Middle Of Nowhere

   "You think I like it?" Boldt asked.

   "The psychologist—she's a different story," she went on. "There's resentment here. Frustration on the part of the Fluers. Venting those pent-up emotions is a natural progression, a natural expression."

   "But the sickout is working."

   She agreed. "To us it is, because we're worn out by it. But to those cops now on the outside?" she questioned. "To them—and to the public too—we're wounded, we're down on one knee, but we're not on the mat. We're not raising white flags. That could be the source of a lot of anger."

   "Violence?" he asked her.

   She shrugged and reluctantly nodded. "I'd rate it as a possibility," she confirmed. "But for the record: I'd put Maria's assault down as a burglary gone bad; your little skirmish, I'm not so sure."

   "So we listen to the victim and we chase the evidence," he reminded her. Boldt's law of investigation. In the Sanchez case, chasing the evidence now meant a certain set of keys.

   As its senior sergeant, Krishevski ran the evidence storage facility's daily operations, claiming the day shift for himself and his three-man squad. As guild president, Krishevski had caught a bad case of the Blue Flu, as had his squad, leaving what remained of the night duty and graveyard shifts to handle things.

   Ron Chapman, a uniformed sergeant with two years less seniority than Krishevski, looked haggard. Barrelchested, potbellied and pale, he looked as much like an Irish potato farmer as a cop in pressed blues. Boldt knew Chapman casually though not socially, having spent years passing the man in the hallways and seeing him working behind the Property room's wire-mesh screens in the process of cataloging case evidence. Any field detective worth his salt knew any and all of the officers who manned Property—the repository of all physical evidence from active and uncleared investigations and arraignments that had yet to reach trial.

   As lead on the case, Daphne signed off for the Sanchez evidence at the cage, and Chapman retrieved it for her. A few minutes later, Chapman delivered the items in a sealed cardboard box that in turn contained a large plastic garbage bag kept shut by a wire twist that carried a tag bearing the case particulars. That tag had to be torn in order to open the twist and get to the contents. Daphne did so in front of Chapman, who held a computerized inventory of the bag's contents. She removed the woman's black leather jacket, now stained with chemicals used by the lab in an attempt to develop fingerprints. She held it up for both to see.

   "I'm removing the jacket," she noted.

   Chapman said to Boldt, "I got your E-mails about Sanchez."

   That won Boldt's interest.

   "Thing about E-mail," Chapman said, "is they can trace it back to its source, you know?"

   "You have something for me, Ron? You know anything about the Brooks-Gilman burglary?"

   "Didn't say that, did I?"

   "Was there any evidence collected in the BrooksGilman burglary?"

   "Not that I know of."

   "May I see the log for the past two weeks?"

   "Don't see why not," Chapman said, typing for a moment before spinning the computer terminal to face Boldt and Daphne. Boldt checked his notepad for the date Sanchez had taken over the investigation for Shoswitz's flu-ridden burglary unit.

   Boldt noticed that three days before her assault, Sanchez had visited Property both in the morning and the early evening. He counted four visits in all. But there was no case number listed, nor any victim name, which struck him as unorthodox at best. Ron Chapman's initials listed him as OD—the officer on duty for Sanchez's evening visit.

   "What's with the lack of reference, Ron? No number. No name."

   "No kidding," Chapman said, staring at Boldt in nearly the same manner as Sanchez had stared. As if something were expected of him. As if he were supposed to pull this all together out of thin air.

   "They're required," Boldt reminded.

   "Not always they aren't," the man returned.

   The statement confused Boldt. Since when wasn't a case number required for a Property visit? "An officer can't just pay a visit and do his or her shopping," Boldt said.

   Chapman leaned toward the screen, like an inmate entertaining a visitor. He said faintly, "Not all visits are recorded the same way." He hesitated. "These are tumultuous times," he said, shooting Boldt another knowing look, clearly begging him to connect the dots.

   Daphne announced formally, "I'm searching the pockets of the leather coat."

   "That stuff's in here," Chapman said, indicating a sealed manila envelope. He read from the label. "Set of keys and a garage door opener."

   Boldt scrolled back through the listings. He didn't want to lose Chapman and the man's uncertain willingness to cooperate. "How about a little help here, Ron?"