The First Victim

by Ridley Pearson

  ‘‘Are you kissing my butt?’’ Boldt asked. ‘‘What are you after, John?’’

  ‘‘Iwant to keep these new boots dry,’’ LaMoia confessed.

  ‘‘So get out of here. I’ll cover.’’ As a lieutenant, Boldt was expected to have no active field responsibilities. Technically, the case was LaMoia’s, he was lead detective, though under Boldt’s direct supervision. Both men understood this. Boldt resented it. Despite his two decades of experience he was expected in the conference room, not the street. Under a different captain, he might have been given more latitude, but Sheila Hill paid attention to rank and procedure. A ladder-climber and well connected in the department, Hill was not someone to cross. ‘‘Make it quick,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘They’re going to get this thing up and open any minute now.’’ LaMoia was famous within the department for his casual attitude and his willingness to stop and chat with any and every woman he encountered.

  ‘‘Okay, Sarge.’’ LaMoia still referred to Boldt by his former rank. He jogged back toward his fire-engine red 1968 Camaro and the police line established to hold back the press from where television news crews were already shooting.

  The detective left. Briefly the field belonged to Boldt. t

  ‘‘Polly’s broken down in traffic. She’s not going to make it. We need you.’’

  ‘‘Slow down, Jimmy,’’ Stevie McNeal said into the phone. Jimmy Corwin was among the station’s best producers, but he worked in a constant state of high anxiety. Stevie found his energy infectious, even over the phone. He was proposing she take a live

  .......................... 7400$$

  $CH2

  04-20-01 09:27:34

  PS

  FIRST VICTIM

  9

  segment for Polly. As an anchorwoman, Stevie picked her reporting work carefully.

  ‘‘What are we looking at?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘We’ve got a shipping container found by the Coast Guard. Human cries coming from inside. Channel Seven is already on-air. We need you on-camera in the next ten minutes.’’

  ‘‘You’ll post it up on the feed.’’

  ‘‘Sure we will.’’

  ‘‘Ineed a promise on that, Jimmy.’’ The national feed could bring offers from the larger market.

  ‘‘When we see the piece, we’ll determine—’’

  ‘‘Now! You commit now or I—’’

  ‘‘Okay. Agreed.’’

  ‘‘And it’s my follow-up, my story,’’ Stevie negotiated.

  ‘‘It’s going to mean original segments for us, not just the five o’clock leftovers.’’

  The phone crackled and the window flashed blue with the light of an approaching thunder cell. She said, ‘‘Tell the crew I’m on my way.’’

  t

  The Coast Guard crew had attached inflatables to stabilize the container while it was being towed to shore. Those same inflatables currently kept the steel box afloat. As the cries from inside continued, swimmers climbed up and connected the cables to all four corners. A supervisor signaled the all clear and the crane’s mighty diesel growled loudly. The cable lurched and snugged tight as the slack was removed, and a pillar of slate gray exhaust rose from the crane’s rusted stack. The container’s sunken end lifted from the black water that spilled from every crack, and the cries grew sharper, splitting the air and running chills down Boldt’s spine. A cheer rang out from the workmen as the container cleared the water altogether, suspended and dangling as the crane moved it to dry land. Boldt was not among those cheering, his nose working overtime. He pulled out his notebook and marked the time. Dead body, he wrote alongside the numbers.

  .......................... 7400$$

  $CH2

  04-20-01 09:27:34

  PS

  10

  RIDLEY PEARSON

  A man stepped through the police line, the officers clearing the way as he displayed his ID. Broad-shouldered, he exuded a confidence that advertised the sports he’d played in college, while the inexpensive suit clearly said ‘‘federal agent.’’ Brian Coughlie introduced himself as the INS investigator in charge. Shaking his hand was like taking hold of a stick.

  Boldt didn’t know many agents from the Immigration and Naturalization Service and said so. He added, ‘‘Glad to have your help on this one.’’

  ‘‘What you’re going to find in there, once they get the doors open, is anywhere from fifteen to seventy illegals. More than likely, all of the adults are Asian women in their teens and twenties: better for the sweatshops and whorehouses, which is where they all would have ended up. These container shipments have been a thorn in our side for over a year now. Glad to finally have one with something inside.’’

  ‘‘Part of that something is dead,’’ said Boldt, who was a little put off by Coughlie’s arrogance. Boldt touched his own nose, answering Coughlie’s quizzical expression.

  ‘‘You think?’’ Coughlie asked. ‘‘These things arrive pretty damn ripe, I’ll tell you what.’’

  ‘‘Dead,’’ Boldt ventured. ‘‘And that makes the others in there witnesses.’’

  ‘‘You already jockeying for position, Lieutenant?’’ Coughlie asked calmly. ‘‘A reminder, lest you forget: These are illegal immigrants, so my boss is calling this ours. Ipick ’em up and Ideliver them to federal detention. You want to visit our house and have a chat with them, we got no problem with that. But your boss will have to clear it with my boss. Okay? Meantime, these visitors—the live ones, anyway—take a trip on federal tires, not the local variety.’’

  ‘‘And the dead ones?’’

  ‘‘Yours to keep,’’ Coughlie said. ‘‘That okay with you?’’

  ‘‘So long as you keep them apart from your general population. I don’t want them hearing stories, getting coached.’’

  ‘‘We’ll clean ’em up, shave ’em, and give ’em their own custom chain-link cage,’’ Coughlie agreed. ‘‘No problemo. Barracks K. Our

  .......................... 7400$$

  $CH2

  04-20-01 09:27:34

  PS

  FIRST VICTIM

  11

  detention facility is part of what used to be Fort Nolan. You know FoNo?’’

  ‘‘Iknow of it.’’

  ‘‘You golf?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Boldt answered.

  ‘‘Too bad. They’ve got a great eighteen out there. Maintained courtesy of the taxpayer. You and me—we’d a been smarter to be military. Can’t beat that retirement package.’’

  LaMoia approached at a run. Boldt made the introductions. LaMoia shook hands with Coughlie but on his face was the expression of someone who’d picked up a sticky bottle of honey by mistake.

  ‘‘We’ve got the turf problems all worked out,’’ Boldt said, easing LaMoia’s concerns.

  ‘‘Somebody’s dead,’’ LaMoia remarked.

  ‘‘Ahead of you on that,’’ Boldt said.

  LaMoia reached into his coat pocket and brought out a pair of plastic gloves and a tube of Vicks VaporRub.

  Boldt accepted the tube after LaMoia had smeared a line under his nose. He passed it to Coughlie, who did the same. Some things a person couldn’t live without.

  t

  When the container was finally opened with a bolt cutter, a hush overcame the crowd as one by one, nine Chinese women—partially naked, bone thin and weak—were helped into waiting ambulances. Some on their feet, some on stretchers.

  Three women came out in body bags.

  Coughlie suggested Boldt give it a few days before attempting interviews. ‘‘Iseen worse, Lieutenant. But I’ve also seen better, too.’’

  ‘‘Thing about our squad,’’ LaMoia informed Coughlie, ‘‘the victims don’t typically get up and walk away.’’

  ‘‘Three of them didn’t,’’ Boldt reminded somberly.

  ‘‘Whereas in mine,’’ Coughlie explained, ‘‘we’re not in the habit of sending them home in a pine box.’’

  t

  .....
..................... 7400$$

  $CH2

  04-20-01 09:27:35

  PS

  12

  RIDLEY PEARSON

  Stevie McNeal arrived by Yellow Cab and was met by two of the remote crew, one who handed her an umbrella and a wireless microphone, another who explained camera position. Stevie headed straight for the yellow police tape that she was prohibited to cross, and crossed it anyway.

  ‘‘Hey!’’ a black uniformed officer with a young, boyish face shouted from beneath his police cap, ‘‘You can’t—’’

  Stevie stopped and faced the man, allowing him a moment to recognize her.

  ‘‘Oh,’’ he said.

  She looked him in the eye, putting just enough juice behind her determined expression and said, ‘‘Who’s in charge?’’

  ‘‘LaMoia’s lead,’’ he answered obediently. ‘‘But the lieutenant’s here too.’’ He pointed out a group of silhouettes. She stood facing LaMoia, Boldt and Coughlie. There weren’t enough ambulances on hand. A few of the illegals, wrapped in EMT

  blankets, were being offered water to drink. Between the Coast Guard and the police, there were uniformed officers everywhere. LaMoia said, ‘‘This is a restricted area. Press has to stay on the other side of the tape.’’

  ‘‘The rumors are wild back there, Sergeant. Some say serial killer, some say illegals.’’

  ‘‘Illegals,’’ Coughlie answered. Stevie locked eyes with him. He wore an INS identification.

  ‘‘We’ll have a statement shortly,’’ Boldt interjected. Stevie tried to determine who to play to. She asked the INS guy,

  ‘‘Is this yours or SPD’s?’’

  Coughlie answered, ‘‘Believe it or not, we’re working in concert on this.’’

  ‘‘So who’s in charge of this love-in?’’

  One of the body bags was carried past them by a team working for the King County Medical Examiner.

  ‘‘Not ready for prime time,’’ LaMoia quipped.

  ‘‘We’ll have a statement shortly,’’ Boldt repeated. Stevie nodded, suddenly unable to speak.

  .......................... 7400$$

  $CH2

  04-20-01 09:27:35

  PS

  C H A P T E R 3

  They met in the International District on a clear and sunny Tuesday afternoon, the intense sunlight capturing all the surroundings in a golden luminescence. Stevie McNeal arrived early, unusual, if not unheard of for her, charged with excitement.

  She dressed down for the meeting in blue jeans, a black cotton T-shirt and a new khaki safari overshirt she’d recently bought. Despite her American heritage, she still spoke with a faintly British accent, courtesy of her father’s overseas service.

  House of Hong, a dim sum restaurant alongside an elevated stretch of I-5 south, occupied a plain cement block of a structure with a large red plastic sign on the roof for all to see. Its modest parking lot, the asphalt cracked and heaved, was surrounded by a wilted chain-link fence draped like bunting from rusting bent stanchions. The clatter inside was Mandarin, which was the language Stevie used to greet the maitre d’, who was clearly surprised by her perfect inflection. He led her toward a table where a Chinese woman sat with her back to the door.

  Melissa was Chinese, twenty-six years old, with a simple, confined beauty, more radiance than pure looks. She wore a white man-tailored button-down shirt and blue jeans, her only jewelry a rubber watch that had extra buttons for lap times. She swam two miles every day at the YWCA, and she kept her hair unusually short so that it fit easily under her cap.

  Stevie said, ‘‘You look good, Little Sister.’’

  ‘‘And you.’’

  ‘‘Thank you for coming on such short notice.’’

  13

  .......................... 7400$$

  $CH3

  04-20-01 09:27:35

  PS

  14

  RIDLEY PEARSON

  ‘‘Ilove seeing you. You know that,’’ Melissa said. ‘‘A chance at a job as well? What could be better?’’

  ‘‘Ijust don’t trust men arranging secret meetings, even ones offering to sell important information.’’

  ‘‘If I’d been through what you’ve been through . . .’’ Melissa said. A year earlier, Stevie had been stalked for over three months. When the private security firm the station hired finally caught the man, he turned out to have an arrest record for sexual assault, rape and kidnapping, though no convictions.

  A waitress interrupted, offering fresh dim sum from a steaming bamboo container. Melissa politely declined. She removed a stenographer’s pad from her purse and placed it on the white linen tablecloth. Everything in its place: that was Melissa. ‘‘So?’’ she said. Stevie explained, ‘‘He claims to have information tied to that container that came ashore. You like the stories with teeth. It’s not a documentary, but—’’

  ‘‘No, listen, Iappreciate it. Freelancing, you take what you can get.’’

  ‘‘Not that Ihaven’t offered to get you a job with the station.’’

  ‘‘Not that you haven’t offered,’’ Melissa echoed. ‘‘When I earn a job at a station, then that’s different.’’ They’d been over this a dozen times. ‘‘We grew up in the same house. We spend our weekends together, our holidays.’’

  ‘‘Our vacations,’’ Stevie interrupted.

  ‘‘But if you used your celebrity to get me a job . . .’’

  ‘‘Iunderstand perfectly well.’’

  ‘‘Even this,’’ Melissa said, indicating the restaurant, ‘‘makes me uncomfortable.’’

  ‘‘You’re perfect for this. You’re Chinese and you’re a freelancer. If this bozo has anything worthwhile, who better to pursue the story?’’

  Stevie added, ‘‘Besides, what a great excuse to charge a lunch off to the station!’’

  Melissa grinned and nodded. She sobered and said, ‘‘All that you’ve done for me. And don’t deny it! If I could repay one-tenth of these favors—’’

  .......................... 7400$$

  $CH3

  04-20-01 09:27:36

  PS

  FIRST VICTIM

  15

  ‘‘What good is anything if you don’t use it? These are my fifteen minutes of fame. When yours come—and they will come—I’m counting on you to let some of it rub off on me.’’

  ‘‘Not likely.’’

  ‘‘Don’t say that. Your production work is the best around. You’ll see. A story like this . . . if it proves to be good information . . . This could break you out, change everything.’’

  ‘‘I’m not holding my breath.’’

  t

  As the only Caucasian male in the restaurant, the man they were expecting stood out upon his arrival. Balding, overweight, with a drinker’s nose and cheeks and an apparent taste for ill-fitting discount sports jackets, he arrived carrying beads of perspiration beneath his unfashionably long sideburns and down his equally florid neck. He searched the restaurant, looking a little distraught until recognizing Stevie. She signaled him and he sat down, eyeing Melissa guardedly. He said to Stevie, ‘‘You look different than on TV.’’

  ‘‘Your phone call,’’ Stevie said. He was not a man with whom she wanted to lunch. She ordered an iced tea, wanting this meeting over as quickly as possible.

  ‘‘Your eyes? Your hair? Idon’t know.’’ He mopped his face with the restaurant’s napkin and glanced around for a waiter. He ordered a Cape Cod, a vodka and cranberry, and also waved off the offer of food. Melissa used her Chinese to request they be left alone, stopping the onslaught of dim sum.

  ‘‘Iwatch you every night. The news.’’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘‘Ithought you were the one to make the offer to, you know?’’ Again, he glanced at Melissa.

  ‘‘She works with me,’’ Stevie clarified. ‘‘Let’s talk about this offer,’’ she said.

  ‘‘I’m a state auditor.’’

  ‘‘Ithought it was King County,’’ she
corrected.

  ‘‘State. Ioversee inventories of a half dozen state agencies, everything from road cones to, Idon’t know, fax machines.’’

  .......................... 7400$$

  $CH3

  04-20-01 09:27:36

  PS

  16

  RIDLEY PEARSON

  ‘‘How fascinating,’’ she said.

  ‘‘We’re with you,’’ Melissa said, salvaging Stevie’s breach.

  ‘‘This is a big story,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Then perhaps we should hear it,’’ Melissa encouraged. He touched Stevie’s hand and she instinctively jerked hers away.

  ‘‘Maybe Icalled the wrong person,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Maybe you did,’’ Stevie agreed. ‘‘You touch me again and you’re having pepper spray for lunch.’’

  He apologized. ‘‘I’ve never done anything like this: whistleblowing to the press. It’s not something I’m comfortable with.’’

  ‘‘You count police cones,’’ Stevie said, recovering slightly from her malaise. ‘‘Are you comfortable with that?’’

  ‘‘What else do you count, Mr. . . .’’ Melissa asked, attempting to drag his name out of him.

  He mopped his face again. His teeth were stained from smoking.

  ‘‘Do you know how movie houses keep track of the popcorn they sell?’’

  ‘‘Popcorn?’’ Stevie blurted out. ‘‘You’re passing me a hot tip about movie-house popcorn?’’

  ‘‘It’s not by how much they pop, because it only takes a few kernels to make a cup of popped popcorn, and it’s too random to estimate how many kernels go into each cup . . . and also because they end up throwing out the stuff they haven’t sold at the end of the night, or between shows.’’

  ‘‘Listen . . . Really . . .’’

  ‘‘They count the bags, the cups,’’ Melissa said.

  ‘‘Exactly! The owner, the manager, tracks the number of bags used. They inventory the bags—small, medium, large—and that’s how much cash the employees behind the counters are responsible for putting in the till. It’s that simple. Not enough cash, the employees make up the difference, so the employees watch those bags closely. Same with soda cups. Exact same method. The number of cups used in an evening determines cash flow.’’