Middle of Nowhere (22 page)

“Partially trained cadets promoted to uniform; uniforms to plainclothes,” Boldt complained. “It’s a circus. No one knows what the hell they’re doing. And they’re all acting like they won the lottery, for Christ’s sake.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” LaMoia said. “You wanted it over, Sarge. Krishevski will be gone by the end of the day. Everyone wanted this thing over. Once you’ve seen all the
Seinfelds
twice—”

“I feel more like a schoolteacher than a lieutenant.”

LaMoia grinned and said, “We got more members of our unit back than any other division. That’s what I hear.”

“Thirteen shields out of seventeen.” Disappointed. He had wanted them all back.

“Yeah, well, those other four? Poor, poor pitiful
them,”
he said, intentionally misquoting a Warren Zevon song. LaMoia was Zevon’s biggest fan.

Boldt recognized that cocky grin of LaMoia’s. With no less than a dozen active cases on the desks of every returning detective, including his sergeant’s, this wasn’t a social call. “So give it up,” Boldt suggested.

“I made some calls,” the man confirmed proudly. “It isn’t insurance fraud,” LaMoia said, knowingly disappointing his boss. “And I tried everything I could think of, in terms of trying to connect the vics to each other . . . in terms of trying to determine how our boy is picking them as targets. Their finances came up blank. No overlaps I could see. Mind you, it’s a quick pass, and not all my calls have been returned. There may still be something there. A gas station they all used. A department store. Some one place they all shared in common.”

“Then why that look?” Boldt asked.

“What look?” LaMoia asked, offering the look again.

“Are you going to chortle over there all day, or you going to tell me what you have?”

“Who says I have anything?”

“John—”

“It’s not exactly convincing evidence, Sarge. It’s a connection, is all.” He added confidently, teasing the man, “Sure, maybe even
the
connection we’re looking for, but not something you can take to Shoswitz or Hill.”

Boldt elected not to speak, not to engage the man. LaMoia would drag this out as long as he could, would make Boldt beg, if possible.

“The silent treatment?”

Boldt said nothing. He offered only a lazy-eyed stare.

“Okay. . . . Okay. You wanted me to work the insurance angle. So I did like you asked. A decent idea worth pursuing. But it came back blank, as I said. Zip. Zero. And then I catch the unexpected, and I’m thinking, ‘Well, maybe not exactly zero.’“ He waited for Boldt to react, but the man remained as patient as a fisherman.

At that point it became a contest, and Boldt finally gave in. “Caught what?”

“Lucky as hell I did catch it, because it wasn’t anything I was looking for. You know? You know how that is, Sarge? You’re looking so damned hard for that missing red shoe that you overlook something way more important. Something right there in front of you. A knife . . . a gun . . . I don’t know . . .”

“John—”

“A name is all,” LaMoia said. “Of the nine burglary vics, three of them had switched their household policies in the weeks prior to the break-ins. All three to the same company, Consolidated Mutual.”

Boldt sat forward. “Three of the nine had switched insurance carriers.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Yes.”

“New policies.”

“Yes.”

“Bigger policies?”

“No. Not a one of them. It’s not that,” LaMoia said. “It’s not fraud—it’s just that switch.”

“A salesman. Maybe door to door,” Boldt speculated. “He gets a look inside. He picks his targets.”

“More what I was thinking. Yes.” LaMoia said, “Maybe he’s in as partners, maybe just sells the info to our burglar and lets him take it from there. But it’s a connection, something that ties one to the other, and either way, we’ve got to chat up this company.”

“Consolidated Mutual,” Boldt repeated.

“Not actually,” LaMoia corrected. “Something called Newmann Communications. They’re out of Denver.”

Boldt scribbled down the name. He knew that look: LaMoia had rolled over a large rock.

“Our problem is that it never showed up on any of the burglary reports,” LaMoia stated obliquely. Again Boldt waited him out rather than feed the flames. LaMoia asked, “You spoke to this Helen Brooks-Gilman, Sarge. And to Kawamoto. Did either happen to mention a pair of free movie tickets?”

Boldt asked sarcastically, “Are you on some kind of medication?”

“How about phone solicitations?”

Brooks-Gilman had in fact mentioned phone solicitations, though it had been nothing more than a denigrating comment about the intrusion upon their privacy. She’d said something about how those were the people who should be arrested. He thought he also recalled Kawamoto saying something similar to him. “Phone solicitations?” Boldt queried.

“You check the phone logs at Newmann Communications, my guess is you’ll find out that that’s what all the burglary victims shared in common: they all received phone solicitations from Newmann. Several chose to up their insurance coverage; others cashed in on free movie tickets. It’s the linkage, Sarge. It’s how they were targeted. So tell me what you’re really thinking,” LaMoia said, crossing his arms and leaning back. “Tell me how fucking great it is to have me back on the job.”

S
queezed by Seattle’s prosecuting attorney, Newmann Communications found itself facing the possibility of a federal investigation into interstate fraud if it failed to cooperate with Seattle PD.

With the Sanchez case still belonging to Matthews, she and Boldt were dispatched to Denver to confirm the role of a phone solicitation campaign in the string of burglaries and, if possible, identify the particular employee responsible for tipping off the burglar back in Seattle on which homes to hit.

Hoping they might accomplish the task in a single day, both Boldt and Matthews nonetheless packed overnight bags and booked hotel rooms, believing two, or even three days more likely. Police work rarely went off like clockwork.

Newmann Communications occupied a four-office suite in a mud-colored cement block building that housed KSPK, a conservative talk radio station, and Irving’s Red Hots, a diner featuring hot dogs. The sausage odors fouled the building.

The employment flyers in the firm’s reception lobby—a room that reminded Boldt of a department store changing room—gave away its game—Earn Money While Staying At Home! Internet Opportunities, Retail Management, Adult Entertainment. Printed on green construction paper, the small flyers fit well in the human palm—perfect as handouts on downtown sidewalks and college campuses.

Phillip Rathborne listed President/CEO on his office door. The oily scalp, bad complexion, and knock-off Armani suit suggested a man in his forties or early fifties, but the degree on the wall from North Florida Junior College put his graduation just six years earlier, meaning he had not yet crossed thirty. The office tried too hard to imply money but reminded Boldt instead of a room found in a truck stop motel with a heart-shaped bath. The clock, phone and desk lamp had been bought through the Sharper Image catalog, but the desk was granite veneer, chipped at the edges, and the jungle plant in the corner needed a serious vacuuming. The computer looked authentic—its monitor screen was large enough to be a window, something the office lacked; the screen saver played images of fairways at Pebble Beach and Augusta.

Boldt was all business. “You received a call from the Colorado Department of Justice,” he began. Boldt had called the office and had been informed that the count had increased: Seven of the nine burglary victims recalled the phone solicitation offering free movie tickets and had accepted the offer. Lawsuits seemed certain to follow. Newmann Communications could anticipate leniency in return for cooperation. Boldt expected nothing less.

“I did,” Rathborne confirmed. The man seemed preoccupied with Daphne’s silence and her intense beauty, a common enough occurrence. Useful to interrogations, her looks could be used as a means of distraction. She wore a scarf to hide the neck scar where a knife had cut her a few years before, and a blouse buttoned to the top. The less skin the better—unless she needed something from someone. Her job this time around was to play the silent, powerful type. When she finally chose to speak, she would be the more difficult of the two, leaving Rathborne surprised that ice could flow from such heat.

“And they suggested you cooperate.”

“They did.” The man had the annoying habit of wincing or grinning after every comment, expressions that somehow did not belong on his face, like those obscene reproductions of the Mona Lisa that change the smile.

“You run pay-per-call numbers out of here,” Boldt said, indicating the flyer in his hand. “Area code nine hundred numbers.” He wanted the man on his heels, wanted him thinking in the wrong direction. “Stroke lines?”

“Adult entertainment. All perfectly legal.”

“I don’t see any phone banks.”

“The beauty of technology, Lieutenant. Our sales representatives operate out of their own homes for the most part. Through a computerized switching terminal we receive and reroute all calls.”

“College coeds?” Boldt asked.

“Housewives, mostly.” He waited for Boldt’s shock to register. “The woman moaning on the other end of the phone is doing her ironing in front of the television half the time. Cooking dinner. Playing solitaire on the computer. It’s all about role playing, Lieutenant. The men call to be turned on, and to hear what they don’t hear at home.”

“At eight dollars a minute,” Boldt pointed out.

“Supply and demand.”

“And the Internet site?” a repulsed Boldt inquired.

“Some soft porn shots,” he said, directing this at Daphne, “to get the juices going. Our nine hundred numbers are promoted there. Someone wants to hear a human voice. For a credit card number, the photos go video and get a hell of a lot hotter. We grossed sixty thousand last fiscal quarter off the site alone. Wave of the future.”

“The Pantheon theater group?” Daphne asked.

“We handle a wide range of telemarketing needs for our corporate customers. Special promotions, like the Consolidated/Pantheon campaign; travel reservations; catalog sales. Our rate sheet is typically about forty percent less than our competitors, and our service just as good if not better. Keeps business brisk.”

“Lower labor costs?” she asked.

“Look around. Low overhead translates to customer savings.”

“Housewives again?”

Rathborne affected that same grimace. “Telemarketing campaigns are much more difficult to facilitate because of the need for networked computers and a shared database. If we used isolated individuals for the telemarketing, the technology requirements would kill us. No, we subcontract. In the case of Consolidated, they’re working strictly off demographics. The computers target households based on income and real estate value. The sales rep sees a name, phone number and address on his or her screen. It’s slick. Consolidated Insurance owns the Pantheon theater chain. They’ve installed these new electronic ticket kiosks nationally and wanted to use this campaign as a synergistic way to introduce their targeted insurance sales customers to their theater chain simultaneously. It was my idea, actually, and we’ve hit a home run, I’m happy to say.”

“Subcontract?” Daphne pressed. “To whom?”

“The justice department didn’t tell you?” Rathborne asked Boldt. “I assumed that was why you were here. You’re Washington State, right? I thought you were looking to model our system out there in Washington . . . something like that. The state benefits as much as we do.”

Daphne said, “Nothing like that. We’re Crimes Against Persons. We’re working an assault investigation—”

“Now wait a minute here!” the man objected, slipping out of his corporate image. “No one said anything about this. I was told you’d have some questions for me about the Consolidated Mutual campaign,” the man said. “I assumed—”

“We have no intention of charging you,” Boldt said quickly, “nor anyone else at Newmann Communications. It’s more than likely one or two of your employees—these subcontracted sales reps—that we’re interested in.”

Daphne suggested, “You may have a bad apple.”

Another waft of frankfurter-and-mustard invaded the space. Boldt felt sick to his stomach. He clarified, “We would like to speak to this subcontractor. You put us in touch with him and we’re out of here.”

Daphne repeated, “We have no intention of involving your company in any of this, as long as you cooperate.”

“It’s all about labor costs—this business. All about putting people on one end of a telephone. The automated programs suck. And Denver? In this boom? You try finding people willing to work on commission.”

Daphne inquired, “What are you trying to tell us? All we need is the name of the subcontractor on the Consolidated Insurance campaign.”

“I don’t understand why they didn’t tell you when you talked to them,” an irritated Rathborne said. “We’ve used them for three years now. Never once had a problem.”

“When we talked to whom?” Daphne pressed. “Consolidated passed us on to
you.”