Middle Of Nowhere

   "File that for a moment," she said, motioning for Boldt to set Bryce Abbott aside. "Rewind. David Ansel Flek. Little brother. Same trailer park, same parents, same schools. But no truancy. No arrests until he's seventeen, and that one's for loitering and curfew violation following a winter flood that takes out the family trailer and Mom along with it. It's sketchy at best, but a Denver Post article I pulled from the Net mentions her by name—Adrian Abbott Flek—electrocuted when the flood hit. Got to be the mother. Father blew off the sons and headed to the Alaska fields. David drifts south, although he never leaves Colorado—his brother's influence can hardly be said to be positive. David enlists in the Army, makes it two years, goes AWOL. Is arrested on one of his brother's robberies. Turned back over to the Army. Serves a couple months in the brig, serves out his stint and is dishonorably discharged at twentythree. State tax records show him employed briefly with a computer software firm. Mail room or programmer, we have no idea, but he's basically on the straight-andnarrow. It's during this period that brother Bryce is making his mark with the local blues, one arrest after another, increasingly violent. Make note of this: David's next job is with a discount electronics retailer, a Best Buy type. He moves up to manager in a two-year period—he's twenty-five, twenty-six now. There's a breakin at David's store right after a major delivery—two dozen TVs, VCRs, twice that many computers. David is busted and eventually confesses. His first felony, he goes down for two to seven."

   "In Etheredge," Boldt said.

   "Correct."

   "He's out in two with good behavior," Boldt said.

   "Correct. Which means we have all sorts of leverage. If we convince younger brother David that with both the Sanchez and LaMoia assaults, Bryce faces bullets from the first uniform to make him, maybe he gives us a lead. Or maybe we simply hold the threat of an added ten years over him, although that sure didn't work the first time."

   "I like playing him for the brother's safety. The only thing is, we don't have either brother for Sanchez—no phone solicitation records, remember?—and we don't have Bryce for LaMoia. He never saw his attacker's face. So we're looking at burglary at best, unless Kawamoto can make him."

   "Someone walked away from that blue van and never came back. How difficult is it for a judge or jury to see that?"

   "It's circumstantial. When and if we catch up with Bryce, he'll tell us the van was stolen an hour before. We can't disprove that."

   "What about the convenience store's security camera? Did it pick up his face?"

   "The system's VCR was lifted a month ago and never replaced by management. There is no tape. We can't put Bryce Flek at that gas station."

   She said, "What exactly are you saying?"

   "David is our way to find Bryce. We find Bryce, maybe we wrap this thing up."

   "Maybe," she said. "But Bryce would have to confess to Sanchez to get any decent charges to stick."

   Boldt answered, "Maybe not." He hoisted a blackand-white mug shot of Bryce Abbott Flek and turned it to face Daphne. "What if Sanchez can ID him?"

   Boldt's private line rang, and he took a call. Hanging up a moment later, a satisfied grin playing across his lips, he informed her, "We found the apartment where Flek has been staying."

C H A P T E R

33

Bryce Abbott Flek's photo was recognized by a guitar maker. The rented room, one of five that occupied the two floors above Fletcher Brock's custom instrument shop, consumed three SID field technicians who combed it floor to ceiling. LaMoia's assault could be felt here too—normally Boldt would have been lucky to get even one tech to a potential suspect's abode in under an hour.

   "What have we got?" Boldt asked a SID tech from just inside the doorway. He wore latex gloves and a snarl. The place was a pig sty.

   "Stroke mags, beer drinker, junk food, dirty laundry. Three cellular phones, all apparently working. Could be a college dorm room, if I didn't know better."

   "The phones? Clones?" Boldt said.

   "Three of 'em? Probably."

   "Weapons?"

   "Negative."

   "Prints?"

   "A lot of lifts—mostly the same guy. Maybe a woman, by the size of the others. Box of Tampax on the floor by the toilet. Blond pubic hairs mixed in with the more abundant darker ones, collected from the sheets, toilet rim, and shower drain—platinum blond."

   "Shoes?"

   "Pair of high-top sneakers, is all."

   "Nike?" Boldt asked, recalling the shoe at his own assault. Had that been brother Flek?

   "Converse. We've already bagged and tagged the clothes. We'll go over them for hairs and fibers. If there's anything that links this place to Sanchez or your other sites, you'll hear about it."

   "Drugs? Alcohol?"

   "Valium and amphetamines in the bath. Street grade. No prescription bottles. The beer. Some Cuervo Gold. That's about it. Purely recreational stuff."