Boldt 03 - No Witnesses Read Free Page B

himself to a strikingly handsome woman and displayed his police identification. Pointing to the logo silk-screened onto the jacket he explained, “Just a precaution against curious neighbors.”
    “A precaution against what?” she asked, immediately suspicious.
    “If you have a minute?”
    She apologized and showed him inside.
    She gave her name as Betty, closing the door behind him. Germanic ancestry, in her late thirties, she had boyish blond hair, bright blue eyes, and wore fashion jeans and a T-shirt bearing Van Gogh’s Irises . She had small, high breasts, square shoulders, and a straight spine. A brave intensity flashed in her eyes. She wasn’t one to be pushed around, he noted. She showed him into a baby boomer’s living room: hardwood floor, cream canvas couches, a brick fireplace, surround-sound speakers.
    She offered him tea and he accepted. He wanted her comfortable. He wanted her calm.
    A few minutes later she returned with the tea and explained, “A man from the State Health Department called me late yesterday. He asked a lot of questions. Which restaurants we frequented, markets. That sort of thing. I can understand State Health. But what’s the interest of the police?”
    “The van in the drive,” he said, “it’s State Health.”
    “But you are not,” she fired back. She looked up as she poured. “You visited Slater this morning.” He nodded. “I keep track. I don’t want the press bothering him.”
    “I have a two-year-old,” he said, though it sounded stupid once he heard it.
    “Why?” she asked sternly. “Why the visit? What are you doing here?”
    “It’s unofficial, my interest—” he explained. This wasn’t easy for him. He wanted to break it to her gently, but she was all business. Her boy was critical. A cop was sitting on her couch. How would Liz have reacted? Her jaw muscles tightened and the teapot danced slightly under her direction. He was relieved to see this. The exterior was hard, but the inside was human.
    “What department are you with, Sergeant?”
    There it was, he thought. She’d gone and done it. He could dodge it—answer a question with a question—he knew the tricks. Most of them. But he owed her.
    “Homicide.” It came out more like a confession.
    She blinked furiously, placed the tea down, and excused herself. After several excruciating minutes she returned with reddened eyes. “Okay, what’s going on?” she asked heatedly. Angry. Her eyes a hard blue ice.
    “We don’t know.”
    “Bullshit! He’s my boy. You tell me, damn it! You tell me everything.” She hesitated. “Homicide?” she asked.
    “We investigate all crimes against persons . That may—only may —be what we have here.”
    She crossed her arms tightly. “Meaning?”
    “We can’t confirm any of this.”
    “Any of what ?” she fumed.
    He explained it in general terms: A company had received threats; those threats included a reference to Slater’s illness; there may or may not be a connection; State Health field technicians were on call in the van outside hoping for her permission to look for any such connection.
    “It’s entirely up to you, but I’ll tell you honestly: We need your cooperation and we need your candor. We don’t want anyone else joining Slater in the hospital.”
    “May I call my husband?”
    “You may call your husband. You may throw me out.” She rose and headed toward the kitchen door. He hurried, “ Or you can give me a go-ahead.”
    It stopped her. She looked exhausted all of a sudden. “You don’t want me to call him.”
    “I want to control this, to keep it controlled. If he’s upset, if he has to leave the office, he’ll say something. You see? That’s out of my control. That worries me.”
    “What’s his name?” she asked. “Your boy?” She moved back toward the couch. She was distant. Dazed.
    “Miles,” he answered. “I love jazz. My wife and I like jazz.”
    “Yes,” she said. “They’re wonderful, aren’t they?