Middle Of Nowhere

Palisades, a marina and upscale restaurant, hung off the south shore of the Magnolia peninsula, supported by pilings and enough docks to house several hundred pleasure craft, all neat and shipshape and sparkling white under the lights. Teak and aluminum and enough fiberglass to wrap the city in a dome.

   Boldt appreciated the view of the skyline, and LaMoia's choice of location. The prices at the restaurant guaranteed they wouldn't run into fellow officers. Palisades was more for the professional set and gold card tourists. Boldt walked the docks, drinking in the cool night air and charting the determined progress of the slowly moving cavalcade of lights from the state ferries. He made out the man's distinctive silhouette from a distance. Bold. Confident. Even aggressive. You wouldn't walk up to LaMoia at night without knowing him.

   Boldt approached him in silence, distant city lights reflecting in the silver black water a mirror image that looked like a giant, glowing key, or the mouth of a shark. Boldt felt an urgency to get this meeting over with and head to the pay phone. If Schock and Phillipp hadn't had their blood shed, he would have postponed the meet.

   "Sorry about the cloak and dagger," LaMoia said.

   Boldt answered, "I appreciate the call. We need to talk." The two of them worked in concert to watch for anyone watching them, an unspoken system that had one looking toward the restaurant, the other searching the neighboring docks, then switching assignments in a dance born of years of working the field together.

   LaMoia supplied: "Many hands make light the work."

   "Yeah?" Boldt complained. "Well, I'm a little shorthanded, thanks to you and the squad."

   "Don't go forming stereotypes, Sarge. You think I'm home watching CHiPs reruns or something? I'm working Maria's case."

   Boldt's surprise registered on his shadowed face as confusion.

   "Damn right. Figured a slouch like you could use a little help." LaMoia added, "I'm working all sorts of shit you don't wanna know about."

   That much was probably true. LaMoia's investigative approach was anything but conventional. "You have to come back on the job," Boldt informed him. Not only were LaMoia and his wealth of contacts invaluable, but Shoswitz's news threatened the man's future with Homicide.

   "Don't look a gift horse—"

   "I'm serious, John. The chief—"

   LaMoia interrupted. "Schock and Phillipp had Ron Chapman under surveillance. I'd lay odds on it."

   "Chapman?" Boldt questioned, his thoughts jarred. Chapman swinging a baseball bat on a fellow officer? Not likely. "Krishevski is Property. Chapman is Property. But I don't see Ron Chapman doing Big Mac's dirty work. Chapman hasn't even joined the Flu! That doesn't make sense."

   "I'm just telling you what I saw. Those boys were eyeing him."

   "That's a crowded bar, John."

   "Chapman doesn't hang at the Bull. I do, Sarge. As

much as I hang at the Joke when you're on the ivories. And Chapman's out of place. He stuck out tonight because everyone knows he's still on the job. You could say he got a lukewarm reception—same as you."

   "Go on." Boldt continued to scan their surroundings, ensuring they weren't being watched. It was no longer safe for one cop to talk to another. He hated the way things were.

   "Chapman came in looking for someone. No doubt about it. Completely obvious. Schock and Phillipp weren't far behind—a staggered entrance, one through the front, one through the back. Textbook shit. Phillipp's a couple minutes behind his partner. About as long as it takes to double park in an alley down the street, if you hear what I'm saying. I'm putting 'em on Chapman, on account that's the way I read it. Chapman wanders around craning his head this way and that, gives it up and takes off. 'Bout as subtle as a whore at a tea party. Maybe he signaled someone. Maybe not. I'm thinking Schock hangs to maintain appearances. Phillipp's out the back door a couple beats behind the mark. . . . I'm telling you, Sarge. Couple minutes later, Schock follows. Maybe he gets a call. I didn't see that. Can't say. But they don't make it far, right? And if that's a mugging, then your bruises came from falling down stairs."

   LaMoia apparently had heard Boldt's in-house explanation for his pains and aches. Not much sneaked past him.

   "The chief is sending health services door to door." Boldt explained what Shoswitz had passed along to him.

   "It's a bluff, Sarge. Shoswitz was supposed to leak it."

   "If I'm the chief, uniforms are promoted to detective. Academy recruits who're past the three-week mark head straight to patrol. I keep the National Guard out of my house."

   LaMoia looked a little more convinced.

   "You and your squad need to be back on the floor tomorrow before this hits the fan."

   "It's the perfect bluff, I'm telling you. A couple lieus leak this and they get thirty, forty percent of us back with nothing more than a phone call."