Middle Of Nowhere

CHAPTER 9

" I don't see what we're after," Daphne said, hurrying to keep up with Boldt as he ascended the hospital stairs.

"Her connection to the Brooks-Gilman burglary investigation," he answered.

"I understand that much," she said, a little miffed that he wouldn't give her at least some credit. "I read the memo!" Boldt had circulated an interdepartmental E-mail requesting any information on all cases Sanchez had been working prior to her assault. "But how does that get us any closer to the thief? So she took over some cases after the walkout happened. We all did. So what?"

Boldt didn't answer her. Not one person had responded to his E-mail, again reminding him that the Flu had sympathizers still on the job. He felt disheartened, even defeated.

Daphne matched strides with him in the long hallway. "Lou, she's my case. It's only right you tell me what you're thinking."

"Shoswitz said his boys would not appreciate any of us doing their work for them. The implication being pretty obvious."

"We're considered scabs," she gasped, "just because we accept some assignment passed to us by Dispatch?"

"Maybe Sanchez was. Maybe they got pissed off at her for crossing over into their department. The only way a strike is effective is when the work doesn't get done. Maybe I got that brick through my window because I'm supposed to stay in Homicide, not take cases from other departments."

She mumbled, "So to make the strike effective, they intimidate us."

"Or worse," he said.

"Break her neck, strip her naked and tie her up?" she questioned. "Does that sound like cop against cop? I don't buy that."

"Hey," Boldt defended, "I'm not selling. I'm just investigating is all. Leaving open all possibilities."

"There's a big difference between a brick through a window and what happened to Maria Sanchez."

"I don't disagree with you," Boldt said. "I'm just investigating is all."

They reached the door to Sanchez's room and showed their badges to the hospital security guard posted outside. He carefully checked the IDs, then permitted them to go in.

Sanchez's condition had deteriorated since their first visit. The decline had manifested itself in her skin tone and in the proliferation of ICU equipment that was now attached to her. Daphne acknowledged her read of the situation with a grim look that told Boldt to proceed with caution.

Daphne stepped closer to the tangle of tubes and wires and said the patient's name softly. Maria's eyelids strained open, followed a moment later by recognition.

Boldt's overwhelming sense of concern momentarily prevented him from speaking. He felt painfully reminded that homicide cops rarely deal with the living.

"We promise to come right to the point," Boldt informed the patient, stepping closer, so he could meet her now haunted brown eyes.

"Something has come up," Daphne jumped in, "that requires clarification."

Sanchez's eyes never left Boldt. He felt they somehow held him responsible, though he wasn't sure for what. He knew that Sanchez somehow understood their visit was at his initiation, that the questions would come from him. And so she waited. She has no choice, he thought.

"Are you okay to answer some questions?" Boldt asked.

The eyelids closed and reopened, eyes looking right. How, he wondered, could something as simple as blinking one's eyes become so labored and difficult?

Boldt leaned closer. He could smell medication and hear the rhythmic efforts of the respirator. "Among your cases prior to your assault was the burglary of the Brooks-Gilman residence in Queen Anne."

"Yes," she answered with an eyes-right.

Boldt felt a slight flutter in his chest. The initials MS: Maria Sanchez.

He asked, "Had you identified a suspect?"

"No," came her reply, though clearly with great difficulty.

"Lou," Daphne said, correcting herself to, "Lieutenant. I think she's too tired for this right now."

Boldt ignored Daphne, remaining focused on Sanchez. "Do you believe your assault had anything whatsoever to do with your investigation?"

Maria clearly struggled. With her condition, or with the question? Boldt wondered. An exasperating thirty seconds passed before her eyes fell shut and then reopened. "Yes," came the answer. But this was followed by a "no," as well, and Boldt took to this to mean she didn't know, couldn't be sure.

Boldt gasped.

"Lou!" Daphne whispered sharply.

"Had you made some progress on the case?" Boldt asked.

Again Daphne attempted to stop him.

The eyes blinked open: Yes.

"But not a suspect," he repeated for his own benefit, his mind racing, his connection with this woman nearly visceral. "Evidence?"

"Yes."

"Did others know about this possible evidence?" he queried.

She paled another shade or two, if that were possible. Whatever the monitors were saying, Daphne didn't like it.

"You're going to have a nurse in here in a minute," Matthews warned. "I'm asking you to stop."

Boldt couldn't stop. Not when he was so close. He asked, "Had you told anyone about this new evidence?"

Sanchez stared at the ceiling. No eyelid movement. No answer. He heard footsteps, voices, and then the door swung open.

But Boldt still didn't give up. He leaned into Sanchez, getting as close to her as he could and asked, "Did you tell anyone who was out on strike that you were working a burglary case?" He added, "It's extremely important to the investigation that I know this."

"That's it!" Daphne announced, coming around the bed and taking Boldt by the arm. "Come on! We're out of here before they throw us out."

"One more minute."

"Oh, my God," he heard Daphne gasp.

Boldt turned around to greet the nurse or doctor, unprepared for who had entered the room. The normally cool and collected Sergeant John LaMoia stood straight and rigid, as surprised as they were. "What are you doing here?" Boldt asked.