The Pied Piper Read Free

minutes passed in relative silence before Liz sat up sharply and Boldt recognized the sound of his son’s voice approaching.
    â€œYou all set?” Boldt asked.
    She nodded faintly, squeezed her husband’s arm and mouthed the words, “I love you.”
    Boldt leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Likewise,” he whispered.
    Her cheek felt inhumanly cold.

CHAPTER

    John LaMoia double-parked his red 1974 Camaro in front of 2351 51st North and set its wide taillights flashing amid a veritable light show of emergency vehicles. He sat behind the wheel for a moment gathering his strength. Any apparent kidnapping automatically evolved into an enormous investigation, requiring tact and diligence on the part of the lead investigator, and he’d been named lead. Tact was not necessarily LaMoia’s long suit, and he knew it. His fellow officers called him Floorshow, what with his creased blue jeans, steel gray ostrich boots and rock star hair. Because of the Big-A attitude. LaMoia knew he wore an attitude, but to hell with it: He was good at what he did. People talked about talking the talk, but John LaMoia talked it. He’d been the same cocky son-of-a-bitch since junior high; he wasn’t about to change now.
    Boldt’s beat-up department-issue Chevy slipped in behind him and parked.
    This particular kidnapping—of a white infant—would stir not only the city’s conscience but, quite likely, the nation’s. Before even stepping out of the car at the crime scene, LaMoia already had a few suspicions about how it had happened, but for the moment he pushed them away. Not for anyone, including his ambitious Crimes Against Persons captain Sheila Hill, would LaMoia guess at a crime’s solution before he could gather the necessary evidence, witnesses and facts.
    â€œIt’s my job to make the call,” he told Boldt. “Either I group it with the others, or it stands alone.” Domestics and gang killings had occupied his past few months— grounders for the most part. A serial kidnapping case with national importance? He tried not to think of himself as Lou Boldt’s replacement, even though others saw his promotion that way.
    â€œSo why drag me along?” Boldt asked.
    â€œMaybe I’m insecure.”
    â€œYeah, right. And it’s going to be sunny tomorrow.”
    They ducked under the police tape onto the lawn. Officer Jonny Filgrim said to LaMoia, “Bad Guy used the back door, Detec—, Sergeant,” he corrected himself. “It’s him, right?”
    â€œKeep the vultures back, Jonny,” LaMoia said, indicating the press. “They want an interview, it’s Hill, not me.”
    â€œMulwright’s here. Back door.”
    â€œAlready?” LaMoia asked. He and Boldt met eyes in the flashing blues and reds of the emergency lights.
    Boldt questioned, “Mulwright at a crime scene early?”
    â€œAny of his boys?” LaMoia asked the uniformed officer.
    â€œSpecial Ops?”
    â€œYeah, any of Mulwright’s guys,” LaMoia answered. Some of the patrolmen were thick as bricks.
    â€œAin’t seen none,” Filgrim answered.
    â€œThere was a woman watching the child,” Boldt said.
    Filgrim nodded, though seemed bewildered that Boldt already knew this. “The sitter? Yeah? Knocked out cold.”
    â€œWhere’d they take her?”
    â€œUniversity Hospital.”
    Boldt offered LaMoia a look; they had passed an arriving ambulance on their way out of the hospital.
    LaMoia ordered, “Get someone over to the hospital,” as he took in the chaotic scene of the reporters and cameras at the edge of the property. “And make sure SID gets room to park their van close by.”
    â€œYou got it.”
    Boldt caught him by the arm. “The baby sitter was unconscious?”
    â€œLike I said, out cold on the kitchen floor. It’s gotta be him. Right, Floorshow?” Filgrim said