Middle of Nowhere

by Ridley Pearson

  “Me too,” Gaynes said, though Mama Lu didn’t want to be hearing from her.

  “Just questions,” the Great Lady repeated, testing them.

  “That’s all,” Boldt confirmed. “Answers to those questions.”

  She had to physically turn her wrist with her other hand. The watch face hid in a massive gob of silver and pieces of turquoise the size of quarters. “You will be at Public Safety in one hour?” she checked with him.

  “That’ll work,” Boldt agreed.

  “He comes in voluntarily,” she reminded. “If he’s helpful, you return favor next time he may need it.”

  “I can do that,” Boldt assured her. The trade-offs bothered him and always would—they kept him awake at night, this long list of favors owed, but he never let them affect his negotiations. You couldn’t work the streets based solely on principle; it just wasn’t possible. Deals begot deals.

  Mama Lu sucked at her front teeth. Boldt feared they might be about to fall out, and he wanted to spare M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E

  285

  himself the sight, as well as her the embarrassment. She said, “I do this for Ya-Moia and Peggy Wan.” Addressing Gaynes, she explained, “My niece. She like Ya-Moia very much.”

  Gaynes nodded. Boldt noticed the beads of sweat on her upper lip. Not much could make Gaynes break out.

  “Soup?” She tried again.

  “Rain check?” Boldt asked, but then thought she wasn’t familiar with the expression. “Another time,” he said.

  She pouted and nodded. “You wait too long to visit poor old woman,” said one of the richest women in the city. “Soup always hot,” she offered. Boldt looked at his own watch for the sake of reminding himself. “One hour?” he asked.

  “No worry, Mr. Both. Mama Lu not forget.” She smiled, the dentures pearly white. “Not forget anything.”

  M

  Manny Wong carried his large head on bent, subservient shoulders, and peered out of the tops of his eyes, straining to catch some of the glass in his smudged bifocals. His forehead shone. His ears, too large for his body, looked like small wings. Boldt sensed a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The man had thin, moist lips and bad teeth that whistled with some words.

  “A sniper rifle,” Gaynes said. The news that Flek had possibly acquired such a rifle had been included in the Be On Lookout as a matter of safety. Rumors were al-286

  R I D L E Y P E A R S O N

  ready circulating that Boldt was the intended target.

  “Chinese manufacture.” She looked remarkably fresh; if she felt fatigue, she didn’t show it. “This is the man who purchased it.” She slid a mug shot of Bryce Abbott Flek across the table and in front of Wong. She held it in place with outstretched fingers. Wong wouldn’t touch it—hadn’t touched anything since he’d removed the driving gloves. He wasn’t going to give police any prints they didn’t have. And they didn’t have his. Never would, as far as he was concerned.

  Boldt and Wong had run the rules of engagement for the better part of the last half hour, Wong careful not to get a foot snagged in an unseen trap. For his part, Boldt had not mentioned the kid interviewed behind Snookers by name.

  “German scope,” Wong said. “Scope very important. Maybe he had used such scope before. Maybe he only read about it. Maybe just trying to sound like he knew what he was talking about. Get better price.”

  “The range of the weapon and accuracy?” Boldt asked.

  “With that scope . . . sighted correct . . . if weapon handled by expert? Three, four hundred yards. Amateur, if he rests on a mount, two hundred yards, no problem. On shoulder, a hundred, a hundred and fifty yards he can still hit target.”

  “Semi-automatic,” Boldt stated.

  “Magazine holds thirty-two. One in the chamber, thirty-three.” A child could empty the magazine in a few seconds, Boldt realized. Wong never lifted his head, his M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E

  287

  eyes floating in magnification and the rosy fatigue of red webbing. Meeting eyes with Boldt, he mumbled,

  “Cops and guns! I never understand police.”

  “You’re sure it’s him,” Boldt said, indicating the photo. Boldt felt those thirty-two shots in the back of his head.

  “Fifteen hundred dollar sure.”

  “You see what he was driving?” Gaynes asked.

  “No.”

  “His clothes?” Boldt questioned.

  “Jeans. Leather jacket, I think.”

  “Boots?” Boldt asked. “Sneakers?”

  “Not remember. Not see man’s feet.”

  “Ever sold to him before?”

  “No.”

  “How about this man?” Boldt asked, producing a photo of David Ansel Flek, the younger brother.

  “Never seen him.”

  “He’s in possession of the weapon, then?” Gaynes asked.

  “He owns weapon, yes.”

  “She asked about possession,” Boldt reminded him. The man fixed his attention on Boldt, but said nothing.

  “The scope?” Boldt inquired.

  Those eyes roamed around behind the smudged glass again.

  “I’ll take that as a negative,” Boldt said.

  “That’s correct.”

  288

  R I D L E Y P E A R S O N

  “He still has to pick up the scope,” Boldt stated, glancing hotly at Gaynes as he sensed an opening.

  “That would be correct,” the man repeated.

  “When?”

  “Use new Internet site called i-ship. Delivery guaranteed, tomorrow ten o’clock.”

  “Ten o’clock. You told him that?” Boldt said.

  “After lunch,” he corrected. “Need time check merchandise.”

  “To sight the scope for him,” Gaynes suggested. Both men looked over at her—Wong with an urgent appraisal that came too late, Boldt with respect. The gun dealer said nothing.

  Gaynes said, “If you’ve handled the weapon before it’s used to kill somebody, you could be accused as an accomplice. Especially if we lift a print.”

  The man smirked at this impossibility.

  “Even without your prints on it,” Boldt said. “So be glad none of this is on the record.”

  Gaynes asked, “What distance did he want you to calibrate it for?”

  “Cops and guns,” the man repeated, shaking his head.

  “Answer the question,” Boldt said.

  “A hundred and fifty to two hundred yards,” the man replied.

  “So he’s planning on firing from the shoulder,”

  Boldt said.

  “A hundred fifty yards. That is request. That is what I deliver.”

  M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E

  289

  “No,” Gaynes told him firmly. “You’ll sight it for fifty to seventy-five yards. The first shots’ll fly low.”

  The man shook his head. “Not possible. My reputation.”

  “Seventy-five yards,” Gaynes repeated.

  “He maybe test weapon,” the man complained.

  “With your reputation?” she mocked. “I doubt it. Maybe he’ll sight it, maybe not. If not, then maybe we spare his first intended target a bullet.” She ended this sentence with her eyes on Boldt, who felt chills run down his spine.

  Boldt said, “We’ll collar him before he ever gets the chance to fire that weapon.”

  “Maybe we will,” Gaynes said.

  Turning to Wong, Boldt informed the man, “We’re going to need you to put one of our people behind your counter with you.” Wong shook his head vehemently, those haunting eyes rolling like dice. Boldt had to amend the deal he’d made with Mama Lu, and it bothered him to do so. “And if you won’t agree,” Boldt continued, “we’ll detain you indefinitely and put our guy in your place.”

  C H A P T E R

  38

  Seattle’s reputation as a rain forest was largely undeserved. It was true that during the rinse cycle, November through March, northern Pacific storms tracked through regu
larly, leaving the city without so much as a glimpse of the sun, sometimes for weeks at a time. True that spring and fall saw their fair share of “partly sunny” days that were actually “partly rainy,” as a thick and dreary mist fell, broken by moments of spectacular sunshine, the warm power of which could almost evaporate the moisture before the next wave of clouds passed over. But for all those stereotyped storms and images of umbrellas and slickers presented by the Weather Channel, the glory days of clear skies, a light breeze and sixty degrees were just as common. The moisture brought lush vegetation, wonderful gardening, and clean streets, the air fresher and purer than perhaps any other city in the country. Boldt and Gaynes orchestrated their plan to capture Flek as he arrived to pick up his rifle scope. The International District lay under a rich summer sky, the air crisp and clean. Seagulls flew down the city streets, their cries echoing off buildings. The towering snowcapped peak of Mount Rainier loomed impossibly close, as if M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E

  291

  part of a Hollywood backdrop. It was a day when Liz would tell Boldt to “pinch yourself.” That good.

  “You with me, L.T?” Gaynes asked from the shotgun seat.

  “What’s that?”

  With their unmarked van parked a block from the street entrance to Manny Wong’s electronic repairs shop, Boldt and Gaynes had an unrestricted view of the surveillance target. Asians peopled the sidewalks and occupied the vehicles in proportions that made Caucasians stand out. For this reason, Boldt and Gaynes stayed put behind the van’s tinted windows. And although the department’s demographics prior to the Flu had included dozens of Asian patrol officers and detectives, the suspensions and firings imposed by the chief had drastically reduced their numbers to where Boldt’s field team consisted of Detective Tom “Dooley” Kwan—

  currently inside the shop—and three relatively green patrol recruits out on the street in plainclothes: a twenty-something African American, Danny Lincoln, playing the role of a bike messenger who, on one knee, was busy with what looked like a blown bike chain; a middle-aged Vietnamese woman, Jilly Hu, outside the shop looking left and right as she acted out anxiously awaiting a ride, her hands occupied with the ubiquitous cellular phone; and a third man, Russ Lee, a Chinese American, in a wheelchair with a blanket over his lap concealing a loaded assault rifle, keeping speed with the first rule of engagement: Never be outgunned. Hu 292

  R I D L E Y P E A R S O N

  and Lee were partnered; Lincoln and Dooley were solo—on their own.

  Four patrol cars, two uniforms each, maintained a three-block perimeter, in case backup was needed. Gaynes explained, “I was saying that it’s kind of eerie without all the normal radio chatter.”

  Boldt reminded her that the bicyclist, Danny Lincoln, was wearing a radio headset—as so many messengers did. It happened that Lincoln’s headset connected to SPD dispatch. They had Jilly Hu on the cell phone. Dooley wore a wire—a concealed transmitter and receiver. They weren’t exactly in the dark. The police coverage of the rifle sight pick-up had been hastily thrown together. As the impending moment drew nearer, Boldt feared that if it went wrong they might not only lose a suspect, but someone might get hurt. He had LaMoia to remind him of that.

  “What’s your take?” Boldt asked Gaynes. She had a nose for such things.

  “Not great.”

  “Same here.”

  “Our people look good. It’s not that,” she said. “And I think it’s smart that we have Dooley working in the back of the store, not out front at the counter. That’s way more natural than if Dooley is just loitering out front and making Flek nervous. And maybe it’s just all the goddamned Asians milling around these streets, but something feels wrong about it, you know? Like it’s going to go south.”

  “Yes, I know,” Boldt conceded.

  M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E

  293

  “Doesn’t mean it has to.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” he agreed.

  “Maybe it’s just everyone warning us what a crazy son of a bitch Flek is—the hair-trigger temper, the violent nature. I hate that shit. Maybe it’s thinking about Sanchez and John, and how this guy doesn’t seem to give a shit about us wearing badges. You know? What’s that about?”

  “Downright disrespectful, I’d say,” Boldt said. She grinned into her slight reflection off the glass.

  “Downright right you are.”

  “I think you can take Sanchez off his list, though we won’t know until we collar him. He did LaMoia. He’ll pay for that.” He told her about Sanchez’s inability to ID Flek, and of her earlier uncertainty concerning who was responsible.

  A large Ben and Jerry’s truck momentarily blocked their view of the gun dealer’s storefront. After the truck passed, Boldt saw that Lee, Hu and Lincoln had all adjusted their locations, signaling a development. The cell phone in Hu’s hand carried an open line to Gaynes’s right ear. Gaynes wore a small headset attached to her cell phone to keep her hands free. She mumbled into the headset and then informed Boldt,

  “A Caucasian, female, just entered the store.”

  Boldt turned up the volume on the dash-mounted police radio receiver. Being in the back room, Dooley Kwan and his RF microphone provided no insight into the goings-on in the front of the store. Boldt desperately wanted to know what was going on. 294

  R I D L E Y P E A R S O N

  The slightest movement on Kwan’s part resulted in a scratching through the receiver’s small speaker.

  “You turn that up any louder,” Gaynes commented,

  “and we’re going to hear him sweating.”

  “Description?” Boldt requested.

  Gaynes repeated the request into her headset. Poking the earpiece firmly into her ear to hear Kwan’s reply she reported, “Female. Late teens, early twenties. Caucasian. Five-six, five-seven. Platinum—”

  “Courtney Samway,” Boldt said. “Flek sent her to pick up the scope for him.” He had an undercover team in place following Samway—later that day he would have heard about this visit in the team’s daily report, albeit too late. He used the radio to notify her surveillance team to leave the area. He didn’t need any additional confusion. They transmitted Samway’s identity to “Dooley”

  Kwan and informed the others to follow the suspect if and when she left. Jilly Hu on foot. Danny Lincoln by bike.

  The radio picked up Dooley as he responded to Wong. Boldt and Gaynes listened intently. The exchange was brisk. Dooley delivered Flek’s scope to the front of the store, at which point his concealed microphone picked up the conversation in the room. Wong told Samway, “Tell your friend all sales are final. The modifications he requested have been made, and that next time I won’t deal with a go-between. It’s not how I do business.”

  “Whatever,” the woman said. “He just asked me to M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E

  295

  pick the thing up for him. I don’t know what he wants with some microphone anyway.”

  “It’s her,” Boldt said to Gaynes, recognizing the voice. “It must be in a microphone box.”

  Gaynes nodded. “Yup. The girlfriend. I overheard her in the Box,” Gaynes said. “You think it’s conceivable she doesn’t know what it is?”

  “I think he does her thinking for her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Over the radio, Wong said, “A hundred and fifty for the modifications.”

  “He only gave me a hun,” Courtney Samway complained. She was fifty dollars short. Boldt checked that the cassette hubs were spinning. He said, “That connects her pick-up to a man, and we already have her connected to Flek. That’ll help Delgato in terms of arrest warrants.”

  She complained, “Does us no good without the collar.”

  “Notify the street team the mark is good,” Boldt ordered. “And remind them that Flek may have simply dropped her off. He could be in the area.”

  Boldt then radioed SPD dispatch and dictated instructions for the uniforms in the patrol cars. For security’s sake
, the messages to the patrol cars would be sent over the vehicle’s onboard mobile data terminal—

  MDT. These digitized text messages were impossible to intercept.

  He wanted his team alert. If Flek was in the area, 296

  R I D L E Y P E A R S O N

  he probably had the assault rifle in his possession. Scope or no scope, it represented lethal firepower. Wong and Samway argued money over the radio worn by Dooley.

  Samway’s voice said faintly, “Hang on. Let me make sure he only gave me the hun.”

  Boldt didn’t want Wong to refuse her the scope. He needed that scope to lead him to Flek.

  “What do you know?” Samway said. “I had it all along.”

  “Next time no go-betweens,” Wong complained, heard over the radio. “I no do business with go-betweens.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the young woman scoffed. A doorbell rang softly, signaling her departure. Courtney Samway appeared on the sidewalk in front of Wong’s store.

  “Doesn’t look like a stripper from here,” Gaynes said.

  Boldt watched and listened as his crew kicked into gear. Jilly Hu followed on foot.

  Danny Lincoln fixed the chain, mounted the bike and pedaled out into traffic. Samway walked west. Boldt’s team followed. He and Gaynes carefully monitored the radio. Lincoln informed dispatch that Samway had boarded a bus.

  Gaynes asked, “Eastbound or westbound?”

  “Damn!” Boldt shouted, traffic blocked by a doubleparked bread truck. M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E

  297

  “Wonder Bread,” Gaynes said, reading the back of the delivery truck. “Wouldn’t you just know it?”

  M

  As the eastbound bus pulled away from the curb, Samway aboard, Boldt’s team scrambled to follow—although to look at them, one would not detect the slightest bit of anxiety; this, in case Flek was himself watching.

  Boldt drove the van with Gaynes as shotgun; Lee drove a Ford with Hu as his passenger; Danny Lincoln pedaled furiously on the bike.

  Predictably, in tortoise-versus-the-hare fashion, the bike out-paced the slower vehicular traffic and kept up with the bus, Lincoln reporting its location block by block.