"Good," Boldt said.
Gaynes said, "I'll take the basement and the ground floor, L.T. You'll take upstairs." Ordering around her lieutenant was an uncomfortable act at best. "If that's good with you?"
"Fine."
"The assault happened up there on the stairs. She came to rest on the landing."
"I'll tread lightly," Boldt offered.
Despite the dozen cases back on his desk, and the dozen more that would be assigned in the coming days, the Sanchez assault and the Kawamoto break-in were what interested him. Any investigator liked a clean case that cleared quickly. But Boldt had worked dozens, perhaps hundreds of such cases; he lived now for the challenge-not the black holes that would never be solved, but the cases that both meant something and offered contradictions. Sanchez and Kawamoto appeared vaguely related-burglaries gone bad, women assaulted. They presented an urgency, both for the sake of the public, and the media.
There was no apology to be made, no words that would return Cathy Kawamoto's sense of safety. She would never fully trust this city again, would never feel safe, even behind the locked doors of her own home. This weighed heavily upon him. Boldt felt that as a peace officer, his role was to preserve a sense of safety, and yet Cathy Kawamoto would have none now, he knew.
Boldt felt the case closing in on him-it just wasn't coming together. He carefully climbed the stairs, on the one hand wanting a few minutes alone to immerse himself in the crime scene, on the other wanting the differences sorted out and the offender in lockup by evening, well before the news dumped it on the dinner plates.
A crime scene, alone, in silence. Lou Boldt felt alert and alive.
As an investigator, Boldt experienced no prescient sense from the perspective of the offender. He could not transport himself into this role as some investigators suggested was possible. He saw the crime scene from the role of the victim-often viscerally, but exclusively from this side of the crime.
Boldt headed upstairs in the footsteps of Cathy Kawamoto, a woman about to disturb a thief. He assumed the thief was a planner-not some junkie kicking in doors and stealing a purse or string of pearls. And here comes Cathy Kawamoto up the stairs, chasing noises. He stopped briefly to study the landing because the freshie had told him the victim had recovered consciousness on the stairs. This was supported by the drying bloodstain he saw there, the result of a bloodied nose.
If the offender had shoved her downstairs and yet fled the premises, he had jumped right over her. This thought coincided with Boldt's observation of a long, black rubber smudge on the wall that seemed to fit with a person in a hurry jumping over a body on the landing. He made a note to have the SID techs sample the rubber smudge, and to analyze it. "No stone unturned," he mumbled to himself, well aware that the press and the public would attempt to connect this to Sanchez- and perhaps even Carmichael-and that on top of the Flu, public concern would figure politically in both investigations, demanding immediate arrests.
He found the offender's apparent target in the bedroom: A corner hutch that faced the victim's bed. A television, VCR and one of those all-in-one music centers with CD player, double tape system and stereo receiver. The offender had not had time to steal the electronics-Kawamoto had headed upstairs at an inopportune time. But the man had moved the hutch from the corner in an effort to free wires. Boldt peered behind. The television had been unplugged, its wire neatly coiled and fastened. What kind of person took the time to neatly coil wires before heisting a television?
More than the coil of wire, it was sight of the white plastic loop secured around the coil that intrigued Boldt. A sophisticated version of a garbage bag tie. Had any such ties been inventoried at Sanchez's, he wondered. Another contradiction? The other wires were snarled in a tangle and covered with dust. Who was this guy? What kind of burglar showed such confidence? Daphne would have a heyday evaluating such a personality.
Then a second thought occurred to him: If the thief had possessed plastic ties at the Sanchez break-in, why not use them to bind her wrists, instead of shoelaces?
Why shoelaces and not the plastic ties?
He took notes, albeit unnecessarily-he wasn't about to forget any of this. Perhaps the Burglary unit had files on record that mentioned white plastic ties being used. He had in hand the physical evidence he'd hoped for.
Now, he had to connect it to a suspect.
CHAPTER 8
" I need help, Phil. I need the names of who did this to Liz, and I also need your Burglary files for the past month. I thought you might be able to speed things up for me on both counts," Boldt said. "Unless you're 'too busy,' " he added. He needed to connect the white plastic ties to earlier burglaries, to establish a pattern crime, to widen the scope of evidence and increase the number of leads to follow. Captain Phil Shoswitz seemed the means to that end.
"Are you suggesting I'm intentionally slowing things down around here?" Shoswitz questioned defensively. In point of fact, some of the lower brass had effected a slowdown, and Shoswitz was probably part of it. The man paced his cluttered office. A baseball fanatic, the captain of Crimes Against Property (which included Burglary) had bookshelves overflowing with intramural trophies and major league souvenirs. A bat autographed by Junior. A hardball scrawled upon by the entire Mariners team. A photo of himself taken outside Safeco Field on opening day, his ticket proudly displayed. He rubbed his throwing elbow-a nervous tic that indicated both deep thought and irritation. "I detest what happened to Liz. You know I'm with you on that-everyone's with you."
"Are they?" Boldt had come up through the ranks with Phil Shoswitz, had spent nearly a dozen years serving under the man in Homicide, over eight of those years as sergeant to Shoswitz's lieutenant. Now that Shoswitz carried a captain's badge in Crimes Against Property, and Boldt a lieutenant's shield in Crimes Against Persons-CAProp and CAPers respectively- Boldt suspected the man had a touch of envy despite the higher rank. Homicide remained the golden egg, the most prestigious posting on the department. Shoswitz had sacrificed that posting for his captain's badge promotion and higher pay.
"Maybe not everyone," Shoswitz admitted, "but you've only yourself to blame for that. You mouthed off to the press about the absenteeism; you pointed fingers at people."
It was true. Boldt had been interviewed by a reporter, and the story had hit the national wires, painting a pretty ugly picture of the detectives who had joined the sickout in sympathy. If Shoswitz was telling him that the blue brick had been thrown through his window in response to that interview, then for Liz's sake, his family's sake, Boldt regretted giving that interview, even if what he said had to be said, which was how he felt about it. The politicians, in an effort to keep negotiations open, failed to express any feelings-rage, disappointment, anger-over the events of the past week, and Boldt felt such attitudes did more damage than good, for they subtly condoned the walkout while taking a "hard-line stance" against it. He loved police work and was proud of the department; the Flu had damaged its reputation, perhaps forever.
"I need access to your files, Phil," Boldt repeated. He took Shoswitz's concern for Liz as lip service. After nearly two decades of friendship, he saw his former lieutenant in a whole new light. If the man cared, he'd have already been on the telephone to his buddy Mac Krishevski, and would have demanded the names of those responsible for that brick. But he was mad at Boldt for talking to the press, mad at Boldt for continuing to carry the caseload dumped on him. Mad at life. Anger had consumed him, and if he didn't watch out it would consume Boldt as well.
Boldt asked, "What's so complicated about your helping me get those files?"
Shoswitz's eyes flashed darkly and his nostrils flared. He stopped his pacing and stared at his former sergeant in an all-too-familiar angry glare. "Without the investigating officer or officers present, it would hardly be appropriate-"
"They're out sick," Boldt pointed out.
"My point, exactly!"
"Their decision, not mine. Not yours! What are you suggesting, we delay all
active investigations? We delay an investigation into the assault of a fellow officer in order to appease the Blue Fluers?"
"Don't use that term in this office."
"It's a sickout, Phil. What's the-"
"It's more complicated than that," Shoswitz complained, interrupting.
"Not to me it isn't," Boldt argued. "I need someone to stand up for what happened to Liz and I need a look at your files. Explain how any of that's complicated."
Shoswitz glared and returned to his aimless pacing, reminding Boldt of a pit bull in a cage.
He pushed away his personal concerns over Liz and the blue brick-Shoswitz wasn't going to help him there-and tried to stay focused on gaining access to the paperwork he deemed crucial to the Sanchez investigation. A burglary was handled by the uniform who responded to the call. Typically, he or she conducted a short interview, inspected the scene, and filled out a report, leaving the victim to deal with the insurance underwriter. Detectives in the Burglary unit shuffled these reports, looking for possible pattern crimes or anything of substance that might connect up with information from snitches or fences they'd squeezed. They did far less field work than their counterparts in Homicide, Special Assaults, or Organized Crime, because a single, unconnected burglary was not worth a detective's time-the likelihood of recovering and returning the stolen property was infinitesimal. Boldt needed Shoswitz to access his unit's case files. He would also need the man's outright cooperation if he were to round up all the recent burglary reports from the three other precincts. Shoswitz could pull this off with a couple calls to the other houses. But his entire team had walked out with the Fluers, and he seemed bound and determined to protect them. It didn't come as a complete surprise to Boldt-Shoswitz was a guild player through and through, even though his rank of captain and the existing management contract prevented him from following the guild's lead.
"Is this for you or Matthews?" Shoswitz asked sarcastically.
Any detective was practiced in the art of changing subjects, but Shoswitz had not been in the field in years. His attempt to derail Boldt succeeded only because it stabbed for the heart.
Boldt knew not to get sucked into this, but his mouth betrayed him. "What the hell does that mean?" he fired off indignantly.
"She's lead on Sanchez, not you, right?"
"So?"
"So who's here asking for favors?" Shoswitz asked rhetorically. "It means what it means."
"Which is?" Boldt asked.
"Lou, do I have to spell it out?"
"You have to spell it out," Boldt assured him. His face burned. His mouth had gone dry. Phil Shoswitz had been a friend for years-and here he was questioning Boldt's loyalty to his wife and family.
Shoswitz continued working that sore elbow. "You two… you work well together," he said, drawing out the statement and meeting eyes with Boldt, who felt a hollow sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "She dumped that rich guy for good, I hear."
"There's nothing there, Phil. Leave it alone."
"Of course not."
"You're pissing me off here, Phil."
"How do you think I feel-we all feel-about your current enthusiasm for the job?"
Politics. It hit him like cold water down the back. He had not expected Shoswitz to be so blatant in his support for Krishevski. Boldt felt stunned. Another ally down, and this one still wearing the badge, still working in the office. A friend. How many others on the job felt similarly? he wondered. How much internal sabotage was taking place in support of the Flu? "You were guild secretary for five years. I understand that, Phil." He tried to remind the man, "But you and I-we're not only bound by a different contract, we're bound by friendship. We're not guild members. Not anymore. Are we still friends?"
Shoswitz huffed. Half a laugh. Half a groan. "This new chief shouldn't be playing games with people's wallets. Big mistake. Look at us," he said, indicating himself and Boldt. "Would we be here arguing like this if it wasn't for him?"
"He's new."
"He's a jerk. What does someone from Philadelphia know about this town?"
"He's one of the best in the country. We both know that."
"Strange way of showing it," Shoswitz said. "Pulling overtime. Cutting out off-duty work. It's asinine!"
"A stadium went over budget. You want asinine? You look at Liz's left forearm!" Boldt fired off. "They brought this into my house, Phil. They crossed a line."
"Agreed," Shoswitz said quickly. "You have no argument from me there."
"Don't I?"
"Meaning?"
Boldt said, "Tell Krishevski to bring forward whoever's responsible."
"I'm forbidden from contacting Krishevski or anyone involved in the… absenteeism," Shoswitz reminded him. "Another wonderful decision from our new chief."
"Krishevski will start a war, he keeps this up. Blue against Blue. What's that about? That has no place on this job!"
"No one wants that."
"Tell that to Liz. Or Sanchez. She's got her head screwed down so she can't move, Phil. She's a pair of eyeballs at the moment. Have you been to visit her? Has anyone? Where the hell is everyone? What if it was me or you who'd taken that fall? What does it take to get people back on the job?"
"Promises," Shoswitz said. "That's where Mac Krishevski comes in. He's playing both sides of the fence, Lou. He has to."
"Yeah? Well he should keep the bricks on his side of the fence."
A hard silence settled between them along with the looks of betrayal from both men.
"These files," Shoswitz cautioned. "Tread lightly. No one on this squad is going to want to hear that you're nosing around in their files. It doesn't look right, a Homicide Lieu stepping in and taking over a CAProp case."
"I can't be worried about that."
"You need to be."
"No, I don't. What I need is those files. You have the authority to round them up for me." Boldt pressed, "I need you to do that. I need to see if the Sanchez assault fits into any kind of pattern your boys may have on the books."
"Why do you think we file in triplicate?" Shoswitz asked.
The Public Safety Building housed administration for all of SPD. Boldt understood the message. "They're here? Copies of all those reports are already here, regardless of precinct?"
Shoswitz said, "Where else?"
"You'll request them for me?"
"They'll be on your desk in an hour," Shoswitz said. "But this conversation never took place. You thought of this on your own. You pulled a favor from someone in the boneyard. You play this however you want, but my name doesn't come up."
"Priorities," Boldt said. "How long do you support a guy like Krishevski?"
"To each their own," added Phil Shoswitz.
"Yeah, sure," Boldt said in disgust. "Who are your own, Phil? These guys who walked off their beats? Or Sanchez over there in the hospital doing staring contests with the ceiling tiles?"
"Be careful, Lou. You say that kind of thing in the wrong company and you won't be making any friends."
"Are you the wrong company, Phil?"
"Get out of here before I change my mind about those files."
"I'm gone," Boldt said. He didn't add that he'd gotten what he came for, though he felt tempted to do so. He wanted the last word, but didn't take it. He left Shoswitz with the illusion of control. He accepted the promise of the files, savoring an undeclared victory.
The last three weeks of reported burglaries arrived on Boldt's desk ninety minutes later, most of them nothing more than the requisite property loss report-one hundred and fourteen in all. Boldt switched on his desk lamp, a cup of Earl Grey at the ready. If there had been a night shift it would have been just arriving, but the Flu had killed such shifts. Civilians still manned their desks, but with the detectives out "sick," the place was a graveyard. He rubbed his eyes, cleaned his reading glasses with a long, slow breath and a piece of tissue, and examined the reports.
Each report detailed a burglary represented by a numbered code. This was foll
owed by name, address, time of day. First officer. Investigating detective, if any. List of stolen goods. A concise summary of events: re turned home, broken window, missing stereo; awoke to a noise, entered the living room, suspect seen fleeing. Eyenumbing repetition. Uniformed patrol officers going through the routine of making the ripped-off public think someone cared. No one did but the insurance companies. They wanted a report filed and signed off on. Boldt studied those reports, fighting off drowsiness.
He looked first to the list of stolen goods, separating out those that inventoried large-screen TVs, home computers, cell phones-all items believed stolen from Sanchez. A single TV didn't count. A single computer didn't interest him. With the exception of a cell phone, the items stolen from Sanchez each had retail values in excess of a grand. Picky. Exact. Kawamoto's 37-inch TV had clearly been targeted; the VCR's wire had not been coiled. Had it been too inexpensive to worry about? Or had Kawamoto's interruption come before the burglar had enough time to examine it? TVs and stereos would normally be considered the domain of a junkie looking for his next fix, but junkies didn't put white plastic ties around the electrical cords. Junkies didn't trick home security systems by tying up the phone line.
Boldt suspected that this particular rip-off artist sought out high-end electronics in enough quantity to justify the risk. A computer, a couple TVs and a cell phone to be cloned later might net him fifteen hundred from the right fence-not bad for a day's work. Better than cop pay.
Based on the list of stolen goods, Boldt narrowed his pile to twenty-three reports. Some of the forms had the small box checked off that indicated home security systems, but not all. On two of these reports he noted that the officers made mention of the security systems being compromised. Boldt smelled a possible insurance fraud-homeowners arranging for the "theft" of their own electronics; they would then collect the insurance money, have the electronics returned, and pay out a percentage of the take to he who committed the "burglary." The Stepford Thieves. Wouldn't be the first white-collar crime investigated by SPD.
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