to pay Lieutenant Phil Shoswitz a visit. Technically, he was impersonating a police officer. It seemed ludicrous to him, but he could be arrested for it. 'Just answer me this, please,' he said to the huge woman. 'Is Cynthia Chapman in your database or not?' She nodded reluctantly. Boldt felt a flood of relief. Curiosity surged through him. So many questions to ask. Could the harvester have selected Cindy from this database? Had he kidnapped her, or was a child desperate enough to sell her blood also willing to sell a kidney? Were the names of Dixie's other three 'victims' in this database as well? 'Does Bloodlines keep an active database of all its previous donors?' he asked.
She viewed him suspiciously. Their eyes met. 'This can all be done formally,' he informed her. 'Warrants, subpoenas. Attorneys. Press. Have you ever been to our city police department, Ms. Dundee?'
'There is a database of all our donors, yes.'
Boldt withdrew his notebook from his coat pocket. 'I have three other names I'd like to check,' he said. He supplied her with the names of the three runaways-Julia Walker, Glenda Sherman and Peter Blumenthal-all of whom had been missing an organ at the time of death. Ms. Dundee entered these names into her computer terminal.
A moment later she said, 'Nope. None of them.'
'Damn it all!' he protested in disappointment. Then a thought occurred to him: 'How far back do your records go?'
'A donor is kept active twelve months. The database is swept monthly.'
'Swept?'
'Cleaned up. — 'And what happens to those records?' he asked. 'Our data processing department in our home office maintains a complete donor list. That's required by the federal government in case health problems arise in the blood supply.' She added, as a way of showing off the care they took, 'You can't donate without a social security number, a current address and a phone number.'
Boldt, having witnessed the street person in the reception area, wondered how careful they were in obtaining accurate identification, but he didn't press the issue. 'Can you check these three names with the home office?'
Another expression of disapproval. Boldt's patience was running thin. How much could he tell her? 'This isn't about traffic tickets, Ms. Dundee. A little cooperation now could go a long way toward protecting your company's image later. This branch's image.'
'Just what kind of trouble are you talking about?'
'Why don't you make that call for me, and let's see where it leads? Then maybe we'll discuss it.'
A few minutes and a brief phone conversation later, she informed him, 'They'll call back. It won't take long.'
Boldt used the down time to press for more information. Miles had dozed off. 'How many of your employees would have access to your donor database?' he asked. She hesitated, unsure how much to share with him. 'A woman was kidnapped, Ms. Dundee. Kidnapping is a federal offense. The kidnapping may or may not be related to her association with Bloodlines. Am I getting through?'
She answered, 'At this branch, about two dozen of us would have access to our client base, maybe more. Hard copies of the files are kept behind registration.'
'And is registration manned constantly?'
'Constantly? No, I would doubt it. No.'
'You said 'this' branch? How many are there?'
'In Seattle? just this one.'
'And the others?'
'We're a regional corporation, Mr. … Boldt. Twenty-four branches in eleven states. I can give you the literature if you want. Or I could put you in touch with our home office in San Francisco.'
'The database would contain a donor's blood type, would it not?'
'Blood groups. Of course.'
'And personal information?'
'Meaning?'
d'you tell me. You mentioned home address. How about age?
Marital status?'
'All of those, yes.'
'Accessible from any terminal?'
'No, the terminals deal with donors only by donor number. The personal information requires an access code. Only I have the access code, and only two terminals share the complete database: reception and mine. But there are the hard copies, as I mentioned, though they are locked up in a vault at night. We don't take our situation lightly, Lieutenant.' 'Sergeant,' he corrected. 'No, I'm sure you don't.'
'We take client confidentiality quite seriously.' Miles stirred. Boldt asked, 'What if I entered a particular blood type into the computer. Would it be able to give me back the names of all those donors with that particular blood type? Can it sort that way?'
'You should talk to our data processing about that.'
He hated these kinds of answers. 'Back to your employees. How many of them do you know well?'
'Depends what you mean. I know them all. I hired them. I don't know about how well I know them.'
'How long have you been with Bloodlines?' he asked.
'Me? Going' on nine years now.'
'And your employees? Have any of them been with you, say, two or three years?'
She considered this. 'Three or four, maybe. I could check for you if I had the home office's permission.'
'And that would be up to me to obtain,' he reasoned. 'Yes, it would.'
Miles was awake and quickly losing control. Boldt resigned himself to leaving. He tried a long shot. 'Of those three or four long-time employees, one of them has shown a particular interest in your computer system. Which one would that be? Maybe he or she helps you out with the system now and then.'
She appeared both surprised and impressed by what he'd said.
'You never did show me any identification,' she reminded. 'No, I didn't.' He paused. 'Which employee?' he repeated, sensing she had the name on the tip of her tongue. 'I need that name.'
Her phone rang, sparing her from answering. When she hung up, she faced him with a dazed expression. 'That was your call.
The three names you gave me? They're all on our list. They were all clients of this office. Seattle. Were they kidnapped, too?'
Boldt repeated softly but severely, 'I need the name of that employee. The one who helps you with the computer.'
Ms. Dundee nodded ever so slightly, muttered, 'I hate computers.' She picked up her pen and wrote out the name: Connie Chi.
By five-thirty that afternoon, over one hundred cars had filled the lower parking area of the Broadmoor Golf Club. Mercedes, BMWS, Acuras, the occasional Cadillac and Olds. A spectacular turnout. in one corner of the enormous walled party tent, high-spirited kids dressed in Ralph Lauren's finest took turns, blindfolded, swinging a Louisville Slugger at a yellowand-black phiata in the shape of a toucan. Heaters hummed softly, the champagne flowed, and the conversation reached a feverish pitch that all but drowned out the announcer's running commentary on the dog show taking place just off the practice putting green. A string quartet was all set up on a small platform stage at the far end of the tent, the musicians, in their formal wear, sampling the buffet as they awaited the 'special guest' and a cue from their hostess.
Dr. Elden Tegg moved through his guests agreeably, if not comfortably, taking their hands, making small talk-charming, flattering. He wore a navy blue cashmere sport coat, a turquoise Polo shirt, khakis, and brand new leather deck shoes. He glanced over at his wife, Peggy, and offered a soft, appreciative smile-everything was going well. Two weeks earlier, Peggy had turned forty; to look at her, you might have guessed thirty. She was in her element here, mingling with the top of the heap, rubbing elbows with the real power of the city.
The banner behind the buffet read: 3rd Annual Friends of Animals Benefit Tegg mentally ran down the list of the day's events: the dog trials, a small wine auction, an awards presentation, and then the special entertainment Peggy had arranged. A few of the members of the opera's board of directors were already here.
All of them had been invited. Tegg spotted James Hall and his wife, Julie, and crossed over to them. 'This is a better turnout than even last year,' Jim Hall said, shaking Tegg's hand. 'You'll raise a fortune.'
'You must stay for the entertainment, James.' To his wife the man said, 'The mystery musical guest. I've
