Middle Of Nowhere

C H A P T E R

33

Bryce Abbott Flek's photo was recognized by a guitar maker. The rented room, one of five that occupied the two floors above Fletcher Brock's custom instrument shop, consumed three SID field technicians who combed it floor to ceiling. LaMoia's assault could be felt here too—normally Boldt would have been lucky to get even one tech to a potential suspect's abode in under an hour.

"What have we got?" Boldt asked a SID tech from just inside the doorway. He wore latex gloves and a snarl. The place was a pig sty.

"Stroke mags, beer drinker, junk food, dirty laundry. Three cellular phones, all apparently working. Could be a college dorm room, if I didn't know better."

"The phones? Clones?" Boldt said.

"Three of 'em? Probably."

"Weapons?"

"Negative."

"Prints?"

"A lot of lifts—mostly the same guy. Maybe a woman, by the size of the others. Box of Tampax on the floor by the toilet. Blond pubic hairs mixed in with the more abundant darker ones, collected from the sheets, toilet rim, and shower drain—platinum blond."

"Shoes?"

"Pair of high-top sneakers, is all."

"Nike?" Boldt asked, recalling the shoe at his own assault. Had that been brother Flek?

"Converse. We've already bagged and tagged the clothes. We'll go over them for hairs and fibers. If there's anything that links this place to Sanchez or your other sites, you'll hear about it."

"Drugs? Alcohol?"

"Valium and amphetamines in the bath. Street grade. No prescription bottles. The beer. Some Cuervo Gold. That's about it. Purely recreational stuff."

"Not in combination," Daphne said softly into Boldt's left ear. "Two bennies, one Valium, and a shot of Gold. That's a street cocktail they call a glow plug. A couple glow plugs and a guy'll think he's bulletproof."

"As in beating up a cop from behind?" Boldt suggested to her.

"That would certainly fit."

He turned to the tech and asked, "Electronics? Parts? Computers? Anything in that category?"

"Just the three cell phones."

"Any of these?" he said, pulling from his pocket one of the plastic ties he'd recovered from the Kawamoto crime scene.

"Not here, but in the van," the man answered.

"You did the van?"

"The blue van. Colorado plates? All three of us," the

tech replied, indicating the woman and man still busy behind him. He stepped forward and picked the white plastic tie from between Boldt's fingers. "Must be a couple hundred of these lying around loose in that van."

Boldt looked over his shoulder at Daphne and said, "That's a start."

* * *

Revisiting the hospital wasn't easy for Boldt. This time he was there to see Officer Maria Sanchez.

He perked up the moment he and Daphne entered the room, as the woman lying there was able to somewhat jokingly wave hello to them with her toes. Movement had returned to the digits of both feet, and with a great deal of concentration, her left ankle could be flexed. Though she remained paralyzed from the knees up, the woman's hopefulness and enthusiasm now filled the room like warm sunlight, replacing the fear and terror that had so recently been in evidence.

"We have a suspect," Daphne announced.

The woman looked right, signaling "yes."

"Not yet in custody," Boldt added. "We would like to show you a photo array. You know the drill, Officer."

Another "yes."

Daphne explained, "There are six faces in the array, all numbered. If you recognize one of the individuals as your assailant, we would like you to blink the number to us. Number two—two blinks, et cetera. Is that okay with you?"

"Are you up to this?" Boldt asked.

"Yes," came the indicated reply.

"If you have doubts," Boldt continued, "we'll get to that. For the moment, we simply need to know if any of these faces looks familiar to you."

The woman looked right with her dark eyes. "Yes."

"Good," Daphne said, checking with Boldt who nodded to go ahead. Daphne pulled the array from her shoulder case. Sandwiched layers of heavy stock, the six head shots sat behind equally sized cutout windows, a number below each. Four were black-and-white, two color. She held it an arm's length from Sanchez's pillowed head, and knew within seconds that the victim did not recognize any of the men in the photos. Then she reminded herself that Sanchez was incapable of facial expression, and because of this, she held out hope.

Sanchez closed her eyes.

Boldt held his breath in anticipation, ready to count the number of blinks. He wanted desperately for the number to be four: Flek's position in the array—though doubted she could identify the man who had done this to her. If she identified Bryce Abbott Flek then they had linkage between all the robberies. Either way, they still needed Flek in custody if Boldt hoped to pry the lid off the I.I. investigation.

When she opened her eyes, Sanchez looked left.

"No?" Boldt questioned.

"You don't recognize any of them?" Daphne clarified.

"No," came the woman's answer.

"You're sure?" Daphne asked.

"She's sure," Boldt answered. An assault at night. Boldt had been through that. He knew. "The victim doesn't recognize any of the faces in our array," Boldt pointed out. "We take it from there."

"We take it where?" Daphne asked, "Without Flek in custody—"

"So we get him in custody," Boldt fired back. "And when we do we'll sit him down, and we'll question him. And then maybe we get some answers." He added in a hoarse whisper, "If we're really lucky, then whoever brings him in has a hard time of it, and makes him pay for what he did to LaMoia." His eyes sparkled. "Which is why I hope I'm the one to bring him in."