Ridley Pearson - Middle Of Nowhere

"That would be the white plastic tie," Daphne said.

"Yes, that's correct."

Boldt said, "And she looked around?"

"Top to bottom. She was very thorough. I liked that about her. She took it seriously. The other officer-the one who came after my nine-one-one-he just wanted the forms filled out."

"The garage?" he asked.

"Yes, she looked at the garage."

"And then?" Daphne asked.

"She asked to borrow the clicker. She didn't say why and I confess, I didn't ask. She was doing her job. That was good enough for me."

Boldt's turn. "She asked you some other questions as well. Like who, if anyone, had serviced your home appliances recently. Pizza deliveries. That sort of thing."

Daphne added, "Any phone calls you'd received, especially any where the person on the other end hung up on you when you answered."

"I've hung up on a few of them," she told them. "Dinnertime phone solicitations! My husband will talk to them-don't ask me why! — but I absolutely will not. I find the whole idea offensive."

Boldt pushed her a bit more. "As to the repairs… Washing machine… fridge… any deliveries?"

"She and I went over this, yes," the woman answered. "All I can tell you is what I told her: I have no idea how this guy picked us to rob, but it wasn't any of those ways. No deliveries. No strange phone calls- other than the usual phone solicitations."

"You loaned her the clicker," Daphne suggested. "She said she'd return it?"

"Said she'd return it in a day or two. Yes."

"Tech Services," Boldt suggested to Daphne, who nodded. He suspected that would have been Sanchez's next stop. It would have been his.

Daphne apologized to the woman. "I'm afraid we're going to have to borrow it again."

Boldt guessed right-Sanchez had in fact paid a visit to SPD's Tech Services and had asked a lab rat named Tina Ming a variety of questions about cloning garage door openers. Ming confirmed that duplicating the radio frequencies used by such a device was scientifically quite simple. They had not ended up providing Sanchez with a clone however, because their work had been delayed by the Flu. Ming suggested Boldt consult the FBI.

Flu or not, the FBI was never the fastest agency to respond. Boldt would seek solutions elsewhere. He thought he now understood where Sanchez had been headed: a black-market source for a cloned garage door opener. Nine of them, to be precise-over the course of the last several weeks. A way into homes otherwise believed locked up. If he could find that supplier and squeeze out a name of a buyer, he might have the repeat burglar-and quite possibly Sanchez's offender- behind bars by the end of the day. He felt pulled between two theories-cop on cop or burglary gone bad- but the solution to the Sanchez assault seemed paramount to both.

The apartment occupied the floor above the Joke's On You, Bear Berenson's comedy/jazz club that enjoyed an odd combination of a Happy Hour police crowd and a prime-time college clientele. Boldt pulled the Chevy down the back alley and parked, making sure to put the laminated blue POLICE-OFFICIAL BUSINESS card that would keep the tow trucks away. He hoped to only spend a few minutes with Bear, but the pot-smoking, angst-ridden, longtime friend could make a scenic drive out of the shortest errand. He practiced patience, preparing himself for an extended stay.

Required to address a white plastic box housing a badly scratched TALK button and a speaker grid that had inherited some chewing gum, Boldt gained admittance through a buzzing door jamb with Bear's distorted voice welcoming him. He climbed the long, dark stairwell, the smell of stale beer and cigarettes familiar to a man who occasionally worked the Happy Hour piano on the other side of the communicating wall. Where others might gag, Lou Boldt felt comfort. He had spent a lot of good hours at this bar, and its predecessor, the Big Joke. A few million notes had passed through his fingers here.

The steep stairs presented a challenge. His battered and painful body was still unwilling to climb. But he managed. Nearing the top landing, he smelled the weed. Knowing Bear, he had opened a window trying to air out the apartment, but his attempt had backfired and instead was blowing the smoke toward the stairwell. Boldt forgave him the habit, but asked that he not smoke in front of him, for obvious reasons.

"Sherlock!" Berenson had a smoker's rasp, a neatly trimmed black beard with gray streaks coming down like fangs, and something of a beer gut, maintained by the contents of the long-neck bottle gripped casually in his right hand.

"Live, and in person," Boldt said.

"Tea?"

"You think I'd risk contamination?"

"You look a little off," Bear said.

"And you a little sideways," Boldt observed. He won a smile for that comment.

"I'm always sideways."

"Sore is all," Boldt explained. "I've been dodging baseball bats lately."

"Sit down before you fall down," Berenson advised.

Bear loved an audience; he paced from side to side, as if working a stage.

Boldt said, "I'd love to say it's a social call."

"Did I forget to pay you or something?"

Boldt explained, "It's more of a research visit."

"Weed? Women? Retail sales?"

"Frankie," Boldt said.

"Frankie?" Bear asked, wounded.

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

"Frankie?" Bear repeated. He sucked down some beer and wiped his mouth.

"I'm not after him-even if he's involved. I promise him a free ride. A name is all I'm after. One name."

"Are you paying?" Berenson asked.

"You're his agent now?"

"Just asking," Bear replied.

"I'm paying," Boldt answered.

Bear had a tendency to put himself in the middle of things, and no one wanted to get between Frankie and anything, including Boldt.

"Frankie isn't going to want anything to do with you-for obvious reasons. It had better be a shitload of money. Know what I mean?"

"A shitload of money," Boldt agreed, "and maybe I get the current charges reduced."

"I've known the man a long time," Bear said. "It doesn't mean I know his current status with the PA. And I don't want to."

"There's a woman officer in bad shape," Boldt explained. "Maybe Frankie can help with that."

"I read the newspapers, you know?"

"So Hooked on Phonics actually works."

"You're going to bite the hand that feeds you?" Bear added, "You want a name. Is that all? Maybe I can get you the name myself."

Boldt usually tended not to see the degree of Bear's intoxication. After years of friendship, he took him as he was. But now he saw that he was a little more stoned than usual, and decided to connect the dots for him. "I'm interested in garage door openers."

Berenson spit out some beer as he laughed.

"I've got to do this in person, Bear." He offered, "I'll give you a Happy Hour for free."

Bear straightened up, took another pull off the beer, and said, "No need to be rude. Since when do you and I buy favors off each other?"

Boldt suggested, "Two hundred bucks and reduced charges. Run it by him, would you?"

"Garage doors." A faint grin. Bear read the back of the beer bottle for useful information. He picked at the label. Boldt waited him out, knowing that stoned head of his was debating saying something or not. "You be careful with Frankie," he said. "He'll have a blanket 'cross his lap. Never know what's under that blanket 'til it's too late."

"Got it," Boldt said. The expression reminded him of Bobbie Gaynes; she used it so often, she owned it. The only detective on his squad not to walk. He appreciated the loyalty in ways he would never be able to express. Berenson brought him back to the room with one long draw on the beer bottle and a thundering burp that apparently satisfied him.