Middle Of Nowhere

   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.

   "Wish that dog would stop. Does it ever shut up?"

   "Maybe they wouldn't have bought an attack dog if you guys hadn't gone on strike," Liz teased.

   Boldt groaned. She was trying to make light of it,

but it struck a nerve. "It's not a strike, it's a sickout," he corrected her.

   Liz policed the countertops and the kitchen table, which looked as if a food fight had taken place. Boldt watched her in the reflection of the window above the sink. In his opinion, she still needed about twenty pounds. The cancer had won that as well as her hair. Most of her hair had returned, but not the weight. And the hair looked wrong, because she had always worn it longer than that. Boldt wrestled with the carrots burned onto the bottom of the saucepan. That dog just wouldn't stop. If Boldt hadn't been a cop, he might have called one.

   Liz brushed against him as she shook crumbs out of a rag. He enjoyed the contact, any contact at all, anything to remind him of her presence.

   "So what's bugging you?" she asked, adding quickly, "besides our neighbor's dog?

   "The Flu. I realize it's complicated." A new sports stadium had gone over budget. The mayor instituted cost-saving measures. The new police chief cut overtime pay for detectives and, at the same time, restricted offduty work for uniforms because one off-duty cop had embarrassed the department. "But it has messed up everything," he said.

   "Listen, I hate to see you like this." She offered, "Maybe it's worth thinking about how much you, personally, can do about any of it."

   "But that's the point! It gets worse every day. Now Phil and the other captains are effecting a slowdown. Doing just enough work to get by, which isn't enough, of course. It's their way of supporting the sickout."

   "But if you're working as hard as always, what more can you ask of yourself?"

   "Thanks," he said sincerely.

   "Is there anything positive to focus on?" Forever Liz. Spiritually determined.

   He answered, "Homicide's bathroom stays cleaner than I've ever seen it. The coffee lounge no longer stinks of burned grounds. Precious little."

   "All you can do is—"

   "Pray?" he interrupted. He didn't need to hear this right now.

   She grimaced. "Not what I was going to say," she said.

   He apologized, but she walked away and went about the cleanup.

   He didn't mention that the eerie emptiness of the fifth floor, the vacant halls and office cubicles, reminded him more of a school in the midst of a fire drill than a homicide squad. The hallways and offices of Crimes Against Persons required bodies to occupy them—like suits in a storefront window.

   Boldt caught sight of himself in the window's glass, and was troubled by the growing exhaustion that hung beneath his eyes. The extra caseload brought on by the sickout meant fourteen- hour work days. Investigators in any department accepted whatever case was handed them. Vice, narcotics, burglary, it didn't matter.

   He glanced up again. The window, fogged by steam,