“It might account for Svengrad going after Geiser and him.”
“Why do I sense we’re not out for an evening drive?” LaMoia asked, popping the last bit of brownie into his mouth and rolling his eyes as he chewed. Boldt had just run a red light. “These things might come from a box,” he said, licking his fingers, “but Matthews has it down. The trick is undercooking them.”
“The Martha Stewart of Homicide.”
LaMoia, adding a southern twang, said, “And damn proud of it.”
Boldt explained, “First thing I did was try the Sheriff’s Office, looking for Danny, because this cop mentioned having Danny on our radar, and I think without meaning to, reminded me that all the MDTs,” Mobile Data Terminals, “track real-time location of the cars, same as ours do.”
“And you got a fix for his new ride? The Escalade?”
“Not exactly.”
“You’re driving as if you did.”
Boldt suppressed a grin. The first faint acknowledgment from John. It was worth cherishing. “I’ve got a fix, but it wasn’t courtesy of the Sheriff’s Office.”
“Is this supposed to be twenty questions or something?” He eyed Boldt’s tea, still smacking his lips. “You mind if I have a swig of that?”
“Finish it,” Boldt said. LaMoia knew perfectly well that Boldt did mind sharing both drink and food. This was LaMoia’s attempt at being polite while he got what he wanted. “Sheriff’s Office only keeps real-time information, and they currently have nothing on their screens for Foreman’s Escalade. Means the engine’s turned off. They’ll call me if that changes.”
“We call them ‘motors,’ Sarge,” LaMoia corrected, “but I’ll forgive you this time. Motors, because they’re engines that move you.” John was a gear-head of the first order. Boldt should have known better than to wander into his territory.
“Do you want to hear this?”
LaMoia, not wearing his seat belt, had slumped back in the seat, as if tempted by a nap despite Boldt’s erratic driving. The man had some Old West mannerisms like this-the town sheriff tipped back in the spoke chair outside the jail-that he wore effortlessly, and that fit him well. He reminded Boldt of the best of Steve McQueen. As if Boldt had already briefed him, LaMoia said, “I’m way ahead of you. The new Escalades offer an On-Sat service package that gives you twenty-four-hour road assistance, electronic mapping, live operators.” He paused for dramatic effect. “GPS, twenty-four-seven. You’re about to tell me On-Sat maintains GPS data for some specified amount of time; I’m guessing between six and twenty-four hours. That way they know where you’ve been, and this helps their operators look good when you ask for a nice restaurant or motel nearby.” He gave Boldt a smirk. “Voila! The wheres and whens of Danny Foreskin’s comings-and-goings over the past whatever-amount-of-time.” He looked over at Boldt ponderously, and when Boldt failed to contradict him, slid further down in the seat, saying, “Wake me when we get there, Daddy. I need to close my eyes a sec.”
Boldt felt as if he’d had his pocket picked. “The location is nearby. Southeast, in SoDo. Foreman’s Escalade has been in this area three times in the past twenty-four hours. It’s not a firm address, but it’s got to mean something.”
“When you’re right, you’re right,” LaMoia said. “I stole your thunder. Didn’t I, Sarge?” His eyes remained closed.
“Yes, you did.”
“Good.”
“Why’s that good?” Boldt asked, after a long period of reflection to consider this.
“Because then you’re probably pissed off at me,” he said. “Am I right?”
“Mildly irritated.”
“And if you’re pissed off at me, then your juices are flowing, and we’re going to need our juices flowing by the time we get there.”
“And what about
“Sarge? This is
“One of these days, John… ”
“Yeah, I know.” A stifled yawn, well practiced. “I know.”
LaMoia asked about the Escalade’s current location according to On-Sat. Boldt said it was last recorded at the edge of a rail freight yard nearly directly west of their present location.
“And why aren’t we looking there first?”
“Because that, if anything, would give us Foreman, and we want Hayes.”
“Why are we so anxious to get to Hayes, Sarge?”
This was the question Boldt could not allow himself to answer, for it would reveal too much of his upcoming plan. In his own unique way, LaMoia had wormed into the heart of the matter, drilling for the truth and ripping Boldt open in the process. There was little these two men had not shared over the past decade, and Boldt’s silence suggested a line not to cross for LaMoia, and the man was briefly but clearly hurt.
LaMoia placed a call from his cell phone, interrupting himself to ask Boldt for the address where they were headed, which Boldt then supplied begrudgingly, wondering what he was up to. He spoke to a woman, judging by the way he flirted, and she apparently did everything he asked, because he kept continually thanking her. He disconnected the call, clipped the cell phone back to his waist, and sighed.
“Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so smart.”
“Oh, yeah,” Boldt said, “there’s a problem.” Now LaMoia would make him drag it out of him. Unlike Bernie Lofgrin, who had to bore you to death explaining everything in excruciating detail, LaMoia never volunteered his information, his little game.
Southeast of SoDo was a no-man’s-land of brick and cinderblock, chain link and rusted signs, a DMZ-like stretch between the city and Boeing Field. Sidewalks sprouted weeds; broken windows called attention to themselves. For a while gangs had used the area, moving in and then driven out, like livestock crossing neighbors’ property lines. Mom-and-Pop shops, burger houses, delivery businesses, and car repair had started the process that would lead the former warehouse and light industrial space into offices and retail storefronts. The unstoppable evolution of neglected urban space under pressure. Even an unpredictable economy couldn’t stop the city from growing-the bacterium had grown immune to antibiotics.
“Okay, I give up,” Boldt said. “Why are you so smart?”
“There’s a building within a block of where the On-Sat put Foreman’s car that’s on BCI’s impound list.” Law enforcement agencies, SPD included, took possession of assets in narcotics raids and RICO convictions, often to offset taxpayers for a particularly expensive or time-consuming investigation. Vehicles, boats, homes, commercial properties were all impounded. Most of the time these were put on the auction block and the proceeds returned to the public coffers once the court case settled. On occasion, a vehicle or boat would be impounded and later put into service by the agency of possession. Real estate in particular typically lagged in the process, sometimes staying on the books a year or two before auction. Locked and chained and standing vacant, they dotted the urban landscape, tracked by some bureaucratic auditor. On occasion, as appeared to be the case now, an arresting agent later came to believe the car, or boat, or commercial real estate in fact belonged to him or her as long as no one was using it. LaMoia’s discovery of such a property within walking distance from the various locations where Foreman’s parked Escalade had been tracked suggested anything but coincidence.
LaMoia checked an address written in pen on the back of his hand and indicated a turn to Boldt. A moment later they parked and climbed out. “Place was a print shop. Supermarket coupons, some counterfeit lottery tickets, sports tickets. Went on BCI’s impound list a year ago September.”
They faced a sturdy steel door. Looking up through a rusted steel fire escape, Boldt said, “I asked both the On-Sat people and BCI to call me if they saw Foreman on the move, especially returning to this neighborhood. Who knows if they’ll oblige us.”
“So we stay ready to be surprised,” LaMoia said. “You want to take it alone, have me play sentry, or do we do this together?”
“Together. We’ll call for backup if we manage to get inside.”
“I saw you looking at the fire escape,” LaMoia said.
“Yes, you did.”
“You want me up there?”
