He hung up the bedside phone.

Liz spoke through a dry throat. “Sweetheart?”

“It’s Danny Foreman,” Boldt said.

“What’s he want at this hour?”

“Not the call,” Boldt answered, correcting her. “The victim. Robbery/assault. Someone beat him up pretty badly and robbed him. I gotta go.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“I think so. Get back to sleep if you can.”

“I’m up,” she said. “You call me when you can.”

“Maybe I just had to get that off my chest Friday night,” he said.

“Meaning?”

“I feel better for having said what I said. I feel more like a team all of a sudden. Us, I mean.”

“Music to my ears,” she said.

“Speaking of which… ”

“I’ll pick up Miles, yes,” she said. “I’ll get them both and be home around six.”

“I’ll get the team back here to watch the house as soon as I can.”

“Okay.”

He was dressed now, standing at the closet safe, fetching his gun. He slipped the blazer on, tugged on his shirtsleeves. She called him over and scratched out a stain.

“Can’t take me anywhere,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

He hesitated a moment, but he leaned over then and kissed her on the lips, a little peck, but a kiss nonetheless, and she felt like a high school girl who didn’t want to wash her face for a week.

A mile down Martin Luther King Boulevard, Boldt turned right and worked his way into the middle-class, mostly black, neighborhood. Foreman’s house was a modest one-and-a-half-story clapboard.

Inside the front door, Boldt met with the familiar smell of a crime scene: male sweat. He walked through the house and descended steep stairs into the dank cellar.

It was dark and bitter down here, a tomb with stale air that carried on it the rusty tang of fresh blood. Clusters of halogen lights on aluminum tripods, stenciled “SPD,” blinded the man who remained in the wooden chair at their center.

Foreman sat slumped forward, doing his best to hide the pain.

The smell of solvent stung Boldt’s sinuses. Acetone. It didn’t make sense that SID, the department’s Scientific Identification Division, would “fume” for prints down here with rescue crews still in attendance. “Glue?”

“Duct tape and Superglue,” answered the female half of the two personnel working on Foreman. “Wrists and ankles to each other, and the chair to the floor.”

Foreman’s left hand was missing two fingernails, accounting for the pool of blood on that side of the floor.

“Twice in a week,” Boldt said.

Foreman didn’t react.

The rescue woman informed him that Foreman had been given a sedative to help with the pain.

The basement space was small, with little room for more than a heating system, a hot-water tank, and a beat-up washing machine. Add to that two light stands, the chair and the man at their center, the two Search and Rescue personnel attempting to free Foreman, and a pair of EMTs standing by half tucked under the wooden staircase, and it was approaching claustrophobic.

Foreman’s lip was split, and his right eye swollen. Boldt pulled out a handkerchief and gently wiped the man’s face clean. Foreman lifted his head and the two met eyes, and Boldt felt pain tingle clear through him.

“Bastards,” Foreman managed to mutter.

“Who?”

“No fucking clue.”

One of the EMTs piped up that the small spot on the right side of Foreman’s neck “was consistent” with an injection.

“They got you again.” Rohypnol, the “date rape” paralysis drug. Truth serum, Boldt thought.

Foreman merely rolled his eyes. He appeared ready to pass out.

Boldt made a quick study of the basement, disappointed to see so many people and so much equipment. The scene was now contaminated beyond recovery.

The young woman said he could try his wrists now, but it might hurt. Danny Foreman tore a four-inch strip of his own flesh away, he pulled so hard. His face grimaced and his eyes shone, but he did not cry out. An EMT shot forward and went to work bandaging the wounds. Boldt saw more blood now. It was everywhere. Sprayed around like a kid with a garden hose.

Boldt took in some of the odds and ends piled on a dusty shelf. A faded Frisbee. Well-worn work gloves. A pair of hiking boots. A waffle iron with a cracked black cord. Two or three cardboard boxes that Boldt knew without looking contained Darlene’s things: clothes and accessories and maybe some photo albums; a hospital bracelet cut off a limp wrist three years earlier.

Seeing the damage to the skin, the rescue woman told Foreman they were going to give the solvent a few minutes longer on the ankles.

Foreman gushed through a string of expletives, still under the influence.

The rescue worker called for Boldt’s attention and pointed out what appeared to be the carcass of a dead bug, a housefly or larva, to the left of Foreman’s chair. When that bug rolled lightly a few inches across the floor, Boldt identified it as cigar or cigarette ash.

“Any of you smoke down here?” Boldt stepped carefully toward the evidence. No answers. “I’m going to ask all of you but this woman to leave now.” He instructed them on how to leave in single file, being careful to set their feet down slowly and gently and only in a clear area of the floor.

Boldt knelt down and eased the small worm of gray ash into a three-by-five manila envelope that he kept on his person for evidence collection. Foreman tried to speak, but ended up drooling and spitting instead. “Fuck!” he finally managed to moan, throwing his head around like a blind man at the piano.

Other than the pulled nails, Foreman’s hands showed no signs of struggle, no indication he’d fought back. A moment later, the rescue worker had Foreman’s ankles free and asked Boldt’s permission to summon her partner and the EMTs in order to get Foreman into the waiting ambulance. Boldt acquiesced, again trying to minimize the crime scene contamination.

Once Foreman was gone, Boldt searched the house, now joined by the timely arrival of his own department’s Scientific Identification Division.

“Better late than never,” Boldt told the anemic thirty-year-old wearing the blue windbreaker marked with his department’s acronym. The guy had thin, bluish lips and the pale skin of a cadaver. Boldt had never seen him before.

“The only espresso was a twenty-four-hour drive-thru on the other side of Broadway. And believe me, you do not want to see me before my first espresso.”

“I believe you,” Boldt said, leading the man into the bedroom, guarded by a uniformed patrol officer.

The bedroom was undisturbed, except for the closet. There Boldt saw a number of shoes swept aside, a hinged shoe rack swung out of the way, and an empty wall safe hanging open with no sign of tampering.

Boldt said, “The combination probably came sometime around the second fingernail.”

“How’s that?” Captain Espresso had not seen Foreman’s left hand.

“It’s nothing,” Boldt replied. “Develop prints if you can, inside the safe and out, and keep alert for cigar or cigarette ash anywhere in the house. Check all the trash cans, the sinks, the perimeter outside. I’d love an extinguished butt if we can find it.”

“Got it,” the SID man replied.

“This guy’s in the family. On the job. You understand that?”

“I got it, Lieutenant. We’re all over this.”

“Tell Bernie Lofgrin I’m lead.”

“You, Lieutenant?”

“My squad.” Boldt would have to put this off on someone; lieutenants didn’t run cases. “But I want Bernie calling me.”

“Got it.”

“And try eating some red meat,” Boldt said. On his way out of the small bedroom Boldt thought he heard the guy mumble “Fuck you” under his breath, but didn’t return to challenge him. He deserved it.

Danny Foreman had not deserved it, however, and Boldt resolved to bring somebody in for gluing wrists together and using vise-grip pliers to extract fingernails. And also to learn whatever it was that his former friend and colleague, Danny Foreman, wasn’t telling him.