Middle Of Nowhere

   How, indeed? he wondered, looking at that assassin's bullet in a whole new light.

C H A P T E R

44

He spent an hour in the park, and found no evidence of his would-be assassin. He searched his driveway in the dark. Again, nothing.

   In the dim light of dawn, Boldt methodically searched his driveway a second time. Flat-bottomed wisps, like micro-clouds, hovered in the air twenty feet off the ground. Birds awakened with their percussive morning calls and crackles, not yet song. Someone across the street had NPR playing too loudly. Boldt could almost make out the news stories himself. There would be nothing there about the attempted assassination of a cop; nothing there about a police manhunt for Bryce Abbott Flek that grew in scale each day. Presently, that manhunt included not only SPD, but King County Police, the state sheriff's office and the Washington State Transportation Department; nothing on the news about Boldt's attempt to locate Flek's cellular phone while in use.

   When he discovered a small hole in the garage's gray clapboard siding, the only convincing evidence that drew him to it was the fresh splinters of wood showing. Seattle's dampness aged any exposed wood quickly—a week or two and a broken branch or a recently sawed two by four might be mistaken for a year old. But these tiny slivers of missing wood surrounding the oddly shaped hole were a golden blond. The hole's location at knee height puzzled him, and it took a moment to convince himself the slug could have ricocheted off the blacktop and landed so high up on the wall, but as an investigator he knew better than to doubt the obvious—anything could happen. He had not thought to look at this height. He had cost himself time.

   He dug the slug from the garage wall with a hammer and flat blade screwdriver, taking more of the clapboard than necessary to ensure he didn't further damage the slug. He wanted it as intact as possible for SID's ballistics analysis.

* * *

Like an expectant father, Boldt waited in a formed fiberglass chair inside Bernie Lofgrin's office. Lofgrin joined his friend at the first opportunity.

   "I'd really appreciate a case number to assign that slug," Lofgrin said.

   "Later."

   "Suit yourself, but the work goes down in my log and it's easier for all if that number's attached. The computer won't accept it without a number, which means it will stand out. Get noticed. Be brought to my attention during some forensics audit, and therefore to your attention."

   "I'll call down a number," Boldt told him.

   "Oh, goodie," Lofgrin said. "Because by that look on your face, I was afraid it was personal. And you know the new lab policy about doing personal work for officers."

   "No, it's not personal."

   "Not that I wouldn't make exceptions for my closest friends," Lofgrin said, still prying, "but I'd have to know to make those exceptions well before the computers became involved. You can see my point."

   "I see your point."

   Lofgrin added, "How's Floorshow doing anyway?"

   Boldt felt a hole in the center of his chest. He hadn't checked up on LaMoia in days. He felt awful about it. "Better, I think," he said.

   "Give him my best."

   "Right."

   "Here we go," Lofgrin said, indicating a lab woman approaching Lofgrin's office. "Your ballistics report."

   She knocked on the open door and Lofgrin admitted her, introducing her to Boldt, who missed her name. She looked first to her boss, then to Boldt. "Is this some kind of test or something?" she asked them both, clearly irritated. To Lofgrin she complained, "Does the upstairs brass know that we didn't lose anyone to the Flu? That we don't need this kind of thing to prove our competency? Our loyalty." To Boldt she said, "Are you the messenger here, Lieutenant? I've got better things to do than be tested like this." Addressing Lofgrin she said, "Maybe we should remind the brass that we're civilian employees, that we have actual, active cases to work—pressing cases—and that school got out for most of us ten years ago." Throwing the file onto Lofgrin's desk, she said meanly, "Someone tell the person who did this to stop blowing smoke up my ass." Meeting eyes with Boldt, she said, "I quit smoking." She stormed off.

   Lofgrin grinned. "I just love a passionate employee," he said.

   "What the hell's going on?" Boldt asked.

   Lofgrin opened the manila folder and read from the single page it contained. He nodded to himself and smiled. "Oh, I get it," he mumbled.

   "I don't," Boldt said.

   "Somebody's pulling your chain on this slug, Lou. No wonder you didn't want to give me a case number— you sly dog! Are you in on this?"

   "In on what?" Boldt said, raising his voice.

   "Someone is apparently testing us."

   Boldt said, guessing, "Fired from a Chinese manufacture assault rifle? Can you determine that?"