Middle Of Nowhere

C H A P T E R

40

"The minute he got the phone call from the manager, he pulled on a pair of boxer shorts, threw a towel over his arm, and headed down to the pool," Samway said from the other side of the cigarette-scarred interrogation table in the box. Mulwright, Boldt and Gaynes occupied the other side of the table.

Samway wore an extra-large black police windbreaker to cover herself. The effects of the stun grenade had required a visit to the emergency room, costing Boldt precious time. She had punctured an eardrum and wore some foam padding over her left ear, but other than that was medically sound.

"The rifle?" Boldt asked.

"I ain't saying nothing about no rifle," she replied. "Not until I see me a lawyer."

"Young lady," Boldt addressed her, "you are in legal quicksand. The more you move, the deeper you sink. Do you understand? We've been through this attorney thing before. One has been assigned to you and is on the way, just like last time. But just like last time, you are far better off to cooperate now and save yourself some heartache."

"In a backpack. He carried it with him."

Samway continually glared angrily at Gaynes, recognizing her from their pool encounter. After a long stare she complained, "Dyke bitch." She told Boldt, "She hit on me!"

Boldt wondered if Flek had walked right past the front desk, right past that one-way glass in the office. It seemed unlikely. He said, "I would have seen him in the lobby."

"There's an entrance to the pool from the weight room on the second floor," Jilly Hu informed Boldt.

"And we didn't hear about it?" Boldt thundered.

"We knew about it," Mulwright countered. "It's on the floor plans of the building," he said, referring to the city fire department's data. "We re-deployed assets to cover the various exits. Higher priority."

Boldt complained, "You did this after the suspect had already fled the building."

"Hey," Mulwright countered. "Don't lay that shit on me! You were the one wanted to wait. I was the go-guy. If we'd have gone, like I said we should'a, then it wouldn't be this bimbo in the chair, it would be our boy."

"Who you calling a bimbo, Moon Face?" Samway countered, shouting because her voice could not adjust to the temporary loss of hearing in the one ear.

"You, Lap Dancer. I'm calling you a bimbo, and you know what? I'm wrong. Bimbo's a compliment to a slut like you. You're street trash, whoring for some asshole who goes around beating on people and heisting VCRs. You think that's a man you been spreading 'em for? You think he didn't know what was coming, leaving you behind in the room like that? He could'a got you killed! You know that? You understand that? You think he cared? He tell you the police were coming? Did he? No. He didn't, did he? I can see it on your face. He burned you. He sacrificed you, Sweet Tits. And you know what? He's laughing over some beer somewhere. He skates while you get the dumb bomb. And here you are defending him, protecting him. Give me a fucking break!"

"What do you mean, beating on people?" Of everything Mulwright had said to her, this is what stuck.

Boldt said, "We mentioned the assaults the last time we talked to you."

She squirmed. Maybe she'd been high the last time. Maybe she didn't remember.

Boldt explained, "We think he broke the neck of a woman police officer."

"He'll break your neck someday when he's tired of what's between your legs," Mulwright added.

"Dream on, Pizza Face. He don't get tired of it. You ever seen me dance?"

"The only dancing you'll be doing where you're going will be for some bull dyke who's got you in her love pack."

For the first time, Samway's composure cracked. The men missed it, but Bobbie Gaynes recognized the woman's vulnerability from their conversation in the elevator.

"You realize that, don't you?" Gaynes said, cutting off Boldt before he could speak. "Sergeant Mulwright is right about that. You play dumb with us and you'll be locked up. You go to trial. With what we've got, you're an accessory to first-degree assault. With your record, you're screwed. You'll be sentenced to an adult women's correction facility—medium security, most likely—six to a cell, thirty in the showers at the same time. And the hell of it is, not only will the dykes make claim to you, make you do things you've never dreamed could be done by two women, but the screws—the guards, men mostly—will make you go down on them for a pack of cigarettes, a pack of gum, anything and everything you want. And you'll want it all—but they're the ones who get it." She waited a moment and informed the other, "We try to fix the system. Reform it. We really do. But I'm not so sure it's even possible anymore. You know? No matter how hard we try, the bigger women are going to take lovers, and a bad screw is going to slip through every now and then."

"We can keep you away from all that," Boldt said, picking up on the angle.

"They got the virus in those places," Mulwright said, his eyes wet and unflinching. "Your tongue's going to be tasting some virus, sweetheart."

"That's enough!" Boldt barked sharply. "Jesus. . . ." he moaned.

A knock came on the door. Sheila Hill leaned her head inside and summoned Mulwright, a look of complete disgust on her face. As he reached the door, she grabbed onto his shirt and hauled him out of the in terrogation room, her anger carrying through the door as she closed it again.

Gaynes apologized to the suspect. "That was uncalled for. Sorry about that."

Samway looked paralyzed. She muttered, "I want me a lawyer."

"One's coming," Boldt said.

"Would you like us to leave the room?" Gaynes offered, for the sake of the cassette player running.

"No . . ." a confused Samway said. "What do I have to do?"

"Some place we could find him," Boldt said.

"Tinker's." She came back quickly with it, and Boldt trusted it for this reason.

"Tinker Bell?" Gaynes asked the suspect. To Boldt she said, "A fence down in Kent." She added, "I forget his real name: Billy, Teddy? Burglary'll know."

Samway nodded and whispered, "He does business with Tinker. But if you raid Tinker's, Abby'll know it was me. And if he knows it was me who talked . . ."

"Not necessarily," Boldt said. "We can get around that."

"I've heard him speak to Tinker on the phone."

"The phone," Boldt mumbled. "He clones phones. We know that. We need the number of the phone he's currently using." He was thinking back to his own idea of triangulation—maybe Flek would lead them right to himself. The number called from the Etheredge facility had not been used since his brother's death. Boldt needed the current number.

"Billy Bell is his real name, I think," Gaynes interrupted, still stuck on remembering the name of the fence. She repeated, "Burglary'll know."

"You keep me out of jail," Samway demanded, though weakly. "You get me into one of them places where they play volleyball and stuff like that. Minimum. Work release. Something like that."

"We need the cellular phone numbers he's using," Boldt repeated. "If you supply us with those phone numbers, then maybe Tinker never connects our visit to Flek."

Meeting eyes with Boldt, she studied him. This offer clearly appealed to her. "Phone numbers?" she asked, emphasizing the plural. "He's got only the one cell phone anymore." She waited, expecting Boldt to chime in, but he simply maintained the eye contact and waited her out. "You guys got the others when you raided his pad."

Boldt waited her out. "Tell me what I want to hear," he said.

"I've got the number," she assured him.

Boldt pulled out his pen and started writing.