The Lineup Page 29

  “And if not?” LaMoia said.

  “What are the chances that any four or five cops would risk their careers for one person? Phil Shoswitz or no Phil Shoswitz. Never mind that Phil was drunk when he allegedly took that money—never mind that it was his one and only gaffe in all those years of service. Are you going to tell me that four officers would put themselves at risk like that?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Because it’s absurd. Feldman’s on drugs.”

  “But he took the case.”

  “Of course he took the case. He’d give anything to bring me down. Had to be him.”

  “And if it hadn’t been?”

  “But it was. No one else in I.I. had the personal motivation he did.”

  “But if it hadn’t been?” LaMoia pressed.

  “You let me know if they contact you. I don’t think there’s much chance of that, but I need to know the minute you hear anything.”

  “Will do.”

  “I’m going to your place now. I need an hour.”

  LaMoia looked at Boldt, but the lieutenant only stared out at the chop and the ferry’s slow progress.

  “How often does it feel like that?” Boldt asked. “Push like hell, get nowhere.”

  “Name of the game.”

  “You going to ask me why?” Boldt asked.

  “You and her? No. Should I?”

  “Most guys would.”

  “And since when am I most guys?” LaMoia asked.

  They both watched the ferry’s effort.

  “Listen,” LaMoia said. “It’s a three-legged dog at the moment. Her and me. And the kid. I could lie and tell you otherwise, but that’s the truth. If I was a betting man… ”

  “And you’re telling me this because?”

  “Because I’m not stupid, Sarge.”

  LaMoia had called him that for too long to switch. Boldt would never be a lieutenant in his eyes.

  “You two… ” LaMoia said. “Liz must feel the same way I do at least some of the time.”

  “And how’s that?”

  “Like I’m watching from the sidelines.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “No, it’s not,” LaMoia said. “She’s gotten me into those old movies. And the one thing I’ve come to understand is that some actors have this chemistry, this thing between them. You feel it, whatever it is. It’s like a magnetic field or something. Like some kind of light the camera doesn’t actually catch, but it’s still there.” He paused to wipe his nose and clean his mustache. “You two are like that.”

  “That’s B.S.”

  “It’s not. Maybe you don’t feel it the way I do. Maybe neither of you do. Maybe you’ve lived so long with it that you’re used to it. How should I know? Maybe you’re hosing me. I sure as shit hope not, because I’d hope by now the two of us have more respect for each other than that.”

  “I’ve got to tell her things, John. I’ve got to explain things, including the possible fraternization charges. I think this mess… I think something just kind of popped in me that some things have got to be explained,” Boldt said.

  “The two of you live in no-man’s-land. I don’t know how you do it. She’s with me. Sort of. But she’s never left you.”

  “She was never with me.”

  “Try telling her that.”

  “You and her. It’s been, what? A year. More than a year.”

  “And we’re happy. We’re friends. Good friends. Absolutely. But best friends? Listen, I’m infatuated. Hook, line, and sinker. Honest to God, I could take some cabin on a lake with her and never come back. I’m in. All the chips. And of course it’s the one and only time I’ve felt like that—and of course it’s never going to happen. I think, when you’ve had my kind of history with the opposite sex… I think something like this is bound to happen.”

  “It’s called irony, John.”

  “It’s called bad luck, Sarge. You go to her. You say whatever you have to say. But I’d be less than honest if I told you it’ll sit all right with me. Because it won’t. The kid’s in play. We come up for review on that pretty soon. My gut says we won’t be allowed to keep the kid, but my heart—and this is me talking, don’t forget—wants it more than anything.”

  “Kids don’t hold a marriage together. If anything they challenge it in ways you can’t imagine.”

  “But I can imagine. It’s been a year, like you said. I’m not expecting miracles.”

  “They asked me about my past,” Boldt said. “They made me relive all sorts of stuff that I’d forgotten. Phil. Daphne. You and Bobbie. How it all came together.”

  “And how it damn near came apart.”

  “And something about that made me realize I had to speak my piece. To each of you.”

  “You call this speaking your piece to me?”

  “You? No. I’m not ready for you.”

  “There’s some kind of order? A line?” LaMoia looked around at the grass blowing all around them. “That’s precious.”

  “In my head there is.”

  “I always wondered what was in there,” LaMoia said. “Lines, huh?”

  Boldt stopped a smile from forming. He checked the ferry again, surprised at how steadily it moved across the strait. It had made great progress.

  “Do what you gotta do,” LaMoia said.

  “It isn’t what you’re thinking. It’s nothing like that. It’s about explaining the past, not making up a future.”

  “And that’s the first time I’ve breathed in the past five minutes.”

  Boldt couldn’t stop the smile; it exposed him. “I’m going to the Joke later. Play some piano. If you come by, drinks are on me.”

  “Are we celebrating?”

  “Feels like we should, don’t you think?”

  “What would we be celebrating?”

  Boldt said nothing.

  “What if they dig up that Gaines studied film for two years of college? What if they find out that what that really meant was two years of working in video?”

  “Do you really think anyone would ever believe that four officers would all risk their careers for any one person?” Boldt asked again.

  “That would be stupid.”

  “Incredibly stupid.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “Absurd.”

  The ferry was nearly out of sight. A small speck spitting a trail of white foam.

  “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Boldt said.

  “Do you love her?” LaMoia asked. His eyes were moist as he blew his nose again.

  Boldt wondered if the wind was doing that to his eyes. He placed a hand on the shoulder of LaMoia’s deerskin jacket and gripped firmly. LaMoia continued looking out across the water. He would not turn his head.

  Boldt squeezed once more, then headed toward the Crown Vic, fighting off a chill he couldn’t seem to beat.

  ANNE PERRY

  Anne Perry was born in 1938 in Blackheath, London. She endured several illnesses while young and was unable to attend all but a few years of school. Largely educated at home, she was aided by a deep affection for reading. She has lived in various parts of the world, including the Bahamas, a small island off the coast of New Zealand, and Southern California. She took the name of her stepfather, becoming Anne Perry—not a pseudonym but her legal name. Her first book, The Cater Street Hangman, was published in 1979. In addition to the novels featuring Thomas Pitt and his wife, Charlotte, Miss Perry has produced a bestselling series featuring William Monk, novels set during World War I, Christmas novellas, and several stand-alone works. The author of more than fifty books, she lives in northern Scotland.

  CHARLOTTE AND THOMAS PITT

  BY ANNE PERRY

  I would like you to tell me as much as you can about Thomas Pitt,” Naylor said respectfully.

  “Really?” Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould raised her silver eyebrows in surprise. She had considered the possibility that Naylor might come to her, and then dismissed it. She did not often make mistakes. Sh
e had survived Victorian society dazzlingly, as one of Europe’s greatest beauties and, far more important, as a woman of passion and courage who dared to say what she thought. She had reached an age that she no longer cared to name in this year of our Lord 1912.

  “And why is that, Sir Peter?” she inquired.

  “Matters in Europe are becoming most grave,” Naylor replied. “We need a man of extraordinary abilities at the head of our Intelligence Services in this country. The prime minister is considering Mr. Pitt, but there are those who speak against him, primarily the king himself. We cannot afford to be wrong, now of all times.”

  A flicker of amusement moved Vespasia’s lips, but it was not untouched by sadness. She knew quite as well as Peter Naylor how darkly the future loomed.

  “Thomas Pitt has been one of my friends for thirty years. Do you trust me to have an unbiased opinion?” she asked.

  “I trust you to tell me the truth, Lady Vespasia,” he replied. “You understand human nature, and the politics of Europe, therefore you know what must lie ahead. And if you are fond of Thomas Pitt, then you will not wish to see him in a position of leadership for which he is unqualified. It would be not only a disservice to your country, it would be a tragic end to his, so far, highly distinguished career. And I do not use the word tragic lightly or melodramatically.”

  “I know,” she answered him. “It may be offensive to underrate a man; it is the ultimate cruelty to overrate him. What is it you wish to know? I assume you already have a history of his cases?”

  “I do, for what it is worth. The details are open to interpretation.”

  “And you have spoken with Pitt himself?”

  “Of course. That is why I need your estimation all the more. The man is an enigma to me, a Gordian knot of contradictions.”

  She waited for him to continue, sitting motionless in her ivory silk gown, her back still straight, a cascade of pearls almost to her waist, her throat and wrists masked in lace. There was a gold lorgnette on the small table beside her, but either she did not require it in order to see him or she was not sufficiently interested in the details of his appearance to use it.

  Since she was apparently not going to prompt him, he continued. “He sounds like a gentleman, his diction is perfect and his vocabulary wide, yet he looks… ” He hesitated.

  “As if he had dressed in the dark, in someone else’s clothes,” she supplied. “And quite obviously not found a hairbrush. And yet I have never seen him unshaven.”

  “Quite. Can you explain it?”

  “With ease. His father was a gamekeeper on Sir Arthur Desmond’s estate. Desmond’s own son was young Thomas’s age, a charming boy but lazy. Sir Arthur decided to educate them together, as a spur to his son, at least to exceed the gamekeeper’s boy in academic achievement, if not in sportsmanship.”

  Naylor smiled. “And did he?”

  “No. I believe in neither respect. Pitt excelled beyond young Desmond in intelligence, and lagged behind him in athleticism, and barely knew or cared about one end of a horse from the other. However, he was a good shot, I believe.”

  Naylor smiled again. “All that would explain his speech and his apparent education. Still, he has never forgotten his humble origins, to judge from his manner, and a certain… ” He stopped, clearly not wishing to offend her.

  She allowed him to fumble. She was quite aware of what he meant, but she was not going to assist him.

  “Attitude of mind, an ordinariness,” he finished lamely.

  Naylor knew she was amusing herself, but he also knew that she would not let him leave without all the information he needed, honest to the last word and beyond, even to the unsaid implication.

  “Part of him never left the servants’ quarters,” he said, watching her face. “And yet it is not a lack of ambition which holds him there. And I am certain beyond any doubt whatever that it is not an innate respect for those who might consider themselves his ‘betters.’ Will you tell me what it is, or do I have to guess?”

  The amusement was there on her face again. “His father was accused of poaching—not on Desmond’s land but on that of his immediate neighbor. He was found guilty, wrongly, Pitt believed. So did Desmond himself, but there was nothing he could do. It was an old feud, and Pitt’s father paid for it. He was transported to Australia. It was the time when we still did that.”

  “I see.” Naylor nodded, tight-lipped. “Yes, that explains much. His passion for justice no doubt stems from that time. And perhaps a knowledge that it does not always prevail. Yes, that would explain why he worries a case to the last degree. He may see in every accused man the shadow of his father.”

  “You are being too clever, Sir Peter,” Vespasia corrected. “As a young man that may have been true. He is in his sixties now, and has seen too much of life to be so full of dreams. He knows that very little is so simple as that would suggest.”

  “I thought him something of an idealist.” He was not quite contradicting her, but he was certainly questioning her estimation.

  “A man with ideals,” she corrected him mildly. “It is not the same thing. He is a realist who has never lost hope, a man who has made enough mistakes to forgive those of others, knowing that a great many of them will inevitably be repeated.”

  Something in Naylor’s face pinched with a shadow of disappointment. “A compassionate man,” he observed. “Others said that of him.”

  “Compassionate,” she agreed. “Not indecisive, Sir Peter. What I believe you are asking me is, will he have the strength to make harsh and unpopular decisions, or act against those he may still pity. Are you afraid that he is too eager to please his social superiors to risk making a decision that will displease them? Or perhaps he is like the man driving one of those new motors towards the cliff edge, so balanced in judgment that he can see the virtues of turning to the left so equally with those of turning to the right that he cannot choose for either and ends in going into the abyss. He is of the servant class by birth, Sir Peter, and far too practical for such a piece of stupidity.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” he conceded. “But servant class, all the same. Might that not make him too easily swayed to give respect where regrettably it is not due?”

  This time she laughed outright, a rich, happy sound of pure delight. “My dear young man”—he was close to fifty but seemed very young to her—“if you imagine that our servants are blind to our faults or our weaknesses, then you are utterly naive. I’m sure your valet treats you with the utmost respect, but do not forget that he has seen you at your most vulnerable and most absurd.” She ignored his blushes, although she may have been well aware of the kind of incident he was recalling with such embarrassment. “He may be very fond of you,” she continued. “But it is not a blind affection. On the contrary, it is probably more clear-eyed than that of your wife. And you may be certain she thinks a great deal that she is far too tactful to say.”

  At this point he felt very young indeed, and at a considerable disadvantage. Had he not been directed by the prime minister himself to obtain this information from Lady Vespasia, he would have excused himself stiffly and left.

  Vespasia was still smiling at him. “It was Pitt’s very painful decision in a certain matter some years ago which rescued His Majesty when he was still Prince of Wales. It was a situation which might well have cost him the throne—indeed have cost England its monarchy. Instead it earned Pitt the undying enmity of the king. Queen Alexandra will confirm what I say. Thomas Pitt may agonize over a decision, but he will make it according to his conscience, not according to orders, favors, or threats. That is something you may wish to consider both for him and against him. But he will place his duty to his country first, which I believe is what you are asking me?”

  “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “I suppose I am. But he is fallible!”

  “Of course,” she agreed. “And occasionally stubborn. He knows a good painting when he sees one, from his time in the Metropolitan Police when he investigated the thefts o
f art from the homes of the wealthy. He is particularly fond of land- and seascapes, and pictures of cows. That is because he has a deep love of the land. He was too close to it in childhood to be sentimental about it. He knows it is full of little deaths; he chooses not to think of them.

  “He loves poetry, because he loves language and ideas, but he might as well have ears of cloth as far as great music is concerned. I have watched him suffer a form of torture, having no choice in courtesy but to sit through an entire ballet and pretend that he was not bored to tears by it. It is to his credit that he almost succeeded. The transfixed look on his face was mistaken for rapture. He was invited to go again, and I was obliged, out of pity, to rescue him.”

  “His manners are not of concern to us,” Naylor admitted graciously. “And we will do something so he does not look as if he has dressed out of the ragbag.”

  “I doubt that,” Vespasia replied. “His wife has tried for a quarter of a century and not made the slightest difference that I have observed.”

  “Ah, yes, his wife. I shall come to her in due course. The clothes may be addressed later, if necessary. To more delicate subjects.” He looked at her gravely. “All men have weaknesses. Please do not be evasive out of kindness, Lady Vespasia. I ask because I require to know. I cannot protect a man—and believe me, he will have enemies—unless I know where his vulnerabilities lie, the points at which he may be betrayed from within, manipulated by the unscrupulous, or threatened by the ruthless. The safety of our nation may come to lie in his hands.”

  “I am quite aware of why you ask, Sir Peter,” she told him. “His family is his greatest strength and his greatest weakness, which is perhaps true of all of us. We can be reached most wildly and dangerously through what we love.”

  Naylor bit his lip. “He has a son, Daniel, and a daughter, Jemima, I believe. Daniel is at university, studying medicine, and Jemima has just married an American.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “If you are considering that that may be a problem,” she answered, “then you know something unfortunate of Anglo-American relations that I do not. Many of our great families have married Americans, to their benefit. The Churchills and the Astors, to name but two.”