Middle of Nowhere by Ridley Pearson

another inconsistency. He wanted evidence: a shoe print to compare to the one lifted off Sanchez’s coat; a knot to compare to the shoelaces found bound to her wrists. Something. Anything.
    “No, sir. The suspect apparently fled immediately following the assault.”
    “Good work,” Boldt offered. He felt distracted by his concern for Liz and the kids, suddenly wondering if they were safe at the Jamersons, where they were staying temporarily until Liz and he could figure out how much danger they were actually in. What if the Blue Fluers meant for the families to suffer? he wondered.
    “How’s your wife, sir?” the recruit inquired in a moment of uncanny timing. “If you don’t mind my asking?” This one was looking for immediate promotion. To answer truthfully, his wife was upset, angry, though not necessarily at him. The relocation to the friend’s home on Mercer Island was a temporary fix at best. To keep trouble from following them, Boldt would sleep at the family house, only visiting the Jamerson home for the occasional meal. A workable but undesirable arrangement that obviously challenged a husband and wife who relished being together, who needed each other. In truth, he was deeply worried about his family, worried to the point that he hadn’t eaten in at least ten hours. The blue brick had shattered more than the window—it shattered certain limits too. With it, Boldt’s work had come home in a way he’d vowed would never happen again. Previously, they had endured threats of arson, the kidnapping of their daughter: Each time the family had rebounded, though not without scars. The brick had reopened those wounds. He saw no immediate fix. He and Liz would talk. There wouldn’t be any simple, fast answers, but they would find them. Liz’s blood was on the living-room rug. No matter how small the stain, the damage was immense and permanent.
    He counted on Krishevski to identify those responsible—not just a scapegoat. But he wasn’t holding his breath.
    “She’s better,” Boldt finally answered. His private life was nobody’s business. “Did Ms. Kawamoto get a decent look at him?”
    “No, sir. The offender was apparently moving pretty fast. Shoved her down the stairs and took off. That’s about it for the blow-by-blow.”
    “Breaks and bruises for the most part,” he repeated, attempting to reassure himself. He stopped so that he could ask this before they entered the home, before he might be overheard by anyone. “SID?” he asked.
    “Has been notified. Yes.”
    “How many have been inside?” Boldt inquired.
    “Me and my partner,” she said, pointing through the open door to another recruit who stood at the bottom of the interior stairs. The uniformed officer reminded Boldt of a Boy Scout. What was a roll-call sergeant doing teaming two freshies in the same radio car? Was the department that hard up? He’d heard that another twenty to thirty uniforms—patrol officers—had failed to show up for work this morning. But this pairing of two freshies indicated the situation was far worse than he imagined. “The two EMTs,” she continued. “Other than that, we’ve got a good scene.”
    “Well done, Officer,” Boldt said, wondering if he might have been the first to address her in this manner, for her face lit up.
    “Thank you, sir!”
    He felt like a den mother. “The victim was fully conscious after the fall?”
    “Not as far as I know, sir. I think maybe she passed out briefly.”
    “She saw him leave? Heard him leave?”
    “Not to my knowledge. I believe she only heard him upstairs and went to take a look. A sister lives with her part time. He surprises her and shoves her down the stairs. I think the situation got the better of her. Maybe she fainted—passed out for a minute or two. It scared her pretty bad.”
    “He left the premises how?” Boldt asked, still thinking about the timing of the crime. Daylight. A day after Sanchez. No shoelaces around the wrists. He didn’t want