Ridley Pearson - Middle Of Nowhere

Liz's fork went back to work on her plate. "Intriguing," she said. "Worth a follow-up."

Kristin's eyes implored Boldt to forget the call. But how could he dismiss it so easily? To what "call" had the mysterious message referred? he wondered. A phone call? A radio call indicating a crime-scene investigation? This latter thought held the most weight. Should he have to beg forgiveness to do his job correctly?

What kind of investigation? he wondered. Who had called with the warning? A person who knew or had access to his cell number. A person who knew his innate curiosity.

Liz suggested he take care of it. "Follow up on the call, Love. Why do you think the microwave was invented?"

He felt he owed it to Kristin to finish dinner. But what did he owe Sanchez? What about the importance of a fresh crime scene? "I'll just quickly call downtown and find out what's up."

"Lamb's good cold," Liz said, without resentment. Her "healing," her "new faith," seemed to carry her through these situations.

Husband to wife: "If I possibly can, I'll stay."

"We know that," Liz answered. "Do what you have to."

There had been a time in their marriage when such a situation would have condemned them to impossibly long hours of cold stares and failed communication- sometimes a day or more of it. He credited Liz with the turnaround, not himself. Her struggle with her health had been turned into something positive. He knew in his heart of hearts, had known forever, that music was a gift from God. Knew this unquestionably. It was only since the birth of his children and his wife's medically unexplained recovery from cancer that he saw himself on a slow road to the discovery that all of life was, equally, a God-given gift, and that it might do to credit the source from time to time.

She said, "I'll keep a plate warm for you," knowing he was going to leave if he made that call.

"Don't lock your bedroom door," he said.

With that, Liz blushed and smiled, and for Lou Boldt the whole room grew brighter.

With his left cheekbone virtually missing, Lieutenant Rudy Schock looked only remotely human. He looked more like some sort of flesh balloon, with what appeared to be a giant blood blister where his ear and neck should have been. Schock's left arm and hand had borne the brunt of his attempts at self-defense. His elbow was no longer capable of a right angle, and his wrist hung limp and useless. His breathing was long and slow.

Lieutenant Mickey Phillipp had been the first struck-with a single blow to the base of the skull- unconscious, so that he lay in a pool of his own blood, but otherwise didn't look as brutalized as his colleague.

The sight of the two injured officers turned Boldt's stomach. He knew them both, though not as close friends; however, tonight they felt like brothers. Boldt could feel his own rage building, percolating dangerously near the surface. No matter who had struck the blows, Boldt directly blamed Mac Krishevski and the sickout that had caused such dissension in the ranks. This was no mugging, that much seemed clear.

An EMT said to Boldt, "A little harder and this one was either dead or never walking again."

"Blunt object?"

"You got it."

"Both lieutenants," Mark Heiman whispered softly from behind Boldt. Heiman was himself a lieutenant- who until a week earlier had been with Narcotics. Such labels were gone now. Rank held little purpose anymore.

The alley was a block and a half from the Cock amp; Bull-an Irish bar in the Norwegian neighborhood of Ballard. Seattle demographics. The wet, narrow lane between brick buildings owned a pair of Dumpsters, a teetering stack of discarded wooden pallets, a Dunkin' Donuts bag and a flattened McDonald's fries carton oozing a sickly green mold that had once been potatoes. The alley smelled sour with urine and faintly metallic from the spilled blood. There was a lot of blood everywhere. "Somebody saw this," Boldt suggested hopefully to Heiman, who was lead on the case.

"Other than the guy who did it?" returned Heiman. "If true, he hasn't come forward."

"How do you see it?" Boldt asked, wondering how Heiman's report would read.

"How I see it," the other said, "is one thing. A couple of lieus fifty yards from a major watering hole for the North Precinct? Does the name Krishevski mean anything to you?" He paused. "How I write it up? Robbery. Assault. Deadly force, with intent to kill."

"A mugging," Boldt stated dejectedly. There was no other way to put it on paper, but he suddenly wished he had reported his own attack so he might have established a pattern: first Sanchez, then him, now these two. Krishevski indeed.

"Without witnesses or further evidence-" Heiman sounded apologetic. "How would you write it up?" A little defensive.

"Same way, Mark. I hear you. But we're thinking along the same lines, if I'm reading you right. And maybe it might help you to know that someone took an aluminum Louisville slugger to my shoulder and back two nights ago, and that I passed on reporting it because I didn't want the paperwork."

Heiman considered this pensively. "Then why don't you look like the back of Phillipp's head?"

"Rin Tin Tin. A K-9 on the other side of a neighbor's fence. Hated the thing 'til it saved my life."

Heiman fumed. "These guys are going to get a war if they don't watch out."

Boldt nodded. "I said the same thing to Shoswitz. Told him to pass it along to Krishevski." Looking down at the paramedics trying to stabilize the fallen lieutenant, he said, "But I'm thinking maybe the message didn't get through."

"Yeah? Well, it better, or I'll deliver it myself."

"You'd have company there."

"Just say the word," Heiman suggested.

"Steady as she goes: it's what Krishevski wants. If he can't get us to join them, he'll get us suspended for conduct unbecoming, and he wins either way."

"Is that what this is about? He lights the fuse, and watches as we self-implode?"

"Keep me up to speed, will you?" Boldt requested, handing him a card with his cell phone number. Heiman returned the gesture. "While you're putting this to bed," Boldt said, viewing the bloody landscape, "I think I'll have a beer over at the Cock and Bull."

Heiman understood the implications: Boldt was known on the force as a teetotaler.

The Cock and Bull had been fashioned after an Irish pub, with low ceilings, exposed beams, low lighting. It served up fifteen micro-brewed and specialty beers on tap, another sixty in the bottle, fish and chips, burgers and sixteen-ounce T-bone steaks with Idaho baked potatoes. The place smelled of cigarettes, hops and campfire charcoal. Irish music played a little loudly, forcing patrons to shout, lending the crowded pub a sense of celebration and revelry. There was no explanation for the bars cops picked or the short-order grills they frequented. Sometimes the connection seemed obvious-an officer's brother owned or managed the establishment, or the proximity to a precinct house made it an obvious choice. In the case of the Cock amp; Bull, a favorite haunt of the North Precinct, Boldt thought it was probably the name of the place and the emphasis on beer.

A few heads turned as he entered. Then elbows nudged. No one noticed that it was Lou Boldt; they noticed a lieutenant from the West Precinct. Two young waitresses ushered trays through the throng of lustful eyes and rude comments, used to it. A cop bar was part junior-high locker room, part mortuary, an uncomfortable blend of the morbid and the adolescent.

A pair of elevated color TVs at either end of the bar showed a stock-car race. Boldt attempted to contain his anger and rage at those in the room, all Blue Fluers. He wanted to drag one of them by the hair over to the alley and rub his face in the spilled blood. To show all of them the eerie electronic silence of Sanchez's hospital room. He knew damn well there wasn't going to be much sympathy in this room for two assaulted officers, and he had to wonder at how one week of absenteeism could change people so dramatically. How some overtime pay could wipe out all signs of loyalty. How could they go on drinking and telling jokes as if nothing had happened?