Read Online Middle of Nowhere by Ridley Pearson - Free Book Online
Authors: Ridley Pearson
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Junior. A hardball scrawled upon by the entire Mariners team. A photo of himself taken outside Safeco Field on opening day, his ticket proudly displayed. He rubbed his throwing elbow—a nervous tic that indicated both deep thought and irritation. “I detest what happened to Liz. You know I’m with you on that—everyone’s with you.”
“Are they?” Boldt had come up through the ranks with Phil Shoswitz, had spent nearly a dozen years serving under the man in Homicide, over eight of those years as sergeant to Shoswitz’s lieutenant. Now that Shoswitz carried a captain’s badge in Crimes Against Property, and Boldt a lieutenant’s shield in Crimes Against Persons—CAProp and CAPers respectively— Boldt suspected the man had a touch of envy despite the higher rank. Homicide remained the golden egg, the most prestigious posting on the department. Shoswitz had sacrificed that posting for his captain’s badge promotion and higher pay.
“Maybe not everyone,” Shoswitz admitted, “but you’ve only yourself to blame for that. You mouthed off to the press about the absenteeism; you pointed fingers at people.”
It was true. Boldt had been interviewed by a reporter, and the story had hit the national wires, painting a pretty ugly picture of the detectives who had joined the sickout in sympathy. If Shoswitz was telling him that the blue brick had been thrown through his window in response to that interview, then for Liz’s sake, his family’s sake, Boldt regretted giving that interview, even if what he said had to be said, which was how he felt about it. The politicians, in an effort to keep negotiations open, failed to express any feelings—rage, disappointment, anger—over the events of the past week, and Boldt felt such attitudes did more damage than good, for they subtly condoned the walkout while taking a “hard-line stance” against it. He loved police work and was proud of the department; the Flu had damaged its reputation, perhaps forever.
“I need access to your files, Phil,” Boldt repeated. He took Shoswitz’s concern for Liz as lip service. After nearly two decades of friendship, he saw his former lieutenant in a whole new light. If the man cared, he’d have already been on the telephone to his buddy Mac Krishevski, and would have demanded the names of those responsible for that brick. But he was mad at Boldt for talking to the press, mad at Boldt for continuing to carry the caseload dumped on him. Mad at life. Anger had consumed him, and if he didn’t watch out it would consume Boldt as well.
Boldt asked, “What’s so complicated about your helping me get those files?”
Shoswitz’s eyes flashed darkly and his nostrils flared. He stopped his pacing and stared at his former sergeant in an all-too-familiar angry glare. “Without the investigating officer or officers present, it would hardly be appropriate—”
“They’re out sick,” Boldt pointed out.
“My point, exactly!”
“Their decision, not mine. Not yours! What are you suggesting, we delay all active investigations? We delay an investigation into the assault of a fellow officer in order to appease the Blue Fluers?”
“Don’t use that term in this office.”
“It’s a sickout, Phil. What’s the—”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Shoswitz complained, interrupting.
“Not to me it isn’t,” Boldt argued. “I need someone to stand up for what happened to Liz and I need a look at your files. Explain how any of that’s complicated.”
Shoswitz glared and returned to his aimless pacing, reminding Boldt of a pit bull in a cage.
He pushed away his personal concerns over Liz and the blue brick—Shoswitz wasn’t going to help him there—and tried to stay focused on gaining access to the paperwork he deemed crucial to the Sanchez investigation. A burglary was handled by the uniform who responded to the call. Typically, he or she conducted a short interview, inspected the scene, and filled out a report,
“Are they?” Boldt had come up through the ranks with Phil Shoswitz, had spent nearly a dozen years serving under the man in Homicide, over eight of those years as sergeant to Shoswitz’s lieutenant. Now that Shoswitz carried a captain’s badge in Crimes Against Property, and Boldt a lieutenant’s shield in Crimes Against Persons—CAProp and CAPers respectively— Boldt suspected the man had a touch of envy despite the higher rank. Homicide remained the golden egg, the most prestigious posting on the department. Shoswitz had sacrificed that posting for his captain’s badge promotion and higher pay.
“Maybe not everyone,” Shoswitz admitted, “but you’ve only yourself to blame for that. You mouthed off to the press about the absenteeism; you pointed fingers at people.”
It was true. Boldt had been interviewed by a reporter, and the story had hit the national wires, painting a pretty ugly picture of the detectives who had joined the sickout in sympathy. If Shoswitz was telling him that the blue brick had been thrown through his window in response to that interview, then for Liz’s sake, his family’s sake, Boldt regretted giving that interview, even if what he said had to be said, which was how he felt about it. The politicians, in an effort to keep negotiations open, failed to express any feelings—rage, disappointment, anger—over the events of the past week, and Boldt felt such attitudes did more damage than good, for they subtly condoned the walkout while taking a “hard-line stance” against it. He loved police work and was proud of the department; the Flu had damaged its reputation, perhaps forever.
“I need access to your files, Phil,” Boldt repeated. He took Shoswitz’s concern for Liz as lip service. After nearly two decades of friendship, he saw his former lieutenant in a whole new light. If the man cared, he’d have already been on the telephone to his buddy Mac Krishevski, and would have demanded the names of those responsible for that brick. But he was mad at Boldt for talking to the press, mad at Boldt for continuing to carry the caseload dumped on him. Mad at life. Anger had consumed him, and if he didn’t watch out it would consume Boldt as well.
Boldt asked, “What’s so complicated about your helping me get those files?”
Shoswitz’s eyes flashed darkly and his nostrils flared. He stopped his pacing and stared at his former sergeant in an all-too-familiar angry glare. “Without the investigating officer or officers present, it would hardly be appropriate—”
“They’re out sick,” Boldt pointed out.
“My point, exactly!”
“Their decision, not mine. Not yours! What are you suggesting, we delay all active investigations? We delay an investigation into the assault of a fellow officer in order to appease the Blue Fluers?”
“Don’t use that term in this office.”
“It’s a sickout, Phil. What’s the—”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Shoswitz complained, interrupting.
“Not to me it isn’t,” Boldt argued. “I need someone to stand up for what happened to Liz and I need a look at your files. Explain how any of that’s complicated.”
Shoswitz glared and returned to his aimless pacing, reminding Boldt of a pit bull in a cage.
He pushed away his personal concerns over Liz and the blue brick—Shoswitz wasn’t going to help him there—and tried to stay focused on gaining access to the paperwork he deemed crucial to the Sanchez investigation. A burglary was handled by the uniform who responded to the call. Typically, he or she conducted a short interview, inspected the scene, and filled out a report,
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