Ridley Pearson - Middle Of Nowhere

Would a thorough search reveal a baseball bat in the truck of one of the cars parked out back? Had it come to that? So quickly? Could the trust built via years of working side by side be cancelled out by the edict that there would be no more off-duty work and the denial of overtime pay?

He found himself drawn to one particularly raucous group, a dozen or more men crowded around a table like gamblers at a cock fight. Boldt edged up to the outside perimeter of this knot and caught the balding reddish tinge of a scalp he knew to be Mac Krishevski. The guild president held court at the center, explaining in a loud, drunken voice the difference between the fuzz on a peach and a sixteen-year-old girl and winning peals of laughter with the punch line: "licking the pit." He and Boldt met eyes-Krishevski's glassy and excited, Boldt's narrow and fierce.

"Dudley Do-Right rides again," Krishevski said, not averting his gaze.

"We've got two lieutenants with their heads beaten in," Boldt announced. He added disgustedly, "You guys aren't celebrating that, are you?"

"We're aware of the situation, Lieutenant," Krishevski replied, suddenly sober, "and there's not a man in this bar who isn't pulling for Schock and Phillipp, so don't go suggesting otherwise. If you've got business here, state it. Otherwise, find your own corner and let a fellow officer enjoy the camaraderie he's entitled to."

"My business is to gather information useful to the investigation."

"Yes. Well, I'm sure you'll want to start at one end or the other and work the room. Certainly not in the middle." He indicated their location-dead center in the bar.

"If you have time between the tasteless jokes," Boldt said, "you might discuss amongst yourselves what you know about the incident tonight."

One of the drunker men said, "I know that by morning my head's gonna feel worse than theirs do now."

A couple of the others laughed, but not Krishevski, who once again met eyes with Boldt. There was a flicker of recognition there, a moment of understanding. Krishevski stood, addressing the drunken man, "You want to joke about a fellow officer's injuries, you drink without me." He moved to a different table, where he was greeted like a general returning from the front.

Boldt received a half dozen evil eyes from the men that Krishevski deserted. He turned and glanced around the room. He hadn't taken a step before he felt himself the attention of someone's stare. He thought nothing of it, realizing he was odd man out: a working lieutenant in a den of strikers; an officer based in the Public Safety Building, a world away from the North Precinct.

But that burning sensation persisted, and he looked to his right, intent on staring down whoever was responsible: John LaMoia stared back at him from a corner booth.

Boldt felt a chill. Had the phone call that had interrupted his dinner come from LaMoia? His former prote?ge?? Friend, even.

LaMoia stood and headed down a hallway toward the men's room. Boldt wanted to follow, but resisted. His sergeant had made no indication or signal whatsoever; he thought it best to wait him out.

LaMoia fit in at the Cock amp; Bull the way the suspender set fit in at McCormicks and Schmidts. He was a man who moved seamlessly between the uniforms and the brass, the meter maids and the Sex Crimes detectives, the entrepreneurial friend-to-all, who always had an investment worth your making or a bet worth placing. He navigated a thin line between snitches and interrogation rooms, right and wrong, never quite crossing into criminal behavior, but always carrying a cloud of uncertainty in the wake of his swagger.

Boldt's cell phone rang. He moved to the front of the bar and stepped back outside to answer it where he could hear. LaMoia's voice spoke into Boldt's ear.

"It would be natural for you to say hello to me," LaMoia said. "And when you do, I'm going to be rude. Just so you know."

"And now I know."

"The marina out at Palisades. One hour."

"I'll be there," Boldt confirmed.

Boldt put some effort into questioning unwilling and uncooperative officers, reeling from their unwillingness to help him out. But his heart wasn't really in it, following that call from LaMoia. He wanted the hour over quickly, and it wouldn't cooperate. It dragged on like a sack of cement left out in the rain. When he finally checked in with Heiman, reporting he'd gained nothing from his interviews, it felt as if the entire night had passed him by.

He was back in his car when his cell phone rang.

"Lou?" It was Phil Shoswitz. "Got a minute?"

"You heard about Schock and Phillipp?" Boldt asked.

"I heard," Shoswitz confirmed, "but I'm delivering another message."

Boldt attempted to clear his head, knowing this had to be something of major importance. On the occasion of their last meeting, Shoswitz had been questioning the very nature of their friendship. "I'm listening."

"The chief is going for a stolen base. He's facing the possibility of National Guardsmen taking over his turf, so he's gonna smoke a couple fastballs over the plate and hope to clean out the top of the lineup." Mention of the chief got Boldt's heart racing. "Cleaning out the lineup" didn't help matters. What the hell? He knew Shoswitz's opinion of the newcomer, and feared the worst. But it was worse than even that. "What I'm telling you is, you're not going to sleep tonight-you're gonna be on the phone to every goddamned officer of yours, because those officers were mine not long ago, and to a man they're the best we've got, and I'd hate to see you lose them."

"Lose them?"

"He's sending out something like a hundred health care personnel in the morning, door to door, to verify every officer's claims of illness. Those that aren't ill will be held in violation of the guild contract and will be terminated without pay and will forfeit all benefits, including four-oh-one Ks."

The static sat heavily on the open line. The implications were enormous: the chief would break the guild and restructure SPD in a matter of hours. Boldt could foresee a string of lawsuits stretching out over years, and a younger more vital police department for its newly installed chief. With the guild broken, he could negotiate new levels of pay and recruit from across the country, possibly cutting a deal with King County Police in the process and bringing the two departments under one roof. "Oh, my God," Boldt muttered into the phone.

"Your people have to report for tomorrow's day tour, Lou, or they're thrown out of the game."

"If he fires that many people, it's going to be Molotov cocktails instead of blue bricks."

"Just don't let it be your people. Use the emergency calling tree. We've got to drop all the animosities and get as many people back by tomorrow morning as possible."

"Amen."

"And, Lou? I'm calling from a pay phone, because when the chief finds out this thing leaked, he'll be looking for a scapegoat, for sure. He won't appreciate some people being tipped off and others left to eat it. But that's how it going to be, no matter how hard we try. There's no way we'll reach everyone by morning. Just so you know. I wouldn't be making calls from my home or my cell." He added, "The airport might work- they've got those business centers on A concourse."

"I follow." He sensed the man about to hang up. "And thanks, Phil."

"What are friends for?" The line went dead.

Palisades, a marina and upscale restaurant, hung off the south shore of the Magnolia peninsula, supported by pilings and enough docks to house several hundred pleasure craft, all neat and shipshape and sparkling white under the lights. Teak and aluminum and enough fiberglass to wrap the city in a dome.

Boldt appreciated the view of the skyline, and LaMoia's choice of location. The prices at the restaurant guaranteed they wouldn't run into fellow officers. Palisades was more for the professional set and gold card tourists. Boldt walked the docks, drinking in the cool night air and charting the determined progress of the slowly moving cavalcade of lights from the state ferries. He made out the man's distinctive silhouette from a distance. Bold. Confident. Even aggressive. You wouldn't walk up to LaMoia at night without knowing him.