Middle Of Nowhere

   "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 movies—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.

"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?"

   "Tonight would work, certainly. Once we've completed the agreement. Any night you choose."

   "The 'agreement'? Okay, what's the catch?"

   "Consolidated Mutual would like you to complete a very brief survey, which I can go over with you now, if you wish. After the satisfactory completion of that survey, the tickets—and the guaranteed savings on your homeowner's policy—are yours. Or, if you prefer, we can arrange for the tickets at a later time. The offer is good for three months."

   "A survey? A phone survey? That's it?"

   "That's all. No obligation whatsoever, and a guarantee—"

   Brumewell chimed in, "I got that, okay? Now we gonna get down to this survey or what? How much time are we talking about anyway? My dinner is getting cold here! How come you people always call at dinnertime?"

   "We can do the survey now, certainly, sir. That would be fine. Or, I could call back, if you would prefer."

   "Nah. . . . My dinner's probably already cold anyway. Go ahead. How long did you say?"

   "Seven to ten minutes, sir. Some questions about your coverage is all. You may find it worthwhile to have a copy of your current homeowner's policy in front of you, though that is not required by any means."

   "I'll pass on the policy."

   "We'll have it done in no time."

   "Okay. . . . Okay. . . . Let's get on with it." Brumewell eyed the microwave. Dinner could wait.

C H A P T E R

12

A s he stepped out of his battered, department-issue Chevy, Boldt immediately sensed that something was out of place. A moment later the same sensation registered as relief—the neighbor's dog was not directly on the other side of the rotten fence greeting Boldt after a long day of work. Instead, he was barking furiously at the far corner of their shared property—thankfully a decent enough distance away to reduce the ear damage.

   The Boldt driveway led past the left of the house to a detached garage. Liz's spanking-new Ford Expedition typically won the inside parking while the Cavalier was relegated to the elements, where it rightfully belonged. But with Liz and the kids at the Jamerson home, Boldt nosed the front bumper to within a foot of the garage door and parked with the engine running. He didn't carry a clicker. He would have to trip the automatic door from inside the garage. His watch read 11:00. Suddenly it hardly seemed worth parking the thing in the garage for a few brief hours while he attempted sleep. He killed the engine and pocketed the keys.

   Though he'd been preoccupied with the Sanchez case and now Brooks-Gilman, he had nonetheless put in some time on other cases, including a teen shooting at a drugstore. Just as he was leaving the precinct, he sent off a second department-wide E-mail requesting information on any of Sanchez's activities or known cases prior to her assault. But he wasn't holding his breath.

   Neither was that damn dog. The thing was suddenly berserk with the barking—wild to where Boldt shouted, "Shut up!" loudly enough to hope his neighbors would hear. If his own kids had been home, they would have been sleeping. That seemed reason enough for the reprimand. Eleven o'clock, he thought. Gimme a break!