Praise for Middle of Nowhere :
“Excitement quotient: high; technology details: intriguing.”
— USA Today
“Master plotter, reliable thrills from a pro.”
— Kirkus Reviews
“Fast-paced read from beginning to end. Pearson is able to effortlessly intertwine several detailed plot lines while still keeping his story firmly robed in reality.”
— New York Post
“Pearson uses clear, forthright prose that perfectly exposes the psychological doubts and fears of his characters and keeps the plot racing from scene to scene. Craftily, Pearson weaves his web.”
— Providence Sunday Journal
Praise for The First Victim:
“Razor sharp plotting and timing.”
— Seattle Times
“There is no one writing police novels with the precise touch of Pearson. His stories are thoroughly researched, heartbreaking and full of escalating suspense.”
— Denver Rocky Mountain News
Praise for The Pied Piper :
“Pearson proves once again that he can put together a big-scale, big-time police manhunt better than anybody else in the business.”
— Kirkus Reviews
“A master of this genre. We all should thank Ridley Pearson for the gift of good characters and great plots.”
— Washington Times
“Pearson is a first-rate writer, and The Pied Piper won’t disappoint his growing number of fans.”
— Knight Ridder News Service
Praise for Beyond Recognition:
“Pearson’s dazzling forensics will hook his usual fans. But it’s the richness of incident and the control of pace that’ll keep them dangling as he switches gears each time you think the story’s got to be winding down in this exhilarating entertainment.”
— Kirkus Reviews
“Pearson has all the sharps and flats he needs to keep his roller-coaster rhythm rising and falling, speeding and slowing, yet somehow always building, winding us tighter.”
— Booklist
“Pearson has the details of a murder investigation down cold.”
— San Francisco Chronicle
Praise for Chain of Evidence :
“This is an impeccable, high-speed thriller.”
— Boston Sunday Globe
“Pearson handles the complex plot with grace and speed, packing a potent blend of action and procedural information into his work. A must-read for thriller fans.”
— Chicago Tribune
“The gadget man is back with a bag of new toys. You don’t have to be a techno-nerd to get wired on this scary stuff.”
— New York Times Book Review
“Pearson weaves psychology and suspense into this tale of high-tech clues and complex motives.”
— Playboy
“Ridley Pearson is an unequivocal success. I’m hooked again.”
— Entertainment Weekly
Praise for No Witnesses:
“Tough and intelligent.”
— Fort Worth Star Telegram
“Up-to-the-nanosecond techno-thriller.”
— New York Times
“Infused with astonishingly effective overtones.”
— Boston Globe
“Good old-fashioned storytelling.”
— Washington Post Book World
“A serious, well-researched, complex thriller.”
— Los Angeles Times
Praise for The Angel Maker :
“Exceptionally gripping and full of amazing forensic lore: a top-flight offering from an author who has clearly found his groove.”
— Kirkus Reviews
“A chilling thriller.”
—Dell Publishing
Praise for Hard Fall:
“Pearson excels at novels that grip the imagination. Hard Fall is an adventure with all engines churning.”
— People magazine
“Mesmerizing urgency.”
— Los Angeles Times Book Review
“Nifty cat-and-mouse caper. Crisply written tale.”
— Chicago Tribune
Praise for Undercurrents:
“Neatly constructed plot. Hair-raising denouement. Remarkable insight and understanding of the motivations of the criminal mind.”
— Publishers Weekly
“Undercurrents is a roller-coaster ride in the dark.”
—Book of the Month
Praise for Probable Cause :
“Filled with clues, both planted and missed, fancy forensic footwork, and intriguing snares. A whole lot of suspense. A satisfying, gripping police procedural.”
— Booklist
“A sleek, cleverly plotted part-psychological thriller, part-courtroom drama.”
— Los Angeles Times
Praise for Never Look Back:
“A masterly debut. Powerful yet poignant suspense story.”
— Booklist
“A breakneck-action first novel.”
— Kirkus Reviews
M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E
A L S O B Y R I D L E Y P E A R S O N
Parallel Lies
The First Victim *
The Pied Piper *
Beyond Recognition *
Chain of Evidence
No Witnesses *
The Angel Maker *
Hard Fall
Probable Cause
Undercurrents *
Hidden Charges
Blood of the Albatross
Never Look Back
*features Lou Boldt
W R I T I N G A S W E N D E L L M C C A L L
Dead Aim
Aim for the Heart
Concerto in Dead Flat
S H O R T S T O R I E S
“All Over but the Dying”
in Diagnosis: Terminal,
edited by F. Paul Wilson
C O L L E C T I O N S
The Putt at the End
of the World,
a serial novel
R I D L E Y P E A R S O N
MIDDLE OF NOWHERE
N E W Y O R K
Copyright © 2000 Ridley Pearson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the Publisher. Printed in the United States of America. For information address Hyperion, 77 West 66th Street, New York, NY 10023-6298.
ISBN 0-7868-7199-7
First eBook edition: August 2001
I’m honored to dedicate this book to my father, Robert G. Pearson, who not only brings to these pages an editorial pen, but enriches my life by demonstrating that a daily joy for living and a very real spiritual grounding can and does elevate one’s experience. You are a trusted friend to your wife, and a mentor to all three of your children—and that makes us a very special family indeed. A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S
Thanks to Marsha Wilson of the Seattle Police Department; Lexis-Nexis; Louise Marsh, Nancy Litzinger, Mary Peterson, Courtney Samway and Debbie Cimino for office management; Paige, Storey and Marcelle; Gary Shelton; Matthew Snyder of CAA. Thanks, too, to Dave and Michelle and Tater, Mitch and Janine, James and Stephanie, Amy and Lou, Little Stephen and Shift Tab.
Middle of Nowhere was edited by Leigh Haber. Thanks again, Leigh, for the patience and hard work. I owe a special debt of gratitude to C. J. Snow and Michele Matrisciani.
Additional story line comments came from my agent, Al Zuckerman, and were much appreciated. To the people of Seattle, my apologies for any liberties taken herein with your incredible city. They are either mistakes, or the necessity of fiction. Your tolerance is appreciated. P R O L O G U E
Behind her, the garage door groaned shut, a combination of hair-raising
squeals—metal on metal—
and the tight, quickened shudders of rollers traveling slightly off track. The garage opener’s bulb was burned out, leaving only the yellow glare of car headlights, on a self-timer. Sharp shadows stretched across the tools and garden hoses that cluttered the walls. The room smelled of burning rubber, hot motor oil and lawn fertilizer—slightly sickening. A light rain struck the garage roof percussively.
Moving around the parked car, Maria Sanchez’s body reflected the late hour—hunched shoulders, stiff legs. She wanted a bath, some Sleepytime tea and the Amy Tan novel that awaited her. She felt the weight of her sidearm in her purse as she adjusted its strap on her shoulder. When out on active duty she wore it holstered at her side, but the last four hours of her day had been paperwork, and she had transferred the gun to her bag. At least another four to go if she were to get even partly caught up. But no more on that night. She had clocked out. Amy Tan owned the rest of her waking hours.
She closed the side door to the garage, and stepped 2
R I D L E Y P E A R S O N
into darkness. The light alongside the back door hadn’t come on, which surprised her since it worked off a sensor that should have automatically switched it on at sunset. It must have been burned out also. Just like the one in the garage. God, she wanted that bath. Something moved behind her. A cop learned the difference between the elements and human beings. This was not wind, not the elements. It was human movement. Her right hand dropped and reached for a weapon she now remembered wasn’t there—her terror mounted.
The crook of a man’s elbow choked her windpipe. Next came a hard kidney punch. Sanchez’s handbag slipped to the wet grass. She tried to respond as she’d been trained—as a police officer; to compartmentalize and set aside her terror. She drove back her elbow sharply and bent forward, driving her butt into the man behind her. The attempt did nothing to loosen the grip of that chokehold. Instead, the defensive move put more pressure on her own throat, increasing the pain, restricting the blood flow. She stomped down hard—
hoping to connect with an instep, shatter it. She could smell beer and sour sweat and it was these smells that increased her fear.
Then another kidney punch. Sanchez felt herself sag, her resistance dwindle. She hadn’t put up much of a fight, but now she knew she was going to lose it. She suddenly feared for her life.
Her reaction was swift and intense. She forced herself up, managing to head-butt a chin or a forehead. M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E
3
The viselike hold on her neck slackened. She felt the warmth of blood surge toward her brain. Briefly, relief. She tried once again to rock forward and this time break the grip for good.
But now the grip intensified. This guy meant business. He cursed and jerked his locked hold on her neck, first right and then sharply left. She heard her own bones go, like twigs snapping. And then cold. A brutal, unforgiving chill, racing through her body. In seconds, all sensation of her body was gone. She sank toward the mud and her face fell into the muck. Raspy breathing from above and behind her. And then even it disappeared, overwhelmed by a whining in her ears and that desperate cold that finally consumed her.
C H A P T E R
1
The night air, a grim mixture of wind and slanting rain, hit Boldt’s face like needles. Seattle was a police beat where the weather could and did compromise a crime scene, often in a matter of minutes. On the advice of Bernie Lofgrin and his forensic team—the Scientific Identification Division, or SID—the department had issued foul weather directives for all first officers—
the first patrol person to arrive on the scene. Regulations now required plastic tarps and oversized umbrellas as mandatory equipment for the trunk of every cruiser. But mistakes were still made, and that night seemed ripe for them.
As Boldt hurried up the home’s short pouredcement driveway, he faced the garage, behind and to the left of the house. A basketball hoop and paintchipped backboard faced the street. Boldt ignored the garage for the time being, his attention instead focused on the SID van parked there in the drive. Of all the divisions, SID should have understood the importance of protecting evidence, should have respected the department’s attitude toward parking on private property. And yet there was the SID step van, inexplicably parked in the victim’s driveway. One expected the occasional M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E
5
procedural error from the medical examiner’s chuck wagon, even tolerated it when, as had happened earlier that night, an ambulance had been required to carry away a victim, and so had likely parked in the drive. But as the collectors and keepers of evidence, SID had no excuse for parking in a crime scene driveway for any reason. Some SID tech had wanted to avoid the rain, that was all, and that wasn’t good enough. The infraction incited Boldt’s temper, and in a rare display of emotion, he exploded at the first SID tech he encountered. He ordered the van relocated to the street. Privately, Boldt blamed the “Blue Flu,” SPD’s first sickout by its officers in the history of the department. The Flu had so overwhelmed morale that it now apparently offered even civilian employees—like those who peopled SID—an excuse to turn in shoddy, rushed work. He wondered what chance law enforcement had if the five-day-old sickout continued. He also feared the consequences; shoddy work wasn’t the only outcome of the Flu—officers, including Boldt, had been threatened by anonymous calls. Lines were being drawn. Violence bubbled beneath the surface.
A first-degree burglary indicated an assault, in this case a broken neck and the probable rape of Sanchez, a cop. Boldt felt the urgency of the situation—this case needed to clear before the press had a chance to run with it, before the press became fixated on the vulnerability of a police department weakened by the Flu. Already on the job, Detective Bobbie Gaynes offered Boldt and the investigation a ray of hope. Because of 6
R I D L E Y P E A R S O N
the Flu, and a lottery-like case-assignment strategy that had the depleted ranks—lieutenants and above, mostly, accepting whatever cases Dispatch threw at them—this crime scene belonged to neither Boldt nor Gaynes, but to Lieutenant Daphne Matthews, whose official posting was that of staff psychologist. Boldt expected Matthews on the scene momentarily, even looked forward to it. They worked well together.
A woman in her early thirties who regularly altered her looks for the fun of it, the diminutive Gaynes currently wore her hair cut short and colored a dark red. The heavy rimmed black “Geek” glasses and light makeup created a style that was a cross between hip urban single woman and computer programmer, which actually went a fair distance to describing her personality as well. Gaynes lived for computer chat rooms these days. Her prompt arrival on the scene came as no surprise. Boldt had personally brought Gaynes to Homicide following her stellar work on a serial killer case some years earlier. Before that, she had worked Special Assaults—Sex Crimes, as her fellow officers called it. With the Sanchez crime scene initially reported as a burglary/assault, rape couldn’t be ruled out. Gaynes was a good detective to have on hand. Boldt kept expecting the press. The lights. The questions. They would need answers immediately.
“You knew Maria Sanchez didn’t you?” Gaynes asked.
“I know her personally,” Boldt corrected. “Yes.”
“I only meant—”
M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E
7
Boldt interrupted. “She sat the kids a few times.” He added, “The kids loved her.”
Violent crimes against fellow police officers held special significance for anyone carrying a badge. All crimes were not investigated equally—a fact of life. Members of the immediate police family deserved and received special attention. Maria Sanchez would be no exception.
Daphne Matthews arrived and checked in with Boldt and Gaynes. As lead, Matthews handed out the assignments. Boldt deferred to her—a reversal of their usual roles.
Boldt thought of Daphne as a thoroughbred: dark, lean, fit and strikingly handsome. His system always ran a littl
e quicker when in her presence, in part out of necessity. She possessed both a facile mind and a trained eye. Technically it was her case, but they would all three work the crime scene together. A civilian employee at first, a decade earlier, Matthews had undertaken the six-week academy training so that she now carried not just a title but a badge, rank, and weapon.
She assigned Boldt the second-floor crime scene, where the victim had been discovered, with Gaynes to assist. She would interview the first officer and speak to the SID team leader.
Even though Maria had been whisked away in an ambulance, the importance and power of the crime scene preoccupied Boldt as he approached the bed-8
R I D L E Y P E A R S O N
room. Out on the street, the first of the press arrived. There would be more.
“How’d we find her?” Boldt asked Gaynes. He felt surrounded by women: Liz, Daphne, Gaynes, his own CAPers captain, Sheila Hill, even his little Sarah. He felt isolated but not alone, actually far more comfortable surrounded by these women than by a bunch of cartalking, sports-crazed men who commented on every chest that passed. He wondered why, of the seventeen detectives and two hundred uniformed patrol officers remaining on the job, some eighty percent were women. Why, when the going got tough, did the men quit and the women stay behind? Maybe it would be the topic of one of his guest lectures over at the U. Boldt felt time getting away from him. He hoped for a clean crime scene and good evidence—something obvious that pointed to a suspect. He might as well be asking for a miracle, and he knew it. Gaynes answered, “House has a silent alarm installed. Security company telephoned the home when the alarm tripped, then responded in person, finding the place locked, then finally contacted us because they’re not allowed to kick a door. All told, it took about forty minutes before our officers arrived.”
“Nice response time,” Boldt snapped sarcastically.
“First officer was . . . Ling. Patrolman. He kept the security guys out, made the necessary calls and did a pretty fair job of protecting the integrity of the scene.”
Boldt said, “Matthews and I will visit the hospital on our way home. See how she’s doing. We not only want M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E
9
this one cleared, we need it cleared. A cop assaulted in the middle of the Blue Flu? Press will have a heyday.”
“Got it,” Gaynes confirmed.
Middle of Nowhere Page 1