Middle Of Nowhere

   "Write it down," Daphne told the suspect, as she took Boldt by the elbow and pulled him to her side. They didn't need the arrest going south because of abuse. She needed to get him out of there.

   The kid picked up the pen and aimed it and the pad of paper at Daphne. "You write down that you'll go lightly on me if I help you with that girl, because that other one, it wasn't mine, wasn't me. This bitch cop. No way. Granny knots? Fucking things never hold."

   She turned the pad around yet again. "Last chance. If we step away from this, who do you think will give you another one?"

   The kid hunched forward and started to write.

* * *

Standing by Boldt's Chevy, Daphne kept to her thoughts.

   "You're mad," Boldt offered. "My pushing him around."

   "Surprised. More like something John would do."

   "He shouldn't have spoken to you that way."

   "We've heard worse," she reminded.

   "I'm losing the edge," he suggested. "Is that what you're saying?"

   "He didn't do Sanchez," she stated. "That's all that matters."

   "You believe that?" he said, a little surprised.

   "Yes."

   "So do I," he added. Almost a whisper. A shudder passing through him. "Oh, God," he mumbled.

   "Yes. I know what you mean." She headed down the line of parked cars to her Honda.

   His pager sounded. Another first-degree burglary. Just his luck.

C H A P T E R

7

"Minor injuries, L.T. Nothing to worry about," Gaynes informed Boldt. The same could be said about Liz's injuries, but Boldt wasn't buying. It all came down to perspective. Worry, he did. Behind Gaynes, EMTs closed up the back of a private ambulance. "Vic's name is Cathy Kawamoto. Single. Lives alone. Sound familiar?"

   Boldt didn't want this. Didn't need it. Not another. They were attending their second burglary/assault in as many days. Gaynes had drawn lead on the case, courtesy of the Blue Flu and Dispatch's current lottery system of assigning the first available detective who answered his or her phone. He told her about the interrogation, about losing the connection between Carmichael and Sanchez.

   "So we clear one," she said, "and the other heads for a black hole."

   "Do not say that," Boldt scolded. Gaynes suggested he head inside while she caught back up to the ambulance driver for a final word. Boldt seized the chance to see the crime scene for himself.

   A burglary assault committed in the middle of the day. Technically a violent crime, minor injuries or not. The Blue Flu was lending the criminal element courage. While the cat's away, the mice do play. Bright sunshine broke loose from behind quickly moving dark clouds, the wind steady and warm. Summer struggled to be rid of spring. Boldt struggled to be rid of the Sanchez crime scene; he didn't want one influencing the other, but it proved almost inescapable. What he wanted was some good, solid evidence. Something valuable. Something to kick this thing in the butt and help get someone behind bars. Before another. Before the press descended like locusts. Before the looming black hole of Sanchez's unsolved case widened.

   "What do we have?" he asked sharply of the first officer, a young woman who, judging by her crisp uniform and pronounced nervousness, was more than likely one of the police academy trainees temporarily promoted to patrol. Her quick-footed effort to keep pace with him, and a strained voice that cracked when attempting a reply, belied the stiff shoulders and confident chin. This stop-gap action taken by the chief to maintain a patrol-level presence on the streets had been written up in the press and condemned in the Public Safety coffee lounges. If a minimum number of uniforms could not be mobilized, the governor had threatened, or promised (depending which side of the argument one took), National Guard troops and curfews—political disaster for the mayor. But so-called "freshies" had no place behind the wheel of a cruiser, or as first officer at any crime scene, much less on an as sault. For all his experience and wisdom, this new chief was out of his mind.

   "Single female."

   "I've got that," he said. Impatience nibbled at the center of his chest. He needed some basic information, but he longed to be left alone with the crime scene.

   "Living with a sister who stays here every couple weeks."

   "Didn't have that," Boldt admitted. "The scene?"

   "Exterior doors all found locked."

   He interrupted, "You're sure?" This information registered in Boldt, for the back door of the Sanchez home had been left unlocked.

   "She placed the nine-one-one call, so maybe she locked up."

   "Security system?"