Middle Of Nowhere

   "Seventy computer workstations, wide-bandwidth data lines, over five dozen phone lines—we have expenses, Lieutenant."

   "Telemarketing in a prison," Daphne said. "Who would have thought?"

   "We didn't invent it," the warden reminded them defensively. "It has been around for years. Catalog sales, surveys, even airline reservations. And yet those early programs failed to take advantage of what they had. We use the computers in our alternative education program as well. It's the multi-use concept. What you really come to appreciate about Etheredge is our designers. Best in the business, swear to God." Still defensive, he added, "Seven states currently use telemarketing as a revenue enhancer in corrections facilities." He was back to his salesman attitude. "It's an effective way to partially subsidize costs while simultaneously training for employment opportunity on the outside. Over sixty percent of inmates participating in our private commerce program will be offered similar work upon release. Recidivism in this portion of our population drops noticeably."

   Boldt said, "It's a fascinating use of prison labor."

   The comment intrigued the warden, who stopped at a secure door and placed his palm into a reader. He swiped his card next, and the door unlocked. "You're in luck," he informed Boldt. "Appears we're in session."

* * *

Except for the jumpsuits with their wide, navy blue, horizontal stripes, one might have mistaken the seventy inmates and the enormous room for a university computer lab—gray office cubicles with soundproof baffling and bright ceiling lights. In many ways it reminded Boldt of Homicide's fifth-floor offices but on an even grander scale, the irony not lost on him: The inmates had it better than the cops. The room hummed with sales pitches, computer fans, and keyboards clicking furiously.

   Daphne and Boldt exchanged knowing glances. Somewhere in this room a connection to the assaults and burglaries existed: He wore a headset and manned a keyboard.

   "The Consolidated program?" Boldt asked, revealing information he shouldn't have. "Newmann Communications?"

   The warden's contempt rose in a cardinal display, inflaming his neck and ears. "What's going on here?" he inquired.

   "Is it all Newmann in this room?" Boldt repeated. "All the Consolidated campaign?"

   One of the man's assistants spoke up too quickly for the warden's tastes. "Half Newmann, half Air Express electronic ticketing."

   "How do you know about Newmann?" the concerned warden asked.

   Boldt replied, "Lieutenant Matthews and I need to see the phone logs, sorted by workstation. We have Newmann Communications' cooperation in this."

   "You lied to us!" the warden gasped. "You're not part of any search committee."

   "We're searching all right," Boldt confirmed, "but not for a new prison."

   Always one to appeal to human nature, Daphne added, "Our state is in the market for a private correctional facility. If we take home a favorable impression—"

   "You're wrong about this," the warden told Boldt, realizing the trouble it might mean for him personally as well as the corporation.

   "The prosecuting attorney's office has already con tacted Colorado Corrections. Privately run or not, it's still their show. This can end up a real mess for everyone," Boldt suggested. "It's all how we handle it."

   "I'll need to make some phone calls," the warden suggested.

   "Understood," Boldt said.

   "What exactly do you need?"

   "Access," Boldt answered.

   "Perhaps we start with a place to talk," Daphne suggested.

   The warden was clearly disgusted. "The home office is not going to like this," he said.

   Boldt replied, "Neither does one of our police officers, who can't feel her legs."

C H A P T E R

27

Daphne used frequent flyer miles to upgrade her hotel room, which meant a few more square feet, a deep bathtub with jets, and a view of the Rockies. In his own, slightly smaller room, Boldt ordered a pot of Earl Grey tea from room service, drew himself an incredibly hot bath upon its delivery, and spent twenty wonderful minutes soaking away the stiffness still present from the assault. When the kids had been infants, Boldt had taken baths with them—glorious memories of splashing, laughing and soap in the eyes. He missed his family terribly. He wanted this case solved, the Flu over, and his family back intact.

   Daphne called to say she had made dinner reservations downstairs; coat and tie required. She sounded excited—the case, he thought. Boldt ironed a shirt that had suffered in the shoulder bag. Dinner. The two of them alone in a hotel a thousand miles from home. Maybe Sheila Hill should have assigned LaMoia to the trip, he was thinking.