Middle of Nowhere (16 page)

“A shitload of money,” Boldt agreed, “and maybe I get the current charges reduced.”

“I’ve known the man a long time,” Bear said. “It doesn’t mean I know his current status with the PA. And I don’t want to.”

“There’s a woman officer in bad shape,” Boldt explained. “Maybe Frankie can help with that.”

“I read the newspapers, you know?”

“So
Hooked on Phonics
actually works.”

“You’re going to bite the hand that feeds you?” Bear added, “You want a name. Is that all? Maybe I can get you the name myself.”

Boldt usually tended not to see the degree of Bear’s intoxication. After years of friendship, he took him as he was. But now he saw that he was a little more stoned than usual, and decided to connect the dots for him. “I’m interested in garage door openers.”

Berenson spit out some beer as he laughed.

“I’ve got to do this in person, Bear.” He offered, “I’ll give you a Happy Hour for free.”

Bear straightened up, took another pull off the beer, and said, “No need to be rude. Since when do you and I buy favors off each other?”

Boldt suggested, “Two hundred bucks and reduced charges. Run it by him, would you?”

“Garage doors.” A faint grin. Bear read the back of the beer bottle for useful information. He picked at the label. Boldt waited him out, knowing that stoned head of his was debating saying something or not. “You be careful with Frankie,” he said. “He’ll have a blanket ‘cross his lap. Never know what’s under that blanket ‘til it’s too late.”

“Got it,” Boldt said. The expression reminded him of Bobbie Gaynes; she used it so often, she owned it. The only detective on his squad not to walk. He appreciated the loyalty in ways he would never be able to express. Berenson brought him back to the room with one long draw on the beer bottle and a thundering burp that apparently satisfied him.

“You want me to try to set it up now or later? Your call.”

“Sooner the better. Mind if I drift downstairs and play a couple numbers while you make the call?” Boldt asked. “It’s been a while.”

“Have I ever minded?”

“You know where to find me.”

“Yes, I do,” Bear said. “At my piano, in my club, waiting for my phone call to my contact.” He added, “You don’t have a fence that needs whitewashing, do you?”

Frankie Maglioni filled the electric wheelchair from the waist up. A blanket covered his waist and withered legs, sucked dry from atrophy. Nine years earlier he had jumped from the third floor balcony of a Spanish-influenced estate as the security firm had breached the bedroom door. He’d landed on a steel air- conditioning unit, the impact snapping his spine like a twig and ending a successful career in cat burglary. Though never confirmed, he was believed to be the Dinner Bandit, a name gained for striking the wealthy elderly as they dined in their own house, a floor or two below. He was only convicted of the one crime, his sentence reduced because of the injury, but insurance claims accounted for seven hundred thousand dollars in missing jewelry over a three-year period, all of it attributed to the Dinner Bandit. He was now believed to be a fence.

He lived in a single-floor loft apartment that occupied the entire third floor of a former paste jewelry factory and was accessed by a freight elevator. Boldt slid open the elevator’s wooden slats and introduced himself.

“We ain’t never officially met,” the man said.

“No,” said Boldt.

“I guess because you’re Homicide I’m told.”

“Most of the time.”

“But right now, no. You’re standing in for Jorgenson and them.”

“I’ve got a Burglary case, yes,” Boldt informed him.

“And in case Bear didn’t make it clear, I’m not after you. He broke a woman’s neck, Frankie.”

“Yeah, Bear said so. I kinda got me a weakness in terms of that kind of thing. Someone does that to someone else—does
this,”
he said, indicating his legs, “a person like me—in my particular situation—kind of thinks twice about letting that slide. You know?”

“I can imagine that’s right.”

“Which is on account of why you’re standing here. Plenty of businessmen such as myself you could have talked to.”

“I needed the best.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I need to know about garage door openers.”

Frankie Maglioni shot Boldt a look of surprise, respect and reluctance. “In regards to?”

“It’s his way inside, I think.” Boldt added, “It’s a new one on us. I need a little education.”

Maglioni backed up the chair behind an electronic hum and the whine of tight gears. The chair turned and wheeled forward to a low table. “No, thanks.”

“And if I can get your probation tossed?”

“That’s a PA I’d be hearing from.”

“And maybe you will.”

“And maybe you and I have a chat right about that time. Know what I’m saying?”

“We can chat right now.”

“A cop can’t get probation tossed,” Frankie said.

“This cop can,” Boldt fired back. “I’ll get the probation tossed
and
the arrest taken off your sheet.” Boldt waited for that to sink in. “You want me to make the call?”

“To some dick on your floor who knows the game and makes like a PA? Don’t think so.”

“So you make the call,” Boldt suggested. “An APA, name of Williamson.”

“Maybe I will.”

“You go ahead,” Boldt said. “I know the number.” He recited it.

“Don’t want no number from you.” Maglioni’s distrustful eyes reviewed Boldt from his tie to hairline and back down again. He wheeled back to a drawer and a phone book. “Only reason I’m doing this is because that jail ain’t no place for a man in a chair.”

“The only reason you’re doing this, Frankie, is that with probation lifted you can plea your next arrest. Otherwise it’s hard time. This gets you back to work.”

“You see? Every po-lees-man assumes the rest of us got nothing better to do than to break the law!”

“It’s under government—the listing,” Boldt instructed.

Maglioni reversed the pages and ran a stubby finger down the page. A moment later, after a brief discussion with Williamson, he motored back over to the table. “So you think ahead,” he said. “So what?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You making fun of me?”

“Not at all.” Boldt said, “Garage doors.”

“Pretty damn simple, Mr. Smart. You bat a car window, lift the registration and the clicker. If you hurry, you’re home before daddy. Registration gives you the address, clicker gets you inside.”

“And if we’re not talking about busting out a car window?”

The man nodded faintly at Boldt. “Yeah, okay. Different deal, you understand. Not that I done it myself.”

“Heavens, no.”

“Them guys clone cell phones? You know, they got this little box lifts the valid codes?”

“I know about cloned phones,” Boldt answered. “I’m interested in garage door openers.”

“A white boy was asking around on who could build him a custom scanner—not for no cell phones, you understand.”

“When?”

“A couple months back.”

“Who?”

“Them clickers work off radio crystals. You got yourself the right kind of machinery, and you’re laying by close enough to pick it up, you can lift that frequency.”

The thrill of discovery keeps any detective in the game. But outwardly, Boldt sat deadpan, as if dissatisfied with Frankie’s explanation. He said, “I know about cloning clickers. What I need is the guy who built the scanner for this white boy you’re telling me about.”

“That wasn’t our deal,” Frankie complained, his nostrils flaring again.

“Our deal was: you make me happy, your probation goes away.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I need a name.”

“I don’t have no name!” he complained. “You think this is the Radio Shack or something?”

Boldt repeated, “I need the name of the guy who can build these things, or the name of the guy who bought one.” He added, “You get me either name— and it proves good—and your probation goes away. If I get the buyer your arrest record disappears.”

Frankie negotiated, “The probation goes away now, as agreed. I locate this technician, the arrest is erased.”

Smiling, Boldt removed a business card from his pocket and placed it on the table. “My rules, Frankie, not yours. And it’s got to be within the next twenty-four hours, or I forget I ever saw you.”

Boldt walked toward the freight elevator, his back to the man in the wheelchair.

He pulled the elevator gate shut behind himself and pushed the button.

T
he voice on the other end of Boldt’s cellular sounded artificial or forced—disguised in some way—and as a result immediately troubled him. “You shouldn’t miss this call. It’s important to you.” The line went dead.

He looked up to meet eyes, first with Liz and then with Kristin Jamerson, both of whom sat across the dinner table, awaiting his response to the call. This, their first dinner without kids, the adults forestalling their own meal until after eight when the last of them, Natalie, the Jamerson’s eldest, went to sleep. The cell phone call was clearly an intrusion.

No one said anything, but John Jamerson stopped chewing and also glanced over at Boldt. Liz and the kids had been guests at their home for over a week now—a six-bedroom home overlooking Lake Washington; a Gary Nisbet collage centered on the largest wall; a Deborah Butterfield horse in the living room. Nice digs.

Liz had cooked a lamb dinner as a thank-you for the two-bedroom guest cottage above the pool house. With Boldt’s mugging, it looked like they would be here a bit longer.

The meal was less than ten minutes old. He still held the cell phone. It remained the focus of everyone’s attention.

Boldt addressed his audience, “If I told you it was a mysterious call that implied I was missing something of great importance?”

Liz’s fork went back to work on her plate. “Intriguing,” she said. “Worth a follow-up.”

Kristin’s eyes implored Boldt to forget the call. But how could he dismiss it so easily? To what “call” had the mysterious message referred? he wondered. A phone call? A radio call indicating a crime-scene investigation? This latter thought held the most weight. Should he have to beg forgiveness to do his job correctly?

What
kind
of investigation? he wondered. Who had called with the warning? A person who knew or had access to his cell number. A person who knew his innate curiosity.

Liz suggested he take care of it. “Follow up on the call, Love. Why do you think the microwave was invented?”

He felt he owed it to Kristin to finish dinner. But what did he owe Sanchez? What about the importance of a fresh crime scene? “I’ll just quickly call downtown and find out what’s up.”

“Lamb’s good cold,” Liz said, without resentment. Her “healing,” her “new faith,” seemed to carry her through these situations.

Husband to wife: “If I possibly can, I’ll stay.”

“We know that,” Liz answered. “Do what you have to.”

There had been a time in their marriage when such a situation would have condemned them to impossibly long hours of cold stares and failed communication— sometimes a day or more of it. He credited Liz with the turnaround, not himself. Her struggle with her health had been turned into something positive. He knew in his heart of hearts, had known forever, that music was a gift from God. Knew this unquestionably. It was only since the birth of his children and his wife’s medically unexplained recovery from cancer that he saw himself on a slow road to the discovery that all of life was, equally, a God-given gift, and that it might do to credit the source from time to time.

She said, “I’ll keep a plate warm for you,” knowing he was going to leave if he made that call.

“Don’t lock your bedroom door,” he said.

With that, Liz blushed and smiled, and for Lou Boldt the whole room grew brighter.