Middle of Nowhere Read Free Page A

L.T.” Unlike Detective John LaMoia who out of habit addressed Boldt by his former rank of sergeant, Gaynes at least paid Boldt the respect of his current promotion, though called him not by name, but by his rank’s initials. “Maybe in one out of ten, the clothes are still in one piece. Usually torn to shit. No fluids? Listen, if the stains aren’t in the middle of the bed where you expect them, then you find them on the pillow or the bedspread or the vic’s underwear. But a clean scene? You ask me, this is date rape. Look at those clothes! Not a button missing! Spread out in a line, for Christ’s sake.”
    Boldt studied a large dust ring on the dresser. A television had been removed. A small, gray electronics device bearing a set of wireless headphones lay in a heap to the side of the same dresser. He picked the headphones up in his gloved hands.
    Gaynes said, “You use ‘em so the spouse can sleep while you watch the tube.”
    “She was single,” Boldt reminded.
    “A visitor maybe,” Gaynes said. “Date rape,” she repeated with more certainty. “Guy ties her up and gets too aggressive. Accidentally snaps her spine and takes off.”
    “The television?” he asked his former protégé.
    “Stole it to cover up it was him. Make it look like someone broke in. The papers have been filled with stories about all the break-ins since the Flu hit.”
    Studying the headphones, Boldt said, “Maybe she just appreciated music or maybe she subscribed to the cable music channels.” He pointed to the stack of recent best sellers on Sanchez’s bedside end table.
    Boldt walked around the bed with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He and Gaynes traded places. Police ballet. Since the advent of the Flu, reports of robberies and burglaries were up exponentially. “We’ll want to check our sheets,” he suggested. “See if this fits any patterns.”
    “Got it,” she replied. She lifted the top book off the end table, an Amy Tan novel. “Bookmarked with a receipt dated two days ago. And she’s . . . a hundred and seventy pages into it—”
    “And we’re in the midst of a Flu,” Boldt pointed out. “Not like she has a lot of fun time.”
    “Maybe six, seven hours a night at home, max.”
    “So she didn’t watch much television,” Boldt concluded.
    “Which means you’re probably right about the cable music. A hundred and seventy pages in two nights? You think she’s been entertaining a lover?” she asked rhetorically. “Sounds more like insomnia.”
    “Ask around the house about current boyfriends.”
    “I’m telling you, a rapist wouldn’t undress her like this, L.T. He tears her clothes off. It’s rage, not courtship. And if he goes to the trouble to tie her up, he rapes her hard or fires juice all over the place. We’re not seeing real good evidence here.” She hollered to the SID tech, “What’s that bathroom like?”
    “It’s light,” the tech fired back. “My guess? The guy wasn’t in here at all.”
    Boldt migrated over to check the windows—all locked—so he didn’t have to look at the bed while Gaynes talked so calmly about raping and beating and masturbating. Sex Crimes—Special Assaults—conditioned a detective in ways even a homicide investigator had a difficult time understanding. He looked out the window to where light from the house played on the small patch of backyard and the separate garage.
    “Her underwear’s clean,” Gaynes reported. “So’s the bra. This looks like someone she knew. And using shoe laces to tie her? A necktie maybe. A belt. Something handy and fast. What’s the guy do: ask her to lie still while he unlaces her Hush Puppies and ties her wrists?”
    “Maybe her neck was already broken,” Boldt suggested. “Maybe she wasn’t going anywhere.”
    “Then why tie her up at all?” Gaynes asked, confusing the issue.
    An uneasy silence settled between them. Not a black hole, he pleaded.
    Gaynes continued cautiously, “And that’s another