Middle of Nowhere (19 page)

Boldt called Gaynes and Matthews and caught them up on the assaults, as well as Shoswitz’s alert about the surprise health inspections. He put them onto the task of firing up the departmental phone tree and to start making calls. Gaynes rallied without complaint, a soldier in the trenches.

Daphne, as ever, ferreted out Boldt’s true intentions: to question Ron Chapman at his home. She refused to allow him to go at it alone, and informed him she was bringing a stun stick along as backup. He knew better than to argue with her, or to admit that he’d welcome her company. He picked her up at her houseboat, and they drove to Chapman’s together, using the drive time to prepare.

“The two of you at this hour, it’s not social,” Chapman said, shutting the door behind them. He had made no effort to keep them out. Perhaps, Boldt thought, he didn’t want to eat alone.

“Little late for dinner, isn’t it, Ron?”

Chapman lived in a studio apartment with a partial view of Pill Hill. He had the TV going and a Stouffer’s microwave meal on a folding table in front of the room’s only chair—a La-Z-Boy recliner. He’d been widowed several years earlier, and the dust bugs and dirty windows confirmed a life of a man turned within. To Boldt, the room felt sad and depressed, crowded with too many snapshots of the late wife. Some people couldn’t let go. Chapman suddenly struck him that way, and Boldt found it odd that his attitude about a man he’d known for years could change with a single look inside that man’s home. If there had ever been joy here, it now rested in the urn that held his wife’s ashes.

Chapman didn’t offer them seats, in part because the only two chairs were at a small table that framed the galley kitchen’s doorway, and there didn’t seem to be any more room for them elsewhere.

“Little late for a house call, isn’t it, Lieutenant? Strange times, these.”

“You hear about Schock and Phillipp?”

“Rudy Schock?”

Daphne said calmly, “They were assaulted tonight.”

“Not far from the Cock and Bull,” Boldt supplied.

Ron Chapman carried an extra thirty or forty pounds on his Irish bulldog looks. It wasn’t easy for such soft flesh to remain so absolutely still. Then, at once, he returned to his dinner like a dog to its bone.

“You were at the Cock and Bull tonight, Ronnie. What’s that about?”

“A guy can’t buy himself a drink?” Chapman complained, working on the dinner in the small plastic tray. “Since when?”

“What do Schock and Phillipp mean to you?”

The man glanced up, as hot as his prepared dinner. “Who says they mean anything?”

“Why play games?” Boldt asked. “Are you into something here? Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Convince me,” Boldt said.

“I’ve got my dinner to eat.”

Daphne asked, “Are you afraid of them?”

Chapman stiffened.

She clarified, “I’m not talking about Schock and Phillipp. I’m talking about whoever did that to them. Are you afraid of
those
people?”

He wouldn’t look up from his food. “Way I heard it, they were mugged. A street assault. Why should I be afraid of that? Their bad luck is all.”

She said, “You don’t have to swing the baseball bat to be guilty of assault. There’s conspiracy. There’s intent. You want to think about that.”

Boldt said, “Next to Narcotics, Property is probably easily the most tempting duty of all of ‘em. You guys are carefully hand-picked. Doesn’t mean temptation doesn’t win out now and then. There’s a heck of a lot of goods on those shelves.”

“There’s cash on those shelves,” Chapman said.

“Jewels. Weapons. And as far as I know it’s all still there, Lieutenant. Go ahead and check.”

“You came to that bar looking for someone. Two officers right behind you were assaulted. What if I told you they were following up on a case that was being worked by Sanchez just before her assault?”

Daphne turned her attention to Boldt, angry at not having been included in on this.

Chapman wouldn’t take his head out of his dinner.

Boldt said, “Maybe I’ve got it wrong. Maybe you were doing a favor for Schock, or Phillipp. Wearing a wire? Making a contact?”

“It wasn’t like that!” the man objected heatedly, fork in mid-air.

Daphne picked up on Boldt’s lead. “The rumor mill is brutal,” she said.

“You can’t do something like that to me! Label me a squirrel for I.I.?” He thought this over and flushed. “It’s not funny, Lieutenant. Especially not the way things are going right now.”

“Let’s take you out of the equation, Ron. That’s what I’m suggesting. Let’s put Schock and Phillipp working the Cock and Bull—it isn’t their usual bar, or yours either, Ron.” He let this sink in. “They’re looking to work someone. That leaves me asking who. Who in your opinion, might they have been looking for up there?”

“I know what you’re asking,” Chapman said. “And you got this all tangled up.”

“So help me untangle it.”

“I was in for a drink is all.”

“And Schock and Phillipp? A drink as well?”

“I didn’t talk to them. Wouldn’t know.”

“Sergeant,” Daphne said calmly, “you’ve stayed on through the Blue Flu. Precious few others have been so . . . bold as to do so. If you hadn’t stayed on, others who’ve never worked Property would have been assigned to that duty. But you stayed. One could almost imagine you’re protecting Property from outside eyes. And now these assaults . .. Sanchez, Schock, and Phillipp. Someone even showed up in Lieutenant Boldt’s backyard uninvited. You want to talk about mistakes?
That
was a mistake. You know the lieutenant’s reputation as an investigator. Do you think he’s going to let this go . . . four brutal assaults?”

“You two do what you have to. You come to whatever it is by yourselves,” Chapman suggested. “Leave me out of this.”

Boldt craned forward. “But then there
is
something, right, Ron? Something to leave you out of?”

“You’re tangling this all up.”

Boldt repeated slowly. “So . . . help . . . me . . . untangle . . . it.”

“Dinner’s getting cold.”

Daphne said, “We
can
be convinced otherwise. Tell us it was Schock and Phillipp doing the dirty work. Tell us they pursued you into that bar. What do they have on you? What do you have on them?”

“I’d like it if you left now,” the man said.

Daphne stepped closer to Chapman. Boldt admired her technique. “He’s Property, Lou. There have to be people who owe him favors.” To the subject she said, “Is covering for someone the right way to play this?”

“It’s not like that!” Chapman shouted. “Now leave!”

Twenty minutes later Boldt pulled the Chevy to a stop at the end of the dock that led to Daphne’s Lake Union houseboat. He escorted Daphne to her front door. He wasn’t going to add her to the list of assaults.

“So we know Chapman’s caught up in something,” the psychologist said.

“Yes, we do.”

“But not what, nor to what degree.”

“No.”

“So what’s next?”

“I go back to John for an update. You start working the phone tree. We save as many people as we can before the axe falls.”

“And if John has something, you’ll call?”

“Your line’ll be busy,” he said, “from all that calling you’ll be doing.”

“Lou. . . .”

For a moment, the connection between them was everything, and he had to remind himself of Icarus’s perilous journey too close to the sun, or that even the most loyal husband remained subject to the laws of gravity. They paused at the front door to her houseboat, and for one awkward moment it felt to him as if they might kiss; then he turned and left.

John LaMoia lived on the third floor of a waterfront loft that thirteen years earlier had been a drug lab in the heart of a gang-controlled neighborhood. The lab had been busted by police, including a wet-behind-the-ears patrolman who, when the raid was concluded, noted the spectacular view on the other side of the painted-over windows. LaMoia had never forgotten that view, nor the neighborhood, because of the repeated radio calls taking him there: disruptions, street wars, stabbings. He bought low, well ahead of the gentrification that followed, restored the interior, installed security, and scraped the paint off the windows, so that now he commanded views of the waterfront—the piers and tourist restaurants on Alaskan Way—as well as Elliott Bay’s sublime gray-green waters and the white-capped peaks of the Olympics beyond.

It wasn’t often that a blue-collar policeman like LaMoia celebrated a capital gains cut, but when Congress voted a lowering of the surcharge to twenty percent, John LaMoia threw a beer bash for fifty of his closest friends—mostly women.

Boldt stepped inside, and LaMoia threw a lock behind him. It clicked into place with authority.

He caught him up on the Chapman visit. “I wanted to go back over what you saw at the bar before you went to bed and lost the immediacy of the moment.”

“Worried my memory will slip? That sounds like something Matthews would say,” LaMoia countered.

“Does it?” Boldt questioned, distracted—even disturbed—by the comment. “The Flu,” Boldt said apologetically, “has thrown us together round the clock. You know how it is.”

LaMoia said, “Hey . . . I was just teasing, Sarge.”

“Let’s go back over who was there tonight at the Cock and Bull,” Boldt said.

“Sarge, it’s a pub. Probably a hundred of us in there. All unemployed cops. You expect me to recite the roll call?”

Boldt interrupted. “Anyone from Property at the bar?”

“Property?”

“Chapman clammed up, but he grew all nervous when I pointed out he didn’t belong in that pub. Daphne and I are thinking we’ve got this one wrong. What if Schock and Phillipp were into something Ron Chapman found out about?”

“Something inside Property,” LaMoia said, connecting the dots. He nodded, “I suppose it could fall that way, couldn’t it? What about Maria and the possible I.I. connection?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Boldt said. “Tonight we deal with the assaults while the blood’s still fresh.”

LaMoia squinted his eyes shut. When Boldt had first started working with him, LaMoia had been a smoothfaced young loudmouth, smart but a little too sure of himself. Now the face showed ten years of rough road, and though the mouth still broadcast his unparalleled self-confidence, the eyes revealed a more practical, seasoned man. “What I remember,” he said, squinting ever more tightly, “in terms of Property, is that Pendegrass and some of them guys were whooping it up over the race—a NASCAR qualifying heat—on account I was trying to hear about this unscheduled pit stop, and I couldn’t hear nothing because of their racket. And I’m trying to think now, but I gotta put Chapman’s arrival right about then. Maybe I looked up and caught sight of him or something, you know? Maybe I had this little brain fart on account Chapman’s still active and I’m thinking it was gonna be
him
getting the shit beat out of him, and how I’m not gonna let something like that happen, and what a pain in the ass it was going to be for all concerned. And then I’m thinking how stupid it is for Chapman to show his face at the Bull. You know? And then I’m wondering if maybe he took a brick the way you did, because there’s been more of that, you know, and so maybe he’s showing up pissed off and ready to settle the score or something, and that kinda leans me away from wanting to help him out too much. I mean, if a guy is stupid enough to walk into a room like that, maybe it’s Darwin’s law that he get the living shit beat out of him. But the point is, the pit stop was something to do with communications. Radio problems between the crew and the driver, and they didn’t want to get into the final third of the race without communication—”

“John. . . .”

“Which means I heard the explanation, Sarge. Get it? I heard the guy explaining the pit stop. Which means that Chuck Pendegrass and his riot squad had either shut up, cut out, or all gone to take a piss at the same time, which is technically impossible on account the men’s room is only one urinal and a crapper, and there must have been three or four of them over there hooting it up.” He repeated, “I got a hunch Pendegrass split the minute Chapman walked through that door. And let me just say that he and his buddies did not impress me as being ready to leave a few minutes before that.”