The bag was oil-stained, the writing illegible. Garman accepted it, looked it over, nodded, and handed it back. “Very official,” he said, trying for a joke.
LaMoia recited the Miranda. Garman just smiled, miming the words along with him.
Boldt wanted to pop the guy. Garman was too smug, too prepared-or innocent as the day he was born. Boldt knew before they started that they weren’t going anywhere with this one. Daphne asked for a cup of coffee. Garman made her a cup of instant; made one for himself as well. Boldt and Daphne sat on a couch that had seen better days. Garman took the La-Z-Boy recliner upholstered in a maroon Naugahyde.
Fifteen minutes into the questioning, Boldt taking furious notes and double-checking Garman’s exact language, LaMoia joined them. He shook his head at Boldt from behind Garman and held both hands into a large zero. Boldt was hardly surprised.
They talked in circles for the better part of the next hour, returning to some of Garman’s statements and attempting to catch him in a misspeak, but the Marshal Five’s performance-if that’s what it was-seemed utterly convincing. Here, Boldt realized, was a man who had achieved an honored position among firemen. He had served his city well, earning several merits of distinction for both his professional life and his volunteer work with teens. Put him in front of a jury with all the damning evidence in the world, and you might not win a conviction.
One hour and twenty-two minutes into the interrogation, Daphne scored the first big points. “Tell us again about your service in the Air Force.”
He nodded. “I was stationed two years at Grand Forks AFB and six at Minot. I was married then. Young. Good times, for the most part.”
“Not much up there,” Daphne said.
“Even less than that,” Garman replied, winning a smile from her.
“Must get to know the other guys real well,” she said.
“You know everybody real welclass="underline" guys, wives, families. Grand Forks is a big base. It’s a town, a small city really.”
LaMoia said, “Those are missile bases, aren’t they?”
Garman smirked at the question. “Look it up, Detective. It’ll give you something to do.”
LaMoia bristled and shifted uncomfortably where he stood. He sought out a kitchen chair, brought it around to face Garman, and straddled it backward.
The lines were drawn-and by Garman himself, Boldt noted. He would work with Daphne, respect Boldt at a distance, and spar with LaMoia. What bothered Boldt the most was that he had sussed out the exact way Boldt would have done it.
“Your marriage?” Daphne asked.
“Out of bounds, counselor,” Garman replied.
“I’m not a lawyer.”
Garman stared at her. “We never did establish your exact role in this, did we? As I recall, you kind of skirted the question.”
LaMoia said, “Look it up. It’ll give you something to do.”
That caused a brief crack in Garman’s armor.
Boldt felt a little more optimistic. He said, “So you didn’t lose the ladder or loan it to a friend-it was stolen.”
“I’ll answer for a fourth time if you want,” Garman replied. He pursed his lips, looked each of them directly in the eye and said, “You’ll find this out anyway. The ladder was the least of my concerns. It was my truck that was stolen. A white pickup. Damn nice one, too. Ford. Bucket seats. Electric windows. The ladder, some turnout gear, my clipboard. Cars … trucks … stolen every day in this city, right? I figured it was probably chopped and on its way by ship to Singapore or wherever they end up. Until the poems, the notes. Then I wondered if maybe I was some kind of target all along.” He looked directly at LaMoia. “Of course, maybe I stole it myself and stashed it somewhere to use later in these arsons. Great excuse, a stolen truck.”
LaMoia had his hands full. Boldt was used to rapid-fire comebacks, but the detective was slow off the blocks. All he managed to say was, “Yeah, great excuse.”
They did the dance for the next forty minutes, but nothing worthwhile surfaced. Only LaMoia’s questions were answered sarcastically. If Daphne repeated the question, Garman answered it. Boldt saw through the ruse. It meant that Garman feared LaMoia most of all-and he was correct in doing so. LaMoia didn’t do the dance, he just stepped on toes and crashed his way through. When he got on a roll, when he got hot, he could pin a suspect in a matter of a couple of questions. Garman had sensed this quickly and did his best to prevent LaMoia from getting a rhythm going. That particular session was won by Garman, but there would be others.
He was the closest thing they had to a suspect, and Boldt was not about to let him go. He would cut him distance, give him some rope-hopefully enough to let him hang himself.
The interrogation was, in fact, little more than a stall for time.
Twenty-four-hour surveillance began thirty minutes before their departure.
Steven Garman was suspect number one.
35
Ben’s world had gone down in flames. First the guy trying to kill him, then the discovery of the body … he couldn’t even think about it. Calling 911 and returning to watch his stepfather being arrested. It had a dreamlike quality, distant and yet present at the same time.
And whereas he had forgotten so much of his mother, her reality clouded by his stepfather’s unyielding demands and punishments, she was suddenly a much greater part of him. He found her present in his thoughts, before him as a vision, a soothing, calming force at once transparent and yet palpably real, like an ocean current. Taking him somewhere new and different.
The days immediately after the incident had been among the best in his life. Emily had given him his own room, his own towels; she had cooked his meals and even made him a sandwich for school lunch. He didn’t tell her that he didn’t go to school for those days-he was too terrified the blue truck might return, that the nightmare might start all over again. So he skipped school, climbed trees, and watched boats and Windsurfers out on Lake Washington, looking like moths on a window. He didn’t even have the five hundred bucks. It was at the house, hidden in his room, and he sure wasn’t going back there.
They were good days, even though Emily wouldn’t let him help her with her clients, something Ben didn’t understand but didn’t protest too loudly. He wasn’t going to push things. At night she turned off her neon sign and locked her door, and together they either played cards or worked on a jigsaw puzzle. Emily didn’t own a television, something that stunned Ben when he had first learned of it, but he hadn’t missed it at all. Before bed she would read to him, which was a first. Aside from teachers at school, no one had ever read to Ben in his twelve years.
Being caught by the police had scared him to death. Convinced that they knew about the five hundred dollars, he had refused to speak at first. But when Daphne Matthews had given him the choice of a juvenile detention center or going home with her to her houseboat, Ben had spoken up loud and clear. He had never seen a houseboat; he could just imagine the detention center. Speaking had broken the ice. It had been hard not to talk, given all that had happened. Daphne proved to be both a nice woman and someone easy to talk to-almost as if she knew what he was thinking before he said anything. She amazed him that way.
Even so, he missed Emily with an ache in his heart unmatched since he discovered his mother’s ring in the crawl space.
At that moment he sat on a couch in Daphne’s houseboat, the television tuned to a black-and-white rerun on Nickelodeon.
For the past two days he had never been alone, except in the bathroom. When Daphne wasn’t there, Susan was. He considered running away, though the only place he could think to go was Emily’s, and it would be the first place they would look for him. Besides, Daphne had warned him that if he “misbehaved in any way whatsoever” it would hurt Emily. She hadn’t spelled it out, but it was pretty clear to him that Emily would be out of business and he would lose any chance of ever living with her again. That was unthinkable. Emily was all he had. No running away. He missed her something awful.