Free Middle of Nowhere by Ridley Pearson

goods, separating out those that inventoried large-screen TVs, home computers, cell phones—all items believed stolen from Sanchez. A single TV didn’t count. A single computer didn’t interest him. With the exception of a cell phone, the items stolen from Sanchez each had retail values in excess of a grand. Picky. Exact. Kawamoto’s 37-inch TV had clearly been targeted; the VCR’s wire had not been coiled. Had it been too inexpensive to worry about? Or had Kawamoto’s interruption come before the burglar had enough time to examine it? TVs and stereos would normally be considered the domain of a junkie looking for his next fix, but junkies didn’t put white plastic ties around the electrical cords. Junkies didn’t trick home security systems by tying up the phone line.
    Boldt suspected that this particular rip-off artist sought out high-end electronics in enough quantity to justify the risk. A computer, a couple TVs and a cell phone to be cloned later might net him fifteen hundred from the right fence—not bad for a day’s work. Better than cop pay.
    Based on the list of stolen goods, Boldt narrowed his pile to twenty-three reports. Some of the forms had the small box checked off that indicated home security systems, but not all. On two of these reports he noted that the officers made mention of the security systems being compromised. Boldt smelled a possible insurance fraud—homeowners arranging for the “theft” of their own electronics; they would then collect the insurance money, have the electronics returned, and pay out a percentage of the take to he who committed the “burglary.” The Stepford Thieves. Wouldn’t be the first white-collar crime investigated by SPD.
    Boldt flipped through the stack of pink, archived triplicate copies, wanting some other identifier. He read each of the twenty-three reports in more detail, taking the time to study the notes, wanting something to narrow these to a more manageable number. Twenty-three phone calls would take days, if not weeks, under the current caseload. Even shared with Daphne, he thought the job could take a week or more. Two or three weeks was not out of the question if they reached a bunch of answering machines. Shoswitz’s comments about his relationship with Daphne troubled him, stayed with him. He wanted to see it as exaggeration. Lies. He wanted to feel it in his heart as schoolhouse rumor, but it triggered fear instead—as if he’d been caught at something, and that bothered him most of all.
    His blunt concentration passed the time quickly. The tea went cold. His butt hurt. All the little pleasantries of police work. City traffic had slacked off outside. He heard a distant whine of tires, but not the up-close-and-personal street traffic with which he hummed along by day. The place smelled of janitor’s disinfectant, a chemical lime smell that had a hint of melting rubber to it. The janitor had passed through unnoticed.
    He glanced up at the clock—it was late; he owed Liz an apology. But before he picked up the phone to call her, he checked the clock a second time, recalling that Kawamoto had been hit in the daytime—extremely unusual. Sanchez had not, but for the moment he managed to separate the two cases and keep them that way. Back through his pile of reports he went. From the stack of twenty-three, he began pulling out reports, his heart racing as the new pile grew to six burglaries—the shared element: broad daylight.
    He went through all hundred-and-something files again. This time, a total of nine reports made up his pile. Nine burglaries. Nine violations of private property in broad daylight, all with thousands of dollars of high-end electronics stolen. Big hits. Tricky hits. Some with home security devices apparently compromised. Well-orchestrated crimes. Practiced. Judging by Post-it notes and stapled attachments, Shoswitz’s detectives had apparently spotted some of these same similarities—these overlapping loose