beat out of him, and how I'm not gonna let something like that happen, and what a pain in the ass it was going to be for all concerned. And then I'm thinking how stupid it is for Chapman to show his face at the Bull. You know? And then I'm wondering if maybe he took a brick the way you did, because there's been more of that, you know, and so maybe he's showing up pissed off and ready to settle the score or something, and that kinda leans me away from wanting to help him out too much. I mean, if a guy is stupid enough to walk into a room like that, maybe it's Darwin's law that he get the living shit beat out of him. But the point is, the pit stop was something to do with communications. Radio problems between the crew and the driver, and they didn't want to get into the final third of the race without communication-'
'John…'
'Which means I heard the explanation, Sarge. Get it? I heard the guy explaining the pit stop. Which means that Chuck Pendegrass and his riot squad had either shut up, cut out, or all gone to take a piss at the same time, which is technically impossible on account the men's room is only one urinal and a crapper, and there must have been three or four of them over there hooting it up.' He repeated, 'I got a hunch Pendegrass split the minute Chapman walked through that door. And let me just say that he and his buddies did not impress me as being ready to leave a few minutes before that.'
'When Chapman arrived, or Schock and Phillipp?' Boldt pressed.
'You got me there. Maybe it was a minute later.'
'But Chapman didn't speak to Pendegrass?'
'I can't say one way or another. Maybe Pendegrass shut up when he saw Chapman, same way Chapman caught my eye.' He added, 'Chapman caught a lot of people by surprise, Sarge.'
'So Pendegrass left when?'
'No clue.'
'They could have talked,' Boldt theorized. 'For that matter, they could have simply made eye contact. Some kind of visual.'
'We don't even know that Chapman came looking for Pendegrass,' LaMoia reminded him.
'No,' Boldt agreed. 'But we could ask him.'
'Yes, we could at that,' LaMoia replied, collecting his coat off the back of a chair.
'Doesn't Chuck Pendegrass have a boy about ten?'
'Tanner,' LaMoia answered knowingly. 'But what's that about?'
'Nothing,' Boldt said, but inside he was thinking that ten was a good age for Little League and aluminum baseball bats.
Before LaMoia knocked on the front door of the gray house, he said to Boldt, 'I hate this shit. Cop on cop. I don't even want to think it, much less confirm it.'
'We don't know that that's what we've got,' Boldt said. 'Sanchez could have been a burglary gone wrong. She could have nothing to do with Schock and Phillipp. Probably totally unrelated.'
'Then what the hell are we doing here, Sarge?'
'I'll tell you what… Boredom does weird things to people.'
LaMoia tugged at the sleeve of his deerskin jacket. 'This rain's a bitch.'
'That's the wrong coat for Seattle. I've been telling you that for a couple years now.'
'They make chamois out of deerskin, Sarge. Doesn't hurt the jacket.'
'Jacket doesn't stop the rain,' Boldt said.
'Can't have everything.'
Pendegrass met the front door himself, his face enmeshed in a three-day beard, already in a snarl. His hair was wet, his eyes rheumy. 'Don't want any.' He stepped back, intending to shut the door on them.
LaMoia slipped the toe of his cowboy boot up onto the jamb. 'I've seen this done in movies,' he said, giving Pendegrass his best Pepsodent smile.
'A pair of detectives got hurt tonight,' Boldt said.
'Is that right?'
'Thought you might tell us what you know,' LaMoia added. 'Maybe out of the rain.'
'Pass.' Pendegrass eyed the detective. 'Since when are you back on the job?'
'Since Schock and Phillipp took an ambulance ride,' LaMoia answered. 'You ever heard of loyalty to the badge?'
'We could use some help,' Boldt said, suspecting the man had an alibi in place.
'You saying I'm a suspect in this assault?'
'A suspect?' LaMoia glanced at Boldt as if this was the furthest thing from his mind. 'We were thinking witness.' LaMoia explained, 'You and I were both down to the Cock and Bull earlier tonight.'
Boldt chimed in, 'And LaMoia didn't catch a whole hell of a lot of what was going down. But he remembered you were there.'
'I bet he did,' Pendegrass said, cautiously eyeing the detective. 'And by the way, get your foot outta my door.'
'Maybe you saw something… someone,' Boldt said, 'and don't even realize its importance.'
'There were a whole lot of someones at the Bull tonight, Lieutenant.'
'Ron Chapman showed up,' Boldt said.
'Is that right?'
LaMoia ventured, 'That would be about when you left.'
'We're thinking baseball bat or pipe,' Boldt added, catching the man's eye.
'Nightstick, maybe,' LaMoia said, reminding Pendegrass of a possible police connection.
'You mind if we come in and talk about it?' Boldt asked, a rivulet of rainwater running down his neck.
'I'm home sick, Lieutenant. In case you forgot. Not a real good time for me.'
'Your name will never get mentioned.'
'Even so… I'll pass.'
LaMoia complained, 'All we need is five minutes on what you maybe did or did not see in that bar. Right? You know the drill.'
'That's right, I do.' He added, 'I can crush your foot in the door, if you'd prefer.'
LaMoia left his boot there.
Pendegrass looked pretty drunk. The longer he stood there, the more apparent it was. He was known as a mean drunk. Boldt didn't want this degenerating into a rumble. Drunk cops like Pendegrass loved a chance to fight, and LaMoia always seemed to find his way into the middle of such things.
'You weren't too sick to visit the Cock and Bull,' Boldt reminded him.
'A medicinal visit.'
'Chuck?' a woman's voice called out from inside the house, distracting the man. 'Who is it, honey?'
'You were there,' LaMoia said, 'during the time in question. You left around the time Chapman arrived, which was only minutes before Schock and Phillipp. You're jamming us up here, Chuck. You see that? You see the way it's gonna look? You not wanting to talk. In the right place and the right time? So you didn't see nothing. You heard something, maybe? Like a head getting cracked open or someone in some kind of pain.'
Boldt wanted to take advantage of the man's apparent drunken vulnerability, not give him the chance to sober up and rethink his answers. 'We'd like to do this tonight. Now,' he said strongly. 'You know how it is when a witness avoids you or delays you. These are fellow officers who got hurt, Chuck. We want to clear this one.'
'Before the morning news, I'll bet. Before John Q. Public pressures city hall to cave in on this sickout.'
'Politics?' Boldt gasped. 'You think we're playing politics?'
'Do whatever it is you boys gotta do. But this here ain't happening. No way.'
'We've got two brothers down, you know,' LaMoia repeated, 'and your not talking ain't right, no matter how you slice it. Don't matter what you think of Phillipp and Schock. It ain't right.'
'Chuck?' the woman called out again. She rounded the corner and approached the door wearing a perplexed expression. She was small and mousy, her hair a mess. 'Chuck, it's raining. These men are standing in the rain. John LaMoia, isn't it?' she said to the sergeant. Every woman associated with the department knew LaMoia's face.
'And Lieutenant Boldt,' LaMoia said, extending his hand.
