The Body of David Hayes

“Lieutenant!” Riz complained, too loudly for the small confines of the panel van. He stopped Boldt. “I remind you: We have an operation in place. You cannot, must not, visit your wife inside that bank. Not yet. It could be watched.”

“I know that, Reece.” The guy made it sound like Boldt had never been on a surveillance. He eased the van’s door shut, inexplicably drawn to protect this woman pretending to be his wife.

Once out on the street, Boldt quickly spotted the woman in the black raincoat walking west down the hill on Madison.

Boldt wore a cell phone ear bud in his right ear-a common sight on the streets now and one that made such clandestine surveillance easier than before. In Boldt’s case, the ear bud wire was plugged into a portable police- band radio tucked under his jacket.

In his ear, the dispatcher’s voice inquired, “LTB?” Boldt’s radio handle. He acknowledged. The dispatcher then rattled off a request that Boldt switch sides of the street. Riz didn’t want anyone from the team directly behind Malone. Boldt obeyed the request, crossing with a group of southbound pedestrians, tension surging through him in long waves. He was thinking that Malone’s walk was all wrong, lacking both Liz’s elegance and the subtle but stirring sway of her hips. Malone’s efficient stride was all about training, athleticism, and preparation. At a moment’s notice, Malone was ready to either drop to the sidewalk like a sack of cement or sprint in the opposite direction. Under that controlled movement was a body like a cat’s.

Malone continued west on Madison, down toward the waterfront now directly ahead of her. The street’s dead end into the north/south sidewalk that fronted Elliott Bay would somewhat contain her, and Boldt thought Hayes too smart to corner himself like that. So what the hell was he up to? Then he realized that Riz was being forced to reduce the number of personnel he sent into the area, for fear that in large numbers even the undercover officers might be spotted. Riz cut back from eight undercover officers to four on foot, holding the others in positions two blocks away, across the deserted stretch of parking tarmac beneath the elevated lanes of Alaskan Way. An unmarked van of SWAT-like S.O. operatives was moved into position across from the Seattle Aquarium. It was here, the aquarium, a series of restaurants, an IMAX theater, that Riz initially focused his personnel.

Boldt understood Riz’s reluctance to accept that Hayes would make things easy for them by directing “Liz” to a ferry or a boat-fully contained and so easily tracked and followed-a criminal’s nightmare. But with the middle stretch of waterfront buildings soon to be under the umbrella of Riz’s well-orchestrated team, Boldt played the contrarian. Riz did finally direct a few of his people toward the ferry docks, but by the time he thought to do so, Boldt was already several hundred yards ahead of not only the closest operative but Malone as well, for she had stopped and stared out to sea for seven long minutes, presumably under the direction of Hayes, as she now carried Liz’s cell phone. Her pause caused a momentary paralysis for Special Ops, finding themselves unable to predict her next move.

Boldt, by playing against the grain, ended up at the ferries well ahead of the mark, and ahead of Special Ops also, the only one already in place when Malone made her unexpected move south.

South, to the ferries.

The Washington State Department of Transportation-WSDOT-operates the busiest ferry system in North America, handling nearly seventy thousand passengers per day. Piers 50 and 52 of the Seattle Terminal, a sprawling landscape of parking lots and docks, present managers with a logistical challenge similar to that of running a small airport. In constant motion, teams of dockworkers and sailors and maintenance personnel, food service people and housecleaners, attempt to keep a fleet of thirty-one ships on a reliable schedule. The two terminals operate under a surprising calm, the result of a well-practiced routine.

Boldt faced a decision as he read from the electronic sign that listed scheduled departures. Slip 3 offered a Bainbridge Island ferry departing at 4:40, and with a short crossing time of thirty-five minutes. Right or wrong, Boldt had to commit. Boarding ahead of “Liz”-Malone-was something he doubted Hayes would anticipate. Police reacted, they followed a surveillance mark, they didn’t arrive ahead of the mark.

Hopeful that Riz might yet sneak one or more of his undercover operatives onboard, Boldt believed Hayes would be looking to identify those behind Malone. He doubted Hayes would recognize him, especially given the jeans, the glasses, and the hat pulled down over his brow, but he nonetheless stopped at a tourist stand and bought two Orca whale Beanie Babies for the kids. With the white shopping bag in hand, marking him a tourist, he felt even better disguised.

Head down, bunched in with a dozen commuters, Boldt boarded the gray-and-white ferry, Puyallup. Filled to capacity, as she was to be at this hour, Puyallup carried 2,500 passengers and more than 200 vehicles. The teeming masses of commuters contributed to Boldt’s camouflage.

He bought a Times from a vending machine in the main cabin and headed to a window seat with a view of the boarding areas.

As the dispatcher barked orders, Boldt realized Riz and his team were now scrambling to deploy undercover officers onto the ferry.

Hayes orchestrated Malone’s arrival at the pier to within a few scant minutes of the Puyallup’s departure, leaving her one of the last passengers to board. Interpreting what he heard in his ear, Boldt saw a single undercover bike patrol officer board the ferry behind her. Boldt searched his memory for a name: Hendersen, a lanky surfer dude, blond, in his early thirties. He wore colorful Spandex bearing Lance Armstrong’s signature and the U.S. Postal Service logo, a black helmet that was pointed in front and back, a red backpack with a dozen zippers, and a pair of stereo headphones connected to a jogger’s portable CD player that strapped to his chest. The CD player was in fact a police radio. The space-age riding glasses he wore concealed a microphone allowing two-way conversation. Hendersen bobbed his head constantly, as if he were listening to music.

The ferry left the pier smoothly. Malone, deeply into the role of Liz Boldt, arrived on the passenger deck, the aluminum briefcase in hand, among a cluster of the last passengers to board. Seconds behind her, Hendersen appeared, easily spotted by his helmet.

Malone walked the length of the ship and out through the forward doors to the bow deck, Liz’s cell phone held tightly to her ear.

Boldt reached inside his jacket and turned down the radio’s volume, distracted by the clatter of dispatch. With ten staircases and three decks, an elevator, and twenty-five hundred passengers, the Puyallup seemed an easy place to lose somebody. Once Hayes manipulated her below deck, it would require but a matter of seconds to stash Malone into a vehicle. Smuggling her off the ship would prove more difficult, but he put nothing past Hayes given what he’d seen so far: an organized, patient personality.

Boldt reached Hendersen and introduced himself without looking directly at the man. They divided the ship in two between them, Hendersen taking the outside deck, Boldt remaining inside.

They would pass responsibility for her back and forth between them via the radio. If she moved up or down levels, whoever was following her at the time was to stay with her because radio contact could be problematic given all the steel.

Boldt added in a whisper, well aware of the many passengers surrounding them both, “If she heads downstairs to the vehicles, get word to me somehow, because that’s the deal.”

“Got it.”

They split up, both aware of the difficulty of having only a two-man surveillance team. Boldt watched Hendersen head outside only yards behind Malone, the two visible through the passenger deck’s large windows. Like watching a silent movie.

Boldt noticed the horizon shift as the ferry corrected course. The dispatcher came onto the radio, announcing that personnel would be deployed on the ground at the Bainbridge Island ferry terminal in the event Malone disappeared onboard or later disembarked. The island’s law enforcement quickly proved itself ill prepared for a spontaneous undercover operation. An officer was currently racing home to change into civilian clothes and to switch cars with his wife. Boldt asked that this man and his car be available to him in the event Malone left the ferry. Hendersen could follow on bike, if necessary. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was all they had.

Malone completed a full circle of the outside deck, and Boldt called off Hendersen with a simple command sent