Middle Of Nowhere

   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?"

   "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," Matthews warned. "I'm asking you to stop."

   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.

C H A P T E R

10

"She's Hispanic, Sarge," a macho LaMoia said coolly 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 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.