The First Victim

by Ridley Pearson

  ‘‘Are there any that aren’t?’’ he quipped. ‘‘No clue.’’

  ‘‘He speak English?’’ LaMoia asked.

  ‘‘Pidgin shit,’’ the man answered. ‘‘Marble mouth.’’

  ‘‘Tattoos? Marks?’’ Boldt asked.

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  ‘‘Just a kid looking to cash in. A little scared of the whole thing, you know?’’

  ‘‘Scared of making the deal,’’ LaMoia clarified.

  ‘‘Right.’’

  ‘‘So you thought it was hot,’’ Boldt said.

  ‘‘Of course it was hot,’’ the man declared. ‘‘Do Ilook like a buyer for Macy’s?’’

  ‘‘He called it a camcorder,’’ LaMoia repeated.

  ‘‘Yeah, right. Didn’t know shit about it. I’m telling you: He came in, wanted some money for it. Igive him two bills and he books. Whole thing, maybe a minute or two.’’

  ‘‘Two bills for a twelve-thousand-dollar camera,’’ LaMoia said.

  ‘‘Hey, the station’s call letters are engraved on the bottom. What can Itell you? He must’a never seen it. Didn’t know how expensive this digital shit is. I’m telling you: He didn’t know what he had, that kid. And the way he was nervous and all: He was either a junkie, or worried about making the deal somehow. That kind of build, that strength, I’m not thinking he was a junkie. More like a kid who stole his own mother’s car stereo.’’

  ‘‘He found it,’’ Boldt said to LaMoia. ‘‘He found it, or he took it from her—’’

  ‘‘But he didn’t tell no one,’’ LaMoia completed.

  ‘‘Who?’’ the suspect asked. ‘‘Ididn’t take nothing from nobody!’’

  ‘‘Shut up!’’ LaMoia barked. ‘‘We’re talking here!’’

  Boldt said, ‘‘He found it and figured he’d make himself a couple extra bucks.’’

  ‘‘So he hocks it with this bozo,’’ LaMoia said. Boldt informed the man, ‘‘We’re going to ask you to look at photo arrays.’’

  ‘‘Mug shots.’’

  ‘‘Right,’’ the lieutenant said. ‘‘You point him out, you walk out of here—’’

  ‘‘Hey! That weren’t no part of the deal! That’s bullshit.’’

  LaMoia stood abruptly, startling the man. He leaned across the

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  table. ‘‘Don’t interrupt the lieutenant, asshole! The man’s talking to you.’’

  Boldt repeated, ‘‘You’ll look at the photos. You point him out, you walk out of here tonight. You don’t find him, you do a night in lockup for the assault, and you look at more photos tomorrow. You give us a face, we give you a passport.’’

  ‘‘This is bullshit!’’

  ‘‘This is your way out of here,’’ LaMoia corrected. ‘‘Or would you rather we call the attorneys, and tell them you won’t cooperate?’’

  ‘‘But I did cooperate!’’ he protested. LaMoia turned to Boldt. ‘‘Do you think he’s cooperating, Sarge?’’

  ‘‘Ithink he’s making up stories,’’ Boldt said.

  ‘‘I’m telling you the way it went down!’’ the man shouted.

  ‘‘And he’s yelling at us,’’ LaMoia observed.

  Boldt said, ‘‘You give us a face that checks out, and you walk.’’

  LaMoia cautioned, ‘‘If you’re making this shit up, you’re toast.’’

  ‘‘He was just some kid! Some Chinese kid. How am Isupposed to know the difference?’’

  ‘‘They all look alike?’’ LaMoia challenged in a threatening tone.

  ‘‘Don’t go there, pal.’’ He lied to pressure the man: ‘‘You don’t want to get within a few miles of that, given that the lieutenant here is married to a lovely Chinese woman and has five little daughters to prove it.’’

  The suspect looked as if he’d swallowed an ice cube or was choking on unchewed meat. Boldt had to turn to the door so the man wouldn’t catch his grin.

  ‘‘Let’s get it started,’’ he said to his sergeant, wondering where LaMoia came up with such stuff.

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  As a reporter, Stevie had perfected the art of using people, and though her last several years as a news anchor had clearly dulled those talents, they were not altogether lost. She understood the powerful effect that her body and looks had upon men, as well as the envy they incited in women—how to harness and exploit those attributes as needed. She needed them now. Brian Coughlie had access to SPD that she did not. She had picked the best restaurant in the city. She wore a low scooped teal dress that turned heads. She was ready. Her body ached with fatigue and exhaustion after the police sting, but she wasn’t going to surrender to it until she made it through the dinner and had accomplished what she had come to accomplish. Judge Milton Abrams was blocking KSTV’s viewing of the videotape that she had personally recovered. Boldt, Abrams and others had burned her, and her only chance to return the favor lay with the man who now sat across the table from her.

  Campagne was indeed one of the city’s finest restaurants. Brian Coughlie, there at her invitation, looked slightly out of place, but she didn’t let that bother her. Her celebrity had created a buzz in the restaurant the moment she’d arrived. She played it up, hoping to intimidate Coughlie, who was nothing but a government worker bee with a bad tailor. It was an odd alliance at best, and she intended to milk him for everything she could get. She would stop short of sleeping with him, but he certainly didn’t know that.

  A hint of sexual suggestion, an occasional compliment, a welltimed wiggle in her chair—she had the full arsenal at her disposal. Ready, indeed.

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  Coughlie was not about to turn down an invitation from this one. He’d been trying to think of a way to get her alone, to find out as much about her missing friend as possible. One man’s ceiling was another man’s floor. As a media source she had contacts and resources that he did not. Following her late afternoon piece that police had allegedly confiscated evidence belonging to the station, her invitation to dinner had come as a godsend. She needed him—the beginning of any negotiation. If he got laid in the process, so much the better. Judging by the look of her, it would make for an unforgettable evening. The way she kept moving her butt in the chair was making him excited. But his interest in her was for what she knew, not what kind of ride she was. SPD was stonewalling the INS, and vice versa—business as usual. He stuck to the food and wine. Women loved to talk if you gave them half the chance. The way she was hitting the wine, she’d be giving a goddamn keynote address in a few minutes. Not to be outdone, he took a sip himself. Decent stuff. Archery Something. A yuppie wine— peanut noir was what he’d nicknamed it. He’d take a Chablis any day. At sixty bucks a bottle, he thought she was trying to impress him. Nice try, he said to himself. It took more than a chest and an attitude to fix his game.

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  ‘‘Why does a person join the INS?’’ she asked, meeting eyes with him.

  ‘‘Why does a person put her face in front of a million people every afternoon?’’

  ‘‘It’s four hundred thousand,’’ she corrected, ‘‘and it’s not a fair comparison. The public image of the INS is gatekeepers, border guards.’’

  ‘‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’’

  ‘‘Tell me I’m wrong.’’

  ‘‘Power hungry ex-football players?’’ he asked, stabbing a piece of thin ham off the appetizer plate that had
some kind of Italian name. Cheap bastards cutting it that thin. ‘‘We have our fair share of those. It’s a fair shot to take.’’

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  ‘‘And you?’’

  ‘‘If I’d wanted to be a hero I’d have been a fireman.’’

  She laughed at the comment.

  He continued. ‘‘Isuppose you start out thinking you’re part of the group that gives people a shot at this country, its freedom, its opportunity. That’s the underlying charter, don’t forget. You find a lot of patriots in the Service. And in the job interviews, that’s what they play up: the opportunity you’re giving these people. The power that comes with it? Sure. Racism? Probably right. Some of the guys who sign up want nothing more than to smack some Mexican across the face with a nightstick. I’ve seen it. But they’re ferreted out pretty quickly, those guys, believe me. No one wants them around. The flip side is that we also protect what’s left of this country for those who have a legal right to it. Illegals dilute the status quo. They sponge off social programs that they’ve never paid into. You don’t charge at the gate, you go broke.’’

  ‘‘But there’s paying and then there’s paying. What about the detainees?’’ she asked. ‘‘Three or four weeks in a container with dead bodies. How badly do they want it? Haven’t they paid a high enough price for their freedom?’’

  ‘‘We both know where those women were headed,’’ he reminded.

  ‘‘Sweatshops? Brothels? Is that the dream you’re selling?’’

  ‘‘Ineed a favor,’’ she stated bluntly, reaching for the wine bottle and pouring them both more.

  ‘‘Should Ibe surprised? A dinner like this? And Ithought it was because you found me so irresistible.’’

  ‘‘The cops used me.’’

  ‘‘Welcome aboard.’’

  ‘‘Confiscated evidence.’’

  ‘‘Isaw the piece.’’

  ‘‘You watch the broadcast?’’

  ‘‘Every day,’’ he answered.

  ‘‘I’m flattered. What the broadcast didn’t tell you: They recovered a tape. Not VHS, but digital. Footage she shot after Igave her that camera.’’

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  He took this all in along with another sip of wine and said, ‘‘You want me to get the digital tape for you.’’

  ‘‘They double-crossed me. That tape is rightfully mine.’’

  ‘‘Let’s just say that the idea interests me.’’

  ‘‘If the tape contains anything, it has to do with the illegals—that was the story we were working. Melissa wanted the digital camera because it was small and easy to carry. As in surveillance. Judging by the VHS tapes she shot before Igot her the digital, I’m thinking she boarded a bus maybe. A car wash. I’m not sure. But whatever she shot, it has to do with illegals. And that’s your turf.’’

  He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Car wash? Where the hell had that come from? Time to give Rodriguez a call and close it down. He felt like bailing on dinner and making the call immediately.

  He said, ‘‘So Ipress for the right to view this digital tape. Let’s say they grant me that. What then? Igive you a book report?’’

  The dress was a pleasure to look at. She knew about packaging, this one. She knew how to move to distract a man’s attention.

  ‘‘Yes. Exactly. You tell me what you saw,’’ she answered.

  ‘‘And in return?’’

  ‘‘Ishow you the VHS tapes: the first three tapes that Melissa shot. Quid pro quo.’’

  ‘‘This car wash . . .’’ he tested. He had to know the extent of what she knew. If she knew too much, then he had some tough decisions to make.

  She teased, ‘‘I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.’’

  He couldn’t stop himself from grinning. She was good this one. Extremely good. ‘‘You’re okay,’’ he said.

  ‘‘I’m a hell of a lot better than okay, Brian. You just have to trust me.’’

  ‘‘I’m working on that,’’ he said, echoing her words of their last meeting. He boldly winked at her and won a wide smile. He loved the dance more than anything. And this one knew how to dance.

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  T H U R S D AY , AU G U S T 2 7

  1 0 D AY S M I S S I N G

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  C H A P T E R 3 4

  Boldt elected to view the contents of the digital videotape against the recommendations of every attorney consulted. Chow’s disappearance mandated action, as did the larger implication of her possible connection to the dead illegals, the two murdered witnesses and Klein’s having vanished. He had no choice in the matter. If a court eventually ruled against him, throwing out whatever the tape might reveal and whatever case they had built along with it, he would need a different way to that same evidence, something he would have to work out when needed. He wasn’t going to allow attorneys to set his agenda.

  ‘‘Why the suit?’’ LaMoia asked. ‘‘You going to a funeral?’’

  ‘‘Lot 17,’’ Boldt answered. Lot 17 was King County’s Tomb of the Unknown Victim—a five-acre piece of forest land where all the Jane and John Does were put to rest. The Doe family now numbered over two hundred. ‘‘The women from the container.’’

  ‘‘Seriously?’’ LaMoia answered. ‘‘I’d rather we hold on to them.’’

  ‘‘If I want to wear a suit, I’ll wear a suit.’’

  ‘‘You’re making up that shit about Lot 17.’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’ He didn’t tell him the real reason, despite their friendship. Rumor spread too quickly on the fifth floor.

  Both men moved quickly down the stairs, Boldt feeling more agile than he had in years. Liz’s illness had cost him twenty-five pounds in what Dixon called ‘‘a grief diet.’’ The pounds had not come back, and he was glad for it.

  ‘‘What do you make of the camera and slippers?’’

  ‘‘Idon’t like it.’’

  ‘‘Me neither. A woman without her shoes is kinda like a car without its tires. Know what Imean?’’

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  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Sure you do.’’

  ‘‘She’s dead?’’ Boldt asked.

  ‘‘I’m leaning that way.’’

  ‘‘Don’t.’’

  ‘‘Based on?’’

  ‘‘Just don’t,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘Iwant her alive.’’

  ‘‘It has been like ten days since anyone’s seen her, Sarge.’’

  ‘‘I’m a lieutenant now. You’ve got to stop calling me that.’’

  ‘‘Icall you ‘Lieu’ and everyone’s gonna think I’m using your first name. Igotta call you Sarge. Otherwise it’s ‘Lieutenant’ and that’s just way too long. You know?’’

  ‘‘Get used to it.’’

  ‘‘Look who’s talking.’’

  Boldt stopped on a landing and looked LaMoia in the eye. Both men knew he was going to say something, but he didn’t.

  ‘‘Lofgrin called,’’ LaMoia stated, referring to the head of the forensics lab. ‘‘Said he picked up fish scales on the bottom of those slippers. Wants me to stop by wh
en we’re done with Tech Services.’’

  Although the discovery of the fish scales intrigued Boldt for their apparent connection to Jane Doe, Boldt felt a stab of envy and misgiving. He wanted SID calling him, not his sergeants. But given his advancement to lieutenant, it wasn’t going to be that way. The lab and the ME’s office notified the lead officer first, and a lieutenant was rarely, if ever, a lead officer. Supervisor, yes. Consultant, yes. But not lead. Boldt wasn’t sure why this mattered so much to him, but it did. He didn’t want to be the second to know, he didn’t want to be the bridesmaid. He wanted it to be his pager to go off—even though he hated the things; his phone to ring; his decision. When a case went bad he was now called to the office rather than the crime scene. It just wasn’t right. This, in part, explained the suit he was wearing. He had a job interview lined up for later in the day. Not even Liz knew about it. He was in turmoil over the decision to take the interview, much less the job if it were offered.

  They stopped at the fire door to the basement floor. It had been

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  painted with so many coats that it had a leathery look. ‘‘If anything decent comes out of this video,’’ Boldt cautioned, ‘‘we need to be thinking about how else we might obtain it in case some judge shuts us down.’’

  LaMoia’s resources were legendary. He had friends who had friends who had access to the most sensitive and privately guarded information—financial and otherwise. Some said it was all those past girlfriends; others claimed he’d once been military intelligence. He never said a word about it, extending the legend and keeping his sources protected. ‘‘You got it,’’ he said.

  Boldt told him, ‘‘It’s a job interview, but I don’t want anyone to know.’’ That sobered LaMoia.

  ‘‘Yeah? Well Ihope for all our sakes it goes really bad.’’ He hesitated a moment and then added warmly, ‘‘Thanks . . . Lieutenant.’’

  Boldt pulled open the door.

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  The geek in Tech Services said something about dubbing the digital down to an SVHS master and handed LaMoia the remote wand—yet another sign of who was lead officer—and told him to summon him if they needed anything, or when they were through. He left the two men by themselves in a small darkened room in front of a twenty-seveninch color television.