Middle Of Nowhere

C H A P T E R

42

"It was a difficult meeting," he told Liz. Boldt presented the contradictory evidence surrounding Flek's possible involvement with the Sanchez assault at a divisional meeting attended by captains Hill and Shoswitz as well as the captain of detectives and a deputy chief to whom all the captains reported. The meeting became heated as Boldt suggested that though they suspected Flek for the LaMoia assault and intended to pursue him to the very edges of the earth, questions persisted about the Sanchez assault and that he could not rule out the possibility of "the involvement of internal personnel." Deputy Chief McAffrey stated that he would reluctantly assign it to Internal Investigations for review. Boldt asked that I.I.'s involvement be curtailed until he and Matthews had reviewed all the evidence, circumstantial and otherwise. McAffrey agreed to give Boldt forty-eight hours. Sheila Hill skillfully negotiated Boldt's cushion to seventy-two. Boldt left the meeting with a clock ticking in his head. In the middle of an active fugitive pursuit as well as at the start of a total case review on Sanchez, his plate was full.

He ate a gyro while Liz tried the Greek salad. Their relationship sat between them on the table like a tall vase of flowers or a lit candle one can't see past. Boldt had never felt so awkward in her presence.

"Mud up to the axles," Boldt said after an uncomfortable silence. "That's how this feels. Work. You and I. Everything."

"What I feel is a need—a real need—to get things right. And they aren't right now. We imposed on John and Kristin for weeks, and that wasn't right. We need to have them over to dinner, buy them a real special thank-you gift. But you're barely home, and when you are, you don't even talk to me." She poked at the salad. Boldt felt it in the center of his chest.

"I kissed a woman," he announced apologetically. It tumbled out of him and he felt a flood of relief with the confession. It would be work, but now they could make real progress.

She stabbed again and missed. She knocked over the bowl spilling oily cucumbers onto the table. They slid around like transparent hockey pucks. She wouldn't look up at him. Her lower lip trembled. He felt like dying.

He said, "It was only the one kiss. It stopped at that. Not that that makes it any better." He paused. "But it was enough to tell me something is very wrong. I've let this separation drift us apart. I couldn't face you without telling you about it, and I couldn't tell you about it without facing you."

Her mouth hung open. She had some pepper stuck between her teeth. Any other day he would have told her about the pepper. The fork fell into the bowl. She didn't notice. "Who?" she asked.

"Does it matter?" he scoffed. "It's not who, it's why."

"Then why do I feel jealous?" she asked. "Why do I feel this is somehow my fault?"

"It's both our faults," Boldt said. "But it doesn't feel that way."

"Good," she said. "That somehow makes me feel better." She asked, "Emotionally? Are you emotionally attached?"

"It was a single kiss. It's not an affair."

"But of the heart?" she asked with difficulty. "Where's your heart in all this?"

"Broken at the moment, as I imagine yours is. But the pieces are all with you, Elizabeth, with us. Every last piece."

"I need air. I need time to think!"

"I . . ." Boldt began.

But she stood and made for the door, her purse trailing by its strap. She held herself high—ever Liz. Boldt felt as if he were swimming underwater. Consumed in darkness.

He pushed the food aside, his appetite gone, wondering what came next. He felt sick. Sick, and incredibly cold.