Middle of Nowhere

by Ridley Pearson

“Right,” Boldt said sarcastically. He’d heard it all before.

  “The move to restrict overtime and prohibit off-duty employment opportunities for our officers was viewed by certain individuals within the department as intrusive and destructive and is apparently the driving force behind this current situation.”

  “This absenteeism,” Boldt said, “that the papers and courts are calling a strike.”

  “I’m in constant contact with both the chief’s and the mayor’s office, as I’m sure you’re aware. As Chapter president, I’m forced to put my own personal feelings aside and to represent the majority opinion of my constituency. I do not condone tossing a brick through a window, and I’m sorry for your wife’s injuries and any 36

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  upset this may have caused you and your family. But the brick could just have easily been from an angry neighbor. Am I right? Someone pissed off over the Flu—

  improperly associating you with the sickout. The public understands so little of our inner workings.”

  It was true, though Boldt was loath to admit it. His neighbor’s acquisition of an attack dog was proof enough of the public’s current perception of safety. “All I’m saying is—if you start a war, you had better be prepared to fight it.”

  Krishevski’s eyes hardened. “I seriously doubt that the current absenteeism had anything to do with your wife’s incident.”

  “A blue brick? The reports of slashed tires? Coincidence?” Boldt asked.

  “An angry public,” Krishevski repeated. Boldt did not appreciate the man’s slight grin. “You brought my family into this. For that, you’ll be sorry.”

  “Another threat!”

  “You know what I think, Krishevski? I think you enjoy all the attention, the cameras, the headlines. Seeing your name in print. But the sad truth is you’re misusing the trust of your fellow officers—this entire city—for your own personal gain.” Boldt picked up the brick off the carpet and placed it on a small end table. He retrieved his gun and returned it to its holster. “Sticks and stones, Mr. Krishevski.” He intentionally left out the man’s rank. “Be careful what you ask for.”

  Krishevski’s tension and anger surfaced in his now menacing voice. “Dangerous ground, Lieutenant.”

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  “A threat?” Boldt fired back, mimicking the man.

  “Control the troops, Krishevski. Bring in whoever was responsible. Or you and anyone else connected to this will be facing charges.”

  “I’m trembling all over.”

  Boldt pulled the front door shut with a bang that carried throughout the peaceful neighborhood. He hurried toward the car, anxious to return home and be with his family. Krishevski was a wild card. Boldt knew there was no telling if the threats would stop with blue bricks.

  C H A P T E R

  5

  Cathy Kawamoto ignored the deep, low rumblethat had become such a commonplace sound, it could be anything from a passing truck to the garage door opening or closing. She wasn’t alarmed. Kawamoto’s basement home office felt unusually warm, and she was uncomfortable. She’d heard the phone ring just a minute earlier, but as was her habit, she allowed the machine upstairs to pick up rather than interrupt her work. Her thin fingers danced across the computer keyboard, the translation coming effortlessly now. When the screen briefly went dark she saw herself reflected in its “nonreflective” glass: jet black hair, almond eyes with tight folds of skin that instantly labeled her Japanese. Then another page of text appeared and Cathy Kawamoto returned to her work. Sometimes the translations were of textbooks or technical documents, but her favorites were the American and Canadian romance novels that within a few months would populate the Tokyo subways, read intently by commuting women. At times the torrid love stories became so compelling that she found herself carried away.

  The low rumble stopped and then started again. Cathy paused in her work this time. The sound seemed M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E

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  suddenly close. Perhaps it wasn’t simply that the basement was warm, perhaps it was nerves. But then again the rental house was always full of strange noises, especially when her sister was home. A flight attendant for Alaska Air, Kira came and went at all hours, for days at a time on an unpredictable schedule that Cathy could neither understand nor attempt to track. Footsteps overhead. . . .

  At first Cathy simply glanced up toward the floor joists wondering what Kira had forgotten this time—she had left the house only a few minutes earlier, rushing off somewhere, yelling down into the basement that she was borrowing the car if that was all right. She hadn’t waited for an answer. Late again.

  Cathy translated another sentence— Her unbridled passion sought escape—before another squeak in the overhead floorboards once again attracted her attention. This time it didn’t sound like her sister. Her sister didn’t move that slowly. Not ever, especially not when she was late, and she was always late. A third careful step overheard. A mixture of curiosity and fear unsettled her. The telephone’s in-use light indicated the phone was busy. Cathy felt relief wash over her. It was her sister, after all. Clearly, she had returned home to make a phone call. Cathy sat back down at the computer. But she couldn’t concentrate. Something just didn’t feel right. She felt restless with it, a fire smoldering inside her. Her fingers hesitated above the keys, her eyes drift-40

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  ing over to the telephone’s in-use light. It continued to flash. When the footsteps started up again, left to right, directly overhead, the pit in her stomach became a stone. The kitchen phone was a wall phone, not a wireless walk-around. How could it be in use at the same time someone was walking around?

  The stairs signaled both the direction of movement and the fact that the person up there was heavier than either she or her sister. They normally didn’t make noise.

  She thought about calling out, just shouting, “Who’s up there?” but she was afraid of giving herself away, letting the intruder know she was at home. She was now allowing herself to think there could be an intruder. The previous night’s late news report began to cloud her thoughts. A policewoman had been attacked in her own home. A policewoman!

  She lifted the phone’s receiver to eavesdrop. She heard no one—only the hissing silence of an open line, ominous and frightful. “Hello?” she tested in a whisper. No one answered. Cathy Kawamoto fought back panic. She quietly climbed the basement stairs. She could hear her unannounced visitor ascend the stairs directly overhead. The footfalls were strangely tentative, cautious, and she could only conclude that someone was trying hard not to be heard.

  She climbed and reached the kitchen, first looking to the phone to see if by some chance it was off the hook. It was in place, and her alarm heightened. She could see now that her sister’s purse was not hanging M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E

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  by its strap over the ladder-back kitchen chair, in its usual place. Kira was not at home.

  She felt a tightness in her chest. She desperately wanted to announce herself, but this was tempered by her recollection of the policewoman news: She wasn’t going to volunteer herself. On the other hand, she had trouble thinking of herself as a victim. Other people ended up on the evening news, not her. Other people’s lives went to hell in a handbasket. This couldn’t be happening to her.

  “Hello?” she finally called out softly, unable to bear it any longer. “Kira?” With her inquiry, the noises upstairs stopped. Cathy moved involuntarily toward the staircase, a decision she would find so difficult to explain later on. She reached the top of the stairs, adrenaline surging through her system. She glanced down the hall. Back down the stairs. She felt cornered and yet exposed. The stairs suddenly seemed so incredibly long. No sounds whatsoever. Panic seeped in and took hold. She attempted to run, but instead she froze with fear. The assault on the news had been of a single woman living in a relatively affluent community. What if this was a pattern?

/>   Her mouth fell open to scream. No sound came out. Her chest now fully paralyzed by fright. Where the intruder came from, she wasn’t sure. He seemed to materialize in front of her—a blur of dark color and tremendous speed. She felt an aching blow in the center of her chest, right where that knot had 42

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  been. She flew through the air, limbs flailing, down to the open stairs. Landing on her back, she slid and tumbled head over heels, her skull catching the wooden treads and feeling like someone was clubbing her. Pain owned her. A thick haze consumed her and drew her down toward unconsciousness. She hit hard on the landing. That same dark shape flew over her. He grazed the wall. Her crotch ran warm with pee. The shooting pain would not release her. Her fear was unforgiving. A cold, impenetrable darkness, devoid of light and sound.

  Please, God, no! was Cathy Kawamoto’s last conscious thought.

  C H A P T E R

  6

  “Who’s this?” said the sorry-looking, trash-talking white kid with the shaved head and a dragon tattoo under his left ear.

  Boldt wasn’t used to anyone else’s interrogation rooms. The North Precinct had a brick-and-mortar quality that reminded Boldt of a converted ice house, when in fact it had formerly been an elementary school. Daphne had joined him not only because she was vital to any interrogation, but because some of the answers, if forthcoming, pertained directly to her case: Maria Sanchez.

  Boldt stared at the kid’s handcuffs, knowing these were just the first domino in a long chain of lost freedoms. He saw no need to explain himself to the suspect, to dignify the questions of a confessed rapist. But Daphne’s assessment was clearly different, for she answered the kid immediately.

  “This is the detective who discovered Leanne Carmichael in the basement where you left her. Alone. Malnourished. A hole cut into the crotch of her pants through which you repeatedly raped her. The man who untied the shoelaces from her wrists and ankles. The man who dealt with the urine and defecation before 44

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  the ambulance arrived. Who dealt with the frozen-eyed terror of a little girl who went out to pick up the barbecued chicken, and never came home.”

  “Ruby slippers went out a long time ago, honey,”

  the kid said, eyes and lips shiny wet. He wore a small silver ring pierced through his left eyebrow. Daphne wondered if Leanne Carmichael might recall that ring. Boldt edged closer to the table where the kid sat, an ominous aura about him—his rage barely concealed. The kid wanted to pretend he wasn’t bothered by the man, but his glassy eyes flicked in Boldt’s direction repeatedly, like a nervous driver checking the rearview mirror.

  Daphne continued, “This is the man who would like you alone for a few minutes. The handcuffs off. One on one. We discussed it on the way over. He won’t get that chance, of course. But he takes solace in the fact that he’s been on the force long enough to know everybody and anybody, long enough to know which of the arrests in lockup enjoy the . . . services . . . of other men. Solace in the fact that you’ll be raped night after night, anally, orally—raped until you bleed, raped until you can’t swallow even a sip of water. You’ll be sent to the infirmary, where the male nurses will know what you did to little Leanne—and they’ll make sure you get proper treatment. At which point, of course, you’ll be sent back into the jail’s population for another trip down honeymoon lane. And this is all before you get to the big house, where you will spend the remainder of your natural life—not likely to be too long, given that M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E

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  child rapists tend to have a short life span—behind bars.”

  The suspect said nothing. Daphne had a way of reaching out to her clients. She’d knocked the wind out of him. Knocked the glib comments out as well. Boldt leaned his arms against the table, so that he craned over the suspect, face to face. He dropped two five-by-seven glossies in front of the kid. Both showed a woman’s wrists bound with knotted shoelaces. He said,

  “Last Tuesday night.” He waited. “We have a pretty good idea where you were, but we’d like some confirmation.”

  The suspect tried to pretend he didn’t care about Boldt, but the attempt failed. He finally broke off eye contact and glanced down at the photos. “These that girl?”

  “These are Tuesday night,” Boldt answered. The kid squinted. “Tuesday?” He shuffled the photos back and forth. “You found her Saturday. I watched from across the street. Did you know that?” Boldt reared back and raised his hand.

  “Lou!” Daphne stopped him. Perhaps with that one blow, Boldt might have killed the kid. Whatever the case, she saved him a review with her reprimand. Boldt repeated, “Tuesday night. You want to identify the location for us?”

  “What is this shit about Tuesday?” he said, having difficulty with the pictures, given the handcuffs. Boldt asked, “Where were you last Tuesday night?”

  “Tuesday night?” the kid repeated, some light spark-46

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  ing across his freakish eyes. “Mariners’ night game. Preseason. It went extra innings. Junior pounded one down the third-base foul line in the twelfth and drove in the winning run.”

  “You have the ticket stub?” Boldt asked quickly.

  “Were you with anyone? Can you put a time on it?”

  “Time?”

  “I need a time and a place for you on Tuesday night,” Boldt said. “I need you to write it all down.”

  “Not happening.”

  Boldt slapped the table so loudly that even Matthews jumped. The kid looked good and frightened. Boldt placed four more photos on the table. “Take a good look.” Boldt pointed out what the lab had showed him only a few hours earlier. “Shoelaces. Knots. Tuesday night knots.” He pointed out the other two photos—not giving him Sanchez’s name. “You going to deny it?”

  Studying the photos closely, the kid said, “So you already know it wasn’t me who done these. Is that right?”

  “I don’t know anything about these until and unless you tell me. Educated guesses—I’ve got a few of those. Expert opinions—never a shortage there, not in government work. But witnesses? I think I’m looking at him.”

  “The hell you are.”

  “You’ve got to write it down. And try starting with the truth. Little Leanne Carmichael, then Tuesday night—”

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  “I was at the ball game,” the kid interrupted. Pointing to the photos he said, “You can see right here this wasn’t me. These are granny knots. They can pull out. I use square knots. Made it to first class in the Scouts. You were at Carmichael!” he reminded Boldt, who wanted nothing to do with that horrific image. “Tied with square knots. Check it out, you’ll see I’m right.”

  He repeated, “Tuesday night was the ballgame.”

  Boldt glanced over at Daphne.

  She said to the kid, “Write it down.”

  “Why should I?” the kid protested. “You’re only gonna screw me. You say I did something Tuesday night? What? Another girl? Sure, I did it. There! You happy now?”

  She explained calmly, “You care because on Tuesday he made mistakes. Because this one will go into your column and it’s a loose job, a lousy job. A middleaged woman. A cop. Which shoves it hook, line and sinker into maximum security’s F wing. Twenty-threehour lockup. No chance of early parole. You want to grow old there?”

  “Old?” the kid asked sarcastically. “Like your age or something?” He eyed her and looked repulsed. “Not interested.”

  Boldt slammed his weight against the table, smacking the kid in the chest, and tipping him back in his chair so that his head struck the concrete block wall with pronounced contact. Boldt said, “Slipped. Sorry about that.” He came around the table—the kid shied—

  and he violently stood that chair back up, driving the 48

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  kid’s chest into the edge of the table for a second time.
>
  “There,” Boldt said. “That’s better.”

  “Write it down,” Daphne told the suspect, as she took Boldt by the elbow and pulled him to her side. They didn’t need the arrest going south because of abuse. She needed to get him out of there. The kid picked up the pen and aimed it and the pad of paper at Daphne. “You write down that you’ll go lightly on me if I help you with that girl, because that other one, it wasn’t mine, wasn’t me. This bitch cop. No way. Granny knots? Fucking things never hold.”

  She turned the pad around yet again. “Last chance. If we step away from this, who do you think will give you another one?”

  The kid hunched forward and started to write. M

  Standing by Boldt’s Chevy, Daphne kept to her thoughts.

  “You’re mad,” Boldt offered. “My pushing him around.”

  “Surprised. More like something John would do.”

  “He shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.”

  “We’ve heard worse,” she reminded.

  “I’m losing the edge,” he suggested. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “He didn’t do Sanchez,” she stated. “That’s all that matters.”

  “You believe that?” he said, a little surprised.

  “Yes.”

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  “So do I,” he added. Almost a whisper. A shudder passing through him. “Oh, God,” he mumbled.

  “Yes. I know what you mean.” She headed down the line of parked cars to her Honda.

  His pager sounded. Another first-degree burglary. Just his luck.

  C H A P T E R

  7

  “Minor injuries, L.T. Nothing to worry about,”

  Gaynes informed Boldt. The same could be said about Liz’s injuries, but Boldt wasn’t buying. It all came down to perspective. Worry, he did. Behind Gaynes, EMTs closed up the back of a private ambulance.

  “Vic’s name is Cathy Kawamoto. Single. Lives alone. Sound familiar?”

  Boldt didn’t want this. Didn’t need it. Not another. They were attending their second burglary/assault in as many days. Gaynes had drawn lead on the case, courtesy of the Blue Flu and Dispatch’s current lottery system of assigning the first available detective who answered his or her phone. He told her about the interrogation, about losing the connection between Carmichael and Sanchez.