Middle of Nowhere (52 page)

Chapman said, “Krishevski couldn’t believe his guys could do such a stupid thing. Blamed himself for leaking news of the sickout. Practically begged me to let him set it right. He’s not the one you’re after.”

“Schock and Phillipp take over the I.I. case for Sanchez and pay a couple visits to Property. You’re thinking Pendegrass is checking the log, and you’re worried for them. You go to the Cock and Bull looking for Pendegrass, to tell him to lay off Schock and Phillipp, but they’re right behind you, and Pendegrass and company take a baseball bat to their heads as well—in part to scare you, to let you know who’s boss.”

Again, Chapman made no corrections.

“Krishevski calls me anonymously because he suspects his boys did Schock and Phillipp. He won’t condone that. He knows they need to be stopped. He plays it cool when I show up at the bar, putting on a good act.” Boldt paused. No comments from Chapman. “I call down to Property and get Riorden. I start asking about visits by Schock and Phillipp, and suddenly I’m on the list.” He paused. “I’ve got to have that tape, Ronnie.”

“No chance! But you don’t need me!”

“Help me out here, Ronnie.”

“I.I. installed
two
cameras, one upstairs at the street entrance, one downstairs on level two.” He hesitated. “They switch tapes once a day. Fresh ones in place of the ones for the day before. So I knew my switch had to be done that night, before they arrived to put in the fresh tapes. I replaced the tape in the camera on sub-level two with a copy, and took the real tape for myself. Figured it might take them a while to realize. My guess was they marked and stored the tapes and kept them around in case any more vandalism was reported. Maybe erased them after a while, for all I know.”

“It leaves me the tape for camera one,” Boldt said, finally understanding.

“I don’t know if it will do you any good, just seeing a car pull into the garage. I’ve got the one with the actual business going down, and it stays with me. I don’t think they’re too worried about that other one. A couple cops coming and going. Where’s the foul? But you, Lou. Maybe you can make something out of it.”

“Maybe so,” Boldt said, glancing at LaMoia, who was already wearing a grin.

B
oldt climbed the steps of the Pendegrass home with difficulty, due to the walking cast. In his hand, he nervously wormed the keys to the Crown Vic and the black remote that opened the doors or trunk. In his left hand he carried a videotape.

In a quick shuffle, he had sent Liz and the kids across town to stay at the Four Seasons for the night, promising his wife it was only as a precaution. Liz loved the Four Seasons. She had accepted the request surprisingly calmly, despite the late hour. Boldt took this as a sign they were on the mend. He climbed the steps hoping that he and LaMoia and Daphne had prepared for any and every eventuality, knowing full well that one never could. There were always holes in any plan, especially those made hastily.

He drew in a deep breath and knocked sharply on the door.

Pendegrass answered. He wore those same Air Nikes that Boldt remembered only too well. The two men stared at each other.

“So?” Pendegrass finally said.

Boldt held up the videotape for the man to see. “I couldn’t talk Chapman out of his, and I never will. So I guess if you’re set on that tape, then whatever you’ve got of my Denver trip goes out to whoever you plan on seeing it.”

“And this?” Pendegrass asked, eyeing the tape in Boldt’s hand.

“This is the one you overlooked. Even I.I. overlooked its importance. This is the one that’s going to hang you once I get it to SID for analysis. This is what you want to trade for, whether you know it or not. It’s the original. If you had me followed from Chapman’s then you know I went back downtown. This is why. This tape. I substituted a
Mister Rogers
for it. You think anyone will ever notice? Not a chance. Because I.I. doesn’t understand the importance of the second tape.”

“As if I know what you’re talking about.”

“You think I’m wearing a wire? Is that it?” He raised his arms, still sore all over. “Search me. Go ahead.”

“I’ll pass. Whatever it is you’re trying to do, nice try, Boldt.”

“You’ve got a VCR,” Boldt stated. “Five minutes. Give me five minutes.” He waved the tape. “It’s a real eye-opener.”

An impatient Pendegrass considered this and finally stepped back from the door, admitting Boldt, who inside was a nervous wreck. If Pendegrass had slammed the door in his face, it might never have worked.

The TV occupied a tabletop in a cluttered living room that smelled of cigarettes. Pendegrass’s wife looked in on them, but the man waved her away and she closed the door tightly, a concerned look overtaking her tired face.

Boldt handed the man the tape and remained standing. He identified the VCR’s remote, and pocketing his own keys, took control. This had been Daphne’s suggestion: Maintain control over the physical environment.

“The way I figure it,” Boldt explained, “you and the others didn’t think there was much to fear from the second security video—the one set up to record the entrance.” Boldt pressed a button on the remote. The television showed a grainy black-and-white security video of SPD’s parking garage. “But I’m telling you, you underestimate Bernie Lofgrin.”

Pendegrass maintained a look of confidence, though Boldt had to believe there were cracks.

“There are three men visible in that car. You in the passenger seat, Riorden driving, and Smythe in the back,” Boldt said, advancing the tape to the place where Detective Andrew Smythe’s face showed clearly through the vehicle’s backseat window. “You want me to keep going?”

“We come and go at all hours. All of us do. Yourself included. This proves what?”

“Your car went down to level two . ..” he advanced the tape, “as can be clearly seen.”

“I don’t know where you’re going with this, Boldt, but this proves absolutely nothing. Zero.”

“I’m not going anywhere with this,” Boldt corrected. “It’s Bernie Lofgrin you should be worried about. The guy’s a wizard. You see this post right here?” Boldt pointed to the freeze frame of the car on the screen. “It’s been scratched a dozen times by cars clipping it too close. For Lofgrin, it’s going to be all about those scratches. They ended up like marks on a measuring stick running up the wall.”

Now Pendegrass looked concerned. Any cop knew well enough to fear the things the lab could do.

“Lofgrin will measure the height of the rear bumper against those scratches as you fellows arrived, and then he’ll compare that to the height of the same bumper upon your departure less than ten minutes later.” He stopped to win Pendegrass’s attention. “What you should have done . . .” Boldt advised the man, “. . . was take the assault rifles, but
leave
the military shipping cases. But that would have taken more time, right? That’s what I’m thinking: You were in a hurry. The guns don’t weigh much at all. But those military shipping cases add up. Lofgrin can measure the height of that bumper going in and coming out. He will prove that when you left that garage ten minutes later, you were carrying over two hundred extra pounds in the trunk. A dead body? I don’t think so. Given the missing videotape recorded on that same night, and at least one missing weapon, what do you think I.I. is going to make of your visit?”

“Circumstantial bullshit. You won’t get to square one with this.”

This was the sticking point of Boldt’s argument. The evidence on the tape
was
circumstantial—and
only
circumstantial—but Boldt needed Pendegrass to believe otherwise. “Might be,” Boldt agreed. “How do you think I.I. will look at it? About all they ever deal with is circumstantial evidence. People are going to get questioned about this. People working in the boneyard. You. The others. Deals will be offered to one of you. Chapman will be subpoenaed to turn over that other tape. The best laid plans. . . . A cop was shot at with one of those stolen weapons. This cop!” Boldt said defiantly. He walked over to the VCR and took the tape back. “You guys talk it over. My offer’s on the table for tonight and tonight only.”

Pendegrass stood there like a statue.

Boldt said, “Once Bernie Lofgrin gets this, it’s out of my hands.”

Pendegrass tried to sound convincing. “It don’t mean nothing.”

Boldt stopped at the front door. “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

B
oldt’s plan came down to the next few hours. If he was to turn circumstantial evidence into incriminating evidence, he believed it would happen before morning.

He lived twenty minutes from Pendegrass, and he spent much of the time with his eyes trained on his rearview mirror and his right hand gently touching the videotape in the seat beside him. He couldn’t be sure, but he believed the same car that had been following him all night—to Chapman’s, downtown, and to Pendegrass’s—was still back there: a narrow set of headlights with a blue cast to the light itself.

Riorden and Smythe lived the closest to him, and he assumed one of them would be awaiting his return home. Either there would be an offer to trade tapes, or violence. He doubted any call would be placed to his home with an offer—even Property cops knew better than to leave a paper trail.

As he pulled into his driveway, a Seattle mist filled the air, fog passing so low to the earth that it gently rinsed everything, everyone, in its path. He ran his wipers even though it wasn’t completely necessary: He didn’t want any surprises.

He turned off the car, that dreaded sense of foreboding enveloping him, as well as a deepening sadness that cops were involved. He loved the uniform. He loved the department and what it stood for. It was as simple as that.

He picked up the video and slid it beneath the seat as he and LaMoia had planned. Once outside the car, he used the remote to lock all doors at once. He slipped the bulky keys into his pocket, wondering what felt so wrong. After three or four thoughtful steps he realized what it was.

The silence.

The neighbor’s dog did not bark at him, did not scratch at the fence. If Pendegrass, Riorden and Smythe had been the three men who had assaulted him a week earlier—which he now believed—then they knew well enough about that dog. Its silence became all the more frightening.

Pendegrass had taken the bait.

“Hello?” Boldt called, lugging that walking cast along with him. His hand sought out his weapon. The back door to his house suddenly seemed extremely far away.

He reached the bottom of the back steps. It was dark up there on the porch. There wasn’t a light on in the kitchen or the back of the house, which was not the way Liz would have left it. Someone had shorted the circuit, blown a fuse. He didn’t want to go up there, but didn’t want to drag the cast around to the front door, even though there would be street light there, and neighbors who might see him or hear him if he called out.

He heard a car door thump shut
behind
him. One street away. Connected, or coincidence? he asked himself. Adrenaline filled him, for he’d been here before in nearly this exact situation. Only now there was no dog to come to his rescue. Now he carried this cast on his leg.

He glanced back toward the car, wondering if he could beat the arrival of whoever was coming through the woods toward him—whoever had parked a street away and was now breaking twigs and brushing past bushes to reach him. With a good leg he might have made it. But as it was, he simply stopped and listened.

He had believed that Pendegrass would demand an exchange of tapes. He’d made contingency plans, but he didn’t want to exercise them.

The sounds from the woods stopped. Whoever was there was quite close now. Boldt switched the weapon to his left hand, grabbed the wooden rail with his right, and started the climb up the back porch stairs, one clumsy step at a time. He slipped, let go the rail and fished his keys out of his pocket. Only a few feet more to reach the back door. He wanted to get the key in the lock and the door open as quickly as possible.

This was how Sanchez felt,
he decided. Someone had cut the lights, the walk from the garage to the house impossibly far.