Lofgrin in the crime lab had the same bad habit of turning what could be a one-line answer into a ten-minute lecture. Boldt felt no obligation to egg him on by responding, so he waited him out. ‘‘After I struck out IDing that container, I decided to put the word out on the street. Nice and gentle like. . nothing too severe. There’s an art to working the street, you
know?’’ he said, fishing for a compliment.
‘‘Uh-huh,’’ Boldt agreed.
‘‘It’s like lovemaking: You start slow and easy and let things develop of themselves.’’
‘‘Try to get around to your point sometime today, if possible.’’
LaMoia didn’t so much as flinch. He was on stage; he was performing. Nothing could rattle him. ‘‘So rather than make an issue out of this, I just let it be known that we would be interested in whosoever might be ordering polarfleece by the container load. Okay? I know it’s not Eddie Bauer or REI’cause I’ve already checked with them. Can’t be a mom-and-pop with that kind of quantity. So what the fuck, chuck?’’
‘‘John!’’ Boldt raised his voice enough to send the two-minute warning.
‘‘It wasn’t a snitch, Sarge-wasn’t no squirrel. The right snitch, and I coulda worked some Monopoly magic on him, you know? ‘Get out of jail for free,’ or something along those lines. Okay? Coulda come up with a name, a contact, something firm enough to squeeze by the neck and start choking. Okay?’’ He stopped talking. Stopped, and stood there, waiting to elicit some kind of response from his lieutenant, who sat impassively enough to allow another unsuspecting person to believe he had died there in the chair. Boldt would not, did not, move. He waited. LaMoia took this all in and finally understood that he was to blink first. ‘‘Part of me thinks we should contact I.I. before they contact us. Save ’em the trouble.’’
I.I.-Internal Investigation-a pair of initials that drove a heat rash to the back of the neck of even the most honest and upright soldier-in-blue. I.I. could stall careers, stop paychecks and cause months of consultation with overworked attorneys on retainer to the Police Officers’ Benevolent Association-the union. LaMoia’s suggestion meant that whatever he’d turned up could put one or both of them directly in harm’s way. The implication was obvious-organized crime was involved.
Corruption swept through police departments and other government agencies like the flu, passed one person to the next, indiscriminate of rank, race or gender. Like any contagious disease, when its proportions became epidemic within the given population, measures were taken to eradicate or at least reduce its influence; a few scapegoats were found and hung out to dry while the others went more deeply underground.
Throughout the course of his twenty-odd years on the force, Lou Boldt had carefully avoided and had never succumbed to even a hint of impropriety, which occasionally amounted to a full-time job. He stood sentry at the gate, alert and watchful. He would not willingly rat out his fellow officer to Internal Investigations; likewise, he would not tolerate compromised police work. He purposely avoided any social contact with individuals known, or even suspected, to have ties to organized crime including certain politicians and even a few of his own superiors at SPD. If even a whiff of a rumor surfaced, Boldt mentally added the name to his list.
Professionally, he could not afford such luxury. Crimes Against Persons-CAPers-implicitly required fundamental knowledge of, and contact with, elements of organized crime, whether the Chinese Triad, the Russian Mafia, or any of a number of gangs that in recent years had begun to pick up the crumbs-the street level crimes-left behind by their larger counterparts: drugs, prostitution, auto theft and small-time gaming. While the Russian mob controlled the brothels, the gangs ran the street hookers; while the Chinese Triad imported the coke and heroin by the boatload, the gangs distributed them. Each group had cut out its own niche, and for the most part, left the other alone. Only at the street level, the gang level, was this not the case- where hotheaded loyalties and romantic notions gave way to the occasional street war leaving teenagers and twenty-five-year-olds dead in the streets.
To receive a request for a meeting with any person known to have association with such organizations could mean the kiss of death-an either/or offer that might include a threat to one’s family or, to one’s life, profession or aspirations. There were few police officers who could not be reached given the appropriate pressure point. Boldt knew that of all his possible vulnerabilities, his children presented the biggest target for such people. He would never accept money, nor improved station, but if the health and welfare of Miles and Sarah were brought into play, he knew he would be faced with one of two choices-strike back, or roll over. Each cop knew his own vulnerabilities; Boldt, whose daughter had once been threatened, guarded his carefully.
A cop’s home number was never given out, never published in the phone books. Some lied to neighbors about their profession both to protect their families and to avoid being called into petty disagreements. The game of dodging compromise, of avoiding corruption, was never-ending and required great vigilance on the part of any police officer, Boldt included. When the call came from Mama Lu, he briefly gave pause. It was the day he had feared most of his professional career.
LaMoia was the messenger. They had moved to the fifth floor’s coffee lounge. Boldt shut the doors and prepared himself a cup of tea.
‘‘So there’s this girl I went out with for a while name of Peggy Wan.’’
‘‘Woman,’’ Boldt corrected. ‘‘Let’s hope so anyway.’’
‘‘We hit if off pretty great. Not that it lasted.’’
‘‘Not that that’s news,’’ Boldt said.
‘‘But we stayed friends. Are you interested in this?’’ LaMoia asked.
‘‘If it’s going somewhere. If it’s the Further Adventures of. . I can do without it this morning. Your trail is littered with Peggy Wans, John. For your sake I hope someone comes along who actually means something to you.’’
‘‘Just ’cause I’m altar-shy. . Gosh, Sarge, I didn’t know you cared.’’
Boldt hesitated a moment too long to keep things on a joking level. ‘‘Yes,’’ he said, ‘‘I do care.’’
LaMoia stiffened while his smile softened and his eyes found a lint ball in the far corner of the room. His bottom lip twitched beneath
his mustache.
Boldt said, ‘‘So tell me about Peggy Wan.’’
LaMoia took a second longer to recover, to regain the boyish enthusiasm and cocky independence that were his trademarks. ‘‘So Peggy is evidently the niece of Mama Lu-although Asians throw around this aunt and uncle business a little too often, if you know what I mean. And so maybe
‘‘So Peggy’s name gets a line through it in Seattle’s most famous black book.’’
‘‘But evidently she does reciprocate the favor-’’
‘‘The legend lives on,’’ Boldt said.
‘‘-on account I hear from Peggy last night. She calls my crib, right? Which means she lifted my number off the home phone because I never gave it to her.’’
‘‘Bedside phone, no doubt.’’
‘‘And what does she want but to arrange a meet between you and her aunt?’’
‘‘Me?’’
‘‘That’s what I said to her.’’
‘‘Mama Lu?’’
‘‘Exactly.’’
‘‘Oh, shit,’’ the man cursed uncharacteristically. ‘‘Why me?’’ Boldt protested.
‘‘I can’t answer that. I imagine she can, and will.’’
‘‘You’re coming with me.’’
‘‘I wasn’t invited.’’
‘‘Doesn’t matter. Two of us in the room, it changes the approach.’’ Boldt reconsidered. ‘‘Only if you’re all right with it. No arm twisting here, John. I don’t want to put you into something. . you know.’’
‘‘Yeah, I do know. But I’m cool with it. You want me to hang with you, I’ll hang.’’
‘‘We may both hang,’’ Boldt warned ominously.
Two sinewy, lithe men stood outside the Korean grocery smoking non-filters that smelled like burning tires. Two men going nowhere. They both wore nylon gym pants that whistled as they moved to follow LaMoia and Boldt through the store’s screen door. A seagull complained loudly, flying overhead, trapped by the buildings. The
