Boldt's throat constricted. His chest seized in a cramp. This wasn't just a woman lying there; she was also a police officer. A friend. Family. Liz had once lain in just such a bed. He knew the things they could do to a person in here. He had seen Liz's roommate being wheeled out, and she had never been wheeled back in. The thought of Liz returned him to his concern over the threatening phone calls. He didn't trust where this Flu was headed. He wanted out of that room.
Maria Sanchez's bloodshot eyes showed through small slits, and Boldt could detect slight movement in them as she tracked their entry into the room. Boldt recalled her on the couch with his two kids. Sitting up. Laughing. Goodnight Moon in her lap. He could envision her hugging his children with two arms that worked. But it was that laugh of hers he remembered. Her time with his kids had helped in her recovery from grief— she had learned to laugh again in his house. To live. And now this.
"Officer Maria Sanchez," Daphne said, seeing Boldt struggle, "I'm Daphne Matthews, the department psychologist. You know Lieutenant Boldt—Homicide."
"Matthews is lead on your assault," Boldt managed to say. "I'm playing Watson." He had wanted to inject humor. He'd failed. Again he realized he had spent too many hours in hospital rooms of late. There should be quotas, he thought. He foresaw pain and hardship in that bed. Time. Waiting. For eighteen months of cancer treatment his family had suffered. Now they still waited, hoping Liz's remission held. The waiting hurt most of all. Sanchez would feel the full force of it.
His voice broke as he said, "I'm sorry for your situation, Maria."
Daphne offered, "We don't pretend to know what you're going through, but we are going to put away whoever's responsible." She added, "We're told the doctors plan some experimental surgery and that the prognosis is good. Be strong, Maria. We're pulling for you."
"The whole department," Boldt said. Adding, "What's left of it."
The patient blinked once. At first it appeared to be a reflex, nothing more. But it drew their attention.
Boldt carefully chose his words. "We've been over to the scene just now . . . your house, Maria. Looks a lot like you interrupted a burglary. Stereo gear and at least one TV appear to be missing."
"We'll need for you to confirm as much of this as possible—as soon as you're able," Daphne added.
"The report is sketchy at best," Boldt said. "When you're better, we'll work on this one together, okay?" His attempt at positive thinking sounded hollow and fell flat. Boldt didn't know quite how to act, so he decided to just stick to business. "We're pursuing this as a firstdegree burglary. I guess we just wanted to say it goes without saying that we're not sitting on this one, that the Flu isn't going to delay this in any way. Matthews got the call—the lead—and that's a good thing. We're going to chase down this offender and lock him up. Guaranteed."
"We need you, Maria," Daphne encouraged her. "You're going to pull out of this."
Another blink. A tear slithered from her eye, down her pale cheek and cascaded to the pillowcase. When her eyelids opened again fully, Sanchez's dark pupils were lodged to the left of her eye sockets.
"Maria?" Boldt inquired, the eye movement obvious. He checked with Daphne.
"We're watching your eyes," Daphne stated firmly to the woman. "Are you trying to signal us, Maria?" she asked. For Boldt, the air in the room suddenly seemed absolutely still. The sounds of the machinery seemed louder. He felt cold, chilled to the bone.
Another blink. Reflex or intentional? Her pupils faced right.
"Oh my God," he mumbled, letting it slip. He glanced toward the door and the freedom it offered.
"Right is 'yes'; left is 'no.' Is that correct?" Daphne inquired.
The woman closed her fluttering lids with great difficulty. When her eyes reopened, her pupils remained locked to the right.
Daphne met eyes with Boldt, her excitement obvious.
"We're going to ask you some questions," Daphne suggested tentatively. "Okay?"
The eyelids sank shut. As they reopened a crack, the pupils faced left, her answer a solid no. Her eyes fluttered shut and remained so. Boldt felt a wave of relief.
"She's too tired," Boldt said, indicating to Daphne they should leave the room.
Daphne nodded, but wouldn't let it go. "You go ahead and rest, Maria. We'll be back when you're up to it." She followed Boldt into the hall. He assisted the room's oversized door to shut as quietly as possible.
"Medicated," Daphne said. "Fatigue plays into it too, but chances are it's as much her unwillingness to confront and relive the assault and the associated trauma as anything else."
"She's terrified," Boldt said, relieved to be out of the room. "And she has every right to be." He added, "You see that, don't you?"
"You didn't have to be in such a hurry to leave."
"Yes, I did," he argued.
"She can answer questions, Lou. We can build a list of questions and she can answer them! We can interview the victim. You realize that?"
Boldt complained, "You don't have to sound so excited about it, you know?"
"What's wrong with you?" Daphne asked. She crossed her arms indignantly against the artificial chill of the hallway.
"It's all wrong with me," Boldt answered, feeling a chill himself that had nothing to do with thermostats. "Her. This place." Motioning back toward the room he said, "A pair of eyes, Daffy. It's all that's left of her."
C H A P T E R
3
"It's a difficult situation," Boldt said.
"So talk me through it. Is it the strike, or this case?" his wife, Liz, asked.
"Both," he answered. The Sanchez assault was nearly twenty-four hours old. No arrests. No suspects. He feared a black hole.
The Boldt kitchen confirmed the laws of chaos, a study in the science of randomly placed objects: dinner food, dishes, pots and pans, plastic toys scattered as an obstacle course, a high chair, a booster seat, stained dish rags. Something sticky had been spilled by the pantry door. A path of mud and pebbles led from the back porch, despite the door mat. Boldt stood at the sink, elbow deep in dishwater.
By nine o'clock they typically would have had the kitchen cleaned up—with or without each other's help—but their daughter Sarah's upset stomach had kept them busy these past several hours. With both kids finally asleep, husband and wife tackled the cleanup.