Ridley Pearson - Middle Of Nowhere

"Absolutely!" The warden beamed. "I believe the state's take is twenty percent." He turned to one of the two sycophants and said, "We can verify that." The young commando took off down the hall to a white wall phone.

Boldt stabbed. "So Etheredge takes eighty percent of the private commerce profit for itself."

"Seventy computer workstations, wide-bandwidth data lines, over five dozen phone lines-we have expenses, Lieutenant."

"Telemarketing in a prison," Daphne said. "Who would have thought?"

"We didn't invent it," the warden reminded them defensively. "It has been around for years. Catalog sales, surveys, even airline reservations. And yet those early programs failed to take advantage of what they had. We use the computers in our alternative education program as well. It's the multi-use concept. What you really come to appreciate about Etheredge is our designers. Best in the business, swear to God." Still defensive, he added, "Seven states currently use telemarketing as a revenue enhancer in corrections facilities." He was back to his salesman attitude. "It's an effective way to partially subsidize costs while simultaneously training for employment opportunity on the outside. Over sixty percent of inmates participating in our private commerce program will be offered similar work upon release. Recidivism in this portion of our population drops noticeably."

Boldt said, "It's a fascinating use of prison labor."

The comment intrigued the warden, who stopped at a secure door and placed his palm into a reader. He swiped his card next, and the door unlocked. "You're in luck," he informed Boldt. "Appears we're in session."

Except for the jumpsuits with their wide, navy blue, horizontal stripes, one might have mistaken the seventy inmates and the enormous room for a university computer lab-gray office cubicles with soundproof baffling and bright ceiling lights. In many ways it reminded Boldt of Homicide's fifth-floor offices but on an even grander scale, the irony not lost on him: The inmates had it better than the cops. The room hummed with sales pitches, computer fans, and keyboards clicking furiously.

Daphne and Boldt exchanged knowing glances. Somewhere in this room a connection to the assaults and burglaries existed: He wore a headset and manned a keyboard.

"The Consolidated program?" Boldt asked, revealing information he shouldn't have. "Newmann Communications?"

The warden's contempt rose in a cardinal display, inflaming his neck and ears. "What's going on here?" he inquired.

"Is it all Newmann in this room?" Boldt repeated. "All the Consolidated campaign?"

One of the man's assistants spoke up too quickly for the warden's tastes. "Half Newmann, half Air Express electronic ticketing."

"How do you know about Newmann?" the concerned warden asked.

Boldt replied, "Lieutenant Matthews and I need to see the phone logs, sorted by workstation. We have Newmann Communications' cooperation in this."

"You lied to us!" the warden gasped. "You're not part of any search committee."

"We're searching all right," Boldt confirmed, "but not for a new prison."

Always one to appeal to human nature, Daphne added, "Our state is in the market for a private correctional facility. If we take home a favorable impression-"

"You're wrong about this," the warden told Boldt, realizing the trouble it might mean for him personally as well as the corporation.

"The prosecuting attorney's office has already con tacted Colorado Corrections. Privately run or not, it's still their show. This can end up a real mess for everyone," Boldt suggested. "It's all how we handle it."

"I'll need to make some phone calls," the warden suggested.

"Understood," Boldt said.

"What exactly do you need?"

"Access," Boldt answered.

"Perhaps we start with a place to talk," Daphne suggested.

The warden was clearly disgusted. "The home office is not going to like this," he said.

Boldt replied, "Neither does one of our police officers, who can't feel her legs."

D aphne used frequent flyer miles to upgrade her hotel room, which meant a few more square feet, a deep bathtub with jets, and a view of the Rockies. In his own, slightly smaller room, Boldt ordered a pot of Earl Grey tea from room service, drew himself an incredibly hot bath upon its delivery, and spent twenty wonderful minutes soaking away the stiffness still present from the assault. When the kids had been infants, Boldt had taken baths with them-glorious memories of splashing, laughing and soap in the eyes. He missed his family terribly. He wanted this case solved, the Flu over, and his family back intact.

Daphne called to say she had made dinner reservations downstairs; coat and tie required. She sounded excited- the case, he thought. Boldt ironed a shirt that had suffered in the shoulder bag. Dinner. The two of them alone in a hotel a thousand miles from home. Maybe Sheila Hill should have assigned LaMoia to the trip, he was thinking.

Feeling homesick, he called Liz. She had reinvented herself following her illness. She lived cleanly, spiritually minded, more centered, more collected than ever. An anchor. Her brush with death had invigorated her pursuit of life. She made few demands upon him, other than as the father of their children, and did her best to support him in a job she did not particularly care for him to have. Her work at the bank brought in a good salary, and she occasionally nudged Boldt to consider corporate security work for one of the giant multinationals in the area. But she didn't push. He had nearly interviewed for Boeing once. Their conversation was good-she was thrilled to be home again with the kids. Boldt made absolutely no mention of his impending dinner with Daphne, despite a couple of perfect openings for him to do so. And when he hung up, he wondered why he hadn't told her.

He pulled his necktie tight, choking himself. A forty-page fax was delivered to his room. Etheredge's attorneys had made the right decision-he was in possession of a portion of the Consolidated Mutual phone solicitation log for area code 206.

Daphne wore a cream-colored silk blouse with a Mao neck buttoned to hide her scar. A single strand of pearls swept gracefully across the ghost of a delicate lace bra, rising and falling behind her every word. She smelled earthy, a hint of sweet.

One look at her and he experienced a systemic warmth, like after a stiff drink.

She worked slowly on a glass of Pinot Noir; Boldt nursed a cranberry juice.

She said, "Newmann and Consolidated give those inmates-convicted felons-access on their computer terminals to property tax assessments, full credit histories, number of dependents, number and value of registered motor vehicles… What did they expect would happen?"

Boldt had given her half the fax. Together, they combed the list for the phone numbers of any of the nine burglary victims. He wanted to tell her that she looked great. He kept his mouth shut and his eyes aimed at the fax.

"And that survey! Did you get time to look that over? Estimated income. Value of residence. Personal property in the residence. Number of computers owned by the family. Number of CD players; number of VCRs. All these little demographic triggers that satiate an insurance company's appetite for data, but in the wrong hands…" She lifted her head. He felt it as a warm wind. "Are you listening?"

"Appetite for data," Boldt repeated. He had other appetites going. He tried to quiet them.

"And the guys on the other side of the room are booking travel plans. You can't hit the homes while they're out of town-it'll lead us right back to you- but you could scout them, make your plans. Hit one or two, maybe, but far enough apart we don't connect the dots."

"I've got one!" he announced a little too loudly, drawing the attention of the diners at the next table. "Brooks-Gilman is down as having been called by an inmate identified as number forty-two," he informed her.