"Think so?"
"Know so."
"Once she's better," she said strongly, "I'm off to London for this new job. Hostage negotiator."
"So I've heard."
"I may stay over there.
I don't know. Have you ever been to London?"
"The way it works," he said, bending toward his bag and hoping that she hadn't heard his voice catch, "is that you get the kite up good and high. You get it way the hell up there. Then you tie the fish to the line and take up some slack and toss the fish overboard. The drag on the fish in the water supports the line and flies the kite. The kite sails out to sea all by itself. Sometimes for hours. Maybe for days."
"I know you're mad about me quitting," she said. "We can try it off the stern. The wind is best there.
She said, "I suppose if you're lucky, it'll sail completely around the world and come right back to you." This time, he didn't answer. She added, "You know, it hurt more to kill that dog than to kill him. Is that possible? What does that make me?"
"Honest, which is more than most of us."
"You think she has a chance?"
"It's all any of us have."
"Can I get a hug? is that allowed?" Boldt said, "Better ask him" and pointed to Miles, who clapped.
She came into his arms then and held him tightly. She sobbed.
People stared. He didn't care. Let them. Boldt cried, too, but for his own reasons. His life was right now. Okay. On track again, and he had her to thank for some of it. "I'll miss you," he whispered.
Miles clapped again, and Daphne laughed. It was good to hear that.
In the end, the kite trick worked. Miles fell asleep in the stroller. The kite sailed off toward the horizon, growing smaller and smaller. People pointed. Some people clapped. Miles slept through it all.
A few weeks later, Daphne followed it into the sky.
And now for the good part. This was where Sergeant Lou Boldt threw out all convention, where the textbooks took a backseat to experience, and where he found out who in the lecture hall was listening and who was asleep.
He raised his voice. A big man, Boldt's words bellowed clear back to the make-out seats without the need of the mike clipped to his tie. "Everything I've told you in the past few weeks concerning evidence, investigative procedure, chain of custody, and chain of command is worthless." A few heads snapped up-more than he had expected. "Worthless unless you learn to read the crime scene, to know the victim, to listen to and trust your own instincts. To feel with your heart as much as think with your head. To find a balance between the two. If it was all in the head, then we would not need detectives; the lab technicians could do it all. Conversely, if it was all in the heart-if we could simply empathize with the suspect and say, "Yup, you did it/ then who would need the lab nerds?" A few of the studious types busily flipped pages. Boldt informed them, "You won't find any of this in your textbooks. That's just the point. All the textbooks in the world are not going to clear a case--only the investigator can. Evidence and information is nothing without a human being to analyze, organize, and interpret it. That's you. That's me. There comes a time when all the information must be set aside; there comes a time when passion and instinct take over. It's the stuff that can't be taught; but it can be learned. Heart and mind--one's worthless without the other." He paused here, wondering if these peach-fuzz students could see beyond the forty-four-year-old, slightly paunchy homicide cop in the wrinkled khakis and the tattered sport coat that hid a pacifier in its side pocket.
At the same time, he listened to his own words reverberating through the lecture hall, wondering how much he dare tell them. Did he tell them about the nightmares, the divorces, the ulcers, and the politics? The hours? The salary? The penetrating numbness with which the veterans approached a crime scene?
Light flooded an aisle as a door at the rear of the hall swung open and a lanky kid wearing oversize jeans and a rugby shirt hurried toward the podium, casting a stretched shadow. Reaching Boldt, he passed him a pink telephone memo. A sea of students looking on, Boldt unfolded and read it.
Volunteer Park, after class. I'll wait fifteen minutes.-D.M.
Volunteer Park? he wondered, his curiosity raised. Why not the offices? Daphne Matthews was anything but dramatic. As the department's forensic psychologist, she was cool, controlled, studied, patient. Articulate, strong, intelligent. But not dramatic-not like this. The curious faces remained fixed on him. "A love letter," he said, winning a few laughs. But not many: cops weren't expected to be funny-something else they would have to learn.
Volunteer Park is perched well above Seattle's downtown cluster of towering high-rises and the gray-green curve of Elliott Bay that sweeps out into the island-riddled estuary of Puget Sound. A large reservoir, acting as a reflecting pond, is terraced below the parking lot and lookout that fronts the museum,. which had been under reconstruction for months on its way to housing the city's Asian collection. Boldt parked his aging department-issued four-door Chevy three spaces away from her red Prelude, which she maintained showroom clean. She wasn't to be found in her car, which left only one possibility.
The water tower's stone facade rose several stories to his left.
Well-kept beds of flowering shrubs and perennials surrounded its footing, like gems in a setting. The grass was a phenomenal emerald green, unique, he thought, to Seattle and Portland. Maybe Ireland too; he had never been. Summer was just taking hold. Every living thing seemed poised for change. The sky was a patchwork quilt of azure blue and cotton white, the clouds moving in swiftly from the west, low and fast. A visitor might think rain, but a local knew better. Not tonight. Cold maybe, if it cleared.
He saw an -unfamiliar male face behind the iron grate in one of the tower's upper windows and waited a minute for this person and his companion to descend and leave the structure. Once they had, he chose the stairway to his right, ascending a narrow chimney of steep steps wedged between the brick rotunda to his right and the riveted steel hull of the water tank to his left. The painted tank and the tower that surrounded it were enormous, perhaps forty or fifty feet high and half again as wide. With each step, Boldt's heart pounded heavier. He was not in the best shape; or maybe it was because she had elected to step outside the system, and that couldn't help but intrigue him; or maybe it was personal and had nothing to do with the shop. He and Daphne had been close once-too close for what was allowed of a married man. They still were close, but mention of that one night never passed their lips. A month earlier she had surprised him by telling him about a new relationship. After Bill Gates got married, Owen Adler became the reigning bachelor prize of the Northwest, having gone from espresso cart to the fastest-growing beverage and food business in the western region. He leased his own plane, owned a multimillion-dollar estate overlooking Shilshole Marina, and now, quite possibly, the heart and affections of Daphne Matthews. Had her note been worded any other way, had she not chosen such an isolated location, Boldt would have been convinced that her request was nothing more than some lover butterflies.
In another two hours, Volunteer Park would be a drug and sex bazaar. Despite its view, the tower was not a place frequented by the pin-striped set. She had clearly chosen it carefully. Daphne was not given to acts of spontaneity. She desired a clandestine meeting-and he had to wonder why.