Middle Of Nowhere

Seattle's reputation as a rain forest was largely undeserved. It was true that during the rinse cycle, November through March, northern Pacific storms tracked through regularly, leaving the city without so much as a glimpse of the sun, sometimes for weeks at a time. True that spring and fall saw their fair share of "partly sunny" days that were actually "partly rainy," as a thick and dreary mist fell, broken by moments of spectacular sunshine, the warm power of which could almost evaporate the moisture before the next wave of clouds passed over. But for all those stereotyped storms and images of umbrellas and slickers presented by the Weather Channel, the glory days of clear skies, a light breeze and sixty degrees were just as common. The moisture brought lush vegetation, wonderful gardening, and clean streets, the air fresher and purer than perhaps any other city in the country.

   Boldt and Gaynes orchestrated their plan to capture Flek as he arrived to pick up his rifle scope. The International District lay under a rich summer sky, the air crisp and clean. Seagulls flew down the city streets, their cries echoing off buildings. The towering snowcapped peak of Mount Rainier loomed impossibly close, as if part of a Hollywood backdrop. It was a day when Liz would tell Boldt to "pinch yourself." That good.

   "You with me, L.T?" Gaynes asked from the shotgun seat.

   "What's that?"

   With their unmarked van parked a block from the street entrance to Manny Wong's electronic repairs shop, Boldt and Gaynes had an unrestricted view of the surveillance target. Asians peopled the sidewalks and occupied the vehicles in proportions that made Caucasians stand out. For this reason, Boldt and Gaynes stayed put behind the van's tinted windows. And although the department's demographics prior to the Flu had included dozens of Asian patrol officers and detectives, the suspensions and firings imposed by the chief had drastically reduced their numbers to where Boldt's field team consisted of Detective Tom "Dooley" Kwan— currently inside the shop—and three relatively green patrol recruits out on the street in plainclothes: a twenty-something African American, Danny Lincoln, playing the role of a bike messenger who, on one knee, was busy with what looked like a blown bike chain; a middle-aged Vietnamese woman, Jilly Hu, outside the shop looking left and right as she acted out anxiously awaiting a ride, her hands occupied with the ubiquitous cellular phone; and a third man, Russ Lee, a Chinese American, in a wheelchair with a blanket over his lap concealing a loaded assault rifle, keeping speed with the first rule of engagement: Never be outgunned. Hu and Lee were partnered; Lincoln and Dooley were solo—on their own.

   Four patrol cars, two uniforms each, maintained a three-block perimeter, in case backup was needed.

   Gaynes explained, "I was saying that it's kind of eerie without all the normal radio chatter."

   Boldt reminded her that the bicyclist, Danny Lincoln, was wearing a radio headset—as so many messengers did. It happened that Lincoln's headset connected to SPD dispatch. They had Jilly Hu on the cell phone. Dooley wore a wire—a concealed transmitter and receiver. They weren't exactly in the dark.

   The police coverage of the rifle sight pick-up had been hastily thrown together. As the impending moment drew nearer, Boldt feared that if it went wrong they might not only lose a suspect, but someone might get hurt. He had LaMoia to remind him of that.

   "What's your take?" Boldt asked Gaynes. She had a nose for such things.

   "Not great."

   "Same here."

   "Our people look good. It's not that," she said. "And I think it's smart that we have Dooley working in the back of the store, not out front at the counter. That's way more natural than if Dooley is just loitering out front and making Flek nervous. And maybe it's just all the goddamned Asians milling around these streets, but something feels wrong about it, you know? Like it's going to go south."

   "Yes, I know," Boldt conceded.

"Doesn't mean it has to."

"No, it doesn't," he agreed.

   "Maybe it's just everyone warning us what a crazy son of a bitch Flek is—the hair-trigger temper, the violent nature. I hate that shit. Maybe it's thinking about Sanchez and John, and how this guy doesn't seem to give a shit about us wearing badges. You know? What's that about?"

   "Downright disrespectful, I'd say," Boldt said.

   She grinned into her slight reflection off the glass. "Downright right you are."

   "I think you can take Sanchez off his list, though we won't know until we collar him. He did LaMoia. He'll pay for that." He told her about Sanchez's inability to ID Flek, and of her earlier uncertainty concerning who was responsible.

   A large Ben and Jerry's truck momentarily blocked their view of the gun dealer's storefront. After the truck passed, Boldt saw that Lee, Hu and Lincoln had all adjusted their locations, signaling a development.