Middle Of Nowhere

   "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.

C H A P T E R

18

The 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."