Boldt interrupted. “Anyone from Property at the bar?”
“Property?”
“Chapman clammed up, but he grew all nervous when I pointed out he didn’t belong in that pub. Daphne and I are thinking we’ve got this one wrong. What if Schock and Phillipp were into something Ron Chapman found out about?”
“Something inside Property,” LaMoia said, connecting the dots. He nodded, “I suppose it could fall that way, couldn’t it? What about Maria and the possible I.I. connection?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Boldt said. “Tonight we deal with the assaults while the blood’s still fresh.”
LaMoia squinted his eyes shut. When Boldt had first started working with him, LaMoia had been a smoothfaced young loudmouth, smart but a little too sure of himself. Now the face showed ten years of rough road, and though the mouth still broadcast his unparalleled self-confidence, the eyes revealed a more practical, sea-M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E 173
soned man. “What I remember,” he said, squinting ever more tightly, “in terms of Property, is that Pendegrass and some of them guys were whooping it up over the race—a NASCAR qualifying heat—on account I was trying to hear about this unscheduled pit stop, and I couldn’t hear nothing because of their racket. And I’m trying to think now, but I gotta put Chapman’s arrival right about then. Maybe I looked up and caught sight of him or something, you know? Maybe I had this little brain fart on account Chapman’s still active and I’m thinking it was gonna be him getting the shit beat out of him, and how I’m not gonna let something like that happen, and what a pain in the ass it was going to be for all concerned. And then I’m thinking how stupid it is for Chapman to show his face at the Bull. You know? And then I’m wondering if maybe he took a brick the way you did, because there’s been more of that, you know, and so maybe he’s showing up pissed off and ready to settle the score or something, and that kinda leans me away from wanting to help him out too much. I mean, if a guy is stupid enough to walk into a room like that, maybe it’s Darwin’s law that he get the living shit beat out of him. But the point is, the pit stop was something to do with communications. Radio problems between the crew and the driver, and they didn’t want to get into the final third of the race without communication—”
“John. . . .”
“Which means I heard the explanation, Sarge. Get it? I heard the guy explaining the pit stop. Which means 174
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that Chuck Pendegrass and his riot squad had either shut up, cut out, or all gone to take a piss at the same time, which is technically impossible on account the men’s room is only one urinal and a crapper, and there must have been three or four of them over there hooting it up.” He repeated, “I got a hunch Pendegrass split the minute Chapman walked through that door. And let me just say that he and his buddies did not impress me as being ready to leave a few minutes before that.”
“When Chapman arrived, or Schock and Phillipp?”
Boldt pressed.
“You got me there. Maybe it was a minute later.”
“But Chapman didn’t speak to Pendegrass?”
“I can’t say one way or another. Maybe Pendegrass shut up when he saw Chapman, same way Chapman caught my eye.” He added, “Chapman caught a lot of people by surprise, Sarge.”
“So Pendegrass left when?”
“No clue.”
“They could have talked,” Boldt theorized. “For that matter, they could have simply made eye contact. Some kind of visual.”
“We don’t even know that Chapman came looking for Pendegrass,” LaMoia reminded him.
“No,” Boldt agreed. “But we could ask him.”
“Yes, we could at that,” LaMoia replied, collecting his coat off the back of a chair.
“Doesn’t Chuck Pendegrass have a boy about ten?”
“Tanner,” LaMoia answered knowingly. “But what’s that about?”
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“Nothing,” Boldt said, but inside he was thinking that ten was a good age for Little League and aluminum baseball bats.
M
Before LaMoia knocked on the front door of the gray house, he said to Boldt, “I hate this shit. Cop on cop. I don’t even want to think it, much less confirm it.”
“We don’t know that that’s what we’ve got,” Boldt said. “Sanchez could have been a burglary gone wrong. She could have nothing to do with Schock and Phillipp. Probably totally unrelated.”
“Then what the hell are we doing here, Sarge?”
“I’ll tell you what. . . . Boredom does weird things to people.”
LaMoia tugged at the sleeve of his deerskin jacket.
“This rain’s a bitch.”
“That’s the wrong coat for Seattle. I’ve been telling you that for a couple years now.”
“They make chamois out of deerskin, Sarge. Doesn’t hurt the jacket.”
“Jacket doesn’t stop the rain,” Boldt said.
“Can’t have everything.”
Pendegrass met the front door himself, his face enmeshed in a three-day beard, already in a snarl. His hair was wet, his eyes rheumy. “Don’t want any.” He stepped back, intending to shut the door on them. LaMoia slipped the toe of his cowboy boot up onto the jamb. “I’ve seen this done in movies,” he said, giving Pendegrass his best Pepsodent smile.
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“A pair of detectives got hurt tonight,” Boldt said.
“Is that right?”
“Thought you might tell us what you know,” LaMoia added. “Maybe out of the rain.”
“Pass.” Pendegrass eyed the detective. “Since when are you back on the job?”
“Since Schock and Phillipp took an ambulance ride,” LaMoia answered. “You ever heard of loyalty to the badge?”
“We could use some help,” Boldt said, suspecting the man had an alibi in place.
“You saying I’m a suspect in this assault?”
“A suspect?” LaMoia glanced at Boldt as if this was the furthest thing from his mind. “We were thinking witness.” LaMoia explained, “You and I were both down to the Cock and Bull earlier tonight.”
Boldt chimed in, “And LaMoia didn’t catch a whole hell of a lot of what was going down. But he remembered you were there.”
“I bet he did,” Pendegrass said, cautiously eyeing the detective. “And by the way, get your foot outta my door.”
“Maybe you saw something . . . someone,” Boldt said, “and don’t even realize its importance.”
“There were a whole lot of someones at the Bull tonight, Lieutenant.”
“Ron Chapman showed up,” Boldt said.
“Is that right?”
LaMoia ventured, “That would be about when you left.”
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“We’re thinking baseball bat or pipe,” Boldt added, catching the man’s eye.
“Nightstick, maybe,” LaMoia said, reminding Pendegrass of a possible police connection.
“You mind if we come in and talk about it?” Boldt asked, a rivulet of rainwater running down his neck.
“I’m home sick, Lieutenant. In case you forgot. Not a real good time for me.”
“Your name will never get mentioned.”
“Even so . . . I’ll pass.”
LaMoia complained, “All we need is five minutes on what you maybe did or did not see in that bar. Right? You know the drill.”
“That’s right, I do.” He added, “I can crush your foot in the door, if you’d prefer.”
LaMoia left his boot there.
Pendegrass looked pretty drunk. The longer he stood there, the more apparent it was. He was known as a mean drunk. Boldt didn’t want this degenerating into a rumble. Drunk cops like Pendegrass loved a chance to fight, and LaMoia always seemed to find his way into the middle of such things.
“You weren’t too sick to visit the Cock and Bull,”
Boldt
reminded him.
“A medicinal visit.”
“Chuck?” a woman’s voice called out from inside the house, distracting the man. “Who is it, honey?”
“You were there,” LaMoia said, “during the time in question. You left around the time Chapman arrived, which was only minutes before Schock and Phillipp. 178
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You’re jamming us up here, Chuck. You see that? You see the way it’s gonna look? You not wanting to talk. In the right place and the right time? So you didn’t see nothing. You heard something, maybe? Like a head getting cracked open or someone in some kind of pain.”
Boldt wanted to take advantage of the man’s apparent drunken vulnerability, not give him the chance to sober up and rethink his answers. “We’d like to do this tonight. Now,” he said strongly. “You know how it is when a witness avoids you or delays you. These are fellow officers who got hurt, Chuck. We want to clear this one.”
“Before the morning news, I’ll bet. Before John Q. Public pressures city hall to cave in on this sickout.”
“Politics?” Boldt gasped. “You think we’re playing politics?”
“Do whatever it is you boys gotta do. But this here ain’t happening. No way.”
“We’ve got two brothers down, you know,” LaMoia repeated, “and your not talking ain’t right, no matter how you slice it. Don’t matter what you think of Phillipp and Schock. It ain’t right.”
“Chuck?” the woman called out again. She rounded the corner and approached the door wearing a perplexed expression. She was small and mousy, her hair a mess. “Chuck, it’s raining. These men are standing in the rain. John LaMoia, isn’t it?” she said to the sergeant. Every woman associated with the department knew LaMoia’s face.
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“And Lieutenant Boldt,” LaMoia said, extending his hand.
“Chuck?” she said, her concern obvious. “They’re standing out in the rain.”
“No, they’re leaving,” Pendegrass said, meeting eyes with Boldt.
Boldt took his best shot at the woman. The background sound had taken him a minute to identify.
“Funny time of night to be doing a load of laundry.”
She clearly didn’t appreciate the tone of his comment. “Chuck brings back that cigarette smell, and it’s straight into the machine for the clothes and into the shower for him. One of the few laws around here that I made up.”
Boldt caught sight of the studio shot of the two kids hanging on the wall as the woman pulled the door open further. He said, “Does your son own a baseball bat, Mrs. Pendegrass?”
“Whose doesn’t?” Pendegrass asked. He shifted his weight, preparing to shut the front door, boot toe or no boot toe. As he did, he offered Boldt a glimpse of the stairway climbing to the home’s second floor and, sitting on one of the steps, a pair of ankle-high hiking boots bearing the Nike logo. He wondered if there might be a slight tear in the nylon above the side logo. Boldt had seen a similar Nike logo at point-blank range while lying face down in his driveway. Pendegrass elbowed his wife out of the way, kicked LaMoia’s boot clear, and slammed the front door shut. On the way back to the car Boldt said, “I’m starting 180
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to think if we searched his closets or his locker downtown, or the trunk of his car, that maybe we’d find a baseball bat or a balaclava,” Boldt said. “And that might begin to make sense of things.”
“Eggplant? What’s with that?” LaMoia asked naively.
“Or is balaclava one of those Greek desserts?”
Boldt dismissed the man’s ignorance. “He’s on Krishevski’s squad. Right?”
“Right as rain.”
“So maybe that’s all we need to know.”
They ducked through the downpour and ran for the parked car, LaMoia calling out loudly and complaining about how much he loved his deerskin jacket.
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“You’re being awfully quiet,” Daphne said, stung by the irony of the prominently displayed sign that reminded hospital visitors to keep silent. The morning routines kept the corridors busier than on their previous visits. Doctors were doing their rounds, med students in tow. Nurses and orderlies seemed harried and overworked.
“Thinking,” Boldt replied.
“About last night’s assaults,” she completed for him.
“Pendegrass is a loyalist. He’ll do whatever Krishevski asks. You’re the staff psychologist. You know there’s a thin line between cop and criminal.”
“From what you told me, his wife’s explanations made sense. Tell me how that connects to Krishevski.”
“You didn’t see his eyes. His attitude. Pendegrass, Riorden—Krishevski’s boys down in Property—they all ride in the back of the bus.”
“It doesn’t mean they cracked open a couple of heads.”
“But they could have,” he said. He needed answers. He still believed Sanchez the best source for those answers The rent-a-cop security guard on Sanchez’s hospital 182
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room recognized Matthews and Boldt. Daphne led the way through the door. It warned of oxygen in use, but Boldt thought they might post other cautions as well. This woman’s assault seemed to be tearing at the fabric of SPD’s integrity, implicating misplaced loyalties to labor unions and dissolving the bonds between fellow officers. He came to find out if Sanchez had worked an Internal Investigation prior to her being found tied to her bed with her neck cracked. He came hoping that her assault was nothing but a burglary gone bad. Without confirmation otherwise, this was how the case had to be investigated. It was rare for him to enter an interrogation desiring his hunches and instincts to be proved wrong, but that was exactly what he felt as he stepped into the room and looked over at the paralyzed woman lying in the bed.
Sanchez’s haunting eyes had come to plague Boldt. Pleading. Silent. Saddened. A young, vital woman had been sacrificed. Maria Sanchez was trapped—her spirit was confined to a body that would not release her. Within the next few days or weeks, surgeons would apparently know if her surgery would reconnect this woman to the life she had previously known.
“We know this is difficult for you, Officer,” Daphne began after greeting her. The reference to the patient’s rank was intentional. They needed the participation of a policewoman. They needed honest, difficult answers.
“We’ve had several important developments in the case,” Boldt informed her. Her eyelids shut with some difficulty, and as they opened her dark brown irises fo-M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E 183
cused intently on Boldt, whose voice caught as he said,
“Some questions we’d like to ask you.”
Her eyes shut and then reopened again, her pupils fixed to the right. “Yes,” came the woman’s answer. She seemed worse today than the last time he’d seen her. He reeled.
“There have been two more assaults,” Daphne said, stepping closer to Boldt at the foot of the bed to make it easier on the patient. “Both officers. Both badly off.”
The eyelids shut.
Boldt said, “There seems to be the possibility of a connection that we would prefer not to face, but face it we must. Our primary interest remains this burglar—
especially in your case, where your possessions went missing. We’re pursuing all relevant leads. But unfortunately, another possibility has raised its ugly head—
that these assaults on officers, my own included, have to do with an I.I. investigation. That this investigation, whatever it is, or was, is the common thread we’ve been missing.”
“And that’s why we’re here,” Daphne said. Boldt said cautiously, “Sometimes the system itself can stand in an officer’s way. We need answers, and we’re not getting them from upstairs.”
“We need your help.”
When her eyes opened this time, they aimed to the right. “Yes.”
“Prior to your assault,” Boldt began, �
�were you involved in an Internal Investigation?” Her eyes fluttered shut and remained so.
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“Please, Maria,” Daphne pleaded.
“Yes,” came the answer.
Boldt experienced a combination of relief and anxiety. Sanchez had been working an I.I. prior to her burglary assault. A dozen questions danced on the tip of his tongue.
“Did the investigation involve Property?” he asked. She stared at the ceiling. Unable, or unwilling to answer? Boldt wondered. “Krishevski?” Boldt asked quickly, for his suspicions remained with the Property sergeant.
The ceiling. But he thought she struggled not to answer.
“Pendegrass?”
The ceiling. Perhaps she was overmedicated, he thought.
“Chapman?”
Her eyelids fluttered, she squeezed them shut tightly. When they reopened, she stared at the ceiling.
“Maria . . .” a frustrated Boldt pleaded. “Please. You’re the only one who can answer these questions.”
He allowed this to sink in. “Do you believe someone—
anyone—from Property was involved in your assault?”
He asked this with as little emotion as he could summon, and yet his own convictions surfaced.
“No,” replied the injured woman.
Daphne glanced at Boldt—Sanchez’s first definite answer took Property out of the assault. A part of him felt satisfied. He could focus on the burglary and let others turn over the rocks—if those rocks even existed. M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E
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But Chapman’s anxiety the night before remained in the forefront of his thoughts, and cautioned against accepting Sanchez’s answers.
“Do you believe your assault was related in any way to your I.I. case?” Daphne inquired.
Again, she stared at the ceiling. Boldt’s frustration built.
“Maria, we have two more officers in this hospital this morning. We have suspicious movements from officers in Property. We have far more questions than answers, and you’re apparently one of the few people who knows what’s going on. I know it’s asking a lot—too much even—but please, help us out here!”
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