Ridley Pearson - Middle Of Nowhere

"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 followed 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.

Boldt flipped through the stack of pink, archived triplicate copies, wanting some other identifier. He read each of the twenty-three reports in more detail, taking the time to study the notes, wanting something to narrow these to a more manageable number. Twenty-three phone calls would take days, if not weeks, under the current caseload. Even shared with Daphne, he thought the job could take a week or more. Two or three weeks was not out of the question if they reached a bunch of answering machines. Shoswitz's comments about his relationship with Daphne troubled him, stayed with him. He wanted to see it as exaggeration. Lies. He wanted to feel it in his heart as schoolhouse rumor, but it triggered fear instead-as if he'd been caught at something, and that bothered him most of all.

His blunt concentration passed the time quickly. The tea went cold. His butt hurt. All the little pleasantries of police work. City traffic had slacked off outside. He heard a distant whine of tires, but not the up-closeand-personal street traffic with which he hummed along by day. The place smelled of janitor's disinfectant, a chemical lime smell that had a hint of melting rubber to it. The janitor had passed through unnoticed.

He glanced up at the clock-it was late; he owed Liz an apology. But before he picked up the phone to call her, he checked the clock a second time, recalling that Kawamoto had been hit in the daytime-extremely unusual. Sanchez had not, but for the moment he managed to separate the two cases and keep them that way. Back through his pile of reports he went. From the stack of twenty-three, he began pulling out reports, his heart racing as the new pile grew to six burglaries-the shared element: broad daylight.

He went through all hundred-and-something files again. This time, a total of nine reports made up his pile. Nine burglaries. Nine violations of private property in broad daylight, all with thousands of dollars of highend electronics stolen. Big hits. Tricky hits. Some with home security devices apparently compromised. Wellorchestrated crimes. Practiced. Judging by Post-it notes and stapled attachments, Shoswitz's detectives had apparently spotted some of these same similarities-these overlapping loose connections-had probably been developing leads when the Flu came along and sent them home to watch reruns. Now Boldt had them, and he suddenly felt like a runner being passed a baton.

There was no mention of white plastic ties. No assaults. Just nine pink sheets on missing electronics and some attached notes from bone-weary detectives. Police work.

The smell of burned coffee drifted down the hall. The janitor had forgotten to turn off the pot. Boldt did so, stretching his legs, appreciating the moment away from the eyestrain and the tight back. He yawned. He washed out the coffeepot and shut the door to the lounge to keep the smell contained. All the while, he kept a weary eye over one shoulder. He kept thinking of that blue brick lying on his living-room floor, his wife in a sea of glass and her strained voice choking out, "I thought it was a bomb." He thought of his kids, his responsibility, his promises. He recalled Shoswitz's warning that his intrusion into Burglary's turf and open cases would not be appreciated. But Sanchez's eyes came back to haunt him.