Read Online Middle of Nowhere by Ridley Pearson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ridley Pearson
Ads: Link
absenteeism,” Shoswitz reminded him. “Another wonderful decision from our new chief.”
“Krishevski will start a war, he keeps this up. Blue against Blue. What’s that about? That has no place on this job!”
“No one wants that.”
“Tell that to Liz. Or Sanchez. She’s got her head screwed down so she can’t move, Phil. She’s a pair of eyeballs at the moment. Have you been to visit her? Has anyone? Where the hell is everyone? What if it was me or you who’d taken that fall? What does it take to get people back on the job?”
“Promises,” Shoswitz said. “That’s where Mac Krishevski comes in. He’s playing both sides of the fence, Lou. He has to.”
“Yeah? Well he should keep the bricks on his side of the fence.”
A hard silence settled between them along with the looks of betrayal from both men.
“These files,” Shoswitz cautioned. “Tread lightly. No one on this squad is going to want to hear that you’re nosing around in their files. It doesn’t look right, a Homicide Lieu stepping in and taking over a CAProp case.”
“I can’t be worried about that.”
“You need to be.”
“No, I don’t. What I need is those files. You have the authority to round them up for me.” Boldt pressed, “I need you to do that. I need to see if the Sanchez assault fits into any kind of pattern your boys may have on the books.”
“Why do you think we file in triplicate?” Shoswitz asked.
The Public Safety Building housed administration for all of SPD. Boldt understood the message. “They’re here? Copies of all those reports are already here, regardless of precinct?”
Shoswitz said, “Where else?”
“You’ll request them for me?”
“They’ll be on your desk in an hour,” Shoswitz said. “But this conversation never took place. You thought of this on your own. You pulled a favor from someone in the boneyard. You play this however you want, but my name doesn’t come up.”
“Priorities,” Boldt said. “How long do you support a guy like Krishevski?”
“To each their own,” added Phil Shoswitz.
“Yeah, sure,” Boldt said in disgust. “Who are your own, Phil? These guys who walked off their beats? Or Sanchez over there in the hospital doing staring contests with the ceiling tiles?”
“Be careful, Lou. You say that kind of thing in the wrong company and you won’t be making any friends.”
“Are you the wrong company, Phil?”
“Get out of here before I change my mind about those files.”
“I’m gone,” Boldt said. He didn’t add that he’d gotten what he came for, though he felt tempted to do so. He wanted the last word, but didn’t take it. He left Shoswitz with the illusion of control. He accepted the promise of the files, savoring an undeclared victory.
The last three weeks of reported burglaries arrived on Boldt’s desk ninety minutes later, most of them nothing more than the requisite property loss report—one hundred and fourteen in all. Boldt switched on his desk lamp, a cup of Earl Grey at the ready. If there had been a night shift it would have been just arriving, but the Flu had killed such shifts. Civilians still manned their desks, but with the detectives out “sick,” the place was a graveyard. He rubbed his eyes, cleaned his reading glasses with a long, slow breath and a piece of tissue, and examined the reports.
Each report detailed a burglary represented by a numbered code. This was followed by name, address, time of day. First officer. Investigating detective, if any. List of stolen goods. A concise summary of events: returned home, broken window, missing stereo; awoke to a noise, entered the living room, suspect seen fleeing. Eyenumbing repetition. Uniformed patrol officers going through the routine of making the ripped-off public think someone cared. No one did but the insurance companies. They wanted a report filed and signed off on. Boldt studied those reports, fighting off drowsiness.
He looked first to the list of stolen
“Krishevski will start a war, he keeps this up. Blue against Blue. What’s that about? That has no place on this job!”
“No one wants that.”
“Tell that to Liz. Or Sanchez. She’s got her head screwed down so she can’t move, Phil. She’s a pair of eyeballs at the moment. Have you been to visit her? Has anyone? Where the hell is everyone? What if it was me or you who’d taken that fall? What does it take to get people back on the job?”
“Promises,” Shoswitz said. “That’s where Mac Krishevski comes in. He’s playing both sides of the fence, Lou. He has to.”
“Yeah? Well he should keep the bricks on his side of the fence.”
A hard silence settled between them along with the looks of betrayal from both men.
“These files,” Shoswitz cautioned. “Tread lightly. No one on this squad is going to want to hear that you’re nosing around in their files. It doesn’t look right, a Homicide Lieu stepping in and taking over a CAProp case.”
“I can’t be worried about that.”
“You need to be.”
“No, I don’t. What I need is those files. You have the authority to round them up for me.” Boldt pressed, “I need you to do that. I need to see if the Sanchez assault fits into any kind of pattern your boys may have on the books.”
“Why do you think we file in triplicate?” Shoswitz asked.
The Public Safety Building housed administration for all of SPD. Boldt understood the message. “They’re here? Copies of all those reports are already here, regardless of precinct?”
Shoswitz said, “Where else?”
“You’ll request them for me?”
“They’ll be on your desk in an hour,” Shoswitz said. “But this conversation never took place. You thought of this on your own. You pulled a favor from someone in the boneyard. You play this however you want, but my name doesn’t come up.”
“Priorities,” Boldt said. “How long do you support a guy like Krishevski?”
“To each their own,” added Phil Shoswitz.
“Yeah, sure,” Boldt said in disgust. “Who are your own, Phil? These guys who walked off their beats? Or Sanchez over there in the hospital doing staring contests with the ceiling tiles?”
“Be careful, Lou. You say that kind of thing in the wrong company and you won’t be making any friends.”
“Are you the wrong company, Phil?”
“Get out of here before I change my mind about those files.”
“I’m gone,” Boldt said. He didn’t add that he’d gotten what he came for, though he felt tempted to do so. He wanted the last word, but didn’t take it. He left Shoswitz with the illusion of control. He accepted the promise of the files, savoring an undeclared victory.
The last three weeks of reported burglaries arrived on Boldt’s desk ninety minutes later, most of them nothing more than the requisite property loss report—one hundred and fourteen in all. Boldt switched on his desk lamp, a cup of Earl Grey at the ready. If there had been a night shift it would have been just arriving, but the Flu had killed such shifts. Civilians still manned their desks, but with the detectives out “sick,” the place was a graveyard. He rubbed his eyes, cleaned his reading glasses with a long, slow breath and a piece of tissue, and examined the reports.
Each report detailed a burglary represented by a numbered code. This was followed by name, address, time of day. First officer. Investigating detective, if any. List of stolen goods. A concise summary of events: returned home, broken window, missing stereo; awoke to a noise, entered the living room, suspect seen fleeing. Eyenumbing repetition. Uniformed patrol officers going through the routine of making the ripped-off public think someone cared. No one did but the insurance companies. They wanted a report filed and signed off on. Boldt studied those reports, fighting off drowsiness.
He looked first to the list of stolen
Similar Books
