Middle Of Nowhere

   She stared at the ceiling. Unable, or unwilling to answer? Boldt wondered. "Krishevski?" Boldt asked quickly, for his suspicions remained with the Property sergeant.

   The ceiling. But he thought she struggled not to answer.

   "Pendegrass?"

   The ceiling. Perhaps she was overmedicated, he thought.

   "Chapman?"

   Her eyelids fluttered, she squeezed them shut tightly. When they reopened, she stared at the ceiling.

   "Maria . . ." a frustrated Boldt pleaded. "Please. You're the only one who can answer these questions." He allowed this to sink in. "Do you believe someone— anyone—from Property was involved in your assault?" He asked this with as little emotion as he could summon, and yet his own convictions surfaced.

   "No," replied the injured woman.

   Daphne glanced at Boldt—Sanchez's first definite answer took Property out of the assault. A part of him felt satisfied. He could focus on the burglary and let others turn over the rocks—if those rocks even existed. But Chapman's anxiety the night before remained in the forefront of his thoughts, and cautioned against accepting Sanchez's answers.

   "Do you believe your assault was related in any way to your I.I. case?" Daphne inquired.

   Again, she stared at the ceiling. Boldt's frustration built.

   "Maria, we have two more officers in this hospital this morning. We have suspicious movements from officers in Property. We have far more questions than answers, and you're apparently one of the few people who knows what's going on. I know it's asking a lot—too much even—but please, help us out here!"

   Her eyes shone. A tear escaped down her cheek.

   "We've upset you," Daphne apologized to the woman. "Are you avoiding answers, Maria, because we are not I.I., not directly your superiors on this case?"

   "Yes!" Somehow those eyes shouted.

   Again Maria stared at the ceiling, tears running.

   "But we want to help!" an exasperated Boldt pleaded.

   Daphne repeated softly, "Do you think your assault might be connected to your I.I. case?"

   Her eyes shut and reopened. "Yes," she replied, now staring directly at Boldt.

   Daphne looked across to a relieved Boldt and said, "We need this burglar in custody. If he can give us an alibi for the night of her assault, then—"

   "Maybe that would be enough to take a good long look at whatever case she was working," Boldt interrupted. The secrecy surrounding I.I. cases was notoriously impossible to crack. He said, "You're right about the order of things—this burglar just might become our star witness."

C H A P T E R

22

A nthony Brumewell caught a glimpse of himself in the driver's side mirror as the garage door flipped shut electronically and he stepped out into his garage. Working nights was not his thing; he felt exhausted. He entered the home's small kitchen, dumped his briefcase onto a kitchen chair, and headed straight for the refrigerator and a Coors Lite. He yanked down a jar of dry-roasted peanuts, popped off the yellow plastic lid and spilled out a handful. He blindly reached over for the TV's remote and came up empty. When he turned toward the TV itself he realized there was no remote control because there was no TV. And that was when the first pang of dread overcame him.

   What the hell? he wondered, his mind fishing for a recollection that might explain its absence. He dropped the beer can on the counter. The peanuts spilled like pebbles onto the floor, and his heart raced furiously. The television had been stolen, he realized now. Was someone still inside the house? He panicked.

   He picked up the wall phone. No dial tone. "Hello?" It was off the hook somewhere else. There were two other phones: one in the living room, one in the bedroom. He scrambled to get out of the house. Only then did he notice his home security box had been smashed up.

   Terrified now, Brumewell hurried back out to the garage and into the safety of his car. He locked the car doors, tripped the garage door to open, turned the key and shoved the car into reverse, knocking a mirror off in the process. He reached for the car phone, already stabbing the three numbers he had never before dialed: 911.

C H A P T E R

23

A nother break-in. Boldt contacted the Brumewell crime scene by cell phone and uncharacteristically drove over the speed limit to get there. Phil Shoswitz had caught him while he was on his way to the Jamersons' for breakfast. Shoswitz's burglary unit had drawn the investigation on a chaotic morning when nearly nine hundred officers—out of the eleven hundred who had walked out—had returned to work "unexpectedly." The media was camped in the lobby of Public Safety, making a zoo out of the place. The victim—the owner of the house—was waiting for their arrival. The radio led with "breaking news" that the strike had been broken by a tough stance from the new chief. Rumors and stories abounded.

   Without asking if the victim's home had a garage, Boldt requested that the garage's clicker be waiting for him.