Middle Of Nowhere

C H A P T E R

19

The Cock & 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 & 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?

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 & 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.

Boldt approached him in silence, distant city lights reflecting in the silver black water a mirror image that looked like a giant, glowing key, or the mouth of a shark. Boldt felt an urgency to get this meeting over with and head to the pay phone. If Schock and Phillipp hadn't had their blood shed, he would have postponed the meet.

"Sorry about the cloak and dagger," LaMoia said.

Boldt answered, "I appreciate the call. We need to talk." The two of them worked in concert to watch for anyone watching them, an unspoken system that had one looking toward the restaurant, the other searching the neighboring docks, then switching assignments in a dance born of years of working the field together.

LaMoia supplied: "Many hands make light the work."

"Yeah?" Boldt complained. "Well, I'm a little shorthanded, thanks to you and the squad."

"Don't go forming stereotypes, Sarge. You think I'm home watching CHiPs reruns or something? I'm working Maria's case."

Boldt's surprise registered on his shadowed face as confusion.

"Damn right. Figured a slouch like you could use a little help." LaMoia added, "I'm working all sorts of shit you don't wanna know about."

That much was probably true. LaMoia's investigative approach was anything but conventional. "You have to come back on the job," Boldt informed him. Not only were LaMoia and his wealth of contacts invaluable, but Shoswitz's news threatened the man's future with Homicide.

"Don't look a gift horse—"

"I'm serious, John. The chief—"

LaMoia interrupted. "Schock and Phillipp had Ron Chapman under surveillance. I'd lay odds on it."

"Chapman?" Boldt questioned, his thoughts jarred. Chapman swinging a baseball bat on a fellow officer? Not likely. "Krishevski is Property. Chapman is Property. But I don't see Ron Chapman doing Big Mac's dirty work. Chapman hasn't even joined the Flu! That doesn't make sense."

"I'm just telling you what I saw. Those boys were eyeing him."

"That's a crowded bar, John."

"Chapman doesn't hang at the Bull. I do, Sarge. As

much as I hang at the Joke when you're on the ivories. And Chapman's out of place. He stuck out tonight because everyone knows he's still on the job. You could say he got a lukewarm reception—same as you."

"Go on." Boldt continued to scan their surroundings, ensuring they weren't being watched. It was no longer safe for one cop to talk to another. He hated the way things were.

"Chapman came in looking for someone. No doubt about it. Completely obvious. Schock and Phillipp weren't far behind—a staggered entrance, one through the front, one through the back. Textbook shit. Phillipp's a couple minutes behind his partner. About as long as it takes to double park in an alley down the street, if you hear what I'm saying. I'm putting 'em on Chapman, on account that's the way I read it. Chapman wanders around craning his head this way and that, gives it up and takes off. 'Bout as subtle as a whore at a tea party. Maybe he signaled someone. Maybe not. I'm thinking Schock hangs to maintain appearances. Phillipp's out the back door a couple beats behind the mark. . . . I'm telling you, Sarge. Couple minutes later, Schock follows. Maybe he gets a call. I didn't see that. Can't say. But they don't make it far, right? And if that's a mugging, then your bruises came from falling down stairs."

LaMoia apparently had heard Boldt's in-house explanation for his pains and aches. Not much sneaked past him.

"The chief is sending health services door to door." Boldt explained what Shoswitz had passed along to him.

"It's a bluff, Sarge. Shoswitz was supposed to leak it."

"If I'm the chief, uniforms are promoted to detective. Academy recruits who're past the three-week mark head straight to patrol. I keep the National Guard out of my house."

LaMoia looked a little more convinced.

"You and your squad need to be back on the floor tomorrow before this hits the fan."

"It's the perfect bluff, I'm telling you. A couple lieus leak this and they get thirty, forty percent of us back with nothing more than a phone call."

"Phil Shoswitz was guild secretary. Whose side do you think he's on?" Boldt said, "Don't double guess this, John. The information is good. We need to work the call tree, and we need to do it tonight. Phil thinks we should avoid our home lines."

"Oh, this is precious." LaMoia snorted and shook his head and looked Boldt over, trying to read him. He asked tentatively, "You buy this?"

Boldt knew to leave it alone. It was the only way to convince his obstinate sergeant. As much as he wanted to argue his case, he returned to LaMoia's reason for the meeting. "Schock and Phillipp are Vice. Why are they sitting on a guy like Chapman?"

"Are they?" LaMoia asked. "Vice? You're Homicide, Sarge, but are you at the moment?"

"One cop watching another? What, they got handed an I.I.?" Internal Investigations had been wiped out by the Flu same as Burglary. It wasn't out of the question, no matter how unlikely. I.I. was a closed unit—a dreaded assignment. But it only made sense that these investigations would have to continue in spite of the Flu. He considered this possibility. "We need to know who Chapman was looking for."

Saddled by obvious reservation, LaMoia informed Boldt, "Maria got hooked up to something first day of the Flu, Sarge. She wouldn't talk about it—and we talked about everything. I got pissed off, partly 'cause she wouldn't talk, partly because she wouldn't join us in the sickout. Basically, Sarge, she threw me out. Next time I see her she's got her head screwed down to that bed."

"I.I.?" Boldt asked.

"It might explain why she wouldn't discuss whatever it was," LaMoia suggested. The unit operated under strict secrecy acts. The explanation satisfied Boldt. LaMoia added, "Let me sniff out Chapman. You chat up Maria about that case. With me involved, it would only get her pissed off again. Hispanics and temper, Sarge! I'm telling you!"

"The call tree."

"I'll think about it."

"Thanks again for the call," Boldt repeated. "I would have missed that crime scene."

"What are you talking about, Sarge?"

"The call. Putting me on to the assault."

"The only call I made was from the bar," LaMoia said.

"Earlier?" Boldt asked.

LaMoia shook his head. "Wasn't me."

Boldt's gut twisted. Who had wanted him to see two badly beaten officers? And much more important: Why? So he could help out with the investigation, or as a warning of how close he had come to incurring the same fate?