Middle Of Nowhere

C H A P T E R

27

Daphne used frequent flyer miles to upgrade her hotel room, which meant a few more square feet, a deep bathtub with jets, and a view of the Rockies. In his own, slightly smaller room, Boldt ordered a pot of Earl Grey tea from room service, drew himself an incredibly hot bath upon its delivery, and spent twenty wonderful minutes soaking away the stiffness still present from the assault. When the kids had been infants, Boldt had taken baths with them—glorious memories of splashing, laughing and soap in the eyes. He missed his family terribly. He wanted this case solved, the Flu over, and his family back intact.

Daphne called to say she had made dinner reservations downstairs; coat and tie required. She sounded excited—the case, he thought. Boldt ironed a shirt that had suffered in the shoulder bag. Dinner. The two of them alone in a hotel a thousand miles from home. Maybe Sheila Hill should have assigned LaMoia to the trip, he was thinking.

Feeling homesick, he called Liz. She had reinvented herself following her illness. She lived cleanly, spiritually minded, more centered, more collected than ever. An anchor. Her brush with death had invigorated her pursuit of life. She made few demands upon him, other than as the father of their children, and did her best to support him in a job she did not particularly care for him to have. Her work at the bank brought in a good salary, and she occasionally nudged Boldt to consider corporate security work for one of the giant multinationals in the area. But she didn't push. He had nearly interviewed for Boeing once. Their conversation was good—she was thrilled to be home again with the kids. Boldt made absolutely no mention of his impending dinner with Daphne, despite a couple of perfect openings for him to do so. And when he hung up, he wondered why he hadn't told her.

He pulled his necktie tight, choking himself. A forty-page fax was delivered to his room. Etheredge's attorneys had made the right decision—he was in possession of a portion of the Consolidated Mutual phone solicitation log for area code 206.

* * *

Daphne wore a cream-colored silk blouse with a Mao neck buttoned to hide her scar. A single strand of pearls swept gracefully across the ghost of a delicate lace bra, rising and falling behind her every word. She smelled earthy, a hint of sweet.

One look at her and he experienced a systemic warmth, like after a stiff drink.

She worked slowly on a glass of Pinot Noir; Boldt nursed a cranberry juice.

She said, "Newmann and Consolidated give those inmates—convicted felons—access on their computer terminals to property tax assessments, full credit histories, number of dependents, number and value of registered motor vehicles. . . . What did they expect would happen?"

Boldt had given her half the fax. Together, they combed the list for the phone numbers of any of the nine burglary victims. He wanted to tell her that she looked great. He kept his mouth shut and his eyes aimed at the fax.

"And that survey! Did you get time to look that over? Estimated income. Value of residence. Personal property in the residence. Number of computers owned by the family. Number of CD players; number of VCRs. All these little demographic triggers that satiate an insurance company's appetite for data, but in the wrong hands. . . ." She lifted her head. He felt it as a warm wind. "Are you listening?"

"Appetite for data," Boldt repeated. He had other appetites going. He tried to quiet them.

"And the guys on the other side of the room are booking travel plans. You can't hit the homes while they're out of town—it'll lead us right back to you— but you could scout them, make your plans. Hit one or two, maybe, but far enough apart we don't connect the dots."

"I've got one!" he announced a little too loudly, drawing the attention of the diners at the next table. "Brooks-Gilman is down as having been called by an inmate identified as number forty-two," he informed her.

"Number forty-two," she repeated, running her finger down the column that indicated which inmate in the private commerce program had placed the phone solicitation. "Brumewell!" she exclaimed excitedly, matching a phone number. "Number forty-two did Brumewell too." She was radiant when excited like this, one of those people who generated an electricity, a palpable, physical, sensuous energy that sparked across the table and infected Boldt. He felt that energy run wildly through him—though he didn't like where it landed, where he felt it the most. He shifted in his chair, relieved at the approach of the waiter. They both put the faxed pages aside.

They ate their salads slowly and in silence. He felt like skipping the main course. He wanted to get back to the faxed pages.

Boldt caught Daphne's eye, read her mind. "It's all right that we enjoy ourselves," he suggested, trying to sound convincing. "No harm in that."

"No harm whatsoever," she echoed, though clearly not convinced.

Another minute passed before he spoke. "The thing about us—"

"Yes?"

"The silence isn't uncomfortable."

"No."

"It's fine. It feels good, even."

The salads were withdrawn, replaced by pewter

domed entre´es. As the lids were whisked off in unison, rosemary and garlic stirred the air.

"It's comfortable is all," he said, once they had been left alone.

"That's not all, and you know it," she replied.

"No, maybe not," he conceded.

"We've been there, Lou. And we've had plenty of opportunities since then to revisit, and we don't, which is good, I think."

"You think or you know?"

"Her illness. . . . The cancer—it pulled you two even closer together."

"Yes, it did," he agreed.

"It's making the most out of a bad situation. You two did that. It's admirable."

"Thank you," he said sincerely. "It doesn't mean I care for you any less."

She reached out across the table and took his hand in hers. "I know that. And it goes both ways, you know."

Their eyes met, smiling. He lifted his water glass. "To private commerce caller number forty-two. I'd say we've got a suspect."

"I'd say we'd better get through the rest of that list tonight. If we can connect Mr. Forty-two to more of the victims, our case is only that much stronger."

"Agreed."

"My room? Or yours?"

"Yours, it's bigger," Boldt answered.

She pushed back her chair and excused herself

without looking at him, and hurried across the dining room in that graceful movement of hers.

When she returned, he felt her urgency to leave the table.

"How about one dance before dessert?" she asked.

A jazz trio in the hotel bar. Boldt had tried to block out the music because it could so overpower him and demand his full attention. So could a dance. He was thinking it was a bad idea.

She added that she'd taken care of the tab, charging it to her room, making it impossible for him to stall.

"Why not?" he said, his mouth working against his better judgment.

* * *

A mistake. Boldt knew it the moment he put his arm loosely around her and felt the warm indent of her back in the palm of his wide hand. Secrets were lost in such moments. Kingdoms fell. With Daphne in heels, they stood nearly the same height. She pulled herself closer and their chests made contact. "Okay?" she asked, her breath warm on his neck.

"You know what I think?" she asked, this time in a hoarse whisper that sent chills down him. Their hearts beat contrapuntally.

"Extraordinary," he said, marveling at the sensation.

She placed her head gently on his shoulder, and answered herself. "I think this is dangerous."

"Feels that way to me," he admitted, not letting her go.

"Song's over."

So it was. He hadn't noticed. Only the one song, or had they stayed out there longer? He took her by the hand and led her off the dance floor.

They walked together down the long corridor of rooms. She used her electronic key to open the room door and Boldt found himself reminded of the prison's security. She leaned a shoulder against the door and it opened. "This is all right? Right?"

"Right," he answered, not taking his chance to back out. The faxed pages bulged in his coat pocket.

She reached up, lightly stroked his cheek, then playfully took him by the necktie and said, "Into my room, big boy."

But her words were lost to the kiss that Boldt delivered more out of reflex than conscious decision. He kissed her on the lips, not the cheek. Right there in the hallway; she, holding his tie. Brief, but delivered like he meant it.

The kiss stunned her, but she didn't falter. She pulled him through the door by the tie, turned once inside and returned that kiss with all her enormous powers. They kissed hard and hungrily, a kiss that had fermented for years.

His fingers worked the tiny buttons to her blouse, the silk melting away and exposing her chest as she unknotted his tie. A car backfired, and they both froze intuitively, and then, looking at each other in the early stages of undress, one of them started to laugh and the other followed until the laughter grew, by which point her blouse was buttoned and her face red behind a girlish blush.

"Maybe we go through the fax tomorrow morning," she suggested nervously.

Boldt felt awkward. Devastated. "I—"

"Don't say anything," she pleaded, placing a warm finger to his lips and holding it there too long. Her blouse was buttoned incorrectly. His shirt was partially open, his tie hanging from his button-down collar.