The First Victim

by Ridley Pearson

  he asked the assistant prosecuting attorney.

  ‘‘I’m only repeating what was said to me,’’ Delgato replied. ‘‘It’s your case, Sergeant. You worry about what kind of camera it is.’’

  ‘‘Do we foresee any problems with our involvement in this?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘There are some issues need clearing up,’’ she informed him. He struggled to keep up with her. ‘‘Possession issues. If you monitor the drop for them as they’re asking you to do, then who gets the camera? Little things like that.’’

  ‘‘And our position on this is . . . ?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Stolen evidence? You retain the confiscated property until such time it is no longer needed by us as evidence in a trial. No different than any other case.’’ She snapped her head in his direction, but never broke her stride. ‘‘Mind you, they have a slightly different interpretation. They’ll let us keep the camera, but they’re claiming that if there’s 153

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  a tape in that camera then they retain the tape for themselves. Intellectual property laws are sticky. I’ve got to warn you up front about that.’’

  SPD was under tremendous pressure to clear the container case. McNeal’s nightly broadcasts kept the story not only in front of the public, but on the political front burner as well. Election years were always the worst.

  ‘‘No mention of the missing woman? Just the camera? We’re clear that the ransom demanded is for the camera alone?’’

  ‘‘I’m just repeating what I was told,’’ she offered. ‘‘You heard the Asian community is going to march on the mayor’s office?’’

  He said, ‘‘Thanks. Ineeded to be reminded.’’

  ‘‘They’re expecting a big crowd.’’

  ‘‘Only because the press will be there,’’ he said. ‘‘Take away the cameras, ten people show up.’’

  She looked at him strangely, still at a near run. ‘‘You busy for dinner?’’

  ‘‘What dinner?’’ he asked. ‘‘Ihaven’t had dinner in three days. I slept an hour and a half last night.’’

  ‘‘We could skip dinner, Isuppose.’’

  The corridor’s long wooden benches were occupied by attorneys, witnesses, detectives and distraught family members. For LaMoia, it was not so much a courthouse as a processing center, the law reduced to a series of appearances, negotiations and compromises. As a cop, he couldn’t think about it without growing discouraged or even depressed. He didn’t see Delgato as a woman, only as an attorney. He didn’t know how to break it to her.

  ‘‘Icalled Robbery figuring they would watch the drop,’’ Delgato explained. ‘‘The minute Imentioned KSTV they put me on to you. They said anything to do with the television station went to you. . . . I told them Ionly wanted to do this once. I’m saying the same thing to you.’’ She was clearly angry with him for not picking up on her passes. She wasn’t going to take a third swing at the ball. She knocked on the door to a jury room and led him into where police and lawyer work ended and justice began.

  Despite hundreds of court appearances, LaMoia had rarely been

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  inside a deliberation room. It smelled of pine disinfectant. The long oval table’s edge had been victim to jurors nervously doodling. He could almost hear the deliberations—angry voices ringing off the walls. Among the ballpoint graffiti he noticed a hangman’s noose. He sat down into one of the chairs and ran his fingernail around the cartoon character’s neck. He said, ‘‘Do we know this information is good?’’

  ‘‘The station engraves its initials on its gear. The caller described that correctly.’’

  ‘‘The ransom?’’

  ‘‘He started at three thousand. The station settled at one—the amount of the deductible on their policy.’’

  ‘‘And he went for it?’’

  ‘‘Apparently.’’

  ‘‘That’s not a junkie, that’s a businessman.’’

  ‘‘A junkie would have hocked it,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Which may be what happened,’’ LaMoia concurred. ‘‘Who knows where this bozo got it from?’’

  ‘‘He demanded that anchor, Stevie McNeal, take the drop.’’

  ‘‘No way!’’

  ‘‘Wants a face he can recognize.’’

  ‘‘Can’t do it.’’

  ‘‘Nonnegotiable. The station already accepted the condition. That’s why they came to us. Their security firm wanted us aware of it, and you on board.’’

  ‘‘Prime Time Live? Idon’t think so!’’

  ‘‘It’s nonnegotiable,’’ she repeated. ‘‘You’re there to protect and serve.’’ She continued, ‘‘It gets worse.’’

  ‘‘Not possible,’’ he said.

  ‘‘They claim anything recovered is theirs.’’

  ‘‘You’ve got to be kidding! They ask for our help retrieving stolen property and then make demands on us if we agree?’’

  ‘‘Idon’t think that’s exactly how they would put it,’’ she said.

  ‘‘This is not an episode of Cops!’’

  ‘‘They haven’t shared the time and place of the drop. We could, if

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  and when they move without us, file obstruction of justice, but to be honest with you, it would never reach court and we’d lose. The press is one slippery eel. You would never see that tape.’’

  ‘‘If there is a tape,’’ he muttered. Lives were decided in this room by grocery clerks, housewives and CEOs. He rarely struggled over his career choice, but that hangman’s noose carved into the table twisted his gut.

  ‘‘There are still some unanswered questions,’’ she agreed. ‘‘How much do you want to be involved?’’

  ‘‘If there’s something useful to us on that tape—if there even is a tape—Ican’t have it broadcast to the world. There’s a woman missing. Ihave a life to protect—maybe hundreds of lives.’’

  ‘‘If there’s a tape in the camera, we can certainly take physical possession until trial. If they press for possession, they’re likely to win. It’s going to come down to timing. But the gloves-off attitude is you’ll get a look at anything that’s there.’’

  ‘‘Set up the drop,’’ he ordered.

  ‘‘It’s the right call,’’ she encouraged.

  ‘‘Then why don’t Ifeel better about it?’’

  She walked out, seams and folds of fabric and skin in a shifting blur of whistling fabric. She stopped at the door. ‘‘I’m different when the lawyer hat comes off.’’ She spared him any reply by hurrying out the door. Her quickened footsteps reminded him of horses’ hooves. LaMoia’s eye fell back to that hangman’s noose. The lines of the noose had been gone over repeatedly, the ink dark and saturated and leaving little doubt in his mind how the artist had voted.

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  C H A P T E R 3 1

  The man offering to sell the camera back to KSTV chose the Wednesday lunch hour and a granite bench alongside the water shower at the old Nordstrom’s terrace for the drop. It was a sunny day, the last week of August, that brought out joggers and tourists, panhandlers and skateboarders. Office workers sought out sun-worshipping perches for a peaceful sandwich and a twenty-minute tan. Women hiked their skirts up over their knees. Men loosened their ties and rolled up their sleeves. Summertime in the Emerald City. At the other end of town a group of three hundred Asians were gathered to march on City Hall. Fifty off-duty officers had been called up. Mixed into
the crowd by the water fountain, eleven undercover cops kept their eyes on Stevie McNeal, who carried a thousand dollars cash, a KSTV tote bag, and a severe expression that contradicted the TV personality. McNeal wore a lavaliere microphone clipped to her bra, its wire taped down her back. LaMoia, as the Command Officer—

  the CO—wore a headset in a refitted steam cleaning van, forfeited years earlier in a drug conviction, and currently used as Mobile Communications Dispatch—or MoCom for short. He had an unobstructed view of the water shower fountain and bench out a mirrored side window of one-way glass. The loud noise of the fountain’s falling water bothered the audio technician, a diminutive man with a silver stud in his left ear who by job definition could remain level and calm through the bloodiest of firestorms.

  ‘‘That fountain is loud. She’s wearing a condenser, which is a problem. We’re not going to hear her so good.’’

  ‘‘Well at least there’s some justice,’’ LaMoia said. ‘‘Maybe it won’t make such good TV.’’ The KSTV crew occupied an unmarked blue 157

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  step van in front of GapKids. They too were monitoring Stevie’s wireless.

  ‘‘Stand by,’’ the tech said, addressing all the undercover officers.

  ‘‘It’s show time.’’

  t

  As Stevie sat down onto the stone bench she exhaled calmly in an attempt to settle herself. The water shower sculpture was a fifteen-foot L that a person could walk through without getting wet, curtains of water falling on both sides of its narrow aisle. Kids loved it, squealing with delight as they hurried through. Downwind of the sculpture, a cooling mist prevailed.

  She missed the man’s approach. He sat down next to her, a Seattle Seahawks bag held by the straps. He said, ‘‘You look different on TV.’’

  ‘‘So they say.’’

  He was mid-forties, balding, wearing clothes that had been popular a decade earlier and with a nose that begged for rhinoplasty. His oily hair shined wetly in the sunlight. He smoked a filter cigarette that attached itself to his lower lip wet with spit. He engaged in a perpetual squint to avoid the stinging spiral of smoke and the bright sunshine. He did not look at her, his head up, eyes alert. A careful man. A planner. The cops had warned her that any man willing to take such a risk was either dumb, greedy, or both. Violent, maybe. Not to be trusted, for certain. She kept close tabs on him.

  ‘‘How do you want to do this?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘You hand me the envelope,’’ he said looking straight ahead, ‘‘and Ileave the bag behind.’’

  ‘‘Ihave to see it first,’’ she corrected.

  ‘‘We can do that,’’ he agreed, shoving the bag toward her. ‘‘Go ahead.’’

  Stevie dragged the bag over to her. She carefully unzipped it and peered inside. Brushed aluminum casing, the brand name, SONY. She felt choked. She had handed this camera to Melissa. She hated herself

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  for it. Worse, the camera’s tape indicator was blank. No tape inside. Stung with disappointment, she reached inside. ‘‘Ihave to see that it’s our call letters on it.’’

  ‘‘They’re on there,’’ he said. ‘‘Have a look.’’

  She turned the camera so that the call letters were visible. She said, ‘‘There’s no tape.’’

  He said, ‘‘If there’s more you want, then we gotta talk.’’

  ‘‘You talk,’’ she offered. ‘‘I’ll listen.’’

  ‘‘You’re interested in what was inside,’’ he suggested. Her heart beat frantically. ‘‘Am I?’’

  ‘‘You gotta come up with another five large.’’

  ‘‘You should have mentioned this.’’

  He said, ‘‘Ididn’t realize the thing was loaded until after we had us a deal.’’

  The demand of five hundred dollars seemed so cheap to her.

  ‘‘What’s on the tape?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘No clue,’’ he answered.

  ‘‘Five hundred dollars for a blank tape?’’

  ‘‘Not my problem. You want the tape or not?’’

  ‘‘Do you have it on you?’’

  ‘‘Five hundred dollars gets you the tape,’’ he said. He tossed the cigarette. Sparks flew and the butt wandered in a lazy arc on the pavers. ‘‘You want it or not? Ihaven’t got all day.’’

  ‘‘We had a deal,’’ she persisted. ‘‘Igive you a thousand dollars and you give me the camera. The tape comes with the camera.’’

  ‘‘The tape does not come with the camera,’’ he said vehemently.

  ‘‘You got yourself an ATM card?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘I’m listening,’’ Stevie answered.

  The man said, ‘‘You give me the thousand now and take the camera. Then you withdraw the five hun out of the ATM and meet me back here in ten minutes.’’

  ‘‘We go together,’’ she objected.

  ‘‘No way. Meet me back here, ten minutes.’’

  ‘‘You’ll have the tape on you,’’ she said, trying to sound definite.

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  ‘‘Ten minutes,’’ he repeated.

  Stevie stared off at the water fountain.

  ‘‘What are you doing?’’

  ‘‘I’m thinking,’’ she answered.

  t

  In the MoCom van LaMoia debated the offer made by the extortionist. The dispatcher awaited his decision, knowing better than to press.

  ‘‘Did you get all that?’’ he asked Boldt.

  ‘‘Copy,’’ Boldt replied. McNeal’s wire transmissions were carried over a set of Walkman headphones he wore. He had declined LaMoia’s offer to be in the MoCom van. As the day shift sergeant who had taken the complaint, the missing persons case was LaMoia’s lead. Despite his own desire to take over, Boldt understood the necessity of the lead officer having full authority. A surveillance could turn in a matter of seconds. ‘‘It’s your call,’’ he reminded.

  Boldt’s Chevy Cavalier was parked only a few yards away in a tow-away zone. With his cellphone pressed to his ear, he was enjoying a cup of Earl Grey tea at a Seattle’s Best Coffee in a plastic lawn chair out front of the Westlake Center from where he owned a slightly elevated and somewhat distant view of the occupied bench alongside the water shower. The SONY Walkman was actually a police-band radio monitor, its yellow all-weather headphones still in his ears despite the use of the cellphone.

  LaMoia asked, ‘‘What the hell’s he up to?’’

  ‘‘You have to make the call, John. She’s waiting.’’

  ‘‘It’s a go!’’ LaMoia confirmed to the dispatcher, who threw a switch on his console and gave the go-ahead.

  LaMoia leaned back nervously and said, ‘‘Ihate this shit.’’

  Not twenty feet away from the granite bench where Stevie and her visitor sat, a street bum suddenly spilled an entire garbage bag of crushed aluminum cans out onto the pavers. Her visitor jumped, a fresh cigarette bobbing in his lips and spraying embers that he batted off his lap. With the man distracted, Stevie quickly looked over her

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  left shoulder as coached. A woman not ten feet away—Detective Bobbie Gaynes, although she didn’t remember the name—signaled a thumbs-up, giving approval for the second ransom. Gaynes continued on, skirting her way past Andy Milner, the undercover cop in the role of the street bum who was busy collecting the spilled cans. Stevie handed the man on the bench the env
elope with the thousand dollars knowing that every serial number on every bill was accounted for. ‘‘Okay,’’ she said, ‘‘we’ve got a deal.’’

  t

  Stevie took her time walking to the ATM assuming that the police would need every minute to regroup and follow her. She recognized a few of the detectives—though the introductions had been fast and furious during her briefing and she didn’t remember a single name. She strolled casually up the slight rise of Fourth Avenue, approaching the ATM where she thought she recognized one of the detectives. The man met eyes with her and quickly indicated his wristwatch. The signal was obvious: They wanted more time. The detective stepped away from the ATM. She suddenly appreciated the police in a way she never had before. The surveillance team was keeping up with her despite the change in plans. Their presence lent her a feeling of safety. Nonetheless, she stepped up to the ATM

  with adrenaline charging her system.

  She inserted her card and punched in her PIN. Twenty seconds later her money was delivered, followed by her card. She turned in time to see two punk kids coming directly at her, their intentions forecast in their determined eyes. She’d been set up. Tape or no tape, they were going to mug her for the five hundred in broad daylight. Stevie stepped back toward the ATM machine.

  At that same moment, a blur of activity erupted to her right. A homeless man collided with a woman and stole her two shopping bags, violently shoving her to the sidewalk. He sprinted away from her heading directly toward the two youths approaching Stevie.

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  The downed woman shouted for help. Two uniformed police charged around the corner of the building shouting at the homeless man, and finally tackling him. At the sight of cops, the two punks scattered, one heading down Fourth Avenue, the other east on Olive. Stevie stepped away from the ATM and collected herself. They were all cops, she realized—the street person, the assaulted woman—

  the event staged to scare off the punks. Guardian angels took on the strangest forms.

  Halfway back down the street a hand gripped her elbow firmly.

  ‘‘Walk’’ . . . the man said.