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  a shared bath, or love-making on the couch with the kids asleep. Sometimes, nothing more than a look or a tone of voice. A long talk. They practiced mutual tolerance, mutual support; they limped through the challenges thrown up by daily life, sometimes overcoming, sometimes only surviving. But on this night he could feel Liz attempting to be tolerant and not entirely succeeding.

  “Call me in the morning,” she suggested, a little too quietly, but still gently.

  “Sure will.”

  “Maybe you can come over for eggs.”

  “Maybe so,” he replied.

  “You’ll keep working tonight,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t sound overjoyed about that. They said their good-byes and hung up. M

  With a monthly calendar laid out on the desk before him, Boldt charted the nine burglaries that seemed to have led up to Maria Sanchez’s tragedy. Sanchez—if part of that string—was number ten. Kawamoto, eleven. There was no particular day of the week to tie the events together, no exact hour, though all but the Sanchez crime had occurred during daylight; nor had there been a particular neighborhood. At first blush, a detective’s nightmare—circumstantial connections linking the crimes but lacking the hard evidence necessary to provide a trail to follow. Nonetheless, for Boldt the sim-M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E 77

  ilarities remained substantial enough to impress him. He believed all eleven were connected, even if it wouldn’t be easy to prove it. He had yet to discover how the burglar selected or targeted the homes—and this was, of course, of primary importance to the possible identification of a suspect. Certainly the residences had not been chosen at random—not since they were loaded with high-end electronics. The connection between these targets—an insurance provider? a security company?—eluded him, but remained a top priority. Or so he thought. Those priorities began to shift when he noticed a circled pair of initials on the top of one of the nine files. The initials crowded the box reserved for the investigating detective, for in this particular box two detectives had left their initials. The home belonged to a couple listed as Brooks-Gilman, living over in Queen Anne, a mitt-shaped neighborhood immediately north and west of downtown. The BrooksGilman case had been passed to a second detective, probably as a result of the Blue Flu. The circled initials were elegant and easily read:

  MS

  Maria Sanchez? he wondered, as he then noted the date on which the detective in question had accepted responsibility for the case. That date was just two days before the Sanchez assault. That exceeded the boundaries of acceptable coincidence. MS. Maria Sanchez. Had to be.

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  “Idon’t see what we’re after,” Daphnesaid,hurrying to keep up with Boldt as he ascended the hospital stairs.

  “Her connection to the Brooks-Gilman burglary investigation,” he answered.

  “I understand that much,” she said, a little miffed that he wouldn’t give her at least some credit. “I read the memo!” Boldt had circulated an interdepartmental E-mail requesting any information on all cases Sanchez had been working prior to her assault. “But how does that get us any closer to the thief? So she took over some cases after the walkout happened. We all did. So what?”

  Boldt didn’t answer her. Not one person had responded to his E-mail, again reminding him that the Flu had sympathizers still on the job. He felt disheartened, even defeated. Daphne matched strides with him in the long hallway. “Lou, she’s my case. It’s only right you tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Shoswitz said his boys would not appreciate any of us doing their work for them. The implication being pretty obvious.”

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  “We’re considered scabs,” she gasped, “just because we accept some assignment passed to us by Dispatch?”

  “Maybe Sanchez was. Maybe they got pissed off at her for crossing over into their department. The only way a strike is effective is when the work doesn’t get done. Maybe I got that brick through my window because I’m supposed to stay in Homicide, not take cases from other departments.”

  She mumbled, “So to make the strike effective, they intimidate us.”

  “Or worse,” he said.

  “Break her neck, strip her naked and tie her up?”

  she questioned. “Does that sound like cop against cop? I don’t buy that.”

  “Hey,” Boldt defended, “I’m not selling. I’m just investigating is all. Leaving open all possibilities.”

  “There’s a big difference between a brick through a window and what happened to Maria Sanchez.”

  “I don’t disagree with you,” Boldt said. “I’m just investigating is all.”

  They reached the door to Sanchez’s room and showed their badges to the hospital security guard posted outside. He carefully checked the IDs, then permitted them to go in. Sanchez’s condition had deteriorated since their first visit. The decline had manifested itself in her skin tone and in the proliferation of ICU equipment that was now attached to her. Daphne acknowledged her read of the situation with a grim look that told Boldt to proceed with caution.

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  Daphne stepped closer to the tangle of tubes and wires and said the patient’s name softly. Maria’s eyelids strained open, followed a moment later by recognition. Boldt’s overwhelming sense of concern momentarily prevented him from speaking. He felt painfully reminded that homicide cops rarely deal with the living.

  “We promise to come right to the point,” Boldt informed the patient, stepping closer, so he could meet her now haunted brown eyes.

  “Something has come up,” Daphne jumped in, “that requires clarification.”

  Sanchez’s eyes never left Boldt. He felt they somehow held him responsible, though he wasn’t sure for what. He knew that Sanchez somehow understood their visit was at his initiation, that the questions would come from him. And so she waited. She has no choice, he thought.

  “Are you okay to answer some questions?” Boldt asked.

  The eyelids closed and reopened, eyes looking right. How, he wondered, could something as simple as blinking one’s eyes become so labored and difficult? Boldt leaned closer. He could smell medication and hear the rhythmic efforts of the respirator. “Among your cases prior to your assault was the burglary of the Brooks-Gilman residence in Queen Anne.”

  “Yes,” she answered with an eyes-right. Boldt felt a slight flutter in his chest. The initials MS: Maria Sanchez.

  He asked, “Had you identified a suspect?”

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  “No,” came her reply, though clearly with great difficulty.

  “Lou,” Daphne said, correcting herself to, “Lieutenant. I think she’s too tired for this right now.”

  Boldt ignored Daphne, remaining focused on Sanchez. “Do you believe your assault had anything whatsoever to do with your investigation?”

  Maria clearly struggled. With her condition, or with the question? Boldt wondered. An exasperating thirty seconds passed before her eyes fell shut and then reopened. “Yes,” came the answer. But this was followed by a “no,” as well, and Boldt took to this to mean she didn’t know, couldn’t be sure.

  Boldt gasped.

  “Lou!” Daphne whispered sharply.

  “Had you made some progress on the case?” Boldt asked.

  Again Daphne attempted to stop him.

  The eyes blinked open: Yes.

  “But not a suspect,” he repeated for his own benefit, his mind racing, his connection with this woman nearly visceral. “Evidence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did others know about this possible evidence?” he queried.

  She paled another shade or two, if that were possible. Whatever the monitors were saying, Daphne didn’t like it.

  “You’re going to have a nurse in here in a minute,”

  M
atthews warned. “I’m asking you to stop.”

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  Boldt couldn’t stop. Not when he was so close. He asked, “Had you told anyone about this new evidence?”

  Sanchez stared at the ceiling. No eyelid movement. No answer. He heard footsteps, voices, and then the door swung open.

  But Boldt still didn’t give up. He leaned into Sanchez, getting as close to her as he could and asked, “Did you tell anyone who was out on strike that you were working a burglary case?” He added, “It’s extremely important to the investigation that I know this.”

  “That’s it!” Daphne announced, coming around the bed and taking Boldt by the arm. “Come on! We’re out of here before they throw us out.”

  “One more minute.”

  “Oh, my God,” he heard Daphne gasp.

  Boldt turned around to greet the nurse or doctor, unprepared for who had entered the room. The normally cool and collected Sergeant John LaMoia stood straight and rigid, as surprised as they were. “What are you doing here?” Boldt asked.

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  “She’s Hispanic,Sarge,”amachoLaMoiasaidcoolly as if this explained something.

  Boldt had bullied them into a nurse’s lounge for the sake of privacy. The room smelled of Danish and was lit like a supermarket. Two Dave Barry columns were taped to the wall by the microwave. Someone had scratched out a NO SMOKING sign and changed it to NO CHOKING.

  “It was a little overheated, in and out of bed.”

  “How long has it been going on?” Boldt asked. LaMoia shrugged.

  Boldt fumed. LaMoia manipulated the world around him in a way Boldt couldn’t, even if he wanted to. LaMoia got away with this kind of thing all the time. What you saw of LaMoia was what you got: pressed blue jeans, carefully coifed, brown curly hair that nearly reached to his shoulders, deerskin jacket, silver rodeo belt buckle, porcelain white smile, oversized mustache. And Attitude. He carried it in his walk, his posture, his dark eyes. His confidence surfaced behind a softspokenness. He was a hell of a cop. Somewhere between a fraternity brother and a war buddy for Boldt. A former prote´ge´ who took what he wanted from life, he’d made 84

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  himself the stuff of legend around Public Safety, both for his sexual prowess and his abilities as a detective. He’d disappointed Boldt greatly when he’d called in sick at the start of the Flu.

  Women found the package appealing, something Boldt would never fully understand. The Attitude accounted for some of it, but not as much as people believed. Boldt thought it was more the man’s soft brown eyes and the vulnerability they often expressed—puppy eyes, pure and simple. Maria Sanchez had fallen. She wouldn’t be the last.

  “I heard Bobbie Socks was asking around about her squeeze,” LaMoia offered. He meant Gaynes. “I think you can take the squeeze off your list of suspects, Sarge. You’re looking at him.”

  He continued to refer to Boldt by the man’s former rank, the same rank LaMoia now wore. Like a coach and a player, these two had a history that promotions couldn’t ruffle and others couldn’t explain.

  “If you felt anything for her at all, you’d have come back on the job,” Boldt complained. “What’s that about?”

  “I came up through the front seat of a radio car, Sarge. I still drink beer with the guys wearing unis. Hit balls at batting practice with them. My name’s on the guild roster. The chief is wrong about this. I gotta stand up for that. You can see that, can’t you?”

  “You and Sanchez. How long?” Boldt repeated, knowing they could argue the Blue Flu all night long. M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E

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  “We’ve been seeing each other about a month now.”

  Although the department didn’t expressly forbid relationships between officers, it discouraged them. No

  “involved” officers could work the same division and were more often exiled to separate precincts, sometimes having their careers destroyed in the process. The credo “Personal lives do not mix with police lives” hung on the lips of every superior.

  “And how long were you going to sit on this relationship?”

  “I’m here, and I’m talking. Right?”

  Daphne snorted. “We caught you!” She said, “A lot of good you’re doing Maria on the sidelines.”

  “Maybe I’m doing more than you think,” LaMoia said.

  “Working the cop bars for information, I suppose,”

  she offered derisively.

  “Anybody angry at her about her dating a gringo?”

  Boldt asked.

  “I knew you were going to ask that! God damn it, Sarge!”

  “Family? Fellow officers?” In a city with a large population of Asians, Hispanics seemingly suffered under extreme prejudice. Tensions flared on the force between uniforms from time to time. Boldt didn’t want to face the possibility that Sanchez’s assault might have been racially or relationship motivated—a hate crime—

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  “Nothing like that,” LaMoia promised. “Besides, we kept it quiet. Neither of us wanted a transfer across town.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “This is me, Sarge.”

  “That’s why I’m asking,” Boldt said. LaMoia made trouble for himself. From captains to meter maids, he’d made the rounds, suffering suspensions and reprimands. Miraculously, he had not only kept his badge, but had managed to advance to squad sergeant in the face of rumor, innuendo, and outright scandal. Boldt had managed to keep LaMoia’s affair with Captain Sheila Hill quiet, or LaMoia would have been forced off Boldt’s CAPers squad. Both Hill and LaMoia owed him for that. Boldt rarely collected on such debts, though right now he felt tempted to pressure LaMoia back onto the force.

  Boldt said, “So let me ask you this: You know anything about this burglary investigation she was working?” LaMoia twitched, belying his outward calm. Boldt knew he had scored. “John?” Boldt inquired. LaMoia maintained eye contact with Boldt. Something begged to be spoken but did not reach the sergeant’s lips. Standing from his chair, LaMoia said, “You two take care of yourselves,” and hurried from the room. Boldt called after him, but his voice fell upon deaf ears.

  “What was that?” Daphne asked, a tinge of fear in her voice.

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  “He knows something about Sanchez but is afraid to tell us,” Boldt whispered, wondering once again if Liz and the kids were safe, even tucked away miles from home. John LaMoia wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone, so why the sudden change in attitude?

  C H A P T E R

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  Anthony Brumewell struggled through another dinner alone. When the phone rang, the balding man was in the middle of eating some seashell pasta and broccoli in a pool of yogurt and butter covered with packaged parmesan—plastic cheese, he called it—and drinking from a can of Lite beer. Reading the Seattle Times’ sports page, he cursed in the general direction of the phone as it rang. Annoyed, he nonetheless stood up and answered: He didn’t get all that many calls, after all.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Anthony Brumewell?”

  “Speaking. Who is this?” He tentatively identified the call as a phone solicitation, a spike of indignation welling up and working toward boil. Didn’t call me Tony, he thought. Other voices in the background. Keyboards clicking.

  The words of the man on the other end were rushed though clearly, carefully rehearsed. “I’m calling on behalf of Consolidated Mutual Insurance, Mr. Brumewell. Before you hang up, you should know that, without obligation, we’re offering you two free tickets to the movie of your choice—”

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  Anthony Brumewell considered himself a film buff, even if he mostly saw these films by himself. Did two free tickets mean two different films, or two tickets to th
e same film? This meant a world of difference to him, and he assumed the latter, which accounted for the receiver heading back for the cradle, the salesman’s voice barely audible through the tiny earphone. He stopped himself from hanging up. . . . two free tickets to the movie of your choice.

  “Two tickets to one film,” he asked, “or one ticket to two films? And you should know there’s a big difference to me.”

  “However you would like to use the tickets,” the salesman answered.

  The man had won another minute of his time. “Go ahead, I’m listening,” he said. In fact, he was holding the receiver an inch away from his ear, as if this represented less commitment on his part.

  “At the end of this phone call Consolidated Mutual will guarantee a fifteen percent reduction when compared to your current homeowner’s policy. Absolutely guaranteed! ”

  “The tickets. And I got to warn you, I’m this close to hanging up on you.”

  “Two free tickets at any Pantheon theater, arranged electronically for pickup at the theater’s new automated ticket teller for the movie—or movie s—of your choice, at the time of your choice, on the day of your choice.”

  “Two free tickets. Two different films.” Brumewell made it a statement.

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  “Yes. Absolutely, yes!”

  “Any Pantheon theater?”

  “One second here. . . .” Brumewell heard the sound of a keyboard even louder—his salesman was typing.

  “Seattle. . . . Wallingford. . . . I’m showing eleven Pantheon theaters in three different locations within ten miles of your residence.”

  “I’m aware of the Pantheon theater chain,” Brumewell said knowingly, wanting the idiot on the other end to get to the point. He eyed his cooling seashells and briefly thought about the fact that these phone solicitation people knew too much about you and used it against you at every turn. “Could I use the tickets as early as tonight?”