Middle Of Nowhere

   SID had not yet arrived. The sunrise had brought rain, then sunshine, now rain again—like Boldt, it couldn't make up its mind. There had been no assault and therefore no detective initially assigned. It was only through the diligent eye of a dispatcher that Shoswitz had been notified at all. With Flu-time burglaries at an all-time high, and low on SPD's priority list, Anthony Brumewell might have been missed by the radar entirely.

   Boldt intentionally blocked the short driveway with the Cavalier. Sunshine again. He hoped it might hold. He didn't want SID pulling their van in there as they had at the Sanchez crime scene. Cleanliness was next to godliness at a crime scene.

   The patrolman said, "I've got the owner in the front seat of the cruiser, if you want to—"

   "Later," Boldt said, accepting the clicker from the man. "Take down his statement, Officer . . . Mallory. No editorials. Just let him talk. You've got five to ten minutes."

   "Yes, sir."

   "If the press shows up, you keep them away from him. You got that?"

   "Got it."

   "SID waits outside as well. Anyone entering while the captain and I are inside will be chalking tires. That includes you, Officer Mallory. You want me, you page me. Dispatch has the number."

   The officer nodded but looked a shade or two paler than a moment earlier. He took off as Shoswitz caught up. Boldt pressed the clicker and the garage door opened out and up, reminding Boldt of a mouth of a tomb. He handed Shoswitz a pair of latex gloves. "You ready, Captain?"

   Shoswitz rubbed his elbow violently. Boldt took that as a "yes."

   Brumewell's garage was crowded, though not cluttered, with collapsible lawn furniture and rusted garden tools hanging from nails on the wall. Boldt and Shoswitz steered their way clear, and then Boldt tripped the clicker he held in his hand, the garage door slowly closing.

   "What's with your interest in the garage?" Shoswitz asked.

   "Point of entry," Boldt answered. "Dead-bolted homes, Phil. It took us a while to see the common denominator. Our boy clones the garage door clickers, probably by hanging around nearby and picking up frequencies. I had someone looking for a name for us, but I haven't heard from him, so I suspect we've drawn a blank."

   "My guys didn't have this garage thing?" Shoswitz queried, a little troubled.

   "Neither did I, Phil. Sanchez gets the credit on this one." They entered the kitchen. Boldt speculated, "My guess is that the burglar takes only one big risk: He backs his van into the victim's garage in broad daylight and then shuts the door. If he pulls that off cleanly, he's home free. Probably carries a police-band scanner with him. If it's me, I put the scanner in a pocket and an earpiece in one ear. If I hear this address called in, I'm gone. Otherwise, once he's inside, he's inside."

   Shoswitz followed Boldt out of the kitchen and into a living area, where several vacant spaces on shelves marked some of the stolen electronics. A cable TV box sat on a table's empty surface. A VCR, untouched. "My guys didn't get this?" a frustrated captain repeated.

   "Not important," Boldt said.

   "It is to me."

   "You made inquires about an I.I. connection?"

   "First thing. But the chances I'll hear back—"

   "I know," Boldt interrupted.

   Boldt had greeted LaMoia's return to the fifth floor by dumping a copy of all eleven burglaries on his desk and ordering him to use his contacts in the private sector to look for possible insurance fraud.

   Standing in Brumewell's living room, he made notes about the missing electronics.

   "Clean job," Shoswitz said. "It's no junkie, that's for sure."

   The comment triggered a thought, and Boldt dropped to his knees, searching the area behind the cabinet that had held the TV.

   Shoswitz followed obediently, also dropping to the carpet. A moment later, he asked sheepishly, "What exactly are we looking for, Lou?"

   Boldt stretched, squeezing his arm between the cabinet and wall. As he touched the object, his mind leaped ahead wondering where Pendegrass and Chapman fit in, and if he'd ever prove a connection between these men and the assaults.

   "This!" he said, suddenly jubilant. Pinched between his latex-gloved fingers he held a white plastic wire-tie.

C H A P T E R

24

The noon news carried a plea from Krishevski to the mayor to drop the "hardball tactics" and allow police officers to "once again take their place, protecting and serving the city of Seattle." But it proved too little, too late. The mayor had played his card—health services had invalidated dozens of sick leaves and officers were being fired from the force.