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 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 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-"
"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 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.
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."
"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.
CHAPTER 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.
"So we clear one," she said, "and the other heads for a black hole."
"Do not say that," Boldt scolded. Gaynes suggested he head inside while she caught back up to the ambulance driver for a final word. Boldt seized the chance to see the crime scene for himself.
A burglary assault committed in the middle of the day. Technically a violent crime, minor injuries or not. The Blue Flu was lending the criminal element courage. While the cat's away, the mice do play. Bright sunshine broke loose from behind quickly moving dark clouds, the wind steady and warm. Summer struggled to be rid of spring. Boldt struggled to be rid of the Sanchez crime scene; he didn't want one influencing the other, but it proved almost inescapable. What
he wanted was some good, solid evidence. Something valuable. Something to kick this thing in the butt and help get someone behind bars. Before another. Before the press descended like locusts. Before the looming black hole of Sanchez's unsolved case widened.
"What do we have?" he asked sharply of the first officer, a young woman who, judging by her crisp uniform and pronounced nervousness, was more than likely one of the police academy trainees temporarily promoted to patrol. Her quick-footed effort to keep pace with him, and a strained voice that cracked when attempting a reply, belied the stiff shoulders and confident chin. This stop-gap action taken by the chief to maintain a patrol-level presence on the streets had been written up in the press and condemned in the Public Safety coffee lounges. If a minimum number of uniforms could not be mobilized, the governor had threatened, or promised (depending which side of the argument one took), National Guard troops and curfews-political disaster for the mayor. But so-called "freshies" had no place behind the wheel of a cruiser, or as first officer at any crime scene, much less on an as sault. For all his experience and wisdom, this new chief was out of his mind.
"Single female."
"I've got that," he said. Impatience nibbled at the center of his chest. He needed some basic information, but he longed to be left alone with the crime scene.
"Living with a sister who stays here every couple weeks."
"Didn't have that," Boldt admitted. "The scene?"
"Exterior doors all found locked."
He interrupted, "You're sure?" This information registered in Boldt, for the back door of the Sanchez home had been left unlocked.
"She placed the nine-one-one call, so maybe she locked up."
"Security system?"
"The home has one. Yes. But apparently the answering machine was engaged, keeping the line open- she remembers the indicator light on the downstairs phone. The guy must have had a tape recorder on it: sending out a single beep every five seconds, so the machine kept recording and didn't hang up. Tricky stuff, Lieutenant. Smarter than just snipping the line, which instantly sounds the alarm. With the primary line engaged, the security system couldn't dial out. Gives him time to get inside and bust up the alarm's speaker."
"So it never did dial out," Boldt said.
"Not that we're aware of, no."
Boldt noted yet another contradiction to the Sanchez scene. Sanchez's home security system had dialed the provider-not that it had done her any good; Kawamoto's had been prevented from doing so.
"What else do we know?" Boldt questioned her.
"Personal property reported missing. Vic's name is Cathy Kawamoto. Banged up a little but-"
"I've got that already. How 'bout a description?" He felt like an instructor now, slipping out of his primary role. Freshies needed so damn much help. Chief was out of his mind.
"Female. Japanese/Brit. Early thirties. Book translator." The woman skipped along, rushing her thoughts, like a kid trying to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk. "Working out of a home office in the basement. Thought she heard something upstairs. Investigates. Takes a blow to the chest at the top of the stairs. Goes down hard."
"Evidence of anything sexual?" he asked, still trying to keep Sanchez out of his head.
"No, sir."
"Not to your knowledge," he corrected.
"Not to my knowledge," she agreed.
"No clothes torn off, anything like that?"
"Nothing like that, Lieutenant."
"Ligatures? Tied up in any way?" he inquired.
"Negative."
"Which stairs?" he asked, returning to her earlier statement.
She told him.
"What's the extent of the personal property loss?"
"Looks like he may have been after a PC, a cable box and a thirty-seven inch. But that's just the bedroom. Who knows what else he had in mind?"
"He didn't lift any of it?" At the Sanchez scene, despite the assault, the burglary had gone through. Perhaps that pointed to timing. Perhaps it pointed to yet another inconsistency. He wanted evidence: a shoe print to compare to the one lifted off Sanchez's coat; a knot to compare to the shoelaces found bound to her wrists. Something. Anything.
"No, sir. The suspect apparently fled immediately following the assault."
"Good work," Boldt offered. He felt distracted by his concern for Liz and the kids, suddenly wondering if they were safe at the Jamersons, where they were staying temporarily until Liz and he could figure out how much danger they were actually in. What if the Blue Fluers meant for the families to suffer? he wondered.
"How's your wife, sir?" the recruit inquired in a moment of uncanny timing. "If you don't mind my asking?" This one was looking for immediate promotion. To answer truthfully, his wife was upset, angry, though not necessarily at him. The relocation to the friend's home on Mercer Island was a temporary fix at best. To keep trouble from following them, Boldt would sleep at the family house, only visiting the Jamerson home for the occasional meal. A workable but undesirable arrangement that obviously challenged a husband and wife who relished being together, who needed each other. In truth, he was deeply worried about his family, worried to the point that he hadn't eaten in at least ten hours. The blue brick had shattered more than the window-it shattered certain limits too. With it, Boldt's work had come home in a way he'd vowed would never happen again. Previously, they had endured threats of arson, the kidnapping of their daughter: Each time the family had rebounded, though not without scars. The brick had reopened those wounds. He saw no immediate fix. He and Liz would talk. There wouldn't be any simple, fast answers, but they would find them. Liz's blood was on the living-room rug. No matter how small the stain, the damage was immense and permanent.
He counted on Krishevski to identify those responsible-not just a scapegoat. But he wasn't holding his breath.
"She's better," Boldt finally answered. His private life was nobody's business. "Did Ms. Kawamoto get a decent look at him?"
"No, sir. The offender was apparently moving pretty fast. Shoved her down the stairs and took off. That's about it for the blow-by-blow."
"Breaks and bruises for the most part," he repeated, attempting to reassure himself. He stopped so that he could ask this before they entered the home, before he might be overheard by anyone. "SID?" he asked.
"Has been notified. Yes."
"How many have been inside?" Boldt inquired.
"Me and my partner," she said, pointing through the open door to another recruit who stood at the bottom of the interior stairs. The uniformed officer reminded Boldt of a Boy Scout. What was a roll-call sergeant doing teaming two freshies in the same radio car? Was the department that hard up? He'd heard that another twenty to thirty uniforms-patrol officers-had failed to show up for work this morning. But this pairing of two freshies indicated the situation was far worse than he imagined. "The two EMTs," she continued. "Other than that, we've got a good scene."
"Well done, Officer," Boldt said, wondering if he might have been the first to address her in this manner, for her face lit up.
"Thank you, sir!"
He felt like a den mother. "The victim was fully conscious after the fall?"
"Not as far as I know, sir. I think maybe she passed out briefly."
"She saw him leave? Heard him leave?"
"Not to my knowledge. I believe she only heard him upstairs and went to take a look. A sister lives with her part time. He surprises her and shoves her down the stairs. I think the situation got the better of her. Maybe she fainted-passed out for a minute or two. It scared her pretty bad."
"He left the premises how?" Boldt asked, still thinking about the timing of the crime. Daylight. A day after Sanchez. No shoelaces around the wrists. He didn't want so many differences between the two crimes.
"No idea. Front and back doors were locked tight when we arrived." She touched her breast pocket. "Made note of that specifically."
"Locked," he confirmed.
"Correct."
Boldt opened the front door a
nd inspected the mechanism. "No night latch," he said. "Keyed dead bolt and keyed knob."
"If I may, sir?" the young woman officer inquired.
"Go ahead."
"Upon being admitted through the back, my partner and me found this particular door's dead bolt in place. That is, a keyed dead bolt as you've pointed out. Subsequent inspection of the back door-the door through which we had entered the premises-indicated the same basic arrangement. The victim, Ms. Kawamoto, could not recall if she had thrown that particular dead bolt or not. So my assumption was he both entered and departed the premises via that back door." She took a breath and dared to submit speculation. "I'm thinking that subsequent to the offender's departure our vic locked the door-whether or not she's currently aware of that fact."
"It's a kitchen door?"
"No, sir, the kitchen door accesses the garage. This would be off the living area, sir."
So the doer watched the house, Boldt thought. Knew which door to hit-a back door typically left unlocked. And it had to be from a vantage point that provided a view of that back door. "I'll keep your partner assigned to the front door," Boldt said loudly enough for the other officer to hear him too. "You will canvass the neighbors with an eye toward anything. The of fender, his vehicle, anyone seen parked around here in the last couple days."
"Yes, sir." The recruit seemed thrilled. Boldt had little choice: he didn't have much of a pool from which to draw.
She left through the front door, passing Gaynes, who was on her way in. As the Boy Scout opened his mouth to speak, Boldt lifted a finger and said, "Not now, okay, unless it's a top priority. I need quiet. Your job is to keep everyone and anyone out until either Detective Gaynes or I give you the nod. Okay? First one through that door is to be SID, but only on our say-so. No matter what, you remain outside along with everyone else." Reading the nameplate pinned to the uniform, he said, "You okay with that, Helman?"
The kid had the wherewithal to nod sharply rather than open his mouth again.
Middle Of Nowhere b-7 Page 4
