Free Middle of Nowhere by Ridley Pearson Page B

morning,” she suggested, a little too quietly, but still gently.
    “Sure will.”
    “Maybe you can come over for eggs.”
    “Maybe so,” he replied.
    “You’ll keep working tonight,” she said.
    “Yes.”
    “Okay.” She didn’t sound overjoyed about that.
    They said their good-byes and hung up.

    With a monthly calendar laid out on the desk before him, Boldt charted the nine burglaries that seemed to have led up to Maria Sanchez’s tragedy. Sanchez—if part of that string—was number ten. Kawamoto, eleven. There was no particular day of the week to tie the events together, no exact hour, though all but the Sanchez crime had occurred during daylight; nor had there been a particular neighborhood. At first blush, a detective’s nightmare—circumstantial connections linking the crimes but lacking the hard evidence necessary to provide a trail to follow. Nonetheless, for Boldt the similarities remained substantial enough to impress him. He believed all eleven were connected, even if it wouldn’t be easy to prove it. He had yet to discover how the burglar selected or targeted the homes—and this was, of course, of primary importance to the possible identification of a suspect. Certainly the residences had not been chosen at random—not since they were loaded with high-end electronics. The connection between these targets—an insurance provider? a security company?—eluded him, but remained a top priority.
    Or so he thought. Those priorities began to shift when he noticed a circled pair of initials on the top of one of the nine files. The initials crowded the box reserved for the investigating detective, for in this particular box two detectives had left their initials. The home belonged to a couple listed as Brooks-Gilman, living over in Queen Anne, a mitt-shaped neighborhood immediately north and west of downtown. The Brooks-Gilman case had been passed to a second detective, probably as a result of the Blue Flu. The circled initials were elegant and easily read:
    MS
    Maria Sanchez? he wondered, as he then noted the date on which the detective in question had accepted responsibility for the case. That date was just two days before the Sanchez assault. That exceeded the boundaries of acceptable coincidence. MS. Maria Sanchez. Had to be.

 
     

    “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,”