No Witnesses

“Hey,” Boldt said, trying to sound casual.

The room’s mood was grim. In place of a real window, there was an electronic contraption mounted to the wall that emitted light and offered an incredibly lifelike pastoral view of the Canadian Rockies.

“So I can’t jump out,” Striker informed him from his bed. “They pay ten grand for those things. Supposed to help improve your state of mind.” He grinned thinly at this. “Supposedly, the thing even does sunrise and sunset.” He wore a blue-and-white hospital gown that used Velcro instead of ties, to eliminate the chance of hanging oneself. Striker had sad, lifeless eyes. He had hollow, drawn cheeks and bulging eyes that indeed made him look a little crazy.

“They’ve got so much shit in me,” he said, “that I’m basically a walking pharmacy. Check that,” he corrected. “I’m not doing much walking.” He tugged at his strapped-down arms.

Daphne spoke with him for the better part of twenty minutes, through which she remained incredibly calm and Striker slowly began to make some sense.

“Listen,” he said, in what sounded to Boldt like the man’s familiar intolerant attorney voice, “I was out of my gourd to do what I did. And that includes diving for the grille of that truck. But it’s over now, and I feel great. Valium is a wonderful thing.”

“Can you tell us about it?” Daphne asked.

“What’s to tell? The guy was fucking my wife; so I fucked him.” His cheek twitched and he asked Boldt to scratch his neck for him.

Boldt said, “You found him with Elaine. Is that it, Mikey?”

“You warned me, Lou. I know that. I thought about that right after I did it, too.”

“But you followed her anyway.”

“Sort of. Right.”

“Is there something you want to tell us?” Daphne asked. Boldt felt the avoidance in the man, too, and it impressed him that Daphne seized upon it so quickly.

“Jergenson was the house dick. Remember Jergenson, Lou? I offered him a fifty, and he said how it was on the house because catching people fucking was part of his job, and he remembered me. People don’t forget this,” he said, indicating his prosthesis. “The one shrink I’ve seen make a big deal about my mitt. Talked a lot about manhood and what I tried to do to Danielson. No offense, Matthews, but the guy is full of shit.”

“I’m not a shrink,” she said.

Boldt was not sure if Striker even heard that. He did seem pretty stoned.

“It had a lot less to do with my mitt than it did with my dick and my heart. She tore my heart out is what she did. Especially at the end there: She wasn’t trying to hide it at all. Just wave it in my face and head out the door all dolled up. Came home smelling like love. Jesus.”

“So Jergenson let you in.”

“Right.”

“How did you know which room, Mikey?”

He looked over at the Canadian Rockies, and when he did, Daphne shot Boldt a quick look of apprehension.

“And he was … And you should have seen her … He had her on another planet. He had her so far gone that I’m not sure she even recognized me. Know what I mean?”

Boldt could sense it, and he thought Daphne could as well-that was what that look had been about, though he felt at a loss as to how to get at it. This was her territory; he felt more like a spectator, and yet Striker seemed more comfortable talking to him. He did not look at Daphne at all.

“Did this man Jergenson know your wife?” she asked.

“Nah. He was a beat cop once upon a time. Spent his last years as a court guard. That’s how I knew him. I’m surprised you don’t remember him.”

Daphne inquired, “So it wasn’t he who told you where to find your wife.”

Boldt asked, “Did you follow her? Was that it?”

“It’s not what’s important,” replied the attorney authoritatively. “They were in the act. Boy, were they. And I caught the bastard, and I blew him away. What little shooting I’ve done in my life was done right-handed. If I hadn’t had this,” he said, indicating his prosthesis, “I’da hit the target.”

They remained silent.

“Not easy to shoot left-handed is it, Lou? You ever done it?”

“I’m still a little confused about something, Razor,” Boldt said. “When we talked out in front of my house, you said that you weren’t comfortable following her. You asked me to do it for you. So did you change your mind, is that it?”

“You’re missing the point,” Striker repeated, avoiding an answer, attempting to use his attorney skills that were considerably dulled by the drugs coursing through him. “I had to have proof. Can you understand that? I’d been through her dirty laundry-and I don’t mean that figuratively; I had asked questions and had studied her carefully for her reactions-it’s my job to spot the guilty. I knew I was getting lies, and there were times she would come home and completely avoid touching me until she’d had a bath or a shower, and when you see enough of that, you no longer wonder what’s going on. But I had to know. That’s just part of who I am. I’ve got to know.”

“Is there something you would like to share with us about how you identified the particular hotel?” she asked.

Boldt felt warm, and the room was not warm. Not unless that fake window was responsible. He felt anxious, because Striker was incredibly nervous, and the sergeant knew that if the claw had not been tied shut, it would have been chirping away.

“I’ve fucked things up for you,” Striker apologized.

Boldt said, “I’ve always wished I could throw you a curveball, Razor, but I’ve seen people try it in court and I’ve seen you blow them away, so I’d just as soon lay it right out there.”

“Do it.”

“Who did you hire to follow Elaine?”

Striker shook his head like a person who had a bug caught in his hair. Boldt took inventory of Daphne, who gave him a slight shake of the head, indicating for him to let Striker be. Her eyes said, Don’t push.

Striker took a moment to recover. This was the first time he met eyes with Daphne, and she sensed in him a hatred of all women, and took this as normal. She offered, “I can leave the room if you like.”

“No. It’s not that.” He looked at Boldt. “I didn’t hire anyone, Lou. It wasn’t like that.”

“Okay, so you didn’t hire anyone. After you spoke with me, did you ask someone else in the department to do this for you, or maybe one of the investigators in your office? Someone like that? No curveballs, Razor. I’m putting it to you straight: you have screwed things up for me. I need answers.”

“I received a call.”

Boldt glanced over and met eyes with Daphne as she sat forward in her chair. “A call?” Boldt asked, as calmly as he could force his voice to sound.

“I received a telephone call telling me that if I was looking for Elaine, I could find her in room four- seventeen.”

“Male or female?”

“Elaine is female, Lou.” This was the medication talking, and though Striker chuckled for a little too long, Boldt waited him out.

“Male,” Striker answered.

“Did you recognize the voice?”

“No, I did not.” He seemed a little bored, a little let down in himself for talking about this.

“But you believed him. You went there prepared to shoot a man.”

“I didn’t think about it. I was on autopilot.” He laughed more strongly this time. “You know, I’ve put guys away for twenty years who tried that line on me! Talk about the tables turning!” He hesitated and said, “You’re messing with my head here, Lou, because I hear what you’re saying to me. You’re saying someone fed me that phone call knowing damn well that I’d go and blow the guy away. Counting on me to do it. And if you don’t mind, right now that’s a little much for me, okay? Because I know what people think about my temper-I mean, it’s no