Boldt 03 - No Witnesses (44 page)

“I understand,” Boldt returned. “She won’t go south,” he predicted. Clements and a pair of FBI experts had studied the ATM hit patterns from the previous nights and had determined that the extortionist always moved toward the city and I-5 as the hits progressed. It was assumed that I-5, possibly in combination with other major highways, was seen by the extortionist as an escape route. In truth, law enforcement welcomed the use of limited-access highways.

Lucille Guillard’s telephone purred softly, and she answered it. A moment later she hung up and informed Boldt, “We have a stop-motion video image of the hit.” To Locke she said, “Your techs have been informed.”

Locke said to Boldt, “We may be able to pull a video feed for us here.”

Boldt had seen the satellite van outside in the parking lot and had wondered what it was for.

He had no chance to doubt his decision. With the suspect clearly not Caulfield, and Caulfield the only person of interest to him, he felt he had no choice but to follow the suspect, hoping she would lead them back to him. The thought crossed his mind that Caulfield had never been any part of the extortion, but he could not allow himself to give any weight to this, given his current commitment both mentally and logistically to the surveillance operation.

“The chopper is picking up the video for us,” Billy told Boldt, a finger pushed to his ear. “We should have it back here in a matter of minutes.” He returned to his keyboard.

Locke indicated Boldt’s headphones, which the sergeant had slipped down around his neck. He pulled them back on in time to hear the same field agent describe the suspect moving northwest on foot.

“Turning left at the corner,” the voice said.

Boldt caught himself holding his breath.

The agent announced in a low voice, “I’m about thirty yards back. Maintaining visual contact.”

Pointing to the screen, Billy told Boldt, “We’ll have another agent in play at the next intersection.”

“Possible vehicle spotted,” the field agent announced.

“A motorcycle?” Boldt asked him through the headset.

“Negative. A brown Datsun, Washington vehicle registration: Nine-four-five-one-one.”

Billy repeated the number into his headset and told Boldt, “Your people are running the plate through DMV.”

“I’ve got it,” Locke announced, freeing Billy of this communication. A minute later she leaned into her headset and, having been instructed not to repeat such a thing aloud, wrote out for Boldt,

Vehicle registration: Cornelia Uli, 26, female, Caucasian. Address: 517½ Airport Way, Seattle
.

Boldt folded the piece of paper and placed it in his pocket. Assigning this a top priority, he instructed Locke to place the residence under tight surveillance. She went about redeploying the field surveillance personnel in order to accommodate this change.

“She’s getting into the vehicle,” the field agent announced. “I’m on foot, I’m going to lose her.”

“Likewise,” said the second agent to arrive in the area.

Boldt, terrified they were about to lose her, checked with his dispatcher, who went off-mike, grinned, and said, “Don’t worry, Sergeant. We’ve got this tighter than a gnat’s ass.” He pointed to the screen. “I’ve got five vehicles within a four-block area. Unless she beams herself up, we’ve got her.”

The radio traffic in Boldt’s headset heated up as Billy orchestrated the vehicular handoffs. No one car stayed with the target vehicle for more than six blocks or two miles of highway. On the screen, the blue triangles representing the agents’ location transmitters clustered in and around an area where Billy kept manually moving a white flashing dot indicating the suspect.

The white dot left I-5. Billy announced, “Suspect is coming to a stop.”

Boldt listened in on the continuous dialogue between dispatcher and field agents. He closed his eyes and tried to picture a sidewalk ATM on a not-too-busy street, the approach of a petite woman wearing a motorcycle helmet in the faint glow of the streetlights, and the swarm of police that now surrounded her and would continue to monitor her every moment. She was, as of that moment, public property. Cornelia Uli would be stripped down to her moles and birthmarks if necessary—all in due time. For the moment, under the duress of a nervous stomach, he sat back, consulting a printout listing the various field agents and assignments, and listened to his team at work under the unusual calm of the FBI dispatcher.

D
ISPATCH
: Twenty-six … Give us a walk-by visual.

T
WENTY-SIX
: Twenty-six. Confirm. Walk-by visual.

D
ISPATCH
: Affirmative. Walk-by, please.

T
WENTY-SIX
: Roger.

A few anxious seconds passed.

T
WENTY-SIX
: Affirmative, suspect is standing at the machine.

Boldt consulted the deployment printout. Number 26—James Flynn—was dressed as a pizza delivery man tonight. Carrying his pizzas, he was passing the ATM, glancing briefly at the mark, never breaking stride. No wide eyes of recognition, no probing stare. Professional. Sure.

Lucille Guillard announced, “We have a hit.”

A hit flashed on the wall map, surrounded by a sea of blue triangles.

Boldt instructed the dispatcher. “Can we kill the Datsun on the run?”

Billy held up a finger and talked rapidly into this mouthpiece.

D
ISPATCH
: Tech Services mobile: Request a car kill on the suspect’s vehicle. Copy?

T
ECH SERVICES VAN
: Car kill. Affirmative. One minute, please.

Boldt and Billy met eyes. The dispatcher looked completely relaxed.

T
ECH SERVICES VAN
: Suspect’s vehicle is parked one-and-one-half blocks north—repeat, north—of the ATM location. Looks good for a kill, Billy.

Guillard announced, “Fifteen seconds have elapsed. Twenty seconds left.”

Boldt told Guillard, “Extend the time trap. Give us a few seconds longer.”

Boldt asked Billy, “Can they do it in thirty seconds or less?”

“Extending to forty-five seconds,” Guillard confirmed. “We should not go beyond this, Sergeant.”

T
ECH SERVICES VAN
: Thirty seconds is an affirmative. Deploy?

Billy glanced at Boldt, who hit the transmit button and said sharply, “Go!”

D
ISPATCH
: Forty-four. Keep us alert to any change in suspect’s position.

F
ORTY-FIVE
: Roger, Dispatch. Will do.

T
ECH SERVICES OPERATIVE
: I’m going in.

Boldt could picture the man hurrying down a quiet street to one of many parked cars. In his pocket would be an oil-filter wrench.

T
ECH SERVICES OPERATIVE
: Dispatch? Problem. I have a couple out for a stroll. I’m aborting this pass.

Guillard counted off, “Ten seconds to go.”

D
ISPATCH
: Time’s a-wasting.

T
ECH SERVICES OPERATIVE
: Affirmative. Making another pass.

Guillard announced, “Five seconds.”

D
ISPATCH
: Five seconds until transaction is complete.

T
ECH SERVICES OPERATIVE
: Affirmative, Dispatch. Five seconds. Making a second pass…. All clear. I’m going under the car.

Sheila Locke said, “Tech has live video for us. Coming on-screen.”

All eyes riveted to the screen, now divided, showing two black-and-white images. On the left was a wavy telephoto image of the helmeted woman standing at the ATM. On the right of a split screen, the Tech Services man in eerie night-sight video slid under the parked Datsun and disappeared. Boldt caught himself white-knuckling the chair.

How the FBI personnel managed this live video was beyond him. But he did not question it. Tech Services in every department was famous for performing miracles.

“Transaction complete,” Guillard announced.

The video followed this woman as she left the ATM and rounded the corner heading toward her car. Once a good distance away, she pulled off the helmet and shook out her hair.

D
ISPATCH
: Tech operative. Suspect on her way. Do you copy?

There was no response from the operative, whose feet could be seen on the screen sticking out from under the suspect’s car.

Billy calmly reported to Boldt, “He’s not responding. Must be radio interference.”

The suspect was now less than a half-block away and closing quickly. “Get him out of there!” Boldt ordered.

D
ISPATCH
: Tech Services? Request an interrupt. Repeat: Physical interrupt requested on the car kill.

TECH SERVICES
: Roger, Dispatch.

On the screen, a woman dressed casually in blue jeans and a T-shirt hurried out of the van, moving quickly down the street toward the car. She made no effort to look in the direction of the suspect, now but a few yards away and coming up the sidewalk.

As the Tech Services woman came alongside the suspect’s vehicle, she flung her purse to the pavement, intentionally spilling its contents.

Boldt watched the overhead screen, hearing only the hum of the computers, Billy’s soft mumble, and the endless tapping of the computer keyboards. The woman field agent threw her head under the vehicle and said something as the suspect rounded the final corner, now only two cars away. The Tech Services man scrambled out, came to his knees, and immediately began helping her to clean up the contents of her spilled purse.

Cornelia Uli approached the driver’s door and encountered them both. The field agent laughed and shook her head at Uli as if embarrassed to have spilled her purse. She said something, as did the Tech Services man. The last of the purse contents were collected as Uli unlocked the Datsun’s trunk and set the helmet inside. She acted as casually about possessing a motorcycle helmet while driving a car as the two field agents did about collecting the items from the spilled purse. Their job completed, the field agents made no sudden moves, no panic. Together they headed down the sidewalk in the opposite direction from the van and the camera that recorded them.

The Datsun pulled away from the curb and drove off.

“Stay with her,” Boldt ordered Billy. He was thinking: These next few minutes are critical.

There were two ways that Boldt could play this woman whom he considered Caulfield’s accomplice, and he had already made the choice. The first, and most conservative, was to keep his distance and sit on her. Obtain the necessary warrants and tap her phone, perhaps even install video surveillance in her residence, record her every move, her every spoken word, and hope for the contact with Caulfield. The second—and the method he had elected to follow—was the more aggressive: to force a problem onto her and hope that in her moment of panic, she turned to Caulfield for help, either identifying his location, or luring him to her.

He felt powerless not being in the field with the others, and he sensed that by staying behind and coordinating the effort, he had crossed the imaginary line to desk jockey—and did not care for it one bit. Following the radio traffic in the headphones, he pictured the cars swapping responsibility for surveillance of the Datsun. He rejoiced with the others as the stream of leaking oil was spotted behind the vehicle, and he alerted Locke to open a line to U.S. West; they were going to need a listing of all pay-phone locations.

Three minutes later the Datsun pulled over, stopped dead in the middle of a strip of fast-food, quick lube, and car lots. One surveillance car pulled past and into the parking lot of a burger joint. Two others stopped fifty yards short, and divided to either side of the road.

“Billy, what’s the address?” Boldt asked hurriedly.

The dispatcher checked with the field agents and reported back.

Boldt signaled Locke like a conductor, and she repeated the address to the Ma Bell supervisor she had on the line. Within seconds, her pen was moving rapidly. She tore off the piece of paper and handed it to Boldt, who scanned it quickly and passed it to Billy, asking him to put them up on the screen. A minute later, six pink stars with a
T
in the middle appeared on the electronic map.

Over the course of the next few minutes, reports streamed in that the suspect was repeatedly attempting to start her car. During this time, Sheila Locke determined the physical locations of the pay phones according to their addresses: Two were behind the suspect in a McDonald’s and a Burger King, respectively; one was across and up the street in a strip mall; one each in a pair of competing gas stations nearly half a mile in front of her, near the interstate; and one in a booth adjacent to a bus stop not a hundred yards ahead.

Boldt instructed the trailing Tech Services van to set up with a view of both the Datsun and this bus-stop pay phone. Three minutes later, NetLinQ’s center screen showed a grainy black-and-white telephoto image of the sad-looking Datsun pulled awkwardly onto the shoulder of soft grass.

“Suspect is moving,” announced a male voice in the headset.

Boldt and Billy met eyes. Billy’s earlier doubt that had been present when Boldt elected to follow rather than apprehend was now gone, replaced instead by a confidence that bordered on admiration.

On the screen, the woman climbed out of the car, clearly disgusted. She looked both ways, trying to decide where to find a phone. Boldt silently urged her to head back toward the fast-food chains; he did not want her seeing the bus stop. But as if hearing him and going against his wishes, she elected to walk in the direction her car was headed.

Trying to consider every possibility, Boldt advised Locke, “Get in touch with the local bus service and find out their schedule. Any bus due at that stop in the next ten minutes we want detoured. Tell them we’ll want an empty bus on standby ten blocks back. And get the chopper back here. I may want a lift.” She scribbled all of this down. “And let’s see how many taxi companies cover that area. We’ll want our people in as the cabbies. And
no patrol cars
,” he emphasized. “I don’t want to see a patrol within ten blocks of that area.”