The Pied Piper Read Free Page B

he’s who we think he is.”
    â€œNo shit?”
    â€œNo child,” Boldt supplied.
    â€œI zap the sitter in the kitchen and grab the kid out of the crib,” Rodriguez said, getting into it. “Wrap it up in something, I suppose. I don’t know.”
    â€œShe’s not an ‘it,’” Boldt corrected harshly. “She’s a four-month-old baby girl who has been abducted from her home.” Boldt had kids of his own; kids LaMoia thought of as his own niece and nephew.
    LaMoia patted the uniformed officer on the cheek. “You’re excused.”
    They found Mulwright on the back stoop smoking a nonfilter cigarette. He looked about sixty. He was forty-one. Part Native American Indian, part Irish with a liver to prove it. Teeth that looked like a rotted picket fence hit by a truck. Skin that made enough oil for a refinery. Black hair and unibrow and five o’clock shadow. One eye green, the other nearly brown, like a junkyard dog. He held the constant expression of a person who didn’t feel well.
    â€œLieutenant,” Boldt said from a distance.
    â€œWell, look what the fucking dog drug in.” Mulwright’s resentment of LaMoia’s assignment to lead the task force was public knowledge. The task force itself was the source of much politicking because it had been formed ahead of any kidnapping, effectively limiting the FBI’s powers by assuming that power for itself. It was the brainchild of Sheila Hill, captain of Crimes Against Persons, who now commanded the task force she had created. Mulwright was next in line seniority-wise, but as lieutenant of Special Operations he was more accustomed to surveillance and busting down doors than conducting an evidence-driven investigation. For that reason, Hill had chosen LaMoia, whose experience was mainly as a homicide detective, as lead investigator, which left Mulwright with an ambiguous job assignment until and unless they had surveillance to conduct.
    To make matters worse, Mulwright blamed Boldt for ending his twenty-seven-year drinking spree, which had culminated in suspension and treatment programs. Rumor had it that the latter had not worked. The thick cone of cigarette smoke he blew into the air fairly reeked of resentment.
    â€œWho called you to the scene, Lieutenant?” Boldt asked.
    â€œI got a scanner in the kitchen. You? You got no business being here. You ain’t got nothing to do with this task force.”
    â€œAdviser,” Boldt reminded. As a division, Intelligence intimidated some detectives, especially those like Mulwright who got themselves into trouble. “I’m one of the task force links to the Bureau.” It occurred to Boldt that Mulwright should not have arrived on the scene until after a call from LaMoia. “I’m also supposed to prevent press leaks.”
    â€œIs that right?”
    LaMoia said, “The National Insider is offering two grand for task force information.”
    â€œDon’t know nothing about it.”
    â€œSo who called it in?” Boldt asked.
    â€œI don’t have to answer to you.”
    â€œNo, you don’t.” Boldt waited along with the man through several long seconds of silence.
    â€œA neighbor lady.” Mulwright had no fondness for women, other than as the objects of obscene humor. “Name of Wasserman. Tina. Down the street.” He checked his notes—every detective carried a notebook, even Mulwright. “Fifty-three hundred, Fifty-first North. Was asked to check on the place by the mother when the baby sitter failed to answer the phone. You ever heard of a dinner train takes off from Renton?”
    â€œSure,” LaMoia answered.
    â€œYeah? Well, I hadn’t. The parents are still stuck on the train. Due back any minute.”
    Boldt asked, “Does the press know about this neighbor?”
    â€œHow the fuck should I know?”
    â€œDo we have someone meeting the