMoia had fixed to Chevalier’s line in the basement of his office. Boldt sounded as nervous as an actor on opening night.
LaMoia felt more like a ball player before the game-filled with the excitement of anticipation, his muscles restless in a welcome ache of need, his mind singular and focused. He had slept in only fits and starts since his return from Mechant late Wednesday night, early Thursday morning. Despite this, he felt refreshed. Ready.
He felt bound and determined to avenge himself and his professional dignity. His suspension would be removed from his record if the charges proved false, which they would. But to apprehend the Pied Piper-to receive a commendation in the middle of a suspension-would be the ultimate rat’s tail up the ass of Internal Investigations. He licked his chops with expectation.
He had long since established his surveillance position when Boldt phoned him the first time. Chevalier’s apartment communicated with his second-floor law office. His Cadillac had remained parked behind the building all night. Room lights had come on at 7:00 A.M. Chevalier had not left his rooms since that time. For Boldt and LaMoia, this presented one of three possibilities in terms of the Kittridge girl: Chevalier had phoned the girl’s kidnapper; the kidnapper had called Chevalier; or arrangements had been made well in advance of the exchange and would go off as scheduled, unless otherwise notified. This last option made the most sense given the Pied Piper’s penchant for preparedness, for it limited the number of phone calls between the two players and thus limited any chance of identifying the guardian’s whereabouts; furthermore, it helped explain Chevalier’s tight control of the actions of the adoptive parents-the kidnapped child was already scheduled for delivery, the purchasing parents had better show up.
But if either of the other two options proved true-a last-minute exchange of phone calls between the players- it presented investigators with the opportunity to locate the guardian’s safe house ahead of the adoption meeting, meaning LaMoia might be able to establish surveillance on the safe house while Boldt or Matthews followed whoever dropped the child, increasing their chances of identifying an individual to follow back to Sarah.
Matthews was, at that very moment, attempting to contact Broole in hopes of obtaining Chevalier’s outgoing calls.
For his part, LaMoia needed access to the caller-ID well ahead of the 10:00 A.M. meeting to monitor what calls had been received by Chevalier.
He left the surveillance post he had established on the third floor of an arsoned building a half block down and across the street from Chevalier’s office, and clawed his way into a pair of faded green coveralls purchased at the local Salvation Army outlet, pulled on an ill-fitting baseball cap and negotiated the back fire escape, leery of the building’s central stairs, which were about as trustworthy as crisp toast. The ostrich cowboy boots stuck out from this ensemble, certainly capable of giving away his disguise, but some things a guy just couldn’t compromise.
LaMoia believed a disguise, any disguise, was built primarily on one’s presence. It was not the worker’s coveralls, nor the banker’s three-piece suit, nor the telephone lineman’s rigging that convinced the unsuspecting; it was the way in which those clothes, that gear, was filled out. If a man dressed down as a street person but walked with the posture of a Marine, forget about it. If that same man exuded a primal menace, then the sidewalks would part to accommodate him. A building’s maintenance man understood himself, believed others could not live without him, felt the control given him in the master key he carried, the wrench in his toolbox.
LaMoia approached the building’s service entrance with his cocky attitude intact, as he had five times before. The pick gun admitted him effortlessly. He switched on the interior light, in no hurry to be seen ducking inside-he had every right to be in that place. He belonged. Fuck ’em all.
He reached the back room where he uncovered the caller-ID box he had placed on the attorney’s two voice lines-so accommodating of the phone company to mark each line for him in advance; sometimes the juju went with you. To his regret, Chevalier had received not a single call since LaMoia’s inspection of the system the night before. Popular guy.
Maybe Broole had something for them; Chevalier’s outgoing calls were equally important. Or maybe they weren’t going to be handed any bones. Maybe Sarah’s chances came down to this one meeting in a sleazeball attorney’s office in the middle of the hottest city on earth. Maybe it was all up to his own abilities to follow whoever delivered the Kittridge kid, follow him or her for as long as it took, follow this person right back to the elusive Pied Piper and little Sarah Boldt.
He liked the sound of that. Maybe destiny was on his side.
CHAPTER 65
Posing as Cindy Brehmer, Daphne dressed in Ferragamo flats, a cream linen sleeveless shift and a simple string of pearls with matching stud earrings. She wore a light blush, pale red lipstick, mascara, a hint of eye shadow and a bead of penciled eyeliner.
Boldt’s wrinkled khakis and blue Oxford button-down did not live up to his wife’s appearance. His pale, gaunt face with its prominent cheekbones and sunken eyes lent him the look of a man struggling with disease. Little more than his wife’s escort, a man to carry the empty child seat, he took to opening doors for her, arranging transportation for her and carrying on a one-sided conversation, playing the doting husband perfectly, caught in his wife’s wake like a piece of flotsam rising and falling beneath her mood swings.
He took the wheel of the Volvo rental, chauffeuring her out of the Quarter, through downtown and into a mixed neighborhood that bordered the Garden District. He drove several blocks out of their way to arrive heading south so that the Volvo could pause briefly immediately below the burned-out shell of a structure that LaMoia had described to him.
“Lou-” Daphne began.
“I know,” he answered.
“You wait for chances like this, you work toward them, and then suddenly they’re upon you and-”
“I know.”
“This is going to be a mess to untangle, Lou.”
“Chevalier’s phone records and the paperwork filed at Vital Statistics will give us all these kids back. It may
