“I’m being impetuous?”
“You’re reacting to a tough situation … that wasn’t easy out there. You’re lashing out at all available parties.”
“Who’s the psychologist and who’s the detective?” she asked.
He nodded okay. “You want the detective? Your fuel line was crimped, probably with a pair of pliers.”
“And maybe it was a rock that one of the tires kicked up.”
She’d overheard this preliminary report from the police garage; she didn’t want LaMoia making it worse than it was.
His annoyance manifested itself as flaring nostrils and a worried brow. LaMoia’s level temper was one of his most valuable qualities-she’d heard that when he lost that temper things could “get a little wild,” as a patrolman had once put it. She had no desire to be the object of that display.
“The guy we arrested wears clodhoppers with monster soles.
It’s entirely within the realm of possibility that this asshole fre-quents empty construction sites. I can detain him on harassment charges at least until the T1 is back on-line and we know for sure whether he has a record or not.”
“Where are we?” Boldt asked from behind them. She could read Boldt by his tone of voice; she heard concern. They met eyes, tenderly and with feeling. She wanted to hug him. Studying her face he said, “Knowing you, you already think we’re wasting our time.”
LaMoia quipped, “Andy Sipowicz’s got nothing on you, Sarge.”
“He was offering help,” she said. “Now he’s cooling off in the Box like a street thug. I wonder if that’s the right way to handle it.”
LaMoia told Boldt about the gas line.
Boldt said to Matthews, “Well, there you go.” Adding, “Listen, you’re not the first stalking victim to think we’ve got the wrong guy. That’s victim response one-oh-one.” He asked LaMoia, “What’s his pedigree?”
“Gary Hollie. West Seattle. An accountant with something called Cross Ship LLC.” LaMoia held himself back a moment before saying, “I hate accountants.”
A young patrolwoman approached at a brisk walk and delivered a coy grin to LaMoia as well as the awaited computer printout. Matthews tried to ignore the woman’s open flirting.
“Never met her.” LaMoia defended himself without looking up from the printout. It was his prescience that disturbed her the most. She didn’t want him reading her thoughts.
LaMoia said, “Seems our Mr. Hollie went down for illegal trespass in Maryland less than two years ago.”
“That could be anything,” Matthews said.
“Including a peeping charge dealt down,” LaMoia said.
“He’s yours,” Boldt told LaMoia, strategizing a game plan.
“I’m a presence, that’s all. You take the chair. I want to pace.”
“Got it,” LaMoia said. Already at the interrogation room door, he looked back at Matthews. “You see something you don’t like, give us a knock or a buzz.” A gracious offer, but also a little patronizing.
“What if I don’t like any of it?” she called out.
LaMoia motioned Boldt through first. “Age before beauty,” he said.
Gary Hollie’s oversized head was reminiscent of a jack-o’- lantern, and had nearly as much hair. He wore a neatly trimmed black mustache above pursed lips that struggled to contain a simmering anger. Forest green chinos, a white button-down shirt, and the thick-soled office shoes completed the look. If they ended up pressing charges they would have a good look at the waffle pattern of those shoes.
LaMoia introduced Boldt as “the guy who runs the show around here.” He then took a seat in an uncomfortable chair across the war-pocked table from the suspect. Everything about the Box was austere and drab, from the vinyl flooring to the acoustic-tiled ceiling punctuated with randomly lanced pencil holes. Boldt wandered the perimeter, studying the familiar walls like a building inspector. A mirror of one-way glass occupied most of the west wall, a window through which Daphne Matthews would observe the interview.
Hollie complained in a tight nasal whine of a man held hostage by stress and tension. “This is what I get for trying to help the lady? Who are you people?”
LaMoia played the game, allowing a drawn-out silence to settle into the room beneath the steady presence of forced air.
“We appreciate your taking a few minutes to help us sort this out.”
“I have a right to an attorney.”
“Yes, you do, and you may exercise that right at any time.
No one here has denied you that right. You’ll recall that I offered you the chance to place that call if you so desired.”
“You also threatened to charge me.”
“I informed you that the involvement of attorneys would necessitate I book you. Those are the facts, Mr. Hollie. Currently, I can still change my mind. Right now, we’re just two guys talking about an incident that’s as likely to go away as it is to stick. If you want to walk out of here, then I’ve got to make your arrest go away. That’s what we’re doing here, me and you: We’re making like magicians. We’re working out the disappearing act.”
“So what’s he doing?” Hollie indicated Boldt.
Distracting you. Worrying you. “The boss is here to make sure I don’t knock you sideways and use you to mop the floor, because I’m known to have a little bit of a temper when it comes to defending my family. The woman you threatened is a police officer I work with-we work with. Highly respected and loved by all. You picked a hell of a target, Hollie.”
“I did not target her.”
“She asked you to back off, several times. Her phone was on. I heard it.”
“Her car was blocking two lanes.”
“She told you to go away. You chose to ignore her request.”
“She was being unreasonable.”
“Whereas banging on a window, wrestling with a door handle, and shouting at a driver is the epitome of reasonable behavior.”
“The … car … was … blocking … the road,” Hollie said, his attention alternating between Boldt and LaMoia. “I was trying to help. The car was stalled in traffic. Would you have just driven by? The headlights were on. It was raining. A woman inside. Alone.”
“You see? Now we’re getting somewhere,” LaMoia said.
“Like, for instance, how did you know there was a woman inside that car? How did you know she was alone?”
He stammered, looked a little dazed, and then recovered.
“Because I went up to the window and looked inside.”
“You get off on looking in windows, do you?” LaMoia asked, turning to make eye contact with Boldt.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Maryland, two years ago. You want to tell us about the trespass charge?”
Hollie blanched, chewing nervously on his lower lip like something was stuck in his teeth. His fingers drummed rapidly on the edge of the table as a sheen appeared below his eyes and above his thin eyebrows. A criminal record was like a pole marker on a racetrack-no matter how fast you ran, it kept reappearing in front of you.
“We’re calling Maryland right now,” LaMoia informed him.
“You don’t want to work a story on me because I do not like stories. I respect a man who owns up to what he did. The past is the past, eh, Mr. Hollie?”
“You’re single, or you wouldn’t say that,” Hollie said with authority. “There’s no such thing as the past when you’re di-vorced. It stays right there with you every day: the alimony, the anger, the memories. You never get past it. Not completely.”
“So enlighten me about these charges.”
“My ex got it in her head I was going to steal our son from her. I’m talking kidnap. She made up a bunch of crap about me harassing her-none of it true-and got a restraining order in place. The woman is psycho. And of course they believe the woman, not the guy, right? You show me one time they believe the guy. The restraining
