The Pied Piper (20 page)

“Where have you been?” LaMoia asked, interrupting. “Why don't we all just get out of Mr. Weinstein's way for a minute and let him have some air.”

For Weinstein, there was no one else in the room but LaMoia. Daphne marveled at the detective's ability to win control in interrogations. Nothing he did was orthodox. He violated every rule of questioning but one: He gained the subject's attention. “You people wouldn't help,” Weinstein complained. “I called. Told you someone was watching us.

“So I asked this friend if he knew someone who could help me. Not too expensive. He gives me Anderson's name, says he caught this guy's wife with a neighbor. Said Anderson had gotten photos for him. You guys didn't believe me, so I'd find out for myself.” He stabbed a finger toward LaMoia. “So I hire Anderson to check it out. Am I being watched or not?”

“Had you heard about the kidnapped child at this point?” Flemming asked.

“Shotz?” Weinstein asked. “This was
way
before that,” he stated firmly. “LA, San Francisco and Portland. That was enough for me.”

Daphne spoke up. “You sensed you were being watched by someone
before
the Shotz abduction.” It supported her belief that the Pied Piper did his legwork in advance, reducing his profile once the kidnappings began.

“That's what I'm telling you.”

Flemming said bluntly, “You hired Anderson in case it was the Pied Piper watching you.”

Silence fell. Weinstein whined, “You put it like that … I guess that's right.” He hung his head. “It wasn't exactly how I was thinking about it. No,” he corrected. “Anderson said it was probably a thief. That made sense: Burglars stake out houses all the time. So we put some stuff in the safe deposit.” His eyes clouded and Daphne knew he was thinking about his missing son. He cleared his eyes and said, “Hell, you know
anyone
in Seattle hasn't had their car stolen, or their house broken into? Anderson said catching these guys isn't so easy. They make you. They take off, stake out someplace else. I offered two hundred on the back side. That sealed the deal.”

Too much television, Daphne thought. Every John Doe a cop.

Weinstein didn't strike Daphne as a target for a second-story man. Car theft maybe. She wondered if Anderson had simply strung the man along for the down payment.

“You called Anderson to check in. To see how he was doing,” LaMoia stated.

Flemming glared at LaMoia, unhappy with the leading statements. Unorthodox.

“Protect my investment. Of course I did,” Weinstein answered.

“And what did he tell you?”

“First time said he didn't have anything. So call back. Next time, a day or two later—”

“Two,” LaMoia refreshed him.

“Said maybe some progress. He renegotiated. Said he could get pictures, but that expenses had gone up. Cleared it with me, I guess you could say. Expenses plus another fifty.”

“And so you continued your arrangement,” Daphne stated.

“Sure I did. He all but confirmed someone was watching the house. Actually all he said was that he was working on it. I didn't like him stretching me out for more money. That bothered me. Plus, a couple times he tried to sell me a home security system, an alarm system.” He hesitated and asked, “Do you guys use them? At home, I mean?”

“Did you?” Flemming asked. “Buy one?”

“No. I'm not sure why. I just didn't feel like it, I guess. I will now. Hayes kidnapped. Anderson murdered.”

“Anderson's death has been ruled an accident,” Flemming corrected.

LaMoia and Daphne exchanged glances but neither challenged Flemming.

The attorney barked, “An accident or a homicide?”

Weinstein interrupted, “Listen, if you people had responded to my calls I wouldn't have hired him in the first place. Don't dump this on me. Is that what this is about?” He sounded a little hysterical. His attorney placed his hand on the man's arm to settle him, but Weinstein shook it off. “You guys got the pictures, didn't you.” It was a statement. “You just don't know who's in them and you want me to tell you. But I didn't see them either.”

There had been no mention of a camera in Anderson's property inventory.

“He had pictures for you?” Flemming asked.

LaMoia reminded, “You said he
renegotiated
to include photographs.”

“That's right. I agreed to the fifty.”

Flemming said heatedly, “Did he notify you about having these pictures?”

“No, he didn't,” Weinstein answered. “Never. Listen! Screw the photos! What about my boy?”

Flemming ignored him, arguing to the group, “He would have wanted payment for any such photographs. I think it's fairly safe to say he did
not
have any such photographs.”

Daphne said, “Everything we're doing is in an attempt to get Hayes back as quickly as possible.”

LaMoia made notes. “What do you think about the photos?” he asked Weinstein.

“I think he had shot some and was going back for more.”

“And why is that?” Daphne inquired.

The attorney leaned over and whispered into his client's ear. Weinstein shook his head. “No,” he answered audibly, and then to the others, “I never saw any photographs. I was never expressly told they existed.”

Daphne pressed, “But you believed they did exist. Why?”

Weinstein turned slightly to face her. He wore a boyish, surprised expression. “He said he had something going for him. I don't remember the exact words.” Weinstein anticipated her next question and said, “This came
after
the call about the extra fifty bucks. See?” Then a spark filled his eyes and he said matter-of-factly, “You know what it was? He said that he'd get his money when he delivered Mr. Stranger Danger. That's what it was.”

Daphne felt a spike of heat from head to toe. To police, “Mr. Stranger Danger” referred to child abductors. The association with the Pied Piper seemed unmistakable. Pencils went to paper. Anderson had identified a suspect he believed a kidnapper of children.

If Weinstein had it right, it was the Pied Piper.

When Weinstein and his attorney had left, LaMoia offered for Flemming's agents to join in a second search of Anderson's duplex. In a surprise move, Flemming politely refused, implying he was happy to have SPD run his errands for him so long as any evidence discovered was shared. Flemming and Kalidja left together, leaving LaMoia and Daphne alone.

“So?” LaMoia inquired.

She said confidently, “Weinstein was nervous at first. Intimidated. But he loosened up. He's bankable. His respiration stayed regular. No noticeable perspiration, squinting, twitching. Not even much chair adjustment. He remained alert, focused—and we were throwing a lot at him.”

“Had Caldwell prepped him?”

“It's a possibility. That would account for some of it.”

“So we buy his statement?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“What?” LaMoia asked, aware that something was bothering her.

She pursed her lips. “It's not Weinstein, it's Flemming. He remained pretty quiet until mention of the photography. At that point he became much more animated.”

She asked, “Why did he pass on your offer to search Anderson's place for the camera?”

“That stunned me, I gotta admit.”

“And what about his attempt to convince us that the photos didn't exist?”

LaMoia hung his head in thought. He said, “It makes sense if they've already worked the Anderson crime scene.” He mumbled, “Fucking-A!”

Pouring ice into his veins, Daphne asked, “What if they already have Anderson's photos?”

The Box, a small, rectangular interrogation room with gray walls, white vinyl floor tile and an acoustical ceiling, was hot. It held a single war-torn table, the metal legs of which were bolted to the floor, and, on that day, five gunmetal gray straight-backed chairs with padded seat cushions that
whooshed
when sat upon.

A woman officer by the name of Marsh accompanied Boldt and Daphne. Somehow McNee had identified the vacant house used for the drug lab; the Pied Piper had identified this same house, and that methodology was now critical to the investigation.

As a Narcotics detective, Marsh had the collar, but she granted Boldt this chance to work the suspect since the meth lab raid had been his idea. A previous interrogation already complete, Marsh was content merely to be present. She looked and dressed like an art student returned from Europe. She sat at the head of the table and remained silent. Boldt's plan was a simple one: Hit the man with everything they had.

On paper, Jeffry McNee was not someone Daphne had expected to find cooking at a meth lab: white, mid-twenties, with a degree in chemistry. Daphne had coached Boldt that McNee would likely test them to measure his opponents. He would sort them out, identify the weak player and work only with this person. She advised Boldt that if he wanted to lead, he should play dumb.

McNee being assigned a public defender surprised Boldt. It implied he hadn't the money or contacts to hire a lawyer specializing in drug defense. That fact suggested a rogue, freelance operation and offered Boldt some leverage. He might fear returning to the street more than going to jail. Drug turf was violently defended.

McNee had a boyish face with alert green eyes. With his black hair and ruddy complexion he belonged either in a Scottish kilt or selling junk bonds on Wall Street. The orange jumpsuit marked KING CO JAIL on the back did him an injustice. His attorney was a hundred and seventy pounds of Hawaiian mama, with enough mascara and lizard green eye shadow to qualify for stage work. She chewed gum vigorously and wore smudged eyeglasses. Her tent dress hung from her enormous breasts like a waterfall of lime green in a loud print. Her voice was a deep baritone, her teeth fake.

“My client wants to know what's in this for him,” she said, from a chair all but swallowed by its gelatinous occupant.

“We're part of a homicide investigation,” Daphne said, playing the role of the intelligent one. To the suspect she said, “A man who may have had your drug lab under surveillance was found murdered. Anyone in your position would take a dim view of such surveillance—”

“Give me a break!” the Muumuu sputtered like a big truck attempting to start.

“A conviction for which will earn you life,” Daphne addressed McNee. “Not ten years. Not sixteen. Not with the current administration. Life without parole.” McNee didn't seem the least bit ruffled. As she had expected. The stage was set for Boldt to do some damage.

“You sure about that?” Boldt asked Daphne, wearing a gumshoe expression of fatigue. “Can't we plea him down if we want to?”

“Trust me on this,” Daphne said while simultaneously measuring the Muumuu for her take on Boldt. He had a reputation. If she knew of him, their ruse was unlikely to work. But she was unfamiliar to them both, most likely a newcomer to the public defender's rotation.

“You'll pardon me for interrupting,” the suspect said calmly, “but do I detect a presumption of guilt or innocence?”