The Pied Piper (19 page)

It took several minutes for them to finish. Boldt's knees cracked loudly as he stood.

LaMoia wielded a small penlight, training its beam beneath the furniture. He ran the light up the wall and down into the window-sill.

“Sarge?” he asked expectantly.

Boldt moved to get a look at the object in the center of the light. A tiny chip of thick glass, caught against the screen's frame. With LaMoia training the light, Boldt opened the window saying, “He opens the window for some air … kicks his feet up on the windowsill.”

Boldt placed the glass chip into a plastic evidence bag and marked it. Old times.

LaMoia said excitedly, “This guy is picking up automobile glass in shoes. Work boots. Waffle sole. That sort of thing.”

“Yes he is,” Boldt agreed, studying the chip.

Jumping to conclusions was both dangerous and foolish. The lab would have to check it against the other glass found at the Shotz and Weinstein homes. Nonetheless, Boldt was already wondering if the glass could be used to tie the Pied Piper to a location: an auto glass shop, a car dealership.

They turned the evidence over to Bernie Lofgrin, who signed for it. Twenty minutes later, the eastern horizon wore an azure blue. Boldt drove away. Marina, who had spent the night, would be awakening soon. His kids needed to be dressed and fed and taken to day care. His worlds ran together, interdependent. Where were the missing kids? Alive? Dead? Locked in a closet or a basement?

Try as he did to focus on his upcoming parental duties, he kept returning to an image of the Pied Piper, dressed as an exterminator, sitting in the rocking chair, feet kicked up out the windowsill.

The question that begged to be asked was whether or not dead Anderson had been after a possible thief stalking a neighborhood as he had represented himself to his snitches, or was somehow involved with the Pied Piper. Anyone could have killed Anderson—a client, a victim of Anderson's prying—one of the many names on the caller-ID list. But the pollen on the knees of his laundry matched the pollen found on the Shotz crib and in the Taurus carpet fibers, evidence Boldt could not ignore. Anderson was clearly involved—
up to his knees,
Boldt thought. Gaynes had checked the entire block surrounding the Shotz residence and had found no beds of knee-height yellow flowers.

Boldt slowed for a red light, but ran it. At five in the morning he wasn't about to stop.

The caller-ID list!
He suddenly understood the next logical step.

He dialed LaMoia's cellular. He had left him at the crime scene with Lofgrin.

“Yo!” the man answered.

“Anderson's caller-ID,” Boldt said.

“Right?”

“Anderson wasn't a guy working out of the kindness of his heart. He worked for hire.”

“I'm with you.”

“I know Gaynes is checking his caller-ID list, John. That she intends to speak with each of them. But cross-checking those calls by
address
and comparing those addresses with the neighborhood that the Pied Piper may have had under surveillance—”

“Addresses?” LaMoia repeated softly, allowing a long silence as he attempted to follow Boldt's train of thought. “Gimme a second here,” he vamped. “Oh shit!” LaMoia gasped. It had obviously connected for him the same way it had for Boldt. “Weinstein's house is in that direction. Anderson wasn't working for the Pied Piper, he was working for Weinstein!”

“Pleasant dreams,” Boldt said, disconnecting, knowing damn well that LaMoia wouldn't sleep a wink.

Daphne selected the task force situation room for impact, its walls littered with photos both of the kidnapped children and of Anderson's corpse, an arm dangling half in, half out, of the bathtub. Suspects responded to environment, and she intended to treat Weinstein as a suspect.

Kay Kalidja held the door for Flemming, not the other way around. They entered ceremonially, Flemming instinctively reaching for the chair at the head of the large oval table and then reconsidering. “Where do you want me?” he asked Daphne.

“Wherever you're comfortable,” she replied. “The head is fine. I want the suspect here,” she pointed, “where he's forced to look at the shots of Anderson.”

Kalidja shook hands with Daphne. “I wouldn't want to get on your bad side.”

“No you wouldn't,” Flemming contributed, letting Daphne know that he'd done his homework and knew about her. “‘Motivational Resources in the Criminally Disposed?'”

“I'm impressed,” Daphne said as Flemming came up with the title of one of her papers. She searched her memory and fired back, “‘Human Extortion—Negotiating to Freedom.'”

“Gold star.” Flemming faced Kalidja and demanded of her, “Background?”

“Father of victim number eleven: goes by Sidney. Graduated high school in Ohio. Antioch College. Earns sixty-eight thousand. Jewish. Wife is a gentile, Trish. Donations include Greenpeace and the Democratic National Party—small change—”

Flemming clucked his tongue at mention of Greenpeace.

Kalidja continued, “Has an eighty-thousand-dollar mortgage, twelve thousand left on his car loan. Credit cards pretty run up. No arrests. One moving violation, three years ago. Doesn't telephone out of state very often; when he does it's to a cousin and an aunt and uncle. Home phone number found on Anderson's caller-ID list. Seven calls total. Three in the week prior to the accident.”

“Murder, don't you mean?” Daphne inquired of Flemming.

“Accident,” Flemming insisted, leaning on the word. “You have two hundred and six hours of court time, Ms. Matthews—” she didn't even know this number herself “—as an expert witness. I would doubt seriously that even once that testimony involved evidentiary assets of any kind. Your realm is speculation—”

“It's science,” she countered, feeling her face burn.

“—into motive, environment, a suspect's mental state. All helpful to the judicial process, but evidence is quite another matter. I have sixteen hundred hours in that same chair. At this point in time, Anderson was an accident. Something comes in to dispute this, we'll review it. Circumstantial evidence is just that. It may work for Columbo but it doesn't work in that chair. The Bureau doesn't arrest suspects, we convict them. Therein lies the difference between me and Ms. Hill.”

She could feel resentment oozing from his every pore; he wanted control of the task force. He was a formidable presence. One didn't miss Gary Flemming, didn't pass him over with a casual glance. His black skin appeared iridescent in the room's artificial light. His voice warmed her chest like a preacher's.

Flemming held a degree in psychology from Georgetown, a master's in criminology from USC. He had been a federal marshal with the INS border patrol before joining the Bureau. With each two-year transfer he had received promotion. He served on the Girl Scouts national board and did the speaker circuit during vacation to promote a minor best seller he'd penned about his celebrity kidnapping cases. Single, Daphne recalled. Never married. This struck her as hard to believe. As a woman, she found the self-confidence, the penetrating brown eyes incredibly attractive. Perhaps, she thought, women came to him too easily.
Like LaMoia
, she thought.

Flemming drank a Diet Coke from the can, his strong black hand gripping the soda. Kalidja drank a Starbucks coffee. The psychologist in Daphne was glad for these few minutes of evaluation—it was important to know one's teammates. Flemming struck her as all business. His researcher, Kalidja, was all woman, sensual and fluid. She had expressive eyes and the lilting singsong voice of an islander. The ceramic beads ticked percussively behind her self-conscious toying with her hair. Daphne wondered if Flemming and Kalidja were more than colleagues.

Flemming's toy was a stainless steel pen. He made notations in his leather Day Timer, unable to sit still. When he allowed his face to settle, it carried exhaustion, tension and impatience. He worked to keep those from showing. He checked his watch and grunted disapproval. His life ran according to those two hands.

LaMoia appeared, looking unusually tired. He was followed in lockstep by Sidney Weinstein and a gray suit named Caldwell.

LaMoia made a half-baked gesture of greeting to Flemming, offered Kalidja an annoyingly fawning smile and acquiesced to Daphne's placement of the participants. Weinstein and his representative, Caldwell, sat across from the crime scene photos. Daphne focused on Weinstein, alert for changes in body language and expression.

Following introductions Caldwell spoke first, expounding his legal rhetoric. LaMoia reminded everyone that the interview was nothing more than an informal inquiry, a fact-finding mission. He said, “Mr. Weinstein, are you familiar with caller-ID, an electronic device that allows—”

“I know about it.”

“Over a two-week period, you or your wife made four calls to one Bernard Chalmers Anderson, known locally as Ricky Anderson, Richey Anderson and most recently, Andy Anderson.” Daphne logged the man's pained expression. Weinstein was no innocent.

Caldwell, the man's attorney, said, “Mr. Anderson was a private detective. As such—”

“Correction,” LaMoia said, interrupting. “Anderson installed home security devices. He also provided everything from Polaroids of the wife caught doing the dirty to a dislocated limb or two when the situation called for it.”

“Now wait just a minute!” the attorney protested.

“Easy,” Flemming said in his low, resonant voice, the sound of which melted Daphne. “The sergeant just told you: There are no charges stemming from this. Settle down, Caldwell.” The lawyer now focused on the SAC, knowing he was the one to watch.

LaMoia asked, “When did you last speak with Anderson, Mr. Weinstein?”

“Monday or Tuesday of this week,” came the nervous answer.

“And have you tried since?” He advised, “Think carefully.”

“Tuesday night.”

LaMoia nodded. “At 9:52, to be precise. Lucky for you, that was two hours
after
Mr. Anderson's windpipe had been slightly rearranged, leaving him a little blue in the face, I'm afraid.” Looking right at Weinstein he said, “Tongue as black as tire rubber and about the size of a rat. Dead. A nasty fall in the tub. Serves as a keen reminder of the importance of those rubber mats with the suction cups. Know the ones I mean?”

Weinstein went the color of toilet porcelain. Caldwell, off-guard, recovered in time to issue a line of objections as if in a trial.

LaMoia continued calmly, “So, what we're wondering about,” motioning to the others, “is the nature of your professional arrangement with a.k.a. Andy Anderson. And I should caution you, Mr. Weinstein, that we take no prisoners here at SPD, if you know what I mean. If we all do the dance, it's a fun party. You sit in the corner like a wallflower with her finger up her nose and Agent Flemming, Lieutenant Matthews and I are gonna rain on your parade until you're changing your shorts.” He cut off Caldwell with a raised hand. “And this Georgetown law professor can piss all over us as much as he likes and we won't even feel it because we got nothing to do with him. Our business is with you, just like your business was with Andy Anderson. Know what I mean? So my advice … personally … what I'm trying to say here … is that you talk, you walk. You hold out on us and you're holding out on little Hayes.”

Flemming viewed LaMoia with an open mouth. Caldwell coughed, got something stuck in his throat and gargled some phlegm to clear it.

Flemming said cautiously, “Now is the time for the truth, Mr. Weinstein. We don't need any fabrications, embellishments or avoidances. Sergeant LaMoia is conducting a homicide investigation. That's all you need to know. You are not a suspect at this time. We need a statement is all.”

LaMoia added, “If you needed some knees broken, we're fine with that. Dirty pictures? Hell, that's your business. A phone tapped? A house watched? It's a free country.” He flashed another of those disturbing smiles.

Caldwell whispered into the man's ear. Weinstein nodded. The attorney asked, “Given that there is no recording taking place and that this is an informal discussion—”