Middle Of Nowhere

   Realizing he had to take a chance, LaMoia grabbed the radio's handset and informed the dispatcher he was switching to one of the four "secure frequencies" used by SPD. Illegally modified scanners could not intercept these digitally secure frequencies. He requested the dispatcher to assign a patrolman from the nearby cruiser to take up a position with a view of the blue van and to report any activity. Naming the cross street behind the Quik Stop—the intersection where the blue-jeaned pedestrian was headed—LaMoia requested that two cruisers position themselves as backup, bookending the street. This done, he took off on foot.

   He did not run, but instead walked with a brisk, long-legged stride, calculated to quickly close the distance between himself and his mark. He had not thought to bring along a portable radio from the squad room, and so he was on his own—"cloaked," "in the dark." Only his cellular phone connected him to the world outside of Bryce Abbott Flek—if that was in fact whom he was following.

   By the time his suspect reached the intersection and turned right, LaMoia had closed the gap to half a block. Following several weeks of inactivity, LaMoia felt awash, invigorated by the pursuit, hungry for confrontation. He loved his job. There was nothing quite like slamming a mope up against the wall and slapping a pair of bracelets around his wrists, taking another piece of infectious waste off the streets, out of the game. Duty called. He felt positively electric with anticipation.

   The first blow came from behind—a devastating show of force, unexpected and overpowering. An openpalm smack to the back of his skull, delivered with such ferocity that his chin bruised his chest, and a whole series of muscles at the nape of his neck ripped loose. He heard his gun clink to the sidewalk, the dull sound of metal on cement, useless where it lay. That blow to the head stunned the muscles of his upper back and numbed his spine to where his arms suddenly weighed upon him like sandbags. He attempted to turn around to fight back, but his arms hung at his side, swinging like gorilla limbs, and the man behind him directed him otherwise, smashing his face into the brick wall twice and then working a volley of rabbit punches from just above his hip points into the center of his back ribs. The man hit, intending to do harm, intending to quickly eliminate LaMoia from the field of play, swinging through the punches at the brick wall, with only LaMoia's flesh and bone in between. The man's knee bruised LaMoia's coccyx, and the heel of his foot found LaMoia's instep to where, as he let go, the sergeant sank to the sidewalk, bloody and broken, a mass of misfiring nerve endings, his lungs burning, his legs unable to support him.

He never even saw the man's face.

C H A P T E R

31

Shying from the obnoxiously bright light, Boldt rushed through the emergency room's automatic doors, met there by the on-call physician who had tended LaMoia's injuries. Daphne spoke to a nurse. Upon being informed of the assault, they had made the drive from SEATAC in just over ten minutes—roughly half the usual time, even in good traffic.

   The doctor spoke breathlessly, also trying to keep up with the lieutenant. "Fluid in the right lung, bruised kidneys, contusions, partial concussion, fractured ribs, bruised coccyx. If I hadn't gotten the report from the officers who delivered him, I would have said he'd been hit by a vehicle from behind."

   They stepped into the oversized elevator and the doctor hit a floor button. Boldt felt ready to explode. "So nothing permanent," he said. "Nothing disabling."

   "A good deal of pain, a long convalescence, and he's back to normal," the doctor said. "The guy's got a hell of an attitude, Lieutenant. He's making jokes as we're wiring his jaw shut."

   "His jaw?" Daphne said.

   "Didn't I mention that?" the doctor asked as the elevator toned its arrival. "Broken mandible."

"Jesus," Boldt hissed.

   Daphne reached out and squeezed his forearm in support. He turned to face her. "I'm the one who put him there," he wanted to say. He charged out of the elevator, and hurried toward room 511.

* * *

A powder blue blanket hid most of him. Lying flat on his back, without a pillow. A variety of monitors. A dozen bright yellow numbers, some flashing.

   At first Boldt thought they had the wrong room because he didn't recognize the man lying there. Then he realized they had shaved LaMoia's mustache to deal with the cuts and abrasions, and to stitch up a spot where a tooth had come through his cheek. Boldt had to look away, he was so overcome with emotion.