Middle Of Nowhere

   For a moment, Boldt felt a sense of relief, for his fear had been that the rifle wouldn't be there at all— that it had been removed from Property and used in an attempt to assassinate him. He sniffed the barrel— not used recently. Then he held the rifle at arm's length as Chapman climbed back down to his level. And his chest tightened. He fumbled for the label. The numbers were right. He double-checked them.

   "Something the matter?" Chapman inquired, sensing Boldt's disposition.

   "It's the wrong rifle," Boldt replied. "It's not even the right make!"

   His words echoed in the space. His stomach knotted.

   Ron Chapman looked at him and said, "Oh shit! We got problems!"

* * *

Boldt instructed Daphne and Bobbie Gaynes to meet him in the Garden Terrace of the Four Seasons Olympic Hotel, where he had tea for three and a plate of currant scones waiting. Although not a regular, Boldt took afternoon tea at the Four Seasons whenever he felt he could afford it, about once a paycheck.

   Neither Gaynes nor Matthews was fooled by his choice of location. They arrived together, having walked from the office. "So, L.T.," Gaynes said, sitting in a chair facing the man and leaving the other half of the love seat he occupied for Daphne, "what's so important that we can't talk about it at the house?"

   "Am I so transparent?"

   "Not wearing that vest you're not," Daphne said. Boldt was a big man. He carried the protective vest better than most. He'd bought a shirt two sizes bigger that what he typically wore to accommodate the vest. All this at Liz's insistence. His concession to their negotiation for his return to the job.

   He explained, "I promised Liz I'd wear it."

   Daphne Matthews looked pale. "I think you owe us an explanation."

   He took them through his last eighteen hours—the attempt on his life, the visit to Lofgrin, the wrong rifle in storage.

   Daphne reached out to grab his hand, but caught herself and dragged the butter to her plate. Daphne and butter did not go together, so Gaynes looked on in amazement.

   "Someone threw shots at you?" Gaynes gasped.

   "One shot," Boldt answered clinically. "And it wasn't a warning shot."

   Gaynes stared down at the scone on the plate before her. "Well, there goes my appetite."

   "I have a theory I'd like to share with you," he told them.

   Gaynes interrupted. Daphne seemed frozen in the love seat. "Flek found your crib?"

   Boldt addressed her and said, "Liz caught that too. Flek has no way of knowing where we live. I'd have to put him low on the list." He let them think a moment and said, "Someone switched out the rifle."

   "You're giving me the weebies here, L.T."

   "Someone switched out the rifle. It is not the weapon confiscated in the Williamson shooting. Sanchez paid four visits to Property, just before her assault. Schock and Phillipp paid two. What if that's the I.I. case no one will talk about?"

   "Sweet Jesus!" Gaynes blurted out.

   "The Flu," Daphne whispered, knowing him better than others did.

   He found room to smile. He appreciated the connection the three of them had. "Let's say that word got out to a select few that the walkout was inevitable, that negotiations had broken down. Let's say that all this happened well ahead of the rest of us ever hearing even a rumor of cancelled overtime. The rank and file," he said. "Paychecks stop. People borrow. Then the borrowing stops, and families suffer. So what if a couple of our boys decided they needed underwriting? An insurance policy?"

   "Heist some weapons from Property and sell them into the market," Gaynes suggested.

   Daphne objected, "But a weapon was there. Just the wrong one. Property can't make a mistake? With that inventory?"

   "Exactly," Boldt said. "Exactly what we're supposed to think: human error. And that's probably what I.I. was checking up on."

   Gaynes disagreed. "Ron Chapman would not condone this. Not ever."

   "Maybe not," Boldt agreed, "but he suspected something, or discovered something that put him on to it. I've got to tell you: He looked as surprised as I was to see the wrong weapon attached to the label."

   "Then who?" Gaynes asked.

   "Remember what Wong said?" he asked Gaynes. "Remember what he mumbled a couple of times? 'Cops and guns,' he said. Said it at least twice. It bothered me at the time, not for the words themselves—I mean the guy's a gun dealer—but for the way he said it: like he was disgusted or something. 'Cops and guns.' One day they're selling them to him. The next we come along, and we want them back."

   Daphne followed his logic. She said ominously, "Someone tried to kill you with one of those guns. Are you saying Manny Wong sold Flek an assault rifle that had been black-marketed by one of us?"

   "Might be Flek," Boldt said. "Might not. The sooner we catch him, the better."

   Gaynes said, "You have other enemies?"

   "Earlier in the day I'd been arguing in a closed meeting that maybe Flek had not done Sanchez, that maybe we had to look inside our own ranks."

   Daphne said, "It's all circumstantial."

   "Extremely," Boldt agreed, "but it starts to add up."