The Pied Piper (55 page)

“A nine-one-one scam,” he reminded urgently, clumsily threading the cumbersome roll of film into the antiquated machine. He threaded it upside down on his first effort; reversed, his second try.

“Yes, I caught that,” Daphne said calmly, trying to contain him. She threaded her machine correctly the first time and was reading text before Boldt.

“As in Millie Wiggins' day care center,” Boldt said, still fumbling.

“Yes.”

“It's
them
,” Boldt emphasized.

“It suggests a strong possibility, doesn't it?”

He glanced at her incredulously, as he failed with the machine for the third time. “Goddamn it!” he hollered too loudly, his fingers refusing to cooperate.

“Here.” She leaned across him, corrected his mistake and restored the machine.

Boldt sped ahead to the article written five years earlier as Daphne returned to her station. “It was page three,” he said, prior to actually locating the article. “You've got to think that means it was pretty big news at the time.”

“Shh,” Daphne chided. “I'm on to something here.” But a moment later, as Boldt went silent, she couldn't resist. She slid her fiberglass chair up against Boldt's and looked on.

“Two hundred and eighty thousand,” she read. “It was run on the elderly.”

Boldt heard her but did not acknowledge. He read slowly and intently. He wanted every last detail committed to memory.

Three subsequent articles proved Chevalier wrong. The case did go to trial, a jury trial, resulting in what to Boldt's eye was a ninthinning plea bargain down to intent to defraud that cut short the trial and lessened the sentences to seven years each, restoration of the victims' assets and fines of ten thousand dollars each. Translated, it meant release in two to three years, restoration at thirty cents on the dollar, and two, twenty-five-hundred-dollar fines. It was the Crowleys' first conviction after eleven years and twenty-seven separate arrests in five states. There was nothing in the articles to connect the couple to any kidnapping, child abduction, child abuse or extortion.

Daphne made the connection ten minutes later. “Middle of last year, the Crowleys sued the state of Louisiana for blocking an
adoption
they had planned.”

Boldt shot her a look of astonishment. He said, “Convicted felons aren't allowed to adopt,” well aware of the federal law.

Daphne continued, “The Crowleys took possession of an infant girl born in Arkansas. They might have pulled it off, except the biological mother was an unwed fourteen-year-old, a minor, and her parents contested the adoption. Vincent Chevalier both arranged the adoption and represented the Crowleys in their lawsuit and their appeal.”

“Lost both,” Boldt guessed.

“Yes.”

“Motive enough for this spree,” Boldt suggested.

“A couple denied parenthood?” she said. “Worse than the wrath of a woman scorned.”

“Confirm with Broole that Roger Crowley has an eagle tattooed on his left forearm. Then convince him that Crowley's at large. We need a warrant to trap-and-trace telephone calls inside Chevalier's office, from his cellular, and from pay phones in and around the surrounding neighborhood. Whatever you do, don't mention the Pied Piper investigation.”

Keeping up with Boldt's hurried strides, Daphne said, “Is there some water you want me to walk on in the meantime?”

“Just try.”

“I will.”

“What happens to them after the adoption is blocked?” he asked.

“Denied the adoption, they decided to pursue other means of obtaining a child. But not for themselves anymore. For others.”

“Forget about it,” he said.

“The penny flutes. They wanted the abductions connected. They're making a statement. It's the Robin Hood Syndrome. They see themselves as saviors. In their minds, their actions are perfectly justified. They know what it's like to be denied parenthood.”

“Stop,” he said harshly. “I don't want to hear this.”

“You need to,” she protested. “These are the people who have your daughter.”

Detective Broole returned to his desk carrying a swagger reminiscent of LaMoia and a thick manila folder that Daphne assumed belonged to Roger or Lisa Crowley. The detectives division suffered under the noisy strain of wall-mounted air conditioners unable to condition and the languid efforts of paddle fans that recycled the same stale air.

“You really know how to pick 'em, su-gar.” Broole slapped the file down in front of her and then lit up a cigarette within yards of the sign forbidding the activity. His clichéd coif was gelled into a ducktail. “We've had this loser in cuffs more times than his tailor. How'd you find him?”

“Library.”

“Ah yes, that font of public knowledge,” he said sarcastically.

“But it didn't say anything about tattoos,” she said, reminding him of her earlier criteria.

“Yeah? Well this does. Have a look,” he said, leaning over from behind and opening the folder in front of her, using the effort to be physically close to her. Attached to the folder's inside flap was a series of a half dozen mug shots. Below these were two other photographs, both of tattoos: an eagle on the man's left forearm; a snake running down his leg to the right of his genitals that had been blacked out with marker. Her heart skipped a beat—they had a physical marking that could be offered as hard evidence—Roger Crowley was the Pied Piper.

Crowley's various mug shots revealed a man skilled at cosmetics. Light hair, dark hair. Short hair, long. Acned skin, baby face. Warts, scars and wounds. Bright eyes, dull eyes; round eyes, almond. Crowley was all of these people and yet none of them, she realized. The real man behind the crimes lay buried somewhere back on Crowley's personal time line. Daphne Matthews wanted a shot at that person—the one who remained hidden. She wanted into his mind, inside where others had not been.

As she sought an invention to convince Broole to wiretap Chavalier's phone lines, Broole revealed his own agenda. “Is this the Pied Piper?” he asked, still leaning over her, his sour cigarette breath warm on her neck. “And before you hand me some discontinued merchandise and try to sell me on the life of its warranty, I beg you to consider the truth carefully because maybe, just maybe, su-gar, I possess something of even greater value to you.” He placed his left hand onto her shoulder and his long fingers dangled down her chest as he sucked on the cigarette from his right. A cold shiver pulsed through her. He quizzed her. “Now, I don't want to speak it, su-gar, not aloud that is, but thunderstorms produce not only rain and lightning but another meteorological element.”

“Wind? Tornadoes?”

“Not aloud. Aloud is not allowed,” he said, amusing himself. He touched a finger to her lips. She was suddenly very much afraid of him. “But no, not wind, not tornadoes.” He took his finger away. “It is a hybrid of snow and rain, su-gar, this particular meteorological element—kind of rain and ice rolled into one. It is also something you might associate with a particular federal agency involved in law enforcement. It will benefit us both greatly if you do not speak his
name
aloud, for that will alter my own position greatly and put me in a difficult position where I am forced to take sides. And I don't believe it would be revealing any secrets to tell you I would much prefer to be on your side.”

“Frozen rain,” she said, repeating what he had said.

“
Precisement
!”

Hail, she thought. Hale. Special Agent. “I'm with you,” she said.

“Which is more than any man could ever ask,” he said, maintaining the intimacy and stroking her collarbone. “Let me repeat,” he said, sparing no contact. “Is this the one you all are calling the Pied Piper?”

“He's a suspect,” she conceded, wondering how much to give, how much to keep.

“And the connection to New Orleans, other than his past?”

“His past is what brought us here,” she told him. It was not an outright lie; the use of the 911 con had in part led them to Crowley.

“The connection, su-gar? Don't play with me.” He sucked on the cigarette. Some ash brushed her arm as it tumbled to the floor.

“An attorney named Chevalier. We need a wiretap. We need to stay a step ahead of our federal friends.”

“Is the collar so all-important?”

“You like the Feds, you work with them,” she offered. “We need his office, his cell phone, and any pay phones for several blocks. My job is to win your cooperation.”

His fingers danced lower on her chest. “And what is it exactly that I get in return? Hmm? From you, I mean? What would such a favor be worth? I'll need a warrant, su-gar. I'll need a real good lie to convince a judge to give me one. What would all that be worth, do you think?”

“The lives of two little girls,” she answered bluntly. “If the Feds beat us to the suspect, we lose at least one of the girls.”

“And I'm all tears, you understand,” Broole said, “but it's that night sky I'm thinking about. Some good company.”

“We could try for the attorney's phone records without you,” she said, “but we're a little out of our jurisdiction.”

“Maybe you aren't listening.”

“Dinner tonight?” she said, weighing Sarah in the balance.

Broole picked up the phone and made two calls, Daphne listening in. He found his way to a woman named Emily who was either a past girlfriend or a blood relation. There was a brief discussion. When he hung up from the second call he said, “Phone records for office phone, home phone, fax line and cellular. They'll be through on the fax in a matter of minutes.”

“I shouldn't have told you what I did,” she admitted, having had time to reconsider.

“Look at it this way, su-gar. If you hadn't, our meteorological friend would have been a step aheada you.”

“He has already IDed Crowley?” she gasped.

“He looked through our photo albums. He had a list of the state's former guests with him. What he made of it all, he didn't say, but he did not leave here in a jovial mood. Even so, I wouldn't count a man like that out, if I was you. He seems bound and determined to make the most of his resources.”

“We're not counting him out, no,” she said. The fax of Chevalier's phone records arrived only minutes later.