Middle Of Nowhere

   Boldt wanted Courtney Samway the focus of the discussion, not the other way around. He tried to signal Daphne, but failed.

   Speaking directly to Boldt, Samway said venomously, "You're the one shut down the program. The one got Davie killed. Abby said you're a dead man. I heard him say it. I don't need to talk to you—I'm talking to a dead man."

   Daphne grew several inches as her spine stiffened. Boldt reached out and gently touched her forearm.

   He said, "Let's start there, then. Abby was. . . . You and Abby were watching the news on television. You saw me. Here in Seattle?"

   She shied, smelling the trap he laid for her. "I'm not saying nothing."

   "You see the problem?" Boldt asked her, trying to keep her mind engaged and slightly off her game. "If it isn't us who catches up to Abby to speak with him . . . let's say it's Denver, or Reno or Portland, for that matter. All that the police there see is the sheet, the warrant, the Be On Lookout, the All Points—a guy wanted for questioning in regard to the assault of police officers. You see how that looks to a cop? Like trouble. Big trouble. Serious trouble. The kind of trouble where you shoot first and ask questions later, because this guy is on the sheet for doing cops. Forget about me. Do I look dead to you? It's Abby—Bryce Abbott Flek—you need to be concerned with here. He's the one in danger. And honestly? You're his only hope right now."

   "Bullshit."

   "It's not either. It's the God-given truth. Matthews and I want him alive. We need him alive because we're not so convinced what his role is in any of this. We know David called him from Etheredge. So what? Where's the crime? We need to talk to him, no matter what he believes my role was in his brother's murder. I wasn't the one who beat David to death, Courtney. I'm not going to be the next guy lying on a slab. You and Abby watched the news," he said, "so you know we have a hell of a lot of young officers on the job. Maybe not the best trained at the moment. One of those guys sees Abby out on the street. What do you think's going to happen? And how are you going to feel when you look back and see you could have prevented it?"

   "Bullshit," she said, a little more tentatively this time.

   "Where's he gone, Courtney?" Boldt asked.

   Daphne said, "You want to be the one who could have helped him, but didn't?"

   The witness glanced back and forth between her two interrogators, both of whom saw opportunity. Courtney Samway would talk, if pressured correctly.

   Boldt said, "We've confiscated his van, so what's he driving?"

   Daphne added, "We've seen the apartment. Did you know that? Not your apartment—we got it too—I'm talking the rented room in Ballard. So where does Abby have left to go? And how does he get there? He had better go somewhere, because if he's out on the streets . . . the buses . . . the ferries . . . well, these young officers are out on the street as well. You see where that leaves him, Courtney?"

   Boldt took a wild stab. "Where's it leave you, Courtney? Where's it leave you once he knows you've been brought in for questioning? No matter what you tell him, the first time he stumbles upon a cop, Abby's go ing to think you set him up. You tell me: Where does it leave you?"

   Daphne flashed a look at Boldt that suggested he might be stepping on her psychologist toes. She didn't need him playing psychologist any more than he needed her playing detective.

   "I want a lawyer," Courtney said now, her lips wet and trembling.

   "One has been appointed," Boldt said, "and is on the way over here. Count on it."

   "I want my lawyer now!" Courtney repeated, this time with more of an edge.

   "You don't have to talk to us, if you don't want to," Daphne reminded, "but it might be in your best interest. Either way, we can't leave you alone right now, so you're stuck with us."

   "You don't know him," she mumbled, the cracks widening.

   "Why don't you tell us," Daphne suggested.

   "There's like a switch in him, you know? I've never seen anything like it. When Davie died—"

   Just then, her young attorney burst into the interrogation room, a blur of briefcase and words. "Violation of rights! Protecting my client!"

   Boldt had heard it all too many times before. "We'll give you five minutes," he announced.

   Courtney Samway looked over at Daphne, and with a frightened-sounding voice she whispered, "Snookers, the bar. He hangs there."

C H A P T E R

36

Snookers was a biker's bar, a beer and pool hall with two voluptuous waitresses who wore plastic cowboy hats and tight jeans. The bartender was the size of Sasquatch. When Boldt and Gaynes entered, all but a handful of the twenty or so men in the bar noticed the pair immediately. A half dozen slipped quietly toward the back exit. There, these seven men encountered four patrol officers that Boldt had assigned to watch the back door. Two of the seven escaped. The remaining five were pushed up against a brick wall and searched.

   Boldt and Gaynes walked past the back pool tables and let the screen door slam shut on their way out.