The Pied Piper (61 page)

Daphne jumped up, ran an open hand down her shift and headed straight for the car seat—the baby!—catching herself at the very last moment and thinking to introduce herself to the woman. The woman responded, “Susan Chambers.”

The woman who called herself Chambers passed the baby seat to Daphne, set down a baby bag slung over her shoulder and gingerly removed her sunglasses. Her left eye was badly blackened and considerably swollen.

She preempted any questions. “Slipped, standing up out of the tub.” She touched the scarf. “Pretty stupid, you ask me.”

“You've seen a doctor, I hope,” Boldt said, stepping closer, studying every line in her features, every bump, blemish and bone. He would never forget that face; he made sure of it.

“I'm fine.”

Boldt couldn't help himself. “A blow to the head like that can give you real trouble,” Boldt said. “Headaches?” With an eye like that she would be living on pain killers—aspirin at the very least.

Chevalier agreed with Boldt, nodding. He said pointedly, “
You should have it looked at
.” He added strongly, “Hear?”

The woman clearly didn't like the conversation aimed onto her. Maintaining her composure, looking down at the child, she asked them all, “She's beautiful, isn't she?”

Daphne repeated her introduction. She spoke in a breathy, slightly hysterical voice, slipping at once into baby talk as she dropped to one knee to greet the baby girl. Daphne's performance, the use of the altered voices, was essential because the social worker—in all likelihood, Lisa Crowley—had spent the most amount of time in phone conversations with Cindy Brehmer. With only the few calls made over a protracted period, it was doubtful Lisa Crowley would identify the voice as that of another woman, but Daphne was taking no chances. She focused her attention on the child and left the documentation, paperwork and chitchat to Boldt.

“May I?” Daphne said in a girlish voice, indicating the baby seat.

“Please,” Lisa Crowley answered, “and I'm here to answer any questions you or Mr. Brehmer may have about parenting the child.”

Boldt felt a sudden fit of rage unlike anything he had ever experienced. Triggered initially by simply the woman's presence—his daughter's kidnapper in the same room with him, for there was no mistaking Lisa Crowley—it struck to his core as she spoke so evenly, so controlled, so generously. She
was
a social worker, not a woman playing a role. Her professional calm and authority were an affront to his own professionalism and authority. He could picture her in a police uniform at the door to Millie Wiggins' day care. This woman had physically touched Sarah, had trained a video camera onto her while she screamed for her daddy. Boldt wanted desperately to hurt this woman.

“Sir?” she asked.

“Yes?” Boldt returned.

“I asked if you have any questions on the caring and feeding of the child.”

“No, I don't think so. We've been through the parenting classes as you know,” he said, pointing to the documents. The Brehmers had briefed them on the requirements they had fulfilled in order to take possession of the child. The nationally sanctioned parenting classes, offered by a Houston hospital, included a certification diploma that accompanied the Brehmer paperwork. After two kids of his own, Boldt could have given the parenting classes himself.

Something in him stirred, and Boldt couldn't avoid confronting her. He looked directly into her eyes and said, “Do you have children of your own, Ms. Chambers?”

All color drained from Lisa Crowley's face.

Daphne looked up sharply from the baby. “Bradley!” she chastised. “What possible business is that of ours? Please excuse my husband, Ms. Chambers. He can be impertinent and obnoxious in the most unexpected situations. And I assure you our little angel will learn nothing of the kind from her daddy. I nearly have him trained for the dinner table, after all, don't I, Bradley?”

“None,” Crowley whispered. Regaining herself quickly, she added, “Which is one reason this work is so rewarding, so fulfilling for me.” She met eyes with Boldt; for a moment he believed she might have seen through their ruse. Her subsequent smile, patronizing though it was, relieved him of this fear.

“Of course it is,” Daphne said, supporting him. “I'll bet you want to go home with every one of the children you and Mr. Chevalier place.”

“Mr. Chevalier places them, Mrs. Brehmer,” she corrected. “I merely oversee the transfer for the benefit of the children and the state. Though, yes, every child is precious and a wonder under God.”

Boldt felt a knot in his throat. He fought against it but broke into tears. They spilled down his cheeks.

“Well, looky there!” Daphne said sarcastically. “I don't think I've seen my husband cry since the Rockets lost the finals.”

Chevalier smirked as he busily sorted through the remaining paperwork, a cigarette pinched tightly between his moist lips.

Daphne approached Boldt, kissed him gently and said, “We're a family now, sweetheart.”

Boldt nodded, recovering quickly.

Daphne said, “We're so eager to get her home.”

“Yes,” Crowley replied, “you're very lucky.” She glanced at Chevalier.

“A few signatures is all,” Chevalier piped up anxiously. “Now that Miss Susan is here, she can witness for us.”

A thunderous rain crashed down on the roof of the building without warning, sounding more like a small explosion. The baby cried out.

Daphne reached down, unfastened the seat's restraints and scooped Trudy Kittridge into the safety of her arms.

The first of the children had been recovered.

LaMoia cursed the rain from behind the steering wheel of his rental. It wasn't simply rain; rain he could handle; rain he was used to. Anyone who had lived in Seattle for fifteen years knew rain on a first-name basis. But this? The sky blackened like someone had thrown a switch and water fell in sheets, like a fire hose aimed at the ground, fell so hard that when it struck the hot pavement, droplets bounced up a foot or more before falling again and converting to a layer of steam.

Water pounded the roof of the car so loudly that LaMoia could not hear the radio.

The downpour cleared the sidewalks. Umbrellas made vain attempts to withhold the deluge; the roadway flooded as gutters roared like rivers. LaMoia saw only a blurred silver film. To turn on the wipers of a parked car was to give his position away.

Through the blur, he saw Boldt running toward his Volvo. He pulled the wagon up close to the building, and the woman he assumed to be Crowley braved the downpour to help Boldt and Daphne get the child seat into the car. Crowley then sprinted to the Taurus, opened the trunk and withdrew a dark overnight bag before scrambling into the front seat.

The only movement on the street came from the windshield wipers of a pair of cars that had double-parked to allow the rain to let up. These double-parked cars in turn blocked others parked legally.

Boldt's rental edged forward out onto the flooded street, one of the only cars moving.

LaMoia caught another set of wipers moving—this from one of the blocked cars.

Crowley's Taurus backed up, but then paused as the rain fell even harder.

LaMoia snagged the cell phone as he saw a man wearing a trench coat hurry from the blocked car and pound on the window of the car that was blocking him. This man motioned frantically for the double-parked car to move so he could pull out from his own parking space.

The driver took the hint. The double-parked car rolled.

So did the Taurus.

LaMoia fired up his engine as Crowley's Taurus backed up and pulled out into the street.

The phone rang through and Boldt's voice answered, “Brehmer.”

“Can you talk?” LaMoia followed out into the street. Cars that had pulled over were moving again. The cell phone reception was awful.

“She's smacked up pretty badly,” Boldt told him, attempting to supply identifying features. “Her left eye …” Static sparked loudly in LaMoia's ear. “A scarf …”

LaMoia interrupted, “We got ourselves a problem, a visitor. You copy that? We've got ourselves a stick in the spokes. You there?”

“I'm here.”

“It's Hale.”

An enormous flash of lightning occurred simultaneously with a crack of thunder that shook the car. The cell phone went dead.

LaMoia turned the wipers to high. Couldn't see a damn thing.

LaMoia and Hale followed the Taurus in tandem, Hale in the lead in a dark green Jeep Cherokee. The rainstorm remained so strong that LaMoia wouldn't have recognized his own mother crossing the street, forcing bumper-to-bumper traffic. For LaMoia, the slower the better—both the Jeep and the Taurus stayed close.

Based on nothing concrete, he decided Hale had not noticed him, assuming he would be consumed with following the Taurus and paying little attention to other traffic.

He tried the cell phone again, its red
NO SERVICE
light pulsing in warning. His attention fixed on the Taurus through a series of turns and one red light he was forced to run, LaMoia tried to figure Hale.

There seemed to him at least two explanations for Hale's behavior. Either Broole had alerted Hale to SPD's presence, or Hale had made the same connection to Vincent Chevalier. Unaware of the Pied Piper's identity, Hale had attached himself to Chevalier like a tic. In turn, he had stumbled onto Crowley.

LaMoia tried the cellular again. The network remained down.

The highway signs suggested Lisa Crowley's destination was the airport. If Hale so much as attempted an arrest, he would blow Sarah's chances.

He considered his options and made a difficult decision. Crowley would be alert for anyone entering the airport terminal
behind
her, but if he arrived
ahead
of her, he might stay with her.

He asked himself,
When the hell have I ever been wrong?
He pulled out of his lane and passed both Hale and Crowley. The international airport was the next exit.

Boldt drove to the airport, wife and child in the car, exactly as the Brehmers had planned. His eyes remained divided between the rearview mirror and the traffic in front of them, believing it a good possibility they were being followed. They would make the flight to Houston together for the sake of appearance. From Houston, it was on to Seattle for Daphne and Trudy Kittridge. Boldt intended to return to New Orleans to assist LaMoia in the surveillance of Lisa Crowley, the only link to his daughter.