Middle Of Nowhere

   "Not actually," LaMoia corrected. "Something called Newmann Communications. They're out of Denver."

   Boldt scribbled down the name. He knew that look: LaMoia had rolled over a large rock.

   "Our problem is that it never showed up on any of the burglary reports," LaMoia stated obliquely. Again Boldt waited him out rather than feed the flames. LaMoia asked, "You spoke to this Helen Brooks-Gilman, Sarge. And to Kawamoto. Did either happen to mention a pair of free movie tickets?"

   Boldt asked sarcastically, "Are you on some kind of medication?"

   "How about phone solicitations?"

   Brooks-Gilman had in fact mentioned phone solicitations, though it had been nothing more than a denigrating comment about the intrusion upon their privacy. She'd said something about how those were the people who should be arrested. He thought he also recalled Kawamoto saying something similar to him. "Phone solicitations?" Boldt queried.

   "You check the phone logs at Newmann Communications, my guess is you'll find out that that's what all the burglary victims shared in common: they all received phone solicitations from Newmann. Several chose to up their insurance coverage; others cashed in on free movie tickets. It's the linkage, Sarge. It's how they were targeted. So tell me what you're really thinking," LaMoia said, crossing his arms and leaning back. "Tell me how fucking great it is to have me back on the job."

C H A P T E R

25

Squeezed by Seattle's prosecuting attorney, Newmann Communications found itself facing the possibility of a federal investigation into interstate fraud if it failed to cooperate with Seattle PD.

   With the Sanchez case still belonging to Matthews, she and Boldt were dispatched to Denver to confirm the role of a phone solicitation campaign in the string of burglaries and, if possible, identify the particular employee responsible for tipping off the burglar back in Seattle on which homes to hit.

   Hoping they might accomplish the task in a single day, both Boldt and Matthews nonetheless packed overnight bags and booked hotel rooms, believing two, or even three days more likely. Police work rarely went off like clockwork.

   Newmann Communications occupied a four-office suite in a mud-colored cement block building that housed KSPK, a conservative talk radio station, and Irving's Red Hots, a diner featuring hot dogs. The sausage odors fouled the building.

   The employment flyers in the firm's reception lobby—a room that reminded Boldt of a department store changing room—gave away its game—Earn Money While Staying At Home! Internet Opportunities, Retail Management, Adult Entertainment. Printed on green construction paper, the small flyers fit well in the human palm—perfect as handouts on downtown sidewalks and college campuses.

   Phillip Rathborne listed President/CEO on his office door. The oily scalp, bad complexion, and knockoff Armani suit suggested a man in his forties or early fifties, but the degree on the wall from North Florida Junior College put his graduation just six years earlier, meaning he had not yet crossed thirty. The office tried too hard to imply money but reminded Boldt instead of a room found in a truck stop motel with a heartshaped bath. The clock, phone and desk lamp had been bought through the Sharper Image catalog, but the desk was granite veneer, chipped at the edges, and the jungle plant in the corner needed a serious vacuuming. The computer looked authentic—its monitor screen was large enough to be a window, something the office lacked; the screen saver played images of fairways at Pebble Beach and Augusta.

   Boldt was all business. "You received a call from the Colorado Department of Justice," he began. Boldt had called the office and had been informed that the count had increased: Seven of the nine burglary victims recalled the phone solicitation offering free movie tickets and had accepted the offer. Lawsuits seemed certain to follow. Newmann Communications could anticipate leniency in return for cooperation. Boldt expected nothing less.

   "I did," Rathborne confirmed. The man seemed preoccupied with Daphne's silence and her intense beauty, a common enough occurrence. Useful to interrogations, her looks could be used as a means of distraction. She wore a scarf to hide the neck scar where a knife had cut her a few years before, and a blouse buttoned to the top. The less skin the better—unless she needed something from someone. Her job this time around was to play the silent, powerful type. When she finally chose to speak, she would be the more difficult of the two, leaving Rathborne surprised that ice could flow from such heat.

   "And they suggested you cooperate."

   "They did." The man had the annoying habit of wincing or grinning after every comment, expressions that somehow did not belong on his face, like those obscene reproductions of the Mona Lisa that change the smile.