The Pied Piper (21 page)

“Assumption of innocence,” Daphne told him, “is a luxury afforded by those across the street.” Her superior air helped McNee to quickly identify her as the enemy. Boldt was not yet so clearly defined.

The man addressed Boldt, “My pals and I were doing a little chemistry experiment. What's the big deal?”

“A man is dead,” Daphne replied. “You have plenty of motive to want him that way. We can connect him to investigating a person or persons at the address of your lab. We will have documentation of that shortly. You would be well advised to play ball. Your attorney's shaking her head, telling you not to talk, but we can offer you a plea position on the dope charge.”

“This is entirely inappropriate,” Muumuu said. To her client she explained, “They can't offer this.”

Daphne said, “No one can make any promises. But one thing is for sure, you go up for this, in the state of Washington, and you're gone for good. The key is tossed out. Ask her,” she said, indicating the dress and the chewing gum.

“What do you want?” McNee asked Boldt. “What is it you want?”

“Don't do this,” the attorney advised halfheartedly.

“What we want are a couple very simple answers,” Boldt explained calmly. “What we have to offer is protection.”

“Oh! This is bullshit!” the Muumuu complained. “Do
not
listen to them. They have no authority to plea you, and they cannot, will not, offer any reliable protection. Forget it,” she told Boldt.

Ignoring her, Boldt informed McNee, “You take the dive and you end up in our big house. Everyone who's anyone in drugs has their people there. It isn't me that's been pinching Tommy Chen's turf. What do you suppose your life expectancy is?”

Daphne supplied the important piece of the puzzle. “A federal conviction would move you out of state.”

“Safer,” Boldt said. They had won McNee's interest.

“Don't threaten, people,” Muumuu warned them. “And don't make promises you can't keep.” But now even she seemed interested.

The suspect, who had acquired a sheen on his brow, looked silently between the two police officers.

Daphne said, “We'll put in a recommendation that the Feds take your case.”

“How much do you know about Tommy Chen?” Boldt asked.

McNee did not answer.

“What about your parents?” Daphne inquired, thinking McNee too clean cut and too young. A degree in chemistry and nowhere to hide.

McNee went scarlet.

“Have you called them?” she drilled.

The suspect glared.

“The wire services have picked up the story,” she explained. “Do your parents watch CNN?”

“My parents are not part of this.”

“They could be, if you want them here,” Boldt said naively.

Daphne asked, “Do I start the tape now? Or do we move this same offer down the hall?”

“Go,” the suspect said.

“Under protest of counsel,” the Muumuu growled.

Boldt started the cassette recording. He recited the particulars: date, time, location and the names of those in attendance.

Daphne went first. McNee had been recruited out of graduate school by Asians offering three times the starting salaries of other biochemical firms. Two months into his work McNee had faced the reality he was supplying elements to cook street drugs. Six months later, he asked for more money, and was threatened. McNee ran to Seattle, set up a roaming meth lab and sold wholesale to a street gang he refused to name.

Boldt asked, “Run it by me again how you picked your safe houses? Did you know the owner or what? Someone next door? Down the street? I forget.”

“I didn't say,” the suspect answered.

The Muumuu fiddled with her watchband. It carried big lumps of turquoise fashioned as small turtles. “I don't see the relevancy,” she complained, impatient now.

“Humor me,” Boldt said to her. “I'm curious.”

Muumuu glanced at her client and nodded.

Boldt appeared casually disinterested. In fact, the task force needed to know if the exterminator had a system for identifying his surveillance points.

McNee's face revealed a man wanting to guard a secret.

Boldt pretended to read some notes. “Okay. So tell me this: Did you use a point man? Was that exterminator yours?”

“What are you talking about?”

Daphne answered, “How you IDed the vacant house.”

Boldt said, “A man was seen with a tank and a hose. An exterminator.”

McNee looked confused. Daphne wondered if he was a good actor or ignorant.

The attorney said, “This exterminator wouldn't happen to be your vic, would he?” To her client she said, “Don't answer this.” Her face flushed with anger and suspicion.

“Junk mail piling up by the door,” Daphne guessed.

“No,” McNee said.

“Don't answer this,” the Muumuu repeated, sitting as tall as possible, a difficult task.

Boldt said, “You know about the exterminator,” recalling his conversation with the snitch Raymond.

McNee looked nervously between Boldt and his attorney as Boldt said, “Tommy Chen's people would have killed some stranger creeping around his lab. Instead, we get a tip you guys have put the word out to ID the guy.”

“We knew about him. It's true,” McNee confirmed.

“The gang provided you protection. The shooters,” Boldt guessed.

Daphne said, “You weren't going to kill a cop or—”

“We didn't kill
anyone
.”

“You shot at us,” Boldt said. “You wounded officers.”

“
They
did.”

“Their side was protection,” Boldt repeated.

McNee nodded.

“That's enough!” the Muumuu protested.

“I don't see a street gang identifying vacant houses,” Daphne said.

“A guy I know is a realtor,” McNee allowed. “Is that what you wanted? Does that buy me the federal courts?”

Boldt glanced hotly at Daphne. He said to McNee, “A realtor.”

“He's always looking to skim off the cream. He has a notebook filled with vacant, unlisted houses.”

Daphne said, “We need a name.”

“No way.”

Muumuu said, “You've got too much already!”

“We need that name,” Boldt confirmed.

“They must all do it,” McNee said. “You show me the federal court and I'll give you a name.”

Boldt signaled Daphne; he was in a hurry.

“All we can do is make the request,” Daphne reminded.

“Make it,” Muumuu said.

Boldt stood to leave.

McNee said, “What's going on?”

Chewing her gum like a dog eating its dinner, the Muumuu said, “Looks like you just became an expert witness.”

LaMoia looked forward to another meeting with Sherry Daech but could not escape the pressure of passing time. Rhonda Shotz and Hayes Weinstein were out there somewhere, counting on him. Hayes had been missing for four days; Rhonda, going on two weeks. The chances of finding them alive seemed slim. He had eaten only sporadically in the past few days. What time he found for sleep was bridled with insomnia.

Boldt had told him about McNee's realtor friend who kept current on abandoned houses.

“The guy probably watches the obits,” Boldt had said.

“And who knows what else?”

“Find out.”

LaMoia intended to do just that.

Sherry Daech did not answer any of her numbers, but LaMoia found her Hummer parked outside the agency offices, a small white clapboard house in Wallingford. The building was locked though some lights were on. He rang the doorbell and was greeted through the glass by a man in his youthful fifties, graying hair and blue eyes. LaMoia showed his shield through the glass and was admitted.

The building's interior felt more corporate than quaint. He entered her upstairs office with his usual swagger. However practiced and forced in junior high school, it had long since become part of his muscles and ligaments, and therefore a part of him. It telegraphed an overconfidence and conceit that his co-workers accepted and that strangers found outlandish. LaMoia was a modern-day carpetbagger; he took what he wanted. What he wanted from Sherry Daech was information. He needed a list from her; he would not leave until he had it.

Busy with paperwork, she did not look up immediately.

“Working late,” he said, greeted then by an authentic smile.

She motioned to the stacks around her. “If you do this during the day, there's no time to sell.”

“Your partner?” he asked motioning toward the hallway.

“Business partner,” she clarified. “One of them.” She drummed her painted nails on the desktop.

“A couple of questions,” he said.

“Oh, darn.” She flashed a smile and barked an eager laugh.

“I need some help.”

“I thought you'd never ask.” The eyelashes were dyed, but effective. They beat like little wings.

“We needed a realtor. I thought of you.”

“I love making that kind of impression on people.”

“I would imagine it's quite often.”

“Complete with a silver tongue. You must need this help pretty badly.”

“May I?” He motioned to the available chair. His legs were dog tired.

“I like you better when you're standing,” she said, looking eye level at his rodeo belt buckle, “but okay.”

He remained standing. “A realtor must track houses that are likely to come onto the market—try to get a jump on the competition and win the listing.”

“Listings are the golden ring. Sales are great, but I get a piece of the listing even if someone else sells it.”

“Ahead of time, I'm talking about.”

“Of course. You stay ahead or you fall behind.” She adjusted herself in the chair, enjoying his company, and said, “It's a rule that pertains to so many things in life.”

“And how do you do this?” he asked. “Other than reading the obits?”

“You're not thinking of getting your license, are you?” She added, “I hate competition.”

“Scout's honor.”

“You were never a scout. Too many rules for a man like you.”

“I wasn't a man then.”

“I think you had better sit. You're distracting me. Good. There. All right. How do I do it?” she asked, chewing on a wry smile. “Okay. Obits, of course. Sure. Divorce filings can be a gold mine. I get a lot of play out of the divorce market—the separation filings are registered downtown. Early bird gets the worm. Construction permits are a good source: couples often fix up the house before trying to sell, or they start work on a future home before committing to listing the existing one. Tricks.”

“Others?” LaMoia, for all his ability to think through crimes, had not come up with the divorce and construction angles.

“Oh, sure. I have lots of other tricks.” The same smile, but a little more forced.

He appreciated her ability, her desire, to toy with him, to flirt. He knew the game and enjoyed playing it. He trusted her because of this. She demanded another's confidence in herself that only the best salespeople, attorneys and cops possessed. She was family. “Such as?”

“Don't tease, Detective.”

“That is definitely the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Smaller clues? Other sources?” she inquired, knowing what he sought. “Let's see … property taxes in arrears—that can point you toward a vacancy, and it's a matter of public record.”

“Public records,” LaMoia mumbled, writing fast.

“They are the easiest. City water being shut off is the biggie. Private records don't hurt, if you have access: phone, utilities. If you know someone in the insurance industry, multipolicy car insurance lapsing or a change in property coverage can signal a death. It's a long list. Maybe we should discuss it over a drink.”