Middle Of Nowhere

   "We can take it. Or not." She added, "When you listen, when you do what's right, things have a way of working out. Maybe not this week or next, maybe not this year or next. We could be in for some challenges, individually or together. Who knows? But there comes a time when you look back and say: 'So that's why that happened like that.' I'm telling you—it happens every time."

   In-bound traffic had improved in the past few hours. He wasn't going to sleep; he knew that much. It seemed right to get into the office and continue probing the Sanchez case before his time was occupied with defending himself.

   His cell phone rang and he answered, "Boldt."

   It wasn't until he heard her voice that he remembered he owed Daphne a return call.

* * *

"Lou . . . Thank God," she said breathlessly.

   Flek crossed through the drizzle at a run, the six pack of beer held steady in his hands so he didn't shake the cans.

   She whispered frantically, "I'm with him, Lou: Flek! They traced his cell phone! Hang on! Don't hang up, even if you think I have."

   He popped open the car door and hurried behind the wheel, setting the six-pack of beer down between them. "Damn rain!" he said.

* * *

"Daffy?!" Boldt called out, hearing a man's voice in the background. A car sounded its horn from behind him— he had unintentionally slowed to forty miles an hour. He sped back up.

She said calmly, "So, I've caught a ride with a really

nice guy, and he's taking me clear in to Poulsbo to meet you, even though it's out of his way."

   "Poulsbo? You're with him!?" an incredulous Boldt asked her defiantly. Anger rose in him.

   Only then did he recall the message Liz had delivered—the phone call he had turned down. It seemed every time he turned around, he was to blame for something.

   "I know," she answered, reading from her own script, ignoring his. "It's really nice of him, isn't it?"

   "Poulsbo," Boldt whispered again into the phone. "It'll take me an hour or two to get there unless I can get one of the news choppers. Jesus, Daffy!" SPD no longer owned its own helicopter, but leased time from one of three news stations that ran traffic choppers.

   "Friends?" she said, still on her own script. "I thought it was just going to be the two of us. No . . . no . . . you can bring your friends if you want . . . I'd love to see them. No, it's fine. It'll be a great dinner. Bring them! I'm sure. . . . Really. . . . Okay. . . . See you in a few minutes. . . ."

   The call did not go dead; Boldt could hear the two voices, but at a distance. Daphne had apparently pretended to end the call, but had left the line open. Boldt drove with the phone pressed to his ear.

   Friends? Boldt thought. She wanted backup. She intended to collar Flek herself. Sanchez was her case, and she intended to clear it. Perhaps this was more about her being a police officer than a psychologist. But where in Poulsbo? When? How was Boldt supposed to orchestrate this from miles across the Sound without putting her at risk?

   He left the cellular phone line open still held to his ear and simultaneously used his car's police radio to ask Dispatch to place an emergency land line call to LaMoia's hospital room. He quickly explained Daphne's situation to the man, leaving out his own troubles. "I figured you, of all people," Boldt told him, "would know the best bar and restaurant in a place like Poulsbo. 'Cause I haven't got a clue where she's headed."

   "Give me five," LaMoia requested through a jaw wired shut.

   When the radio called his name a moment later, and Boldt acknowledged, LaMoia said, "The Liberty Bay Grill. It's the only game in town."

* * *

Flek popped two beers and handed Daphne hers. "Quicker than stopping," he said. "We're both in a hurry."

   "Yeah, thanks," she said, accepting the beer. She didn't like the taste of beer; if they had stopped for a drink it would have been red wine, a Pine Ridge Merlot or Archery Summit Pinot Noir, something above this dime store drool. She gagged some of it down for the sake of appearances.

   "Tell me about your brother," she said. "What was he like?"

   The wide car cut through the night following the road to Lemolo and Poulsbo. Flek downed half the beer before the first minute was up.

   The whirring of the tires was the only sound for the next few miles. The longer the silence, the more difficult. She sipped some beer.

   "He was the best," he said, as if the minutes had not passed.

   "The Black Hole," she said. "There are times you can't think. You can't sleep. You're not hungry."

   He looked a little surprised. He downed more of the beer.

   "Have you experienced that?" she asked. "Insomnia. Loss of appetite."

   "No appetite for food," he said, his eyes sparkling. "Other things . . . sure." He killed the beer and reached for another. Daphne had barely taken an inch out of her own can. She did the honors, popping the next for him.

   "You're not a cop, are you?"