Middle Of Nowhere

   Samway's Colorado parole officer had required her to register in Seattle upon her fulfillment of obligations and her departure from the Colorado corrections system. Samway had, in fact, contacted the Washington State Parole Board upon her arrival, as required, meaning that a tiny, insignificant computer file in the vastness of the endless mainframes that constituted law enforcement's efforts to track thousands of offending juvenile felons provided an address of residence for the recently released teen.

   "She kicked from Colorado two months ago," Boldt told Bobbie Gaynes, who rode shotgun in Boldt's brandnew Crown Vic. Nearing midnight, the city still teemed with activity. Ten years earlier it would have been dead this late at night. The car replaced his Chevy Cavalier. He'd earned the Crown Vic apparently for his loyalty throughout the Flu. The Chief was handing out perks. Boldt wasn't complaining. The Crown Vic was twice the car and even came with a remote device that locked and unlocked the door or popped the trunk from thirty yards. "Mug shot is two years old."

   Gaynes said, "She's a punk slut. You can see it in her eyes. Age doesn't matter."

   Boldt said, "She registered with a parole officer here, claiming the move was to support a job offer."

   "She turned eighteen last month," Gaynes said, reading from the woman's jacket—her record having been forwarded by Colorado's BCI. "The alleged job is with a fish processor—probably someone Flek bought off to write her a letter of employment. The address is not the same as the one her P.O. provided. Not that it matters. I'm betting this address is smoke. You want five on that?"

   "Have I ever taken one of your bets?" Boldt asked, checking the rearview mirror to ensure that the radio car was following as planned. "The address is good," he guessed. "She registered with the parole board. That tells me she didn't like serving time—she doesn't want to go back there. She played by the rules laid out for her in Colorado. The address will be good. Maybe I should take that five," he contemplated.

   "Yeah, right." Gaynes laughed. "The day you take a bet, L.T., I'm having your head examined."

* * *

The brick structure had been built fifty years earlier at a time when this south part of the city had prospered from timber and fishing. Time had not been kind to it. The street was paved in wet, matted trash. The carcasses of vehicles resting on rusted rims lay alongside broken glass and spent syringes littering the alleys like discarded cigarette butts. It was not somewhere to take a stroll.

   They had waited impatiently to conduct a midnight raid. A daytime operation in this neighborhood was worthless: Rats only returned to the nest at night. Boldt used only secure frequencies—believing Flek might be monitoring the normal channels. If this was in fact Samway's apartment, with Flek's roost already raided, it seemed possible, even likely, he might be inside.

   On command, the cruiser behind him turned up the side alley. He would allow his team a minute or two to take positions. According to city fire records for the once commercial building, three possible exits offered egress. At each of the three, a uniform would be waiting for anyone beating a hasty retreat—anyone who managed to get past Boldt and Gaynes. With Gaynes at his side, Boldt knew not many would slip past.

   Once inside the wet and cold building, loud rock and roll from a downstairs apartment obscured Boldt's hearing. He relied on his sensitive ears the way a bloodhound depended on its nose, and he found the overpowering music frustrating and troublesome.

   Gaynes gestured through a series of hand signals indicating that she would take lead on the climb up the stairs. Boldt's chest knotted and his skin prickled with sweat. A month earlier he would have had Special Ops as his advance team, but the Flu had taken its toll. In the company of one other detective—albeit a bulldog in the form of a poodle—he prepared to take on some animal who had cracked one officer's neck and rabbitpunched another into the hospital.

   Weapons drawn, he and Gaynes worked up the staircase as if an adversary had already spotted them, Gaynes in the lead, Boldt trying to cover her both top and bottom, nerves rattled.

   A sudden movement behind and below. Boldt swiveled silently to see a rail-thin junkie cross the hall in a T-shirt and bare feet, moving between neighboring rooms. Boldt signaled Gaynes to continue.

   The staircase smelled strongly of cats. Crushed candy wrappers, spent Lotto tickets, and cigarette butts littered the edges of each step. They reached the first landing. It smelled of pizza. The thumping of the downstairs music faded behind them. Boldt heard at least two televisions and a considerable amount of muted talking.