Middle Of Nowhere

   Gaynes said, "Wong sold one of the Property Room weapons back to Flek? Isn't that a bit of a coincidence?"

   "Agreed," Boldt said. "When we find Flek, it won't be his rifle that threw the shot. We need him in custody. We need that rifle for comparison. Flek's a screw-up. He's a burglar with a temper. He hurt John, and we're bringing him in for that. But it's not the only reason he's our top priority. Flek can help fill in some of the answers, whether he knows it or not." He added, "My guess is that at this point—once my discovery in Property gets out—there are people or persons who won't want us to bring him in. Won't want certain questions answered." He added, "Bryce Abbott Flek has become their scapegoat."

   Gaynes reminded them, "Whoever stole those weapons has to have someone from Property in their camp."

   Boldt suggested, "Who in Property would have had inside information that a walkout was imminent?"

   "Krishevski?" Gaynes asked timidly. "Sweet Jesus," she repeated, reaching for a scone to quell her nervous stomach.

C H A P T E R

46

W hen Boldt entered through the back door, he knew that something was amiss, not only from Liz's perplexed expression, but from the faint strains of Oscar Peterson coming from the study—his music room. Why would Liz play an LP but leave the livingroom speakers off?

   She motioned toward that music, "Mac Krishevski's here."

   Boldt's chest tightened as he stripped off his sport jacket, the new shirt, and tugged at the Velcro strips that secured the vest over his undershirt. "Too hot in this thing," he mumbled. As he slipped back into his shirt, he asked, "Did he call first?"

   She shook her head. "Just showed up. We talked a few minutes, but he insisted I go about my regular stuff and that he'd enjoy himself with your collection."

   "How long?" Boldt inquired.

   "Nearly an hour ago. I figured you'd want to see him."

   "Thanks."

   The kids were in the living room, Sarah in front of a video, Miles building a Lego fort. They didn't seem to notice him at all.

   Krishevski looked older than when they last had met. Tension filled his eyes, the skin surrounding them stained blue with fatigue. This was not a pleasure visit.

   "Mac?" Boldt asked from the doorway of the small room. He rolled up his shirt sleeves.

   His study, a ten-by-twelve-foot dead space partially beneath the stairs, was occupied by nearly two thousand vinyl LP jazz albums filed floor to ceiling, a twohundred-watt vacuum-tube stereo, a speaker system with hand-wrapped copper coils, and a single leather recliner within an arm's reach of the controls.

   "We got business to discuss," Krishevski said. He climbed out of the recliner and offered it to Boldt. To be polite, Boldt declined and moved a ladder-back chair in from the living room. Boldt could see Liz trying to figure out what was going on. He told her, "No calls, please, sweetheart. I'm going to speak to Mac in private for a few minutes." She nodded back. He closed the door. Krishevski turned down the music and returned the recliner to a sitting position.

   "Not the best news, I'm afraid," Krishevski said.

   "We might have a beer," Boldt offered.

   "Thanks anyway."

   Civility between two men who were borderline enemies.

   Boldt placed his chair and sat down. "So?"

   "Whole fucking world's a mess. You ever notice that?"

   "What's on your mind?"

   "Don't shoot the messenger," Krishevski requested.

"I'm the one being shot at, not doing the shooting."

   Krishevski's apparent surprise confused Boldt. Was he that good an actor? he wondered.

   Boldt continued, "So if you've come to warn me, you're about a day late, and at least one slug short."

   "I am here to warn you. But no matter what you believe, I'm only the messenger. And the message is pretty damn simple: You get your hands on the video, and the video they got never gets shown."

   "And what video would that be?"

   Krishevski reached over and turned up the volume. "We gotta talk."

* * *

"I've got something for you." The man making the phone call identified himself to Daphne as Frederick Osbourne of AirTyme Cellular. He continued, "A lieutenant named Boldt left both his and your names in case I had anything, and I'm only getting Boldt's voice mail."

   Information concerning Flek's cellular phone, she realized, her heart leaping in her chest. She and Boldt had discussed Osbourne. "Yes," was all she could think to say.

   "It's not real-time. He and I went over that. I'm sorry about that. We're working on it; we have some good ideas, actually, how we might improve that. I explained the various technologies and their limits to the lieutenant when we spoke. But I think you'll find it interesting. Would you like to come over to the offices?"

   "It's seven o'clock," Daphne pointed out. "If you have a location for the suspect, perhaps you could just give it to me over the phone," she suggested.

   "Not exactly a location," he answered. "More like a theory. I think it better explained in person. Can you get hold of Lieutenant Boldt?"

   "I can try. Yes."