Boldt didn't want this. Didn't need it. Not another. They were attending their second burglary/assault in as many days. Gaynes had drawn lead on the case, courtesy of the Blue Flu and Dispatch's current lottery system of assigning the first available detective who answered his or her phone. He told her about the interrogation, about losing the connection between Carmichael and Sanchez.
"So we clear one," she said, "and the other heads for a black hole."
"Do not say that," Boldt scolded. Gaynes suggested he head inside while she caught back up to the ambulance driver for a final word. Boldt seized the chance to see the crime scene for himself.
A burglary assault committed in the middle of the day. Technically a violent crime, minor injuries or not. The Blue Flu was lending the criminal element courage. While the cat's away, the mice do play. Bright sunshine broke loose from behind quickly moving dark clouds, the wind steady and warm. Summer struggled to be rid of spring. Boldt struggled to be rid of the Sanchez crime scene; he didn't want one influencing the other, but it proved almost inescapable. What he wanted was some good, solid evidence. Something valuable. Something to kick this thing in the butt and help get someone behind bars. Before another. Before the press descended like locusts. Before the looming black hole of Sanchez's unsolved case widened.
"What do we have?" he asked sharply of the first officer, a young woman who, judging by her crisp uniform and pronounced nervousness, was more than likely one of the police academy trainees temporarily promoted to patrol. Her quick-footed effort to keep pace with him, and a strained voice that cracked when attempting a reply, belied the stiff shoulders and confident chin. This stop-gap action taken by the chief to maintain a patrol-level presence on the streets had been written up in the press and condemned in the Public Safety coffee lounges. If a minimum number of uniforms could not be mobilized, the governor had threatened, or promised (depending which side of the argument one took), National Guard troops and curfews—political disaster for the mayor. But so-called "freshies" had no place behind the wheel of a cruiser, or as first officer at any crime scene, much less on an as sault. For all his experience and wisdom, this new chief was out of his mind.
"Single female."
"I've got that," he said. Impatience nibbled at the center of his chest. He needed some basic information, but he longed to be left alone with the crime scene.
"Living with a sister who stays here every couple weeks."
"Didn't have that," Boldt admitted. "The scene?"
"Exterior doors all found locked."
He interrupted, "You're sure?" This information registered in Boldt, for the back door of the Sanchez home had been left unlocked.
"She placed the nine-one-one call, so maybe she locked up."
"Security system?"
"The home has one. Yes. But apparently the answering machine was engaged, keeping the line open— she remembers the indicator light on the downstairs phone. The guy must have had a tape recorder on it: sending out a single beep every five seconds, so the machine kept recording and didn't hang up. Tricky stuff, Lieutenant. Smarter than just snipping the line, which instantly sounds the alarm. With the primary line engaged, the security system couldn't dial out. Gives him time to get inside and bust up the alarm's speaker."
"So it never did dial out," Boldt said.
"Not that we're aware of, no."
Boldt noted yet another contradiction to the Sanchez scene. Sanchez's home security system had dialed the provider—not that it had done her any good; Kawamoto's had been prevented from doing so.
"What else do we know?" Boldt questioned her.
"Personal property reported missing. Vic's name is Cathy Kawamoto. Banged up a little but—"
"I've got that already. How 'bout a description?" He felt like an instructor now, slipping out of his primary role. Freshies needed so damn much help. Chief was out of his mind.
"Female. Japanese/Brit. Early thirties. Book translator." The woman skipped along, rushing her thoughts, like a kid trying to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk. "Working out of a home office in the basement. Thought she heard something upstairs. Investigates. Takes a blow to the chest at the top of the stairs. Goes down hard."
"Evidence of anything sexual?" he asked, still trying to keep Sanchez out of his head.
"No, sir."
"Not to your knowledge," he corrected.
"Not to my knowledge," she agreed.
"No clothes torn off, anything like that?"
"Nothing like that, Lieutenant."
"Ligatures? Tied up in any way?" he inquired.
"Negative."
"Which stairs?" he asked, returning to her earlier statement.
She told him.
"What's the extent of the personal property loss?"
"Looks like he may have been after a PC, a cable
box and a thirty-seven inch. But that's just the bedroom. Who knows what else he had in mind?"
"He didn't lift any of it?" At the Sanchez scene, despite the assault, the burglary had gone through. Perhaps that pointed to timing. Perhaps it pointed to yet another inconsistency. He wanted evidence: a shoe print to compare to the one lifted off Sanchez's coat; a knot to compare to the shoelaces found bound to her wrists. Something. Anything.
"No, sir. The suspect apparently fled immediately following the assault."
"Good work," Boldt offered. He felt distracted by his concern for Liz and the kids, suddenly wondering if they were safe at the Jamersons, where they were staying temporarily until Liz and he could figure out how much danger they were actually in. What if the Blue Fluers meant for the families to suffer? he wondered.
"How's your wife, sir?" the recruit inquired in a moment of uncanny timing. "If you don't mind my asking?" This one was looking for immediate promotion. To answer truthfully, his wife was upset, angry, though not necessarily at him. The relocation to the friend's home on Mercer Island was a temporary fix at best. To keep trouble from following them, Boldt would sleep at the family house, only visiting the Jamerson home for the occasional meal. A workable but undesirable arrangement that obviously challenged a husband and wife who relished being together, who needed each other. In truth, he was deeply worried about his family, worried to the point that he hadn't eaten in at least ten hours. The blue brick had shattered more than the window—it shattered certain limits too. With it, Boldt's work had come home in a way he'd vowed would never happen again. Previously, they had endured threats of arson, the kidnapping of their daughter: Each time the family had rebounded, though not without scars. The brick had reopened those wounds. He saw no immediate fix. He and Liz would talk. There wouldn't be any simple, fast answers, but they would find them. Liz's blood was on the living-room rug. No matter how small the stain, the damage was immense and permanent.