He and his wife, Liz, had rebuilt their relationship from the ashes of overwork, failed promises, and a disintegration of purpose, interest, and spirit. it had required enormous sacrifices on both their parts: Boldt had left the department; Liz had borne the burden of pregnancy and a difficult delivery to bring them a son. New roles now: Liz, the provider, mother, and lover; Boldt, part-time jazz rat, full-time house husband and Mr. Mom. Together they had found a new rhythm, carved out a new existence.
Now, here was Daffy glowing in the limited light of the cheap seats, nervous eyes seeking him out.
He bought himself a few precious moments by delaying the ending of the song with a long improvisation. It would all be improvisation from here on out, He rose from the bench and interrupted Mallory before she could complain about the length of the set. "Push drinks on them," he suggested, feeding her one instinct. "I'll stretch the next set to compensate." Mallory grimaced but didn't argue. Daphne would call that a learned behavior.
He finger-combed what hair he could find up there. She kept her eyes on him as he approached. He wiped his palms on his pants and offered a smile. Two years had passed, and all he could think to say was, "Hey there."
She grinned and nudged a chair away from the table with her foot.
He felt big and clumsy as he sat down in the chair. He had added a dozen pounds and knew he looked it. Not her. They shook hands, and he was thankful for that. No need to be weird about this. He said, "Can/t even see the scar " though he wasn't sure what possessed him to do 'so.
She tugged at the scarf and revealed it to him: three or four inches long, still slightly pink. It would always be there to remind her. He remembered the knife held there as if it were yesterday, Daffy attempting to talk a known killer out of using the knife on her; Boldt, the one with the gun. She in the way of the bullet, her throat in the way of that blade. Her weapons were her words and they had failed her. Boldt wondered if she had recovered from that one yet. Those things tended to haunt you. "That was a stupid thing to say," he admitted. "Is this the new you? Looking for my flaws?"
"Let me tell you something: There are women who would kill to have flaws like yours." He hoped a compliment might erase his mistake. "Keep your shorts on, Casanova. That's all behind us."
"Hey, you think I don't know? I'm a father now. Though that's probably news to you." "I keep up," she said. "I didn't think it would have been too appropriate for me to throw you and Liz a baby shower."
"it must have taken some courage to break a two-year habit of staying away. This is no visit, is it? Not dressed like that, it isn't. Have you been somewhere? Going somewhere? Are you selling something? Why are you here? Not that I'm complaining."
"I heard the piano player is terrific."
"Mediocre on his best nights," Boldt replied. "You must be hanging around with some critically tone-deaf people."
"They're your friends- "My point exactly. Homicide, right? You are selling something." "How is the baby?" she asked. "Miles? Terrific, thanks." just the mention of the boy made Boldt homesick. "And Liz?"
That took some real courage.
"Fine," he answered honestly. "Happy, I think.- "And how about you?" she asked. He nodded. "The same," Why should it feel odd to admit such a thing? "You?"
"I'm good. I'm volunteering at The Shelter now."
"So I've heard," he said. "I've kept up, too," he added, wanting her to hear this. "Through Dixie," she said, referring to King County medical examiner Dr. Ronald Dixon, a close friend of Boldt's. A short silence fell between them. "Are you going to tell me about it?" he asked. "The case," he added, trying to sound smart. It worked; she gave him one of those impressed looks. "She's sixteen-years old."
"Is or was."
"Is," she confirmed. "She walked into The Shelter this afternoon in real bad shape. Drugs. Evidence suggesting the use of electroshock therapy. A fresh incision right here," she touched her side. "Too fresh. The bleeding kind of fresh.
We thought she might be an escapee. We checked with hospitals and institutions. No one had record of her. Her stitches had popped, hence the blood. We admitted her to the Medical Center. I can't tell you what drew me to her, Lou. Not exactly. It was more than curiosity, more than sympathy. You run out of those after a few weeks at The Shelter. You're the one who taught me to listen to the victim-"
"Victim?,, he interrupted. "They got her stitched back up, I take it." Exactly what was Daffy after? Why the compliments? She was a professional manipulator-he had to watch that. She knew her way around the human mind. Dealing with her was like playing blackjack with someone who could count cards.
She answered "They stitched her back up. But they took X-rays. She's missing a kidney." She let it hang there a second.
"No hospital record of any such operation. She has no memory of any surgery. None. No explanation at all. I'm looking for the explanation."
"Phil went along with this?" he asked curiously.
As staff psychologist, Daphne reported to Lieutenant Phil Shoswitz, Homicide, the logic of which was known only to the upper brass. if there were to be an investigation and she part of it, it would more than likely be overseen by Shoswitz. "He doesn't even know about it yet," she admitted, looking away-an uncommon gesture for her. "That's one of the reasons I've come to you," she added. "I need your help, your expertise."
Trouble! He knew her too well. "Help?"
"Her name is Cindy Chapman. She's been on the road for seven months. Left Arizona last winter after her stepfather sexually abused her. She went through Flagstaff, Salt Lake City, and ended up here about a month ago. Her long-term memory is fine. But she's lost a twenty-four-hour period during which she was exposed to electroshock and her kidney was removed. Let me tell you this: No two medical procedures could be less related to one another. I've studied this stuff, Lou. This is my turf. But investigating it? That's why I'm here."
He felt the stability of his marriage was at stake. Police work swallowed him whole. He and Liz had come to certain agreements. "What are you saying? Someone stole her kidney?"
"if a hospital or an institution is involved, it has to be local. These kids stick to a pretty small area. They develop small societies of self-help or selfabuse. When they move away, it's forever. On to Portland, San Francisco, L.A. You champion the cause of the victim. it's the victim that can tell you the most about a case, dead or alive. Right? You're the expert on the victim."
more compliments. He fought like hell to maintain his guard. "She may have been raped. She won't admit to consensual sex. The evidence is there, but she doesn't remember. That's the electroshock. You see?" She was beginning to frighten him. "No," he admitted, "I don't see."
A commotion at the front door attempted to steal his attention but failed. Daphne's eyes-convincing, terrified, searching, hopeful-held him firmly. "someone cut this girl open and stole her kidney. I'm convinced of it. The electroshock was used to ensure she didn't remember anything about it." Fire filled her eyes. "I can't prove it. Not yet." She placed her hand on her chest. "But I feel it in here. You know that feeling, don't you? I know you do."
He resented being cornered by her. Yes, he knew that feeling.
Yes, he had been forced to defend it on a dozen occasions; and no, there was no real sense to it. But this was her feeling, not his, he reminded himself; her case, her instincts, not his.
"What evidence is there?" he asked coldly.
She winced. "I'm not an investigator. I can't even take this to Shoswitz until I have something convincing. Hell he's Homicide. He may not want it even then: She's alive after all. What do I do? Where do I turn?"