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third floor, one member of each stairwell team was already silently running toward him and room 312. In a flurry of hand signals, Boldt indicated he would clear 312’s lock, to be followed by the ram. The order of entry was the two ERT men, then Hu and Gaynes, and finally Boldt.
The door’s lock mechanism made a noise as Boldt turned the key, any element of surprise lost. The second or two that it took the ram to explode the interior hardware felt fatally long to Boldt. The two black-clad ERT men lobbed both a stun grenade—“a dumb bomb”—and a phosphorus charge—
“white lightning”—a fraction of a second before rushing the room, weapons ready in the familiar leapfrog dance of advance and cover. They arrived to find Courtney Samway lying on the bed in underwear and bra, her nose and ears both bleeding from the dumb bomb, her hands frantically waving behind her blindness due to the white lightning, her screams penetrating even the cement block wall so that they echoed not only down the stairs, but out onto the street. The TV was tuned to a pay-per-view movie where a police gunfight raged. Within seconds, the room was crowded with all but Boldt, as the team searched under both beds, through the room’s only closet, and its small bathroom. Boldt was first to notice the communicating door that connected with the adjacent room. He pointed it out, picked up the ram from the hallway floor and signaled for his team to divide, all the while his mind grinding through the reality of the situation: If Flek had 324
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taken the adjacent room, then the manager, on Boldt’s orders, had just asked him to come down to the lobby because of a smoke alarm problem. Flek would have fled the room immediately, either remaining inside the motel, or disguising himself and slipping out unseen. The team raided the communicating room from both sides simultaneously. They found an oily pizza box and the recently opened package that Samway had delivered. Empty. SID would later find the fingerprints to confirm it. Bryce Abbott Flek had escaped. And Boldt had helped him to do so.
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“The minute he got the phone call from the manager, he pulled on a pair of boxer shorts, threw a towel over his arm, and headed down to the pool,”
Samway said from the other side of the cigarette-scarred interrogation table in the box. Mulwright, Boldt and Gaynes occupied the other side of the table. Samway wore an extra-large black police windbreaker to cover herself. The effects of the stun grenade had required a visit to the emergency room, costing Boldt precious time. She had punctured an eardrum and wore some foam padding over her left ear, but other than that was medically sound.
“The rifle?” Boldt asked.
“I ain’t saying nothing about no rifle,” she replied.
“Not until I see me a lawyer.”
“Young lady,” Boldt addressed her, “you are in legal quicksand. The more you move, the deeper you sink. Do you understand? We’ve been through this attorney thing before. One has been assigned to you and is on the way, just like last time. But just like last time, you are far better off to cooperate now and save yourself some heartache.”
“In a backpack. He carried it with him.”
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Samway continually glared angrily at Gaynes, recognizing her from their pool encounter. After a long stare she complained, “Dyke bitch.” She told Boldt,
“She hit on me!”
Boldt wondered if Flek had walked right past the front desk, right past that one-way glass in the office. It seemed unlikely. He said, “I would have seen him in the lobby.”
“There’s an entrance to the pool from the weight room on the second floor,” Jilly Hu informed Boldt.
“And we didn’t hear about it?” Boldt thundered.
“We knew about it,” Mulwright countered. “It’s on the floor plans of the building,” he said, referring to the city fire department’s data. “We re-deployed assets to cover the various exits. Higher priority.”
Boldt complained, “You did this after the suspect had already fled the building.”
“Hey,” Mulwright countered. “Don’t lay that shit on me! You were the one wanted to wait. I was the go-guy. If we’d have gone, like I said we should’a, then it wouldn’t be this bimbo in the chair, it would be our boy.”
“Who you calling a bimbo, Moon Face?” Samway countered, shouting because her voice could not adjust to the temporary loss of hearing in the one ear.
“You, Lap Dancer. I’m calling you a bimbo, and you know what? I’m wrong. Bimbo’s a compliment to a slut like you. You’re street trash, whoring for some asshole who goes around beating on people and heisting VCRs. You think that’s a man you been spreading ’em for? M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E
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You think he didn’t know what was coming, leaving you behind in the room like that? He could’a got you killed!
You know that? You understand that? You think he cared? He tell you the police were coming? Did he? No. He didn’t, did he? I can see it on your face. He burned you. He sacrificed you, Sweet Tits. And you know what? He’s laughing over some beer somewhere. He skates while you get the dumb bomb. And here you are de- fending him, protecting him. Give me a fucking break!”
“What do you mean, beating on people?” Of everything Mulwright had said to her, this is what stuck. Boldt said, “We mentioned the assaults the last time we talked to you.”
She squirmed. Maybe she’d been high the last time. Maybe she didn’t remember.
Boldt explained, “We think he broke the neck of a woman police officer.”
“He’ll break your neck someday when he’s tired of what’s between your legs,” Mulwright added.
“Dream on, Pizza Face. He don’t get tired of it. You ever seen me dance?”
“The only dancing you’ll be doing where you’re going will be for some bull dyke who’s got you in her love pack.”
For the first time, Samway’s composure cracked. The men missed it, but Bobbie Gaynes recognized the woman’s vulnerability from their conversation in the elevator.
“You realize that, don’t you?” Gaynes said, cutting off Boldt before he could speak. “Sergeant Mulwright 328
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is right about that. You play dumb with us and you’ll be locked up. You go to trial. With what we’ve got, you’re an accessory to first-degree assault. With your record, you’re screwed. You’ll be sentenced to an adult women’s correction facility—medium security, most likely—six to a cell, thirty in the showers at the same time. And the hell of it is, not only will the dykes make claim to you, make you do things you’ve never dreamed could be done by two women, but the screws—the guards, men mostly—will make you go down on them for a pack of cigarettes, a pack of gum, anything and everything you want. And you’ll want it all—but they’re the ones who get it.” She waited a moment and informed the other, “We try to fix the system. Reform it. We really do. But I’m not so sure it’s even possible anymore. You know? No matter how hard we try, the bigger women are going to take lovers, and a bad screw is going to slip through every now and then.”
“We can keep you away from all that,” Boldt said, picking up on the angle.
“They got the virus in those places,” Mulwright said, his eyes wet and unflinching. “Your tongue’s going to be tasting some virus, sweetheart.”
“That’s enough!” Boldt barked sharply. “Jesus. . . .”
he moaned.
A knock came on the door. Sheila Hill leaned her head inside and summoned Mulwright, a look of complete disgust on her face. As he reached the door, she grabbed onto his shirt and hauled him out of the in-M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E 329
terrogation room, her anger carrying through the door as she closed it again.
Gaynes apologized to the sus
pect. “That was uncalled for. Sorry about that.”
Samway looked paralyzed. She muttered, “I want me a lawyer.”
“One’s coming,” Boldt said.
“Would you like us to leave the room?” Gaynes offered, for the sake of the cassette player running.
“No . . .” a confused Samway said. “What do I have to do?”
“Some place we could find him,” Boldt said.
“Tinker’s.” She came back quickly with it, and Boldt trusted it for this reason.
“Tinker Bell?” Gaynes asked the suspect. To Boldt she said, “A fence down in Kent.” She added, “I forget his real name: Billy, Teddy? Burglary’ll know.”
Samway nodded and whispered, “He does business with Tinker. But if you raid Tinker’s, Abby’ll know it was me. And if he knows it was me who talked . . .”
“Not necessarily,” Boldt said. “We can get around that.”
“I’ve heard him speak to Tinker on the phone.”
“The phone,” Boldt mumbled. “He clones phones. We know that. We need the number of the phone he’s currently using.” He was thinking back to his own idea of triangulation—maybe Flek would lead them right to himself. The number called from the Etheredge facility had not been used since his brother’s death. Boldt needed the current number.
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“Billy Bell is his real name, I think,” Gaynes interrupted, still stuck on remembering the name of the fence. She repeated, “Burglary’ll know.”
“You keep me out of jail,” Samway demanded, though weakly. “You get me into one of them places where they play volleyball and stuff like that. Minimum. Work release. Something like that.”
“We need the cellular phone numbers he’s using,”
Boldt repeated. “If you supply us with those phone numbers, then maybe Tinker never connects our visit to Flek.”
Meeting eyes with Boldt, she studied him. This offer clearly appealed to her. “Phone numbers?” she asked, emphasizing the plural. “He’s got only the one cell phone anymore.” She waited, expecting Boldt to chime in, but he simply maintained the eye contact and waited her out. “You guys got the others when you raided his pad.”
Boldt waited her out. “Tell me what I want to hear,”
he said.
“I’ve got the number,” she assured him. Boldt pulled out his pen and started writing.
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“Iwanted you to hear this,” Boldt told Daphne, who occupied one of the two chairs on the other side of his desk, “in part because Sanchez is still your investigation,” he reminded. He could tell she had gone for a morning run because it flushed her cheeks with color throughout the day. She wore a pink button-down Oxford, a small gray skirt and black leggings. She smelled sweet but not overpowering. Typical of her. He motioned to Bobbie Gaynes. “She gave me a partial report over the phone.”
“Let’s hear,” Daphne said.
Gaynes said, “Burglary raided three fences, including Billy Bell, in order to pull the attention off the Flek case and lessen Samway’s exposure. All three were caught with hot merchandise in their possession, and all three shown photo arrays that included Flek. Bell ID’ed Flek as part of an agreement for a ‘walk.’ Burglary ran descriptions of the electronic gear Flek had stolen from the various houses—the makes, models, and some serial numbers—and Bell was good for most all of it—
he not only remembered it coming through his shop, but had computer records of actual serial numbers in a bunch of cases.”
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“Modern criminals,” Boldt mumbled. “They never cease to amaze me.”
“Most all of it,” Daphne quoted, repeating what Gaynes had said. “Why ‘most’ and not ‘all’?”
“Because none of the Sanchez gear could be accounted for by Bell.”
With the fifth floor busy once again, there was never silence in Boldt’s office. But no one spoke for several long seconds and it felt like silence to him. He said,
“We can invent explanations for that.”
“Right as rain,” Gaynes agreed.
Boldt suggested, “Flek tossed the gear because it was tainted by the assault.”
“Entirely possible,” Gaynes agreed.
“This guy?” Daphne asked. “Not this guy, no. You invited me in on this for my professional opinion?” This seemed aimed at Boldt. “He does a job, he wants some reward. He’s a hardened criminal,” she reminded him.
“Is he going to scare off because he threw some woman down the stairs?”
“Or snapped her neck from behind,” Boldt amended. “Dixie can’t rule out that possibility.”
Daphne asked Gaynes, “How much can we trust what Bell says?”
“Not much,” she conceded. “But I happen to trust it in this case. He knows about LaMoia and Sanchez, along with the rest of the city. He knows we mean business.”
Daphne said, “So when the Sanchez assault is re-M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E 333
ported by the papers to be an officer, Flek tells Bell to ditch the gear.”
Gaynes replied, “Possibly. But then Billy Bell would remember that gear all the more.”
“So . . .” Daphne complained, confused. Gaynes said, “I think Bell is right with this. He has a lot to lose. Burglary can put him down for the stash they found. Why toy with us? I just don’t see it.”
“Because he’s afraid of Flek,” Daphne answered,
“just as everyone else seems to be.” She glanced at Boldt, trying to judge his reaction, but he wouldn’t give her that.
“Could be,” Bobbie allowed.
Boldt interrupted. “The point being that if Bell is right with this, then he fenced most of the gear Flek lifted except the Sanchez electronics. If true, that needs explaining. We have to listen to that. We assume Flek did John, and as such remains at the top of the department’s Most Wanted.”
“Meaning what?” Gaynes inquired.
“Sanchez failed to pick him out of the photo array,”
Daphne reminded them both. “And at least once, she did not discount the possible involvement of more than one person.”
“So where are we going with this?” Gaynes repeated impatiently.
“We look the Sanchez assault over real carefully,”
Boldt said. “Start again. Build the case from the ground up and try to fit Flek into it. She worked one of the cases—that ties her to Flek’s world. Let’s know every-334
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thing there is to know. We work Samway again. But we let nothing inhibit the manhunt. That remains our top priority.” He added, “Flek is going to have answers for us.”
“But if Flek didn’t do Sanchez,” Gaynes persisted, still annoyed by her own confusion, “then where are we going with this?”
Boldt looked over at Daphne, and meeting eyes, saw her concern for him. For a woman typically capable of containing her emotions, this spoke volumes. She knew exactly where they were going with this. But it was Boldt who voiced it.
“To the devil,” he answered.
Daphne nodded in agreement.
“In house,” Gaynes gasped. Then she added, “Oh, my God!”
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“It was a difficult meeting,” he told Liz. Boldt presented the contradictory evidence surrounding Flek’s possible involvement with the Sanchez assault at a divisional meeting attended by captains Hill and Shoswitz as well as the captain of detectives and a deputy chief to whom all the captains reported. The meeting became heated as Boldt suggested that though they suspected Flek for the LaMoia assault and intended to pursue him to the very edges of the earth, questions persisted about the Sanchez assault and that he could not rule out the possibility of “the involvement of internal personnel.” Deputy Chief McAffrey stated that he would reluctantly assign it to Internal Investigations for review. Boldt asked that I.I.’s involvement be curta
iled until he and Matthews had reviewed all the evidence, circumstantial and otherwise. McAffrey agreed to give Boldt forty-eight hours. Sheila Hill skillfully negotiated Boldt’s cushion to seventy-two. Boldt left the meeting with a clock ticking in his head. In the middle of an active fugitive pursuit as well as at the start of a total case review on Sanchez, his plate was full. He ate a gyro while Liz tried the Greek salad. Their relationship sat between them on the table like a tall 336
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vase of flowers or a lit candle one can’t see past. Boldt had never felt so awkward in her presence.
“Mud up to the axles,” Boldt said after an uncomfortable silence. “That’s how this feels. Work. You and I. Everything.”
“What I feel is a need—a real need—to get things right. And they aren’t right now. We imposed on John and Kristin for weeks, and that wasn’t right. We need to have them over to dinner, buy them a real special thank-you gift. But you’re barely home, and when you are, you don’t even talk to me.” She poked at the salad. Boldt felt it in the center of his chest.
“I kissed a woman,” he announced apologetically. It tumbled out of him and he felt a flood of relief with the confession. It would be work, but now they could make real progress.
She stabbed again and missed. She knocked over the bowl spilling oily cucumbers onto the table. They slid around like transparent hockey pucks. She wouldn’t look up at him. Her lower lip trembled. He felt like dying.
He said, “It was only the one kiss. It stopped at that. Not that that makes it any better.” He paused. “But it was enough to tell me something is very wrong. I’ve let this separation drift us apart. I couldn’t face you without telling you about it, and I couldn’t tell you about it without facing you.”
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her about the pepper. The fork fell into the bowl. She didn’t notice. “Who?” she asked.
“Does it matter?” he scoffed. “It’s not who, it’s why.”
“Then why do I feel jealous?” she asked. “Why do I feel this is somehow my fault?”
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