Middle of Nowhere by Ridley Pearson Page A

so many differences between the two crimes.
    “No idea. Front and back doors were locked tight when we arrived.” She touched her breast pocket. “Made note of that specifically.”
    “Locked,” he confirmed.
    “Correct.”
    Boldt opened the front door and inspected the mechanism. “No night latch,” he said. “Keyed dead bolt and keyed knob.”
    “If I may, sir?” the young woman officer inquired.
    “Go ahead.”
    “Upon being admitted through the back, my partner and me found this particular door’s dead bolt in place. That is, a keyed dead bolt as you’ve pointed out. Subsequent inspection of the back door—the door through which we had entered the premises—indicated the same basic arrangement. The victim, Ms. Kawamoto, could not recall if she had thrown that particular dead bolt or not. So my assumption was he both entered and departed the premises via that back door.” She took a breath and dared to submit speculation. “I’m thinking that subsequent to the offender’s departure our vic locked the door—whether or not she’s currently aware of that fact.”
    “It’s a kitchen door?”
    “No, sir, the kitchen door accesses the garage. This would be off the living area, sir.”
    So the doer watched the house, Boldt thought. Knew which door to hit—a back door typically left unlocked. And it had to be from a vantage point that provided a view of that back door. “I’ll keep your partner assigned to the front door,” Boldt said loudly enough for the other officer to hear him too. “You will canvass the neighbors with an eye toward anything. The offender, his vehicle, anyone seen parked around here in the last couple days.”
    “Yes, sir.” The recruit seemed thrilled. Boldt had little choice: he didn’t have much of a pool from which to draw.
    She left through the front door, passing Gaynes, who was on her way in. As the Boy Scout opened his mouth to speak, Boldt lifted a finger and said, “Not now, okay, unless it’s a top priority. I need quiet. Your job is to keep everyone and anyone out until either Detective Gaynes or I give you the nod. Okay? First one through that door is to be SID, but only on our say-so. No matter what, you remain outside along with everyone else.” Reading the nameplate pinned to the uniform, he said, “You okay with that, Helman?”
    The kid had the wherewithal to nod sharply rather than open his mouth again.
    “Good,” Boldt said.
    Gaynes said, “I’ll take the basement and the ground floor, L.T. You’ll take upstairs.” Ordering around her lieutenant was an uncomfortable act at best. “If that’s good with you?”
    “Fine.”
    “The assault happened up there on the stairs. She came to rest on the landing.”
    “I’ll tread lightly,” Boldt offered.

    Despite the dozen cases back on his desk, and the dozen more that would be assigned in the coming days, the Sanchez assault and the Kawamoto break-in were what interested him. Any investigator liked a clean case that cleared quickly. But Boldt had worked dozens, perhaps hundreds of such cases; he lived now for the challenge—not the black holes that would never be solved, but the cases that both meant something and offered contradictions. Sanchez and Kawamoto appeared vaguely related—burglaries gone bad, women assaulted. They presented an urgency, both for the sake of the public, and the media.
    There was no apology to be made, no words that would return Cathy Kawamoto’s sense of safety. She would never fully trust this city again, would never feel safe, even behind the locked doors of her own home. This weighed heavily upon him. Boldt felt that as a peace officer, his role was to preserve a sense of safety, and yet Cathy Kawamoto would have none now, he knew.
    Boldt felt the case closing in on him—it just wasn’t coming together. He carefully climbed the stairs, on the one hand wanting a few minutes alone to immerse himself in the crime scene, on the other wanting the differences sorted out