The Pied Piper (2 page)

A fire, she thought. Paul's home entertainment center—a sports center was more like it—crowded the outlets with far too many wires. What would Julie do in a fire?

The knot in her stomach twisted more tightly. Her fingers went cold and numb. Julie might be in the bathroom. Nothing more than that.

But her imagination wouldn't let it go. Perhaps Julie had a boyfriend with her in the house. In that case, she wouldn't be paying attention to either the kids or the phone. Doris stole a look around the corner and down the shifting train car's center aisle to the back of her husband's head. She had already been gone a few minutes, and it would ruin everything if he caught her at the pay phone. She had promised him she would wait to call until after dinner.

She hung up the receiver, deciding to slip into the washroom and then try again when she came out. But she emerged only to find someone else using the phone, ironically a mother happily talking to her children.

When the woman hung up, Doris tried again. This time the phone's endless ringing seemed a kind of punishment for trying at all. She glanced up the aisle at Paul, but now all she could think about was that there was something terrible going on. She decided to call her neighbor Tina, who answered on the second ring.

Doris concentrated on removing any panic from her voice. “Tina, it's Doris. I have a really weird favor to ask of you. ...”

In her mother's heart she knew: Something was dreadfully wrong.

Hope sprang eternal. For Lou Boldt, who lived in a world of innocent or guilty, alive or dead, where the patrol officers drove cars painted black and white, hope rarely surfaced though always lingered, teasing and enticing.

A woman's rail-thin body lay in the hospital bed before him, dressed not in the familiar hospital gown but in the pink seersucker he had brought her two weeks before their fifteenth anniversary. Beneath that gown, as well as on the exposed skin, not a single hair. The chemotherapy had claimed the body fat, the hair, even any expression of joy from her sunken eyes. Her alien looks signified either a preparation for death, or a rebirth. The vomiting and complete lack of energy left Boldt with the impression of a woman half-dead. Despite his hope.

He placed a
DO NOT ENTER—OXYGEN IN USE
sign on the door to the room, a door that he shut tightly before jamming a white towel up against the crack at its base. He briefly caught sight of himself in the bathroom's mirror: a tired forty-two, thinner than he'd been since college, tough in the face, but kind in the eyes. Even dressed in his ubiquitous khakis and blue blazer, he no longer looked professorial but more like retired military—”a dog trainer,” one friend had laid on him. The cop shop lived for such insults. Approaching his wife's roommate, a woman who liked afternoon tabloid television, Boldt knocked on the bed stand before pulling back the privacy curtain. “Medication time,” he announced.

Stark and clinical, the room felt like a place to stockpile auto parts, not heal the sick—stainless steel, electric cable, faux grain vinyl veneer, bleach-white sheets—the room's only warm color came from the patches of pale human skin that escaped the bedding.

“Count me in,” declared the roommate, Roberta, who was undergoing chemo for stage-four leukemia, her life expectancy, thirty to ninety days.

Elizabeth was battling lymphoma, life expectancy, three to six months. This lodged in Boldt's throat like a stuck bone.

The two windows looked out on a parking lot filled with the cars of visitors to the “C ward”—sad people carrying flowers on the way in, burdened by tears on the way out. Boldt parked out there among them. He opened both windows.

“Compliments of Bear,” he explained to his wife, producing a perfectly rolled joint. Bear Berenson, a friend of twenty years, owned the comedy club Joke's On You, over on 45th near Stoneway.

Liz smirked. “A twenty-four-year veteran, a Homicide cop, pushing drugs.”

“Medication,” he corrected. “And I'm not Homicide any longer.”

“Intelligence,” she said. “There's an oxymoron.”

He stood on a chair unsteadily and slipped a glassine bag, normally used for evidence collection, over the smoke alarm. His advancement to lieutenant had necessitated a transfer from Homicide; in a year or so he'd be back, and at a higher rank, better pay, better benefits, all made necessary by the mounting bills and loss of her banker's income. Change—Boldt's nemesis. Homicide was home; this woman was home. Home was changing.

“Disabling the lavatory smoke alarm can get you thrown off the flight, you know?” Roberta had been an Alaska Airlines flight attendant for eleven years.

Boldt put the finishing touches on his effort and climbed down.

Liz grinned widely—a moment Boldt lived for. She put the joint between her lips, saying, “Times like this I miss the Jefferson Airplane.” Boldt lit it for her and sat between the two beds passing the joint back and forth between the two women. Roberta smoked greedily and coughed loudly, bellowing smoke into the room, worrying Boldt that he too might get high.

“I don't know why we ever gave this up,” Liz said, her eyes bloodshot, a wry smile forming. “God, I feel good.”

“We had children,” Roberta answered, and both women laughed hysterically, although Boldt missed the humor.

“Music,” Liz requested, snuffing out the roach and eating it. She chased it with a glass of water and smacked her lips. “Some good old rock and roll.”

Boldt tuned in a local TV channel that used an oldies FM station as its background music. Creedence Clearwater. Liz asked for more volume.

“Not until all the smoke is out,” Boldt answered.

“Use the flower spray in the bathroom,” Roberta suggested, cranking up the volume from her remote.

Boldt sprayed the room with an aerosol labeled Fields of Dreams. It smelled chemical, not floral. He removed the plastic bag as the two women began to sing along with John Fogerty, their transformation nothing short of miraculous.

“Pizza!” Liz hollered over the music.

“Pizza!” Roberta echoed, followed by a roar of laughter.

Boldt felt gratified by their request. He'd succeeded. He told Liz that he would head off for the pizza if she would prep herself for the kids.

“You mean the wig?” the bald woman asked. “I'm already wigged out.” Both women erupted yet again. “Okay, okay, okay,” his wife added, seeing the frustration on her husband's face. “I'm all eyebrows and hair. You get the pizza!”

Boldt drove into the heart of the U-District to Angelo's and bought a medium sausage and mushroom, a milk and a Pepsi. Pot smoking and pizza purchases—he felt transported back to college.

His concept of time had evolved from an internal clock predictable to within a matter of minutes, to where days now stretched on endlessly, driven by a doctor's prediction of a shortened life span and a husband's prayers for miracles.

He returned to the C ward to find Liz and Roberta in hysterics. Liz had drawn a pair of “wire rim” glasses around her eyes with eyebrow pencil, as well as a Marilyn Monroe birthmark mole on her cheek. Boldt made no comment; he simply served them the pizza. While Liz ate, her husband erased her spectacles with a face cloth and made an attempt at adding eyebrows to the hairless skin. Liz was well into her third slice by the time he offered her a hand mirror.

Chewing, she nodded approval.

He then placed her wig on in reverse, which caused Roberta to spit out some pizza in laughter.

“How much time?” Liz asked, sobering slightly, realizing that the arrival of her children was imminent.

“Ten minutes,” he answered.

“Well, I'll say one thing: At least the pot allows me to smile. I want my kids to see me smiling.”

Roberta struggled with her own hairpiece. Boldt offered to help, but she declined. “I've seen your work,” she teased.

Liz hooked a finger into her husband's belt and pulled him in for a kiss.

A knock sounded. Boldt expected the pizza aroma to cover any evidence of the pot—ever the policeman.

He rose and answered it, thinking that nurses and doctors rarely knocked.

John LaMoia stood an inch over six feet, with sunken cheeks and a full mustache. He dressed like someone in a Calvin Klein ad.

LaMoia said, “Your pager and cell phone must be off.”

“I'm on private time here,” Boldt reminded. LaMoia had been on his Homicide squad for the last seven years; he had taken the sergeant's post Boldt had vacated. “Intelligence doesn't do on-call.”

“John?” Liz called out.

LaMoia stepped in and said hello to both women by name, the room no stranger to him. He and Liz Boldt were gin rummy opponents.

“We got the call,” LaMoia said, meeting Boldt's eyes seriously. “I tried calling you.”

Judging by LaMoia's tone of voice, Boldt knew which call he meant. Boldt reminded, “I don't handle fieldwork.” The words stung him. He missed it badly; LaMoia had come to exploit that.

“As a favor then,” LaMoia suggested, appealing to Liz to help with Lou. She was the one in the hospital, but it was her husband who had lost forty pounds and the glint in his eye. The desk job was killing him.

“Go on, love—humor him,” Liz encouraged. “What kind of case is it, John?”

LaMoia started to mumble but did not answer. No wife and mother would want her husband, the father of her children, on such a case.

“Wait for me downstairs,” Boldt told his former detective. “I'll wait with you until Marina and the kids arrive,” he told his wife after LaMoia had left.

“No need.” All humor had left the room. “Go,” she said. But Boldt stayed.

Five minutes passed in relative silence before Liz sat up sharply and Boldt recognized the sound of his son's voice approaching.

“You all set?” Boldt asked.

She nodded faintly, squeezed her husband's arm and mouthed the words, “I love you.”

Boldt leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Likewise,” he whispered.

Her cheek felt inhumanly cold.

John LaMoia double-parked his red 1974 Camaro in front of 2351 51st North and set its wide taillights flashing amid a veritable light show of emergency vehicles. He sat behind the wheel for a moment gathering his strength. Any apparent kidnapping automatically evolved into an enormous investigation, requiring tact and diligence on the part of the lead investigator, and he'd been named lead. Tact was not necessarily LaMoia's long suit, and he knew it. His fellow officers called him Floorshow, what with his creased blue jeans, steel gray ostrich boots and rock star hair. Because of the Big-A attitude. LaMoia knew he wore an attitude, but to hell with it: He was good at what he did. People talked about talking the talk, but John LaMoia talked it. He'd been the same cocky son-of-a-bitch since junior high; he wasn't about to change now.

Boldt's beat-up department-issue Chevy slipped in behind him and parked.

This particular kidnapping—of a white infant—would stir not only the city's conscience but, quite likely, the nation's. Before even stepping out of the car at the crime scene, LaMoia already had a few suspicions about how it had happened, but for the moment he pushed them away. Not for anyone, including his ambitious Crimes Against Persons captain Sheila Hill, would LaMoia guess at a crime's solution before he could gather the necessary evidence, witnesses and facts.