Middle Of Nowhere

C H A P T E R

39

She was inside the motel.

Following the resolution of the sickout, Special Operations—Special Ops—continued under the command of Patrick Mulwright, a forty-something binge drinker, part Irish, part Native American, who looked about sixty. The man's two different- colored eyes—one green, one almost brown—lent him a crazed, mongrel look that forewarned of his disposition. Boldt and Mulwright's histories went back too far, overlapped too much, which happened in any organization, but was particularly difficult in a police department where lives depended on reaction and response time.

Special Ops gained access to leading-edge technology far in advance of any other unit, the way the FBI always had the cool toys ahead of any city law enforcement. Mulwright passed out digital cellular phones with walkie-talkie capability to each of the operatives involved, although the method of their distribution—having an undercover "street person" drunkenly wander the area surrounding the motel pushing a grocery cart (in which were hidden the communications devices)— took an inordinate amount of time. The digital devices could not be scanned, nor the conversations overheard, meaning that all parties surrounding the motel could monitor and communicate via the same walkie-talkie channel without concern that Flek would hear them. At the same time, the secure police frequencies remained available for communication back and forth between the field and headquarters at Public Safety.

Mulwright brought with him long-distance video and audio surveillance, high-powered binoculars and monoculars, which included night vision capability if needed, and four Emergency Response Team officers prepared to put their lives on the line and kick Flek's room if and when required to do so.

The slightly chaotic and scattered attempt to keep Samway under surveillance quickly streamlined and took on the feel of a well-run operation. Mulwright swallowed his dislike of Boldt, not allowing it to interfere with operations.

The police net was carefully structured in concentric circles. Well out of sight, positioned at key intersections several blocks away in every direction, four police cruisers—radio cars—occupied the four corner posts of a "contained perimeter." Included within this perimeter were Boldt and the Ford, with the wild card, Danny Lincoln, still pedaling, but now with a police vest hidden beneath his Nike windbreaker. Everyone involved kept a weather eye on the sidewalks, in case Flek approached on foot. The good money had Flek already inside.

Mulwright and his Special Ops Command Center personnel occupied an Ore-Ida panel truck, its painted sides and roller door advertising a NEW! thick-slice potato chip with thirty percent less fat. It was parked on the curb immediately in front of the motel, offering the ERT team quick access to the motel, if needed. A lone police sniper, under Mulwright's authority, was positioned on a rooftop west of the motel, covering the building's back side. Seventy minutes after Samway headed inside, operation "Baywatch" was in place—so named by Mulwright because the motel's small indoor pool happened to be peopled to overflowing with bikini-clad women who, according to a welcome marquee, were attending a press-on nail and cosmetics conference. Judging by the pool, not many were attending the seminars.

When Courtney Samway was spotted inside the pool area, slipping into the hot pool in the recently purchased lime green thong and matching top, it was Boldt, not Mulwright, who formulated a plan to discover which room she was in, and thereby concentrate Special Ops' considerable assets.

"You feel like a swim?" he asked Bobbie Gaynes.

Although Boldt and Gaynes had both been at the stripper club the night they had brought Samway in for questioning, Gaynes and the girl had not met face to face. Gaynes had gone backstage to the dressing rooms, but Samway had come out into the club offstage, leaving Boldt to detain her and get her into one of the cruisers. He needed someone in that pool area, and he wanted it not only a woman, but a woman he trusted.

"In front of all these guys? With twenty-power mon

oculars?" she returned. "My thighs? Forget it. Try Jilly. She'll knock their socks off."

Boldt disagreed. "We used Jilly out front of Wong's store, and again in the coffee shop. She's used up. I could probably pull a woman from one of the radio cars, but the inexperience could burn us."

"L.T.!" she objected. "Use a guy. Use Milner. I've got a feeling he has a great bod under there."

"There must be a dozen women in there, Bobbie. No men. I send a guy in and nobody—nobody—is going to miss it. Another woman wanders in, nobody may notice."

"I'm supposed to buy a suit in the gift shop, I suppose."

"If they sell them," Boldt said. "Over at the mall, if they don't."

"I'm sure they do," she sighed. "And real beauties at that. I don't want to do this, L.T."

"If she came down for a dip, she brought a room key with her, and it's probably lying on a towel."

"And if it's one of those electronic card keys?" she asked.

"Then you follow her to her floor and do a little police work."

"In a gift shop bathing suit," she groaned.

"In a gift shop bathing suit," he confirmed.

"And you're going to order me to do this," she tested.

"We can go to the front desk and ask about Flek, flash badges and mug shots. But if he's bought off the front desk clerk, then we lose. Lose big-time, if that seven-rounds-a-second bullet hose comes into play."

"And I gotta do this now because she won't stay long."

"Might not. That's true."

"And then we got nothing."

"Nothing."

"I'll be laughed off the fifth floor. You know that, L.T."

"Not by me," he said, lifting the binoculars and sighting in through the semi-fogged windows of the indoor pool area. "She's still there."

"I'll have to take a room in order to use the pool."

"We'll expense it," he said.

"And I leave my piece here, I suppose, on account I gotta change in some ladies' locker room or something. So you send me in naked," she said, referring not to the bathing suit but to the fact she would have to leave her weapon behind.

"You go in naked," he suggested, spinning her meaning, "and I'm pretty sure they'll notice you."

"Ha, ha," she returned.

"Try not to get noticed, okay, Bobbie? And no heroics! Get inside, pull the room number, dip your toe and change your mind. Use your cellular the minute you can, but watch who's overhearing. I've got two in the hospital already. Okay, Bobbie?"

"You owe me."

"You watch," Boldt said, "you'll probably get asked out on dates as a result of this."

"Yeah, to a spa! I can't believe you're serious. I can't believe you're making me do this!" She unclipped her belt holster and left her weapon behind with Boldt. They both knew he couldn't order her to do this; by unclipping her weapon, she had just volunteered. She pocketed her cellular.

"Carry the phone with you. If it rings once and stops, we've made Flek, and I want you the hell out of there."

"Got it."

"And I mean it about no heroics."

"No heroics," she repeated. Pausing with her hand gripping the door handle, she said, "Hey, L.T. It's heroic of me to just get into one of those gift shop suits. I'm telling you: You owe me."

* * *

It took Gaynes longer than Boldt had hoped. Registration, shopping for the suit, changing into it—Boldt kept checking his watch. By the time Gaynes came through a sky blue door wearing a yellow skin-tight Speedo a size or more too small, a rainbow set of Olympic rings running diagonally up her middle, Samway had come up the steps of the hot pool and stood there dripping wet. Boldt thought it was all for nothing. But then the teenager walked the short distance to the real pool and slipped down inside for the cooling effect, momentarily blocked from view by another woman drying herself off.

As wolf-whistles carried loudly across the Special Ops walkie-talkies, causing Boldt to grin, Bobbie Gaynes walked casually relaxed toward the smaller hot pool and stood for a moment before setting down a pink towel. Boldt could tell from her numb hesitation, from his own familiarity with her, that something was wrong: too many towels; too many keys; no keys at all. Something wrong. He called over to Mulwright to see if the man had picked up similar feelings.

"Who would'a thought she'd have a set of lungs like that?" Mulwright asked, exposing himself to the possibility of a future lawsuit. "Get a load of that! Who would'a thought?"

For his own reasons, Boldt thought of Daphne at that moment—of waking up in her houseboat to find her there in her running clothes. He worried the kiss in Denver had ruined things between them. She seemed to be avoiding him. Had the kiss been his fault—not something they both wanted?

He strained to locate Gaynes through the binoculars.

Some of the women clearly knew each other or were at least comfortable chatting as they sat waist deep on the pool steps. Conversations carried on, in and out of the water. Most of the women were a little paunchy. Two of the thinner girls wore butt floss and postage stamps though even one of these showed cottage cheese in her hind cheeks. There wasn't much tan in the room, but there was plenty of cleavage. A room service waiter delivered what looked like iced teas.

He watched as Gaynes seemed to study the towels and keys by the hot tub. He caught himself grinding his teeth: "Not too obvious," he wanted to call out across the distance that separated them. If he got another officer injured he would turn in his badge. He worried for her—wondering if there was any chance Samway had caught a glimpse of her during her interrogation at Public Safety.

A creepy feeling wormed inside him. Perhaps he had taken too big a chance. If Samway recognized her— for whatever reasons—then all bets were off. He had stranded Gaynes there without her weapon—a fact of which he was painfully reminded by the gun on the passenger seat. He checked the binoculars in time to see Samway climb out of the lap pool. She tugged once on the thong, and crossed back over to the hot tub. A few older, envious eyes followed her as well as those of Special Ops.

She swayed without trying, conditioned by all those hours on the stripper stage, provocative and sensual. She lowered herself into the hot water. Boldt watched as Gaynes turned to speak. "Be careful," he spoke quietly into the vehicle with only his ears to hear.

* * *

Bobbie said, "I moved the towels getting in," pointing behind Samway. "Sorry about that."

Samway glanced back at the row of the towels and keys. "No problem."

"Here for the seminars?" Bobbie asked her innocently.

"No."

"That's a great suit."

"Thanks." Bored. Or maybe the hot water was getting to her.

Samway looked Bobbie over, trying to see into the water. Bobbie felt uncomfortable. Pulling on her own suit she said, "Borrowed it. It's so small, it hurts."

Samway chuckled. "You ever tried one of these?"

"No."

"You should. All the comments about butt floss? I'm telling you, it feels fine. And it's killer for the tan line."

"I'm not exactly the right shape," Bobbie said. "What, are you twenty or something?"

"Close."

"Yeah, well I'm not. Not even close," she added, again making the girl smile.

One of the women kicked on the jets, and Bobbie kept quiet while Samway floated in a boiling bubble stream. Gaynes had heard Matthews talk about wanting access to suspects—especially violent suspects—ahead of police intervention, ahead of the emotional barriers, attorneys and defensive postures. Now, she finally understood that urge—she wanted desperately to get Samway talking and to pick her brain for all the juicy details she could extract. But she held her tongue . . . briefly. A few women climbed out; a few more climbed in. There was a lot of flesh and not much fabric in the room. The talk she overheard centered on the looks of the male presenters at the seminar.

Bobbie tried, "Highway noise bad on your floor?"

Samway, her eyes closed, said, "Didn't really notice."

"You must not be on the second floor," Bobbie said.

"Third," Samway said.

"I'm on the highway side," Bobbie told her, scoring one for herself. Third floor. "It's pretty bad over there."

"We've got a view of the Space Needle from ours," Samway said.

Gaynes could take that pronoun—"we"—to the bank. Despite the hot water, she felt a chill: Flek was here, on the third floor. Things were going to get ugly.

"It's a small room," Samway conceded, "but it's still a pretty view."

"First time to the city?" Gaynes asked, just to sound conversational.

Samway turned toward Gaynes and offered a penetrating, suspicious look that made Gaynes feel queasy. One too many questions, perhaps. Or maybe there had been something in her tone. Or maybe the cop in her just leaked out now and then. Whatever the case, Samway recoiled from the conversation, like a snake. She crossed her arms nervously, glanced around the room as if expecting others to be watching her, mumbled something about having to go, and climbed out of the pool.

Bobbie spun around, knowing that this was her moment. She had pushed it too far. She could no longer wind up in the elevator alongside the girl without it seeming forced. She had to get a look at that key, that room number. But Samway cupped the key as she checked to make sure she had the right towel, and Bobbie didn't get even a glimpse.

Samway glanced back. Bobbie's position in the tub left her looking right up at the girl's ass. It was then that an overlooked opportunity occurred to her. She quickly pulled herself out of the pool and grabbed for her own towel. Samway wrapped the large towel around her, tucked it into her top, and slipped her feet into some Dutchboy shoes.

Bobbie toweled off and wrapped up. As Samway made for the door, Bobbie caught up. She had never done anything like this—had no idea how to approach it, but felt convinced it was just the trick she needed.

As they pushed though the door nearly side by side, Samway, clearly uncomfortable, said, "Nice meeting you," trying to be rid of Gaynes.

"I, ah—" Bobbie wanted to stall until onto the elevator. "Nice meeting you too," she said. "Same here." She was more uncomfortable to the point of nausea. "Do you think—" she said, hurrying to keep up with the nervous Samway. "Do you really think I'd look okay in one of those suits?"

They stepped into the elevator. Samway clearly felt trapped. Bobbie had mentioned the second floor—she had to push 2. Samway pushed 3, and it lit behind her touch.

The doors shut. The elevator rattled as it lifted.

Bobbie pulled off the towel to display herself to the other woman. She turned once as if on a runway, intentionally awkward. She blushed. She knew if ever there was a body not to wear a thong, it was hers. But she wanted to convey more as well. When she came fully around and faced Samway again, she spoke before the other could. "I think you're beautiful," she said in a creamy voice. She took a slight step forward, just enough to invade Samway's space. She whispered hoarsely, "I realize this is a little sudden—" purposely nervous, "I mean I don't even know your name. But if you're not doing anything tonight. . . . I mean . . . you want to hit some clubs or something?"

"Listen, you're sweet," Samway said warmly, calming considerably, "and if you want to try the suit, I think you should. But I'm a dancer. Men's clubs? And a lot of my girlfriends are into other girls, you know? That's fine. But not me. And besides, I gotta work tonight anyway."

"Where?" Bobbie said, trying to look crushed.

"Pleasure Palace."

"I mean the suit," Bobbie said.

Samway parted the blanket and pointed to the logo sewn into the waistband. She couldn't resist showing her tiny waist and perfect legs one last time. As she did so, the key dangled in her left hand, the room number facing Bobbie. 312.

Bobbie felt her heart skip a beat.

"Nike," Samway said. "Got it over in the mall. A sports shop."

The elevator stopped.

"Thanks," Bobbie said. "And sorry if I made you uncomfortable." She said privately, "You're very beautiful. Your body too." She felt herself blush again, and figured that was okay. She stepped off the elevator, her knees like water.

"No problem," Samway called after her. "Have a good one." The elevator doors slid shut.

Bobbie pulled the cellular phone out of her rolledup towel and made the call. "Room three twelve." She felt ready to faint. What if Samway had accepted her proposition?

* * *

When the sniper on the back side of the motel confirmed the presence of two adults in room 312, he erroneously mistook Samway and her own reflection in a mirror as the movement of two adults. It was this officer's confirmation that Patrick Mulwright used to make a raid, and therefore, ultimately, the chaos that ensued.

Moving Special Ops or ERT officers through any public area presented great risk to civilians and enhanced the possibility of operational compromise. People tended to either panic or follow when they spotted black-clad figures bearing assault rifles.

Boldt could have assigned any of the detectives to talk to reception, but reserved the job for himself, his weapon double-checked beforehand. He approached the registration desk and asked to see the manager, revealing his identity only by passing a business card, never showing his shield or speaking his rank. He wore a radio earpiece in his left ear, familiar with the floor plan supplied by Gaynes. The existence of that earpiece bothered him, no matter how subtle its look, but he saw no way around being connected to Mulwright's communication network. He simply had to monitor radio traffic in case of developments. Because of this, he kept one hand up to his ear, scratching, shielding the earpiece from view as best as possible.

The woman behind the desk looked up. Boldt repeated softly, "The manager. You're coming with me." There was no telling who Flek might have bribed.

The receptionist nodded nervously and indicated a door to the right. Boldt stepped through a moment later. The manager, a woman in her mid-forties, had reddish hair and carried a slightly frightened and disapproving look once Boldt was introduced. He waited for the receptionist sit down.

"We have a situation," he said to the manager. "Room three twelve may be harboring a fugitive. We'd like to empty several surrounding rooms as quickly as possible before conducting our raid."

"I'll have to contact the owners."

Boldt said, "I'm not here to win your approval. I don't need your approval, only your cooperation. My counterpart simply wanted to kick the room, and we already would have if I had not intervened. But since we believe the individual in question may be in possession of tactical weapons, I prevailed. I want to empty those neighboring rooms, now. Right now!"

"How?"

"Telephone," Boldt answered. "You call up to each of the rooms and tell them that the smoke alarm system is malfunctioning and that the city safety code requires you to empty everyone from the room. They're to come down the stairs, not the elevator, quietly and orderly. You say you don't expect it will take more than ten minutes or so to clear up."

"All of the rooms on the third floor?"

Boldt spotted a diagram on the wall and approached it. "These four rooms on the third," he said, drawing the area surrounding 312. "These above and below." He added, "First, I need to confirm the registration on three twelve."

The manager typed furiously, her troubled eyes more on Boldt than the screen. "Robert Grek."

Boldt nodded as if this made sense. "And Mr. Grek has no other rooms in the motel?"

The manager checked the computer. "Only the one. King bed. Smoking."

"Very well." Boldt picked up the phone receiver from the cradle and handed it to the manager. "Sound as natural as possible. Calm. Confident. The problem's going to be resolved shortly. You're not at all concerned by this."

She nodded.

The receptionist stood.

"Sit down," Boldt said, distrusting her, not wanting her out of his sight.

"We have a customer." She pointed through a rectangle of one-way glass that looked out on the desk.

"The customer will wait," Boldt announced. To the manager he said, "Can you put anyone else on the front desk?"

She nodded, her fear more apparent.

"Do it."

The manager summoned an employee named Doug to the front desk using the public address system. A moment later, the man stepped in behind the reception desk.

"Call," Boldt said sternly, indicating the phone. "Please," he added, somewhat sarcastically. Mulwright was out there preparing his team. He didn't trust him to wait. "We need to do this quickly."

* * *

Two heavily armed ERT operatives entered the motel's north fire stairs exactly five minutes after the last of the manager's phone calls. Two others ascended the building's south stairs at the exact same moment. Wearing protective vests, Boldt, Lee, Hu, and Bobbie Gaynes entered the lobby, passing the gathering of evacuated families who, until that moment, had believed their rooms' smoke detectors were malfunctioning. With the stairwells covered, the Boldt team split up, Lee guarding the lobby, Boldt, Gaynes, and Hu dividing up to ride the two elevators so that Flek could not slip past.

Boldt had in his possession a master key. One of the ERT guys carried the steel ram, to be used to take out the door jamb's interior security hoop. Boldt's pulse hovered around a hundred and twenty.

Mulwright, acting as CO—command officer—choreographed each team's movements to coordinate perfectly, so that as Boldt stepped off the elevator on the third floor, one member of each stairwell team was already silently running toward him and room 312.

In a flurry of hand signals, Boldt indicated he would clear 312's lock, to be followed by the ram. The order of entry was the two ERT men, then Hu and Gaynes, and finally Boldt.

The door's lock mechanism made a noise as Boldt turned the key, any element of surprise lost. The second or two that it took the ram to explode the interior hardware felt fatally long to Boldt.

The two black-clad ERT men lobbed both a stun grenade—"a dumb bomb"—and a phosphorus charge— "white lightning"—a fraction of a second before rushing the room, weapons ready in the familiar leapfrog dance of advance and cover. They arrived to find Courtney Samway lying on the bed in underwear and bra, her nose and ears both bleeding from the dumb bomb, her hands frantically waving behind her blindness due to the white lightning, her screams penetrating even the cement block wall so that they echoed not only down the stairs, but out onto the street. The TV was tuned to a pay-per-view movie where a police gunfight raged. Within seconds, the room was crowded with all but Boldt, as the team searched under both beds, through the room's only closet, and its small bathroom.

Boldt was first to notice the communicating door that connected with the adjacent room. He pointed it out, picked up the ram from the hallway floor and signaled for his team to divide, all the while his mind grinding through the reality of the situation: If Flek had taken the adjacent room, then the manager, on Boldt's orders, had just asked him to come down to the lobby because of a smoke alarm problem. Flek would have fled the room immediately, either remaining inside the motel, or disguising himself and slipping out unseen.

The team raided the communicating room from both sides simultaneously. They found an oily pizza box and the recently opened package that Samway had delivered. Empty. SID would later find the fingerprints to confirm it. Bryce Abbott Flek had escaped. And Boldt had helped him to do so.