Ridley Pearson - Middle Of Nowhere

"Something has come up," Daphne jumped in, "that requires clarification."

Sanchez's eyes never left Boldt. He felt they somehow held him responsible, though he wasn't sure for what. He knew that Sanchez somehow understood their visit was at his initiation, that the questions would come from him. And so she waited. She has no choice, he thought.

"Are you okay to answer some questions?" Boldt asked.

The eyelids closed and reopened, eyes looking right. How, he wondered, could something as simple as blinking one's eyes become so labored and difficult?

Boldt leaned closer. He could smell medication and hear the rhythmic efforts of the respirator. "Among your cases prior to your assault was the burglary of the Brooks-Gilman residence in Queen Anne."

"Yes," she answered with an eyes-right.

Boldt felt a slight flutter in his chest. The initials MS: Maria Sanchez.

He asked, "Had you identified a suspect?"

"No," came her reply, though clearly with great difficulty.

"Lou," Daphne said, correcting herself to, "Lieutenant. I think she's too tired for this right now."

Boldt ignored Daphne, remaining focused on Sanchez. "Do you believe your assault had anything whatsoever to do with your investigation?"

Maria clearly struggled. With her condition, or with the question? Boldt wondered. An exasperating thirty seconds passed before her eyes fell shut and then reopened. "Yes," came the answer. But this was followed by a "no," as well, and Boldt took to this to mean she didn't know, couldn't be sure.

Boldt gasped.

"Lou!" Daphne whispered sharply.

"Had you made some progress on the case?" Boldt asked.

Again Daphne attempted to stop him.

The eyes blinked open: Yes.

"But not a suspect," he repeated for his own benefit, his mind racing, his connection with this woman nearly visceral. "Evidence?"

"Yes."

"Did others know about this possible evidence?" he queried.

She paled another shade or two, if that were possible. Whatever the monitors were saying, Daphne didn't like it.

"You're going to have a nurse in here in a minute," Matthews warned. "I'm asking you to stop."

Boldt couldn't stop. Not when he was so close. He asked, "Had you told anyone about this new evidence?"

Sanchez stared at the ceiling. No eyelid movement. No answer. He heard footsteps, voices, and then the door swung open.

But Boldt still didn't give up. He leaned into Sanchez, getting as close to her as he could and asked, "Did you tell anyone who was out on strike that you were working a burglary case?" He added, "It's extremely important to the investigation that I know this."

"That's it!" Daphne announced, coming around the bed and taking Boldt by the arm. "Come on! We're out of here before they throw us out."

"One more minute."

"Oh, my God," he heard Daphne gasp.

Boldt turned around to greet the nurse or doctor, unprepared for who had entered the room. The normally cool and collected Sergeant John LaMoia stood straight and rigid, as surprised as they were. "What are you doing here?" Boldt asked.

" She's Hispanic, Sarge," a macho LaMoia said coolly as if this explained something.

Boldt had bullied them into a nurse's lounge for the sake of privacy. The room smelled of Danish and was lit like a supermarket. Two Dave Barry columns were taped to the

wall by the microwave. Someone had scratched out a NO SMOKING sign and changed it to NO CHOKING.

"It was a little overheated, in and out of bed."

"How long has it been going on?" Boldt asked.

LaMoia shrugged.

Boldt fumed. LaMoia manipulated the world around him in a way Boldt couldn't, even if he wanted to. LaMoia got away with this kind of thing all the time.

What you saw of LaMoia was what you got: pressed blue jeans, carefully coifed, brown curly hair that nearly reached to his shoulders, deerskin jacket, silver rodeo belt buckle, porcelain white smile, oversized mustache. And Attitude. He carried it in his walk, his posture, his dark eyes. His confidence surfaced behind a softspokenness. He was a hell of a cop. Somewhere between a fraternity brother and a war buddy for Boldt. A former prote?ge? who took what he wanted from life, he'd made himself the stuff of legend around Public Safety, both for his sexual prowess and his abilities as a detective. He'd disappointed Boldt greatly when he'd called in sick at the start of the Flu.

Women found the package appealing, something Boldt would never fully understand. The Attitude accounted for some of it, but not as much as people believed. Boldt thought it was more the man's soft brown eyes and the vulnerability they often expressed-puppy eyes, pure and simple. Maria Sanchez had fallen. She wouldn't be the last.

"I heard Bobbie Socks was asking around about her squeeze," LaMoia offered. He meant Gaynes. "I think you can take the squeeze off your list of suspects, Sarge. You're looking at him."

He continued to refer to Boldt by the man's former rank, the same rank LaMoia now wore. Like a coach and a player, these two had a history that promotions couldn't ruffle and others couldn't explain.

"If you felt anything for her at all, you'd have come back on the job," Boldt complained. "What's that about?"

"I came up through the front seat of a radio car, Sarge. I still drink beer with the guys wearing unis. Hit balls at batting practice with them. My name's on the guild roster. The chief is wrong about this. I gotta stand up for that. You can see that, can't you?"

"You and Sanchez. How long?" Boldt repeated, knowing they could argue the Blue Flu all night long.

"We've been seeing each other about a month now."

Although the department didn't expressly forbid relationships between officers, it discouraged them. No "involved" officers could work the same division and were more often exiled to separate precincts, sometimes having their careers destroyed in the process. The credo "Personal lives do not mix with police lives" hung on the lips of every superior.

"And how long were you going to sit on this relationship?"

"I'm here, and I'm talking. Right?"

Daphne snorted. "We caught you!" She said, "A lot of good you're doing Maria on the sidelines."

"Maybe I'm doing more than you think," LaMoia said.

"Working the cop bars for information, I suppose," she offered derisively.

"Anybody angry at her about her dating a gringo?" Boldt asked.

"I knew you were going to ask that! God damn it, Sarge!"

"Family? Fellow officers?" In a city with a large population of Asians, Hispanics seemingly suffered under extreme prejudice. Tensions flared on the force between uniforms from time to time. Boldt didn't want to face the possibility that Sanchez's assault might have been racially or relationship motivated-a hate crime- and therefore disconnected from his current line of investigation.

"Nothing like that," LaMoia promised. "Besides, we kept it quiet. Neither of us wanted a transfer across town."

"You're sure?"

"This is me, Sarge."

"That's why I'm asking," Boldt said. LaMoia made trouble for himself. From captains to meter maids, he'd made the rounds, suffering suspensions and reprimands. Miraculously, he had not only kept his badge, but had managed to advance to squad sergeant in the face of rumor, innuendo, and outright scandal. Boldt had managed to keep LaMoia's affair with Captain Sheila Hill quiet, or LaMoia would have been forced off Boldt's CAPers squad. Both Hill and LaMoia owed him for that. Boldt rarely collected on such debts, though right now he felt tempted to pressure LaMoia back onto the force.

Boldt said, "So let me ask you this: You know anything about this burglary investigation she was working?" LaMoia twitched, belying his outward calm. Boldt knew he had scored. "John?" Boldt inquired.