The First Victim

by Ridley Pearson

  ‘‘Iown a few humble groceries, Mr. Both—’’

  ‘‘And four Laundromats, a movie theater, a limousine company, a hotel—’’

  ‘‘A few investments is all! Who trusts the banks anymore?’’

  ‘‘Geribaldi Equipment. The rental company. The manager is named Zulia. If he were encouraged to cooperate with police—’’

  ‘‘As a good citizen,’’ she said, testing.

  ‘‘Yes—out of his generosity of spirit—it would certainly save us opening up his or the company’s financial records. Cash flow. Payments.’’

  Her brow tightened. She sat forward, however imperceptibly. She 100

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  took hold of her braid with both pudgy hands as if it were a butler’s pull.

  Boldt said, ‘‘There would be no reason for our forensic accountants to examine any of their records.’’

  ‘‘Only a fool stabs a dragon thinking he will kill it. To kill a dragon one must cut off its head.’’

  He paused. ‘‘If forced to . . .’’

  She grinned, her eyes disappearing behind the folds of flesh.

  ‘‘How sharp is your sword, Mr. Both?’’

  ‘‘Zulia drops a name. He goes home.’’ He paused. ‘‘Everybody’s happy.’’

  ‘‘Not whoever’s name is mentioned.’’

  Boldt grinned. The room felt suddenly hot to him. ‘‘The three women who died in that container were sick. They died of malnutrition and dehydration because the captain refused them food and water. Storms slowed down the crossing and the captain just let them die in there.’’

  She said, ‘‘You reap what you sow,’’ and Boldt added yet another name to his list of possible murder suspects. The captain of the Visage was not short of enemies.

  She said, ‘‘Once on these shores, these girls are good for economy. Maids in hotels, waitress in bars.’’

  ‘‘Sweatshops, prostitution,’’ he added.

  He sought out the person behind those dark eyes, eager to determine her level of involvement, but saw nothing revealed. She sat there as impassive as the best judges.

  For a moment he felt convinced this woman had not been involved with the deaths. When she smiled, he lost hold of it, like chasing a wet bar of soap.

  ‘‘They say ignorance is bliss, Mr. Both. Maybe true.’’

  ‘‘If he’d given them food and water they would have lived. There was no reason for them to die.’’

  ‘‘That man no longer with us. We must forgive him his sins.’’

  ‘‘Him, perhaps. But not the others.’’ He paused, having locked

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  eyes with her. ‘‘Do you condone such treatment of your fellow Chinese?’’

  ‘‘A topic that bears much discussion.’’

  He hesitated a moment and told her, ‘‘A Chinese-American has gone missing. A television reporter. She was investigating the container. If they harm her, they are fools. The power of the media is far greater than a single police department, believe me.’’

  The woman’s face scrunched up tight. If this wasn’t news to her, she was a good actress. ‘‘You know this as true? Missing woman?’’

  He said, ‘‘If a person were to help us locate this missing woman, the city would smile upon her.’’ He added, ‘‘The media, too.’’

  She grinned and nodded and returned his determined gaze. ‘‘I understand.’’ A silence fell between them. ‘‘Go carefully, Mr. Both. Accidents happen to the nicest people.’’ She added, ‘‘And trust no one. Not even me.’’ She smiled again, more widely. She had forgotten her teeth. He saw them then in a clear glass to her right, grinning all on their own.

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  C H A P T E R 1 9

  On Monday morning—one week to theday sinceMelissa had last been seen—Ernest Zulia, the manager of Geribaldi’s Equipment, made the morning news by exploding into several thousand pieces. The shock waves were felt at Public Safety. Boldt met with Captain Sheila Hill in her office. Hill still turned heads at age forty. She understood how to dress for her athletic body and wasn’t above using her legs as a distraction. She came down hard on Boldt over Zulia’s death, but Boldt wouldn’t be drawn into it.

  ‘‘The Zulia surveillance was pulled, Captain,’’ Boldt complained, reminding her of what he had been told only minutes before by his detective. ‘‘We had a crew watching Geribaldi’s Equipment and they were removed from duty under orders.’’ Hill had given that order. Bobbie Gaynes had been told to cancel the surveillance, pulling an end run on LaMoia and Boldt, neither of whom had been informed of the decision. It wasn’t something for which he could out and out blame her, but they both knew the score. He understood perfectly well that she had called him to her office for damage repair. He also knew that although she could invent any number of excuses for her decision, she had probably canceled the surveillance out of a combination of budget considerations and politics. Knowing Sheila Hill, she resented LaMoia not consulting her on the original surveillance and so had exercised her authority as a means of proving who was in charge. But now she had another dead body on her hands and live newscasts tying this and the ship captain to the container—a political hot potato. Unfortunately, Boldt thought there was more at play than met the eye. LaMoia had bedded down Hill a year earlier in an act of poor judgment and primitive instincts that had left her calling the shots and nearly de105

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  stroying the man’s career. An odd relationship still existed between the two—LaMoia had suffered the breakup hard; Hill had eventually sought to reconcile. She tended to spoil him; he tended to ignore her, his captain. Only Boldt knew of the affair, though many on the squad suspected. When LaMoia slipped up, Boldt, as the man’s lieutenant, heard about it—but lately Hill seemed to be using him more as a marriage counselor. She wanted LaMoia back. If there was hell to pay for the investigation’s woes, it was for Boldt to sort out. At the time of the ‘‘accident,’’ Zulia had been in the seat of a propane-powered forklift, as he was every morning, according to his employees. The explosion caused flames to rise three hundred feet in the air, and total destruction to one-third of Geribaldi’s inventory and most of its warehouse. For the first time since a string of arsons several years earlier, there was no physical evidence of the victim found by SID. Along with firemen, they searched the rubble hoping for bone fragments.

  ‘‘You don’t like John running operations without consulting you,’’

  Boldt stated, speaking plainly. ‘‘Point taken.’’

  ‘‘We have to deal with this,’’ she reminded, glancing at him sternly, but not wanting to invite discussion of the relationship. She left it up to him to offer some kind of way out of the mishap. At last, he saw a compromise position.

  He said, ‘‘The missing television news reporter, Melissa Chow, is a far more pressing case than someone like Zulia. Once he returned to work, we could have picked up Zulia anytime.’’

  ‘‘Go on,’’ she encouraged.

  ‘‘The reporter gets a lead on the illegals and then vanishes. Not only could any information she have be pertinent to the investigation, but ther
e’s a young woman’s life at stake. It has been a week.’’

  ‘‘So we shifted manpower,’’ she stated as if it were fact. She liked where he was going with this.

  Boldt kept silent. He’d fed her the bone; he didn’t need to chew it with her. As a sergeant Boldt had rarely been privy to such negotiations. One more reason he hated his lieutenant’s shield. Politics made

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  him nauseous. The fieldwork—active investigations—was a much more pure environment.

  Boldt offered, ‘‘Her disappearance may be tied to the deaths of two key witnesses in this investigation. She’s of primary importance to us.’’

  ‘‘She certainly is,’’ Hill agreed. ‘‘We moved our resources to this missing persons case.’’

  ‘‘Iwouldn’t mention this out of the house. We don’t want to put her at any more risk.’’

  ‘‘Point taken. So get on it,’’ she said.

  t

  Boldt, LaMoia and Gaynes met behind closed doors.

  ‘‘Saturday Itell Mama Lu we’d like to chat up Zulia,’’ Boldt said.

  ‘‘And look what Monday morning brings.’’

  ‘‘Iwouldn’t go there, Sarge,’’ LaMoia cautioned. ‘‘It’s these video tapes McNeal lifted from the woman’s apartment. That’s evidence—if we can get a judge to agree.’’

  ‘‘Good luck,’’ Gaynes sniped.

  ‘‘I’m not ‘ going’ there,’’ Boldt complained. ‘‘I’m being led there.’’

  ‘‘It was a pro hit,’’ Gaynes reminded LaMoia. ‘‘Zulia climbed onto that same forklift every morning. They knew exactly what they were doing.’’

  ‘‘Someone told him it was okay to return to work,’’ Boldt suggested, still focused on Mama Lu’s involvement.

  ‘‘There are plenty of pros who have no association with Mama Lu,’’ LaMoia said.

  ‘‘Why are you constantly defending her?’’ Boldt complained.

  ‘‘I’m not defending her,’’ LaMoia objected. ‘‘I’m trying not to jump to conclusions. The guy Ilearned from,’’ he said, meaning Boldt,

  ‘‘stressed the importance of following the evidence, of listening to the victim.’’

  Boldt nodded. ‘‘Two potential witnesses killed in the last four days. They’re cleaning house, taking care of loose ends. Maybe Mama

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  Lu is too easy, and maybe she’s good for this, but you’re right about following the evidence,’’ he conceded. ‘‘I’m listening.’’

  Gaynes said, ‘‘Maybe Imade too much fuss at Geribaldi’s. Anybody working there might have known we were interested in talking up Zulia.’’

  ‘‘So we question the employees,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘What else?’’ the teacher quizzed.

  LaMoia answered, ‘‘Canvass the neighborhood.’’

  Gaynes said, ‘‘Look for moving violations in the area.’’

  LaMoia said, ‘‘And this missing woman?’’

  Boldt answered, ‘‘According to Hill, she’s our top priority.’’

  LaMoia said nothing. Message received: Boldt was playing shortstop. Boldt said, ‘‘Let’s work McNeal. We need her cooperation.’’ The hum of Homicide continued on the other side of the glass, the way traffic noise was a permanent part of the urban backdrop. ‘‘If we find Chow while she’s still alive,’’ Boldt said hopefully, ‘‘then maybe we blow the illegals case wide open.’’

  ‘‘She’s alive,’’ Gaynes stated, leaving a moment of silence for this to sink in. ‘‘Or we would have found her body already—same as the others. These guys aren’t shy. They’re making statements. They don’t want anyone talking about any of this. But if she is alive, and they have her, and they know what she was up to, then God pity her. She might wish she was dead.’’

  ‘‘I’m telling you,’’ LaMoia said. ‘‘We want a look at those videotapes. If we can’t get a judge, then we sweet-talk McNeal—’’

  ‘‘Daffy,’’ Boldt said. Matthews could sweet-talk a pet viper.

  ‘‘But we get a look at those videotapes one way or the other.’’

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  C H A P T E R 2 0

  Stevie viewed the tapes she had taken from Melissa’s apartment, the ordeal painful, even excruciating at times. Her fourth time all the way through. Melissa’s narration rose with her enthusiasm and sank into cautious whispers despite her seclusion inside the van. The early surveillance footage documented the LSO and its location. Melissa had driven the entire block and had shot the building from all four sides, where in the back parking lot and for the first time, the camera recorded Gwen Klein leaving work—a short, stocky woman of average looks.

  Klein walked stiffly and without a hint of grace. Melissa and her camera followed her to the supermarket, and to Shoreside School, a day-care center where she picked up a young boy and slightly older girl. With Melissa’s van following, they drove to a clapboard home with a postage-stamp front lawn and a Direct TV satellite installed on the recently shingled roof.

  On the video, the time stamp changed hours—18:37—

  approaching the hour of seven o’clock, providing the tape’s clock was correct. It suggested Melissa had killed nearly two hours sitting parked waiting for activity. A pickup truck arrived and parked—the same pickup truck that Stevie already knew belonged to the husband and had been bought with cash. At 20:21, nearing eighty-thirty on the tape, the minivan left with Gwen Klein behind the wheel. With each start and stop of the video Stevie felt a little more uncomfortable, a voyeur, a spy. The subsequent sequence showed a run-down car wash, but no shot of any sign out front, any name. The van’s taillights shined at her like a pair of squinting red eyes, Klein’s foot on the brakes. The vehicle remained inside the automatic wash for the full cycle and then 109

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  drove off, returning home. Melissa followed and captured the van parked at 21:07. The tape changed to gray fuzz. Stevie fast-forwarded through to the end, once again making sure she hadn’t missed anything. She poured herself a glass of juice, loaded the second tape, rewound and started it running. Eavesdropping on Melissa’s monologue with the camera, Stevie felt as if she were reading from someone’s private diary. Melissa would have edited the tapes down to a few brief shots, writing copy to accompany it—copy that Stevie wished she had, copy that might explain the significance or give continuity to the various shots. As a journalist, Melissa had recorded the footage in hopes of editing together a story sometime in the future. Stevie wanted that story now, but instead took away only the occasional grunt or groan from the camerawoman, the rare comment: ‘‘That’s the husband’s truck.’’ ‘‘She wasn’t in the grocery store long. But Isuppose she could have passed someone the counterfeit licenses in there.’’

  The second videotape showed Klein arriving by morning to the LSO. She carried a coffee in hand as she crossed the parking lot. There were shots of the public coming and going, first taken from a considerable distance, and then more footage with the camera zoomed and concentrating on faces. Melissa had either been bored and burning footage or had focused on the people coming and going out of a significance Stevie did not yet understand. Tempted to fast-forward, she nonetheless stuck it out as she had before, not knowing if one of the faces might be recognizable—the auditor who had contacted them? a politician or public official? She wasn’t sure who or what she was looking for; she only knew that these were the tapes Melissa had shot prior to her borrowing the smaller digi
tal camera, that these same images had more than likely led Melissa to take one step too many. Convinced that time was working against her, Stevie needed that connection to her little sister. She fast-forwarded to the end of tape two and inserted the third and final tape she had liberated from the apartment.

  Tape three began with familiar footage: again Klein left the LSO, this time amid a late afternoon drizzle strong enough to percussively

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  pelt the top of the van and be picked up on the tape; the errands were different only in location—off to the vet’s for a large bag of pet food, a drugstore stop tied to a dry cleaner next door, the same day-care center and retrieval of the kids. Melissa remained silent throughout all the recording, her enthusiasm of a day earlier muted, the sound of her breathing strangely present on the tape as background noise, like hearing a lover softly snoring. She returned to the same small house, the pickup truck having beaten her home on this day. The screen jerked as Melissa moved inside the van to shut the camera off. This cut on the tape led into darkness, rain falling hard. The camera had been switched off and back on again. A darkened figure clad in rain gear, Klein’s height, hurried to the van and climbed inside. Melissa’s voice spoke softly and intimately, and Stevie could picture her peering into the camera’s viewfinder while wrapped around its bulk. ‘‘Ithought that might shake you up,’’ she said, delivering the non sequitur. The van started up. ‘‘Show time,’’ she said. The van backed up. The screen flickered and went black. This scene immediately fed into a location with a view of the same car wash Stevie had witnessed on the earlier tape. Shot from a different angle, the tape showed the near side of the automatic wash’s cement bunker, only a single taillight showing. Overheard through the van’s oneway window and the constant scratching of the rain on its roof, came the angry honking of a car horn. Stevie associated the honking with the van, though reminding herself there was no way to be sure of that. Only as Klein—or whoever was wearing that hooded rain gear—