Middle Of Nowhere

   Sinking back into despair, Boldt blocked calls, prevented visitors, and spent nearly four hours in his office reviewing the Sanchez jacket, which had swollen to a thick file, though under Daphne's care remained properly organized and easily navigated.

   There Daphne was, right there in his hands. He couldn't seem to escape her. He focused his attentions on the Brooks-Gilman case—the investigation that Sanchez had taken over in the wake of the Blue Flu reassignments. Prior to her assault, she had identified that Flek used garage door openers to break and enter. Boldt understood that he had allowed her work on the case to mislead him. It was the I.I. case that seemed more likely to have gotten her beat up, the I.I. case that interested him. Yet without I.I.'s cooperation, he didn't know how he might break that case. Flek's testimony still seemed the most important first step. If Flek had an alibi for the night of Sanchez's assault, then Boldt had the necessary ammunition to pressure I.I. into including him in on what they knew about whatever had led to Sanchez, Schock and Phillipp all ending up in the hospital.

   He called down to the lab and reached Bernie Lofgrin. He asked about the boots recovered from Flek's closet in the first raid.

   "What about them?" Lofgrin asked.

   "Guy I spoke to said they were Converse, but have you compared the tread pattern to that Nike pattern you found on Sanchez's leather jacket?"

   "I have, and I sent them to Property. That's where her jacket is as well."

   Mention of Property reminded Boldt of Ron Chapman and his visit to the Cock & Bull the night Schock and Phillipp had been "mugged."

   "Property," Boldt repeated.

   "That's right," Lofgrin said. "Do you ever read your E-mails?"

   "I was out of town," Boldt said, spinning around to check his computer. Seventeen messages. In the chaos of LaMoia's injuries and Samway's surveillance, he'd fallen behind. He began to scroll through them, pulling up the one from Lofgrin as the man said into his ear, "Tread pattern lifted from the jacket came back as Air Nike. Flek's closet contained two pair of Converse All Stars. Both are ubiquitous, but they're not interchangeable. Not even close."

   "Same size?" Boldt asked, reading from his screen that the impression from Sanchez's jacket had been a size 12.

   "Flek wears a fourteen," Lofgrin answered. "Again, no match to what we lifted from that jacket." He waited. "Lou? You there?"

   "Thinking."

   "Not what you wanted to hear," Lofgrin stated, "or you would have hung up on me, as you always do."

   "Do I?" Boldt asked, astonished to learn this about himself.

   "Every time," Lofgrin confirmed.

   "The Nike . . ." Boldt said. "Is it a distinct print?"

   "You bring me the shoe and chances are I can tie it to Sanchez's jacket. A little visit to Property is all it would take."

   There it was again: Property. He made sure to thank Lofgrin before hanging up. Who said you couldn't teach an old dog new tricks?

   He called down to Property. Riorden answered. Riorden ran with Pendegrass, both of them on Krish evski's squad. Krishevski and Pendegrass had both been discharged in the chief's health service sweep. Riorden had somehow survived. Boldt elected to skip the small talk. By now, news of Boldt and LaMoia's late-night visit to Pendegrass would have reached Riorden—he could do business with the man, but he wasn't going to win any friends.

   "I need you to check your logbook for me," Boldt informed him.

   "For?"

   "Schock or Phillipp," Boldt said. "Any visits in the last ten days?"

   Silence on the line. "Let me check," Riorden replied. Boldt waited to hear the pages of the logbook turning—he had the ears of a bat—but heard nothing, not even the clicking of computer keys. "Nothing I see, Lieutenant. You might want to check yourself."

   This time it was Boldt who left the silence on the line. "Yeah . . . okay . . . thanks . . ." he said, knowing his ears had not failed him. Why hadn't Riorden even bothered to check the log? Out of obstinacy? Pissed off over Boldt's questioning of Pendegrass? Did the Flu still continue inside these walls?

   The thought that a handful of officers might yet still be sabotaging the efforts of those officers who had remained on their job during the Flu stayed with Boldt on his extended ride home.

* * *

He stopped at The Joke's On You and played six ballads during a break in the comedy routine. Bear Berenson finally interrupted him, saying, "That's some really dark shit you're playing, man."

   He drove next to Carkeek Park and walked the water's edge, wondering what to think about Riorden's apparent refusal to assist him. As dusk fell and the Sound washed gray from green, as radio towers winked and jets flew almost silently overhead, Boldt felt overwhelmed. His personal life was in tatters. Fellow officers were backstabbing his efforts to set the record straight on Sanchez and perhaps Schock and Phillipp in the process. His knee-jerk reaction was to call Daphne, but he wisely ruled that out. Instead, he made the drive home. Home, where he belonged.