scratched a dozen times by cars clipping it too close. For Lofgrin, it's going to be all about those scratches. They ended up like marks on a measuring stick running up the wall.'
Now Pendegrass looked concerned. Any cop knew well enough to fear the things the lab could do.
'Lofgrin will measure the height of the rear bumper against those scratches as you fellows arrived, and then he'll compare that to the height of the same bumper upon your departure less than ten minutes later.' He stopped to win Pendegrass's attention. 'What you should have done…' Boldt advised the man, '… was take the assault rifles, but leave the military shipping cases. But that would have taken more time, right? That's what I'm thinking: You were in a hurry. The guns don't weigh much at all. But those military shipping cases add up. Lofgrin can measure the height of that bumper going in and coming out. He will prove that when you left that garage ten minutes later, you were carrying over two hundred extra pounds in the trunk. A dead body? I don't think so. Given the missing videotape recorded on that same night, and at least one missing weapon, what do you think I.I. is going to make of your visit?'
'Circumstantial bullshit. You won't get to square one with this.'
This was the sticking point of Boldt's argument. The evidence on the tape was circumstantial-and only cir cumstantial-but Boldt needed Pendegrass to believe otherwise. 'Might be,' Boldt agreed. 'How do you think I.I. will look at it? About all they ever deal with is circumstantial evidence. People are going to get questioned about this. People working in the boneyard. You. The others. Deals will be offered to one of you. Chapman will be subpoenaed to turn over that other tape. The best laid plans… A cop was shot at with one of those stolen weapons. This cop!' Boldt said defiantly. He walked over to the VCR and took the tape back. 'You guys talk it over. My offer's on the table for tonight and tonight only.'
Pendegrass stood there like a statue.
Boldt said, 'Once Bernie Lofgrin gets this, it's out of my hands.'
Pendegrass tried to sound convincing. 'It don't mean nothing.'
Boldt stopped at the front door. 'Then you've got nothing to worry about.'
CHAPTER 66
Boldt's plan came down to the next few hours. If he was to turn circumstantial evidence into incriminating evidence, he believed it would happen before morning.
He lived twenty minutes from Pendegrass, and he spent much of the time with his eyes trained on his rearview mirror and his right hand gently touching the videotape in the seat beside him. He couldn't be sure, but he believed the same car that had been following him all night-to Chapman's, downtown, and to Pendegrass's-was still back there: a narrow set of headlights with a blue cast to the light itself.
Riorden and Smythe lived the closest to him, and he assumed one of them would be awaiting his return home. Either there would be an offer to trade tapes, or violence. He doubted any call would be placed to his home with an offer-even Property cops knew better than to leave a paper trail.
As he pulled into his driveway, a Seattle mist filled the air, fog passing so low to the earth that it gently rinsed everything, everyone, in its path. He ran his wipers even though it wasn't completely necessary: He didn't want any surprises.
He turned off the car, that dreaded sense of foreboding enveloping him, as well as a deepening sadness that cops were involved. He loved the uniform. He loved the department and what it stood for. It was as simple as that.
He picked up the video and slid it beneath the seat as he and LaMoia had planned. Once outside the car, he used the remote to lock all doors at once. He slipped the bulky keys into his pocket, wondering what felt so wrong. After three or four thoughtful steps he realized what it was.
The silence.
The neighbor's dog did not bark at him, did not scratch at the fence. If Pendegrass, Riorden and Smythe had been the three men who had assaulted him a week earlier-which he now believed-then they knew well enough about that dog. Its silence became all the more frightening.
Pendegrass had taken the bait.
'Hello?' Boldt called, lugging that walking cast along with him. His hand sought out his weapon. The back door to his house suddenly seemed extremely far away.
He reached the bottom of the back steps. It was dark up there on the porch. There wasn't a light on in the kitchen or the back of the house, which was not the way Liz would have left it. Someone had shorted the circuit, blown a fuse. He didn't want to go up there, but didn't want to drag the cast around to the front door, even though there would be street light there, and neighbors who might see him or hear him if he called out.
He heard a car door thump shut behind him. One street away. Connected, or coincidence? he asked himself. Adrenaline filled him, for he'd been here before in nearly this exact situation. Only now there was no dog to come to his rescue. Now he carried this cast on his leg.
He glanced back toward the car, wondering if he could beat the arrival of whoever was coming through the woods toward him-whoever had parked a street away and was now breaking twigs and brushing past bushes to reach him. With a good leg he might have made it. But as it was, he simply stopped and listened.
He had believed that Pendegrass would demand an exchange of tapes. He'd made contingency plans, but he didn't want to exercise them.
The sounds from the woods stopped. Whoever was there was quite close now. Boldt switched the weapon to his left hand, grabbed the wooden rail with his right, and started the climb up the back porch stairs, one clumsy step at a time. He slipped, let go the rail and fished his keys out of his pocket. Only a few feet more to reach the back door. He wanted to get the key in the lock and the door open as quickly as possible.
This was how Sanchez felt, he decided. Someone had cut the lights, the walk from the garage to the house impossibly far.
He fingered his keys.
Again, noise came from behind him in the woods.
Boldt turned at the top of the stairs. 'I thought you were going to call,' he shouted, eyes straining to see in the dark.
'I thought you would have headed straight downtown,' the muffled voice of Pendegrass said. He stepped out from the thick shrubbery that separated Boldt from his backyard neighbors. 'That would have been the right card to play. Coming home. That was a stupid move.'
He heard someone immediately behind him, in the dark of the porch. 'Riorden?' he asked.
Whoever was back there didn't answer. That troubled him. If it was negotiation they were after, why remain silent?
Pendegrass stepped closer, barely visible in the dark. He wore a balaclava over his head. 'You think too much,' he said, adding, 'Sometimes a person is better off just accepting the way things are.'
'You haven't seen Sanchez,' Boldt reminded him. 'To me, that's the way things are.'
'She's getting better, I hear,' Pendegrass said. 'Movement in both legs. She'll pull through this, you watch, and then what'll be the point of all the fuss?' He repeated, 'What'll be the point of all these heroics on your part? Who'll care? Flek did Sanchez, and Flek's dead. Case closed.'
'If only it were true,' Boldt lamented.
'And that's worth getting the shit beat out of you?'
'Already had the shit beat out of me,' Boldt re minded him. 'Is that all? And here I was thinking you're going to kill me.'
'Giving up the tape buys you a simple beating. Call me generous.' He had reached close enough for Boldt to make out the dark clothing and the ugliness of the faceless balaclava.
'I thought we were going to trade.'
'That's what I mean: you think too much,' Pendegrass said. 'And don't be thinking about that gun. You're outgunned here, old man. Drop the gun. Keep it at a simple beating.' He waited only a moment before ordering Boldt for a second time to drop his weapon. But Boldt held onto his gun, albeit with his left hand.
'Is that Riorden or Smythe behind me?' Boldt asked the night air. 'Because whoever it is… he gets my first
