Middle Of Nowhere

C H A P T E R

53

The ferry steamed on through the dark, churning waters interminably. Wind and rain frothed the waters into sharp, angular chop, unique to the Sound, but the ferry plowed down the peaks and beat them out its wake as a subdued, white, rolling foam.

Boldt and LaMoia sat off by themselves on a mostly empty deck. A few tired businessmen occupied the other seats, and a couple of kids with backpacks. On these milk-run legs, the ferry definitely lost money.

"You shouldn't have come along," Boldt said.

"True story," LaMoia answered through his clenched jaw.

"What do we feed you?"

"Ensure, through a straw. If I puke, I die. Nice thought, isn't it?"

"Then why?"

"The last time this happened, she got cut bad, and you . . . you beat yourself up pretty hard over that. I hear you been beating yourself up over my little accident. It ain't worth it, Sarge. My gig. My choice. My bad," he said. "I'm slow, but I'm not useless. Besides, I knew you could use the company."

Boldt's cellular rang. It was Gaynes. She said, "Os bourne provided Daphne with a location for Flek that probably pretty well matches where you are right now— in the middle of the Sound."

"And she went off of that?" Boldt asked.

"She had a time to work with: the eight-thirty ferry to Bainbridge."

"So we're at least an hour behind her."

"You're right about Osbourne. He has the capability of pretty much pinpointing a call's location, the only bummer being that none of it is real-time. It's taking him about fifteen minutes per transmission signal, which ain't bad, but ain't great."

"Transmission signal?" he asked.

"The phone, being on an open circuit, was constantly transmitting. So he asked me to pick various times of the call for him to reference. I chose three different times, each several minutes apart. Her call originated less than a mile from Sandy Hook—west, northwest of there. When you get near the Agate Passage Bridge, you should call me. I'll help direct you."

"And a few minutes later?" Boldt asked. "Where was she then?"

"He's still processing. Says it's west of there, probably near Lemolo. He'll have an exact in a few more minutes. Maybe five more minutes, he says."

"Let's plot the last known reference," he advised.

"But unless we know where he was ahead of that," she suggested, "we won't know in what direction he was headed. You want the direction, don't you, L.T.?"

"We'll be off this ferry in fifteen minutes," Boldt

said. "I want answers by then. What if Flek's headed back for this ferry? I need to know that! I could drive right past the guy."

"Understood."

"So have Osbourne pull some help. An officer's life is at stake here."

"I'll suggest that."

"Don't suggest it, order it!"

"Right," Gaynes said, though she didn't sound convinced.

"Whatever you can do, Bobbie," Boldt said. It was as close as he could get to an apology.

"He has a couple guys working on another technology. We could pull them, but I don't advise it, L.T. What they're working on is some kind of real-time technology. It could be the ticket."

"She disconnected the call!" Boldt objected. "That's not real-time, that's waste-of-time."

"These guys are cell phone nerds, L.T. They think they've got something going. I'm reluctant to butt in on that. I will if you want, but I think we cut them some slack here and see what they can do for us. They're pretty excited about this other possibility. Your call," she said.

Boldt said to LaMoia, "Osbourne's using manpower on a long shot, and Gaynes wants me to go along with that." Boldt never consulted LaMoia on such decisions, and the sergeant's obvious surprise reflected that.

LaMoia said, "A wise old cop once told me that the dick in the field's in a better position to make the judg ment call than the suit back in the office." He was quoting Boldt back to himself, though not verbatim.

"I'm not in the office!" Boldt protested. "And I'm not a suit." It was the ultimate slur, and Boldt wanted nothing of it.

LaMoia's words garbled. "You're on a boat in the middle of nowhere, Sarge. That's even worse." LaMoia was looking a little green. "I think maybe I need some air."

Middle of nowhere, Boldt thought. To him, it summed up both his professional and private lives. It had started with the Flu, this feeling; he had no idea where or when it would end.

Into the phone, Boldt said, "It's up to you and Osbourne. Just get me something by the time we're back in the car."

"Thanks, L.T. Back at you." She disconnected the call.