faces of three vagrants he’d seen in the Underground. With an anxious Daphne Matthews monitoring the event from the corner of the small interrogation room, LaMoia arranged yet another array-six faces in small windows on a single card-and slid it in front of the homeless man.
Dirty fingers with jagged nails took hold of the card like a nervous gambler toying with his cards. The guy studied the faces in the cutout windows. The cracked skin of his dirty hands flexed as he stabbed a face-bottom left. “This guy’s been there a bunch.”
LaMoia turned the card around for Matthews to see as she stepped closer.
“He ever use the gallery? The peepholes?” LaMoia asked.
“Sure. All the time.”
His finger rested on the photo that was not a mug shot but a driver’s license ID. The face belonged to Ferrell Walker.
“We call him the fisherman,” the homeless man said, “ ’cause he stinks like shit.”
A New View of Things
Matthews had been to one or two parties in LaMoia’s loft apartment, huge affairs, teeming masses, noisy, with music blaring.
Empty, it looked less like a bachelor’s pad than she’d expected.
The collection of modest, mostly mismatched furniture was complemented by the dramatic lighting-nothing but funnel lights on brightly colored wires. The focus of the area was the large, well-equipped kitchen and what was obviously a stunning view of Elliott Bay, for it looked so even at night.
“Wow,” she said.
“Yeah, I know.” Ever the modest one. He shut and locked the metal door with three locks. Like her and the houseboat, he’d bought his place for a song. He, at a time when the neighborhood had been a needle park and the mayor had been offering tax incentives. Riding the wave of “Californication” and the SoDo neighborhood’s gentrification (back when there had been a Kingdome), he now found himself with a piece of a trendy location rejuvenated by the construction of the Safe and the new football stadium. Like her own houseboat, the loft was now worth a small ransom, and like her, LaMoia would one day cash in on his good fortune and ride into the sunset in one of his trademark Camaros.
Blue sighed from the couch and thumped his tail on the cushion. LaMoia scolded the dog for being on the furniture but then greeted him warmly when the dog bothered to say hello. A weekend architect, LaMoia had constructed a few walls into the enormous space, dividing it nicely, but leaving much of it open.
Off the central living/dining area and kitchen was a master bedroom and a bath to the south that he showed her with pride, pointing out several details like high-speed Internet connection.
To the north of the kitchen was an office with a single twin bed as a couch and a guest bath across a wide hallway. He placed her bag in the office, left her for a minute or more, and returned with a red beach towel, making apologies for his linen.
The towel proved heavier than expected, and before she un-folded it he said, “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
“Understood.”
“The registration comes back expired. Previously owned by a man who smoked too much and died behind the wheel of a Ford Pinto.”
“I’ll return it the minute they lift my leave.”
“Just so we’re clear: I was not the officer who responded to that wreck. I’m clean. You can’t harm me with that, no matter what happens.”
“Got it.”
“The other thing in there,” he said, without naming the Taser stun gun she would later find, “is the same kinda story. Consider it a gift. No strings attached.”
“It’s all a gift, John. I appreciate everything you’re doing for me.”
“Yeah … well …” LaMoia at a lack for words? No quick quip? “We could watch some TV,” he suggested.
“It’s past two in the morning.”
“Wind down.”
The dog nuzzled him, wanting bed as badly as she did.
“Listen,” he said, “there’s wine, beer, pop. Food. Help yourself to whatever you want. Mi casa, su casa.”
“I figured you for an empty fridge.”
“You figured wrong.”
“Meals out at diners.”
“I can see I’ve got an image problem.”
“You are not telling me you’re a cook.”
“Chef,” he said. “When it’s a guy, it’s a chef.”
“And you’re a chef?” she asked, disbelieving.
“Hell, no. A grill meister and a takeout king. Any food you want, any country, any flavor, and I can have it here in a half hour.”
“That’s a real talent, a culinary art form.”
“Exactly. Me and the kitchen phone. It’s all technique.”
“Good night, John,” she said, thanking him again.
“Happy to have you.”
The dog moved in with her sometime before sunrise, warming her feet and taking up too much of the small bed. She woke with four hours of sleep, ravenously hungry, staring out at the beauty of Elliott Bay and the lush green islands beyond, a world unaware of her problems-the exact perspective she needed at that moment. She popped open the window and drank in the sea air. It had a taste to it that she associated with this city.
LaMoia snored loudly from the far room, his Don Juan image unraveling with each breath. She smiled privately and shook off the fatigue, scratched Blue behind the ears where he liked it, and prepared herself for a shower, thinking that on this morning things were okay, going on good, and that a cup of tea and a bagel wouldn’t hurt anything at all.
Hitting the Wall
Although the Underground access discovered by LaMoia and Matthews had at first interested Boldt as a way to gain access uptown, this interest lessened when it was explained that each block of Underground stood isolated behind a retaining wall and did not, to anyone’s knowledge, connect one to the next. More than six city blocks, one hundred thousand square feet each, separated the site of Chen’s death and the Shelter. Boldt held out hope that with the help of his university contact, he would be able to gain access.
He began his day by talking a grease monkey in the police garage into taking a look at Liz’s minivan since he’d missed the appointment yesterday. He then fired off a vitriolic e-mail to Captain Sheila Hill complaining about Matthews being placed on administrative leave and suggesting that “the situation be rectified by the end of the day” if CAP was “to effectively continue its work into the investigation of Hebringer and Randolf.”
He reread it twice, spell-checked it, and sent it, convinced Hill would see the error of her ways. A political beast, Hill would not want the possible tarnish of having slowed down an active investigation that carried so much press exposure and baggage.
Boldt knew it was prosecutorial suicide to have Matthews sit down with Walker ahead of her suspension being lifted, and he now believed Walker’s mention of Hebringer and Randolf key to the investigation. He had, in fact, left Matthews a voice mail encouraging her to “set up a meet” as soon as Walker next contacted her. He’d alerted Special Ops and Technical Services, wanting them ready to move at a moment’s notice. He wanted Matthews wearing a wire around the clock and he’d asked a detective, Heiman, to write up a request for a court order to trap-and-trace incoming calls to both her office phone and cell phone.
