The Pied Piper (63 page)

He released the agent at the count of fifteen and Hale grabbed for support, latching onto the phone box. Without looking behind him, LaMoia warned Boldt, “Clear!” swinging his left arm out like a gate and stopping Boldt. He delivered the stun stick again, this time finding the man's skin through his clothes. The pulse of high voltage caused the phone to ring despite the receiver being off-hook—one long peal of bells echoing into the terminal. Hale stiffened with the initial jolt, tight as steel. LaMoia pulled back the stick, and he and Boldt caught the man as he sagged.

“You certainly have a knack for timing,” LaMoia told Boldt, who, looking around, replied calmly, “His wallet.” LaMoia slipped the billfold out of Hale's rear pocket and into his own.

Boldt found the man's FBI ID wallet, opened it and then kept it in his left hand.

LaMoia asked, “What now?”

“Security,” Boldt said.

“You fucking nuts?”

“By now they're already on their way,” Boldt advised him.

“Cameras,” LaMoia realized aloud.

“Exactly.”

“But—”

“For once, let me do the talking. And stay with the game, damn it all.”

“Me?”

“Here they come,” he said, indicating two men in gray pants and blue blazers.

Boldt held Hale's ID wallet open from a distance, his thumb conveniently curled around the wallet and covering Hale's photo. He knew the psychology of rent-a-cops: overly self-important but with an urge to play with the big boys. Daphne would have played to that urge, and so Boldt did. “FBI!” He snapped the wallet shut with a flip of his wrist and stuffed it into his inside breast pocket alongside his SPD ID. “This bozo's involved in a kidnapping. Been posing as one of us,” he said in a low voice, because the sagging Hale was already drawing the attention of the curious like moths to a light. “No ID on him, but he's carrying.” Boldt slipped the man's sport coat open just enough to reveal the holstered semiautomatic. “Take that for me, would you?” Daphne would have fed their egos by giving them responsibility immediately, making certain they felt included.

“Son of a bitch,” the one who looked like a surfer gasped. He stepped forward and slipped the weapon out of the shoulder holster.

“You mind cuffing him and giving him a hand?” Boldt said. “We're gonna need a little privacy here.”

LaMoia asked, “You got four walls and a door?”

The two glanced at each other. “Conference room?” Surfer asked. “It isn't very big,” he apologized. “It's upstairs.”

Boldt said, “Where this guy's going, the rooms are a hell of a lot smaller, I guarantee you that.”

The two security guards cuffed Hale and took him under both arms. The man was not unconscious, but severely dazed and incapable of walking or speaking.

He tried to get words out, but gibberish and a trickle of drool took their place. His feet dragged heavily. Boldt and LaMoia followed the two security guards to an elevator and up one floor.

Hale was assisted down the long hallway to an unmarked door that Surfer's assistant keyed open. “This okay, sir?” he asked Boldt.

“Do just fine.” Hale was deposited into a chair. Boldt eyed both men. “Now listen,” he said. “News like this travels fast, and that's exactly what we don't need. A little girl's life is at stake here. You understand that? A human life,” he said, choking on the expression. “It's imperative that we do this quick and dirty. After that, we turn him over to you. Your story is this: You saw the piece, you asked for ID, he didn't have any. You took him in.”

LaMoia said, “He'll blow smoke up your skirt about being a Fed. That's his cover.”

Boldt added, “This girl has a chance if you lose him for a day or so until he gets his phone call. Someplace no one can find him, you know? That way, no news leaks, no inside information, and this little girl has a fighting chance. If this guy surfaces within the system—”

Surfer said, “We got a drunk and disorderly tank right here on airport. It's run by NOPD, but we know all those boys.”

“Thanks,” LaMoia said.

The two men insisted on shaking hands all around, as if the four of them had just won a touch football game. They left the room and pulled the door shut securely. LaMoia locked it. Looking at Hale, Boldt said, “Time to have a little chat.”

Hale's level of awareness and responsiveness reminded Boldt of a man with a bad hangover. “Jesus!” the man choked out, coughing. His eyes floated in his head like an ice cube in a glass of milk. Discovering his hands cuffed, he struggled briefly to get free, then peered out like a man half blinded.

“It's Boldt and LaMoia,” Boldt informed him.

“Shit.”

LaMoia patted him on the shoulder from behind, leaned in close to his ear and said, “Welcome to New Orleans.”

“What the hell?” He struggled again and protested, “Do you realize what you're getting yourself into here? You want to think about this a minute?”

“We have thought about it,” Boldt said frankly. “We've wondered what a federal agent would be doing down here solo.”

“The field office doesn't even know you're here,” LaMoia said. “Are you aware of that? Is that standard operating procedure, Hale?”

“You're outta your minds.”

LaMoia told him, “You've been watching Chevalier.”

“You ought to think about what you're doing.” He struggled with the cuffs.

“You were on the phone just now. With whom? Flemming or the Pied Piper?”

“Is
that
what you think?”

LaMoia leaned in from behind and whispered hotly, “Don't jack us around.”

“You are interfering with a federal investigation,” Hale warned. “Undo the cuffs. I'm outta here. All is forgotten.”

“I don't think so,” LaMoia said.

Boldt asked, “Why would a federal agent not check in with his local field office?”

“You are interfering with a federal investigation,” Hale repeated, this time more calmly.

“Tommy Thompson tells you about the tattoo,” Boldt told him, winning a look of surprise. “You do a little quick footwork. If we've got the tattoo, then maybe we can run down your boy. The tattoo leads to New Orleans—of course, you already know that.”

“So you get your ass down here,” LaMoia filled in, “to see if anyone can follow the tattoo anywhere. Damage assessment. You decide it doesn't look so bad, but it's bad enough that someone—”

“You've got this way wrong,” Hale bleated. “Don't screw this up, Goddamn it!”

“Enlighten us,” Boldt repeated.

Hale wrestled with the handcuffs again, working himself into a frenzy. LaMoia and Boldt simply stood back and waited.

“Time's a wasting,” LaMoia said, when the man calmed. He and Boldt moved toward the door.

Boldt said, “Enjoy New Orleans.”

LaMoia added, “What little you'll see of it.”

“Okay, okay!” The man shouted in disgust. “I came aboard in Portland.”

“We know that,” Boldt told him.

“Yeah? Well did you know that I was working the Vegas field office? The AFIDs at the crime scenes identified TASER cartridges that were purchased by a valid credit card. The purchase was made in Vegas, so indirectly I had an active involvement with the investigation from the very start. Flemming and I were in nearly constant contact. The credit card led nowhere. We tore the residence of the cardholder to pieces—lived in Kansas. Nothing. But there were no other fraudulent charges on the card. None. So why's somebody bother to steal a credit card and only charge one item? Right? So we work this cardholder into the ground: known associates, business relationships, family. We had an army looking into him. And it's my lead on account of the Vegas connection to start with, and because Flemming asks me to take it for him. Then the Pied Piper moves his act to LA out of the blue, and I get a call from the Hoover Building telling me—ordering me—to maintain contact with Flemming. His girlfriend has vanished. There are some inappropriate deposits in his account.”

“Flemming?” Boldt barked.

“That's what I'm saying. Same reaction I had. Gary Flemming? You gotta be kidding me! But an order's an order.”

“Flemming?” Boldt repeated.

“By San Francisco, things are going really bad with the case. And when they suddenly look a little better, Flemming fires the whole team, claiming incompetence. Maybe he asks for me, maybe the Hoover Building helped the decision, but suddenly I'm on the team. I get to see things firsthand. Evidence that goes east to the lab and seems never to come back. Little stuff, but important. He's not returning some calls. He's not paying attention to certain witnesses, certain evidence. The local cops in Portland do some good police work. I pass it along. Suddenly the Pied Piper's on the run again. Then you guys, even better police work I might add. The holes are a little more apparent. And then Andy Anderson. Flemming is fixated on Anderson, can't let it go. Has the place under surveillance. Has us pulling evidence without warrants—messing up everything—and I'm getting nervous.”

“You're reporting back to Washington this whole time?”

“I'm supposed to be. But Gary Flemming? Am I going to sink a career like that based on a bunch of nothing? It's all little stuff. A lot of it doesn't add up. Mostly because I get this feeling—it's a
feeling
, right?—that Flemming wants this asshole more than me, more than anybody.”

“I've felt that too,” LaMoia confessed.

“Right? And then this tattoo you guys surfaced—and come to find out the task force knows squat about some tattoo, and now I'm really scratching my head. I gotta get down here and see for myself.”

“The phone?” Boldt asked. “Just now? You got through?”

He nodded. “To Hill. You know Captain Hill,” he told LaMoia, “better than the rest of us.”

LaMoia bristled.

“Flemming knew you were dicking her. Had me follow you more than once. Nice hotels.”

Boldt called out sharply to LaMoia, preventing him from delivering the blow he intended.

“He's been saving it as his ace. Push comes to shove, the task force is his. All his. And he would'a played that ace, believe me. Was all set to. Only now you've gone and gotten yourself suspended, and that messed up everything. He doesn't have the leverage he might have had.”

LaMoia's face flamed red.

“Hill?” Boldt asked.

“Gave her the flight number. Described the suspect.” He said, “There's a nonstop from DFW to Seattle, arrives early tonight.”

“Hill?” Boldt asked.

“Better than giving the suspect over to Flemming,” Hale complained. “He'd screw up the surveillance. He'd do it intentionally.”

“He'll find out,” Boldt said. “Once Hill deploys Special Ops—Mulwright and that mouth of his—everyone in law enforcement in that town will know.”

Boldt said, “If it checks out, we'll call down and free you. As it is, we've got to know before we risk the Kittridge girl. Maybe you understand that, maybe you don't.”

“Get back here!” Dunkin Hale demanded loudly.

LaMoia pulled the door shut with a thud. The two security guards stood sentry.

“Nothing rough,” Boldt demanded. “Just give us overnight.”

“We got you covered.” Surfer added, “Pleased to help out.”

Lisa Crowley was about to get caught in a squeeze play between SPD and FBI surveillance. Sarah required that Boldt prevent that from happening, even to the point that he come to Lisa Crowley's rescue. Crowley remained his only chance of locating his daughter.

Big & Easy Charter wanted seven thousand dollars to charter a private jet to Seattle. Boldt split it between three credit cards, maxing out two of them.

Daphne and Trudy Kittridge headed to Houston and on to Seattle as planned, scheduled for a late-night arrival.