‘‘Jill Doe,’’ Dixon answered. ‘‘It’s always the first victim,’’ he ruminated. ‘‘The mistakes, the haste.’’
‘‘What mistakes?’’ Boldt answered.
Pointing to Boldt, Dixon said to LaMoia, ‘‘Take lessons from him. He’s the best there is. Knows when to interrupt and what to ask. Knows when to keep his mouth shut and let a man talk.’’ He looked at Boldt. ‘‘So let me talk.’’ He moved to behind the security of his large gunmetal gray desk. ‘‘They froze her, same as Jane. But they
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had more time. They froze her hard . . . solid, and I’m guessing they forgot to take that chain off ahead of time, so that by the time they realized, if they realized, it was still attached, they had little choice but to leave it there. They then buried her over ten feet deep in relatively cool soil, a week, maybe even two or three ahead of Jane Doe. You see where I’m going with this?’’
‘‘She stayed frozen,’’ Boldt guessed.
‘‘Gold star. For a while. Yes. And that helped not only preserve her, but severely retard her decomposition.’’
‘‘She stayed frozen down there?’’ LaMoia asked.
‘‘Are you listening? No, she didn’t. But she was in forty-degree soil. Her extremities thawed first, followed by the epidermis in general. The heat moved from both ends toward the center like defrosting a leg of lamb. But you know how long that takes: You put a twentypound turkey or a six-pound leg of lamb on a seventy-degree kitchen counter and it takes all day—sometimes longer—to defrost. Try putting it inside a forty-degree refrigerator! You pull it out the next day, the thing has barely begun to thaw. Now try it with a hundred-andseventeen pound human being—’’
‘‘Pass,’’ LaMoia said. ‘‘Do we learn anything from all this fascinating detail?’’ he quipped. Dixon said sadly, ‘‘In other ways, you’re more like him every day.’’
‘‘The Cliff Notes, Dixie,’’ Boldt said.
‘‘Stomach contents relatively intact. Plenty of organic matter to work with.’’
Boldt wondered if he’d wasted his morning.
Dixon continued. ‘‘Did it occur to either of you brilliant investigators that if these people have a hundred women locked up sewing polarfleece pullovers for a dime a day, they still need some way to feed them?’’ He grinned widely. ‘‘Ah, ha! Ican see it did not! No, you overlooked the obvious, did you not? So locked, like me, into the dead—the dead evidence, the dead witnesses, the dead ends, that you never extrapolated the situation out to the obvious: These women have to eat. And this woman, Jill Doe, did eat. Not only did she eat, but she ate a tuberous root, an edible bulb, similar to our own leek. She also
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apparently consumed brown rice. But it’s this leek that interests you, this leek that’s the best evidence you’ve had in this case. Asian, and not sold in your typical Safeway if the few phone calls we’ve made are any indication. We can’t find one for comparison.’’
‘‘Asian groceries,’’ Boldt muttered, stung by this information. LaMoia followed suit. ‘‘Mama Lu is the Asian grocery queen. What do you want to bet that she has the contract to provide the food for these people? That’s how she knows so much about it and yet isn’t directly involved to where she has to fear us.’’
‘‘A humble businesswoman,’’ Boldt repeated at a whisper. ‘‘She kept flaunting it right under my nose.’’
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‘‘Ms. McNeal, it’s Roy,’’ a familiar but unidentifiable voice said over her cellphone. Stevie was more interested in the ice cream she had ordered from room service than the phone call.
‘‘Roy?’’
‘‘Traffic?’’ the man inquired, identifying himself. Chopper Roy they called him. Drive-time traffic reports for both the morning news and N4@ 5. Once she made the connection, the voice was all the more recognizable.
‘‘Yes, Roy.’’
‘‘Station gave me your cell number. Hope you don’t mind. I thought you’d want to hear this.’’
‘‘Hear what?’’ She sat forward on the couch and pushed the ice cream aside, her heart beginning to beat more strongly in her chest. What was the traffic guy calling about?
‘‘Friend of mine, Sam Haber, works over to the FBO, handles Seven’s SkyCam.’’
Channel Seven, he meant. The competition. She didn’t like this already.
‘‘Their chopper. Yeah. Sam does their maintenance. Also does their outfitting. Calls about canceling a Mariners game we had planned on account Seven has him outfitting their bird with some high-tech infrared shit that has something to do with hunting down a ship. Tonight, we’re talking about. He overhears one of the guys with the gear saying they’re going to scoop us on our story on account the cops have been asking all sorts of questions at Port Authority. Thought you ought to know.’’
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‘‘A ship,’’ she repeated, scribbling down notes on a white linen napkin. ‘‘Our own story.’’
‘‘Scooping our own story. Yeah.’’
‘‘Know anything about this gear?’’
‘‘Only that it’s not standard issue. Ultrasensitive infrared. Sam said some professor type from the university was the one installing it. They had to black out the hangar to even pull the lens cap and test the gear—it’s that sensitive. Daylight will fry the thing. Guy blew up at Sam over opening a door because of the light. Pissed Sam off, I’ll tell you what. If he hadn’t, maybe Sam wouldn’t have told me. Sam’s kinda like that: doesn’t like someone shouting at him, you know?’’
‘‘They’re hunting down a container ship,’’ she stated. ‘‘Is there any way we can mess them up on this?’’
‘‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’’ the helicopter pilot replied.
‘‘Get the bird ready.’’
‘‘She’s being refueled as we speak.’’
As Stevie was about to hang up she was trying to think of some way to lose her various guards and surveillance. ‘‘Roy,’’ she asked,
‘‘are there any downtown buildings where you can land on the roof?’’
‘‘Can you get over to Columbia SeaFirst?’’
‘‘Give me a number where Ican reach you,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll call from there.’’
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LaMoia was not above circumventing existing law to get what he needed, but he did so only by working with detectives willing to forgo overtime pay and to keep silent about their actions. Chief among these was Bobbie Gaynes, so fiercely loyal to Boldt that she had no problem with the assignment to place a federal agent under round-theclock surveillance despite the fact that any such surveillance required special notification. It was nothing new for LaMoia—coming up through the ranks his nickname had been Stretch, for how he dealt with the law. Everyone wanted what LaMoia could get for them—
snitches, bank accounts, tax records—but not one of them wanted to know the details. It was okay with him; it helped perpetuate the myth, and the myth was now what defined him. The Myth. It controlled him as well, dictating his actions, and he knew that couldn’t last forever. He moved through women like a drunk through booze—in part to maintain that image. He drove fast and lived that way, too. But the wax, melting from both ends, shrank ever smaller, and John LaMoia identified
with it more clearly every day.
LaMoia had no physical evidence against Brian Coughlie, only a deep-rooted suspicion prompted by a number of unexplained coincidences. Without evidence, he had no case to build. But as a point of law, it was not explicitly illegal for any person to follow or watch any other person, so long as the person being watched did not feel threatened or have his or her expectation of privacy violated. Washington State did have a tough stalker law in place, but it required certain criteria to be met that Gaynes and LaMoia avoided without any effort whatsoever.
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Gaynes called from a pay phone in order to avoid the open airwaves of cellular telephones and the lurid intentions of police radioband scanners. LaMoia and Gaynes maintained a relationship of respect-at-a-distance, his womanizing so legendary that she skillfully avoided him; her investigative abilities and position in Boldt’s inner circle crucial to his squad’s all-important high clearance rate. They rarely played politics with each other and never socialized.
‘‘Go ahead,’’ LaMoia acknowledged, having moved into the passenger seat of the surveillance van still parked with a view of the naval yard. Despite the media blitz earlier in the day, as far as LaMoia and others could determine, the press had yet to cotton on to the actual physical location of the naval yard surveillance.
‘‘Ithink Ilost him.’’
‘‘Lost him?’’
‘‘That’s what Isaid,’’ she fired back angrily. ‘‘He parked it and went into City Hall,’’ she reported.
‘‘City Hall?’’
‘‘That’s what I said,’’ she repeated. ‘‘It’s been half an hour. I’m thinking he burned me. Must have gone out a different door. Left his car.’’
‘‘You tell Sarge?’’
‘‘You’re lead,’’ she reminded.
LaMoia didn’t feel like the lead detective. He wasn’t sure he ever would. And he didn’t know if that was because of Boldt, or his own personality. He had followed in the man’s footsteps for too long to give it up. Only that past year when Boldt had worked Intelligence had LaMoia felt like his own man. But now, the two reunited at Crimes Against Persons, title or not, rank or not, the Sarge ran the show and no one was complaining, least of all LaMoia. Never heavy-handed about it, Boldt simply had an instinct to lead, a nose for the next avenue to pursue. The man owned an eighty-eight—a ten-year clearance rate that seemed likely to stand for all time. LaMoia was a sixtyfour, and proud of it; there were guys down in the mid-forties. Gaynes
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was a seventy, though she didn’t flaunt it. As the one and only woman wearing a gold badge on the fifth floor, she was smart enough not to flaunt any of her assets. She dressed to hide her body, had a tongue on her that could keep up with anyone, and could drink as much beer as the next dick. LaMoia liked her, though he hoped it didn’t show. When it came to investigations he didn’t always feel like the lead, but in terms of his squad, he was the sergeant, the one in charge, in command. In this regard, he was unflinching. Thinking aloud, he said, ‘‘Half an hour in City Hall is nothing. Those drones? He could easily still be in there.’’
‘‘Could be. Could also be that he took this morning’s news to mean we might have him under surveillance. Could be guilt working him, making him take precautions. You want me to look around?’’
‘‘Nah, don’t move. Keep an eye on his wheels. I’ll be there in a few. We’ll double. I’ll check inside. What’s your location?’’
She told him.
LaMoia sneaked out of the surveillance van and was on his way back into town.
t
LaMoia started with Vital Statistics, thinking death certificates offered the most direct route to forge a new identity and that perhaps Coughlie was hoping to reinvent himself and get the hell out of Dodge. The description of the man failed to register with the Asian woman behind the desk, and only then, upon hearing her thickly laced accent, did it occur to him that any one of these minimum wagers could be in cahoots with an INS agent.
He tried state property tax records next, only because it was the next door down the hall. One door to another: the workers behind the counters Asian, Hispanic, Black; not many whites. LaMoia had no problem with the melting pot, so long as everyone working City Hall spoke English, drove fifty-five, and paid their taxes same as him. He didn’t support the concept of welfare and frowned at food stamps—too
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much corruption for anything like that to work. You took your shovel or your pen and you went to work, same as the next Joe. That was the America he wore his badge for. A trip down the halls of city government could shake a person up. Coughlie was nowhere to be seen.
The next floor held five more doors—all the same thing. Too much paperwork, too many stamps of approval, too many hands under the table grabbing for the same cash. It depressed him. Another flight up the polished marble stairs. Who the hell could afford marble anyway?
Permits. The idea did not jump out at him; he heard no trumpets or voices guiding him.
The door to Permits was blocked only by a rubber wedge. A matronly black woman who knitted her own sweaters and chose not to color her vaguely gray hair stood behind the long counter. She had the cheerful air of a first grade teacher or public librarian.
‘‘Police,’’ he introduced himself, displaying his badge. He began his description of Brian Coughlie only to be interrupted.
‘‘The INS agent who was just here,’’ she said.
‘‘Yes.’’ Coughlie had made his INS identity known to the woman. LaMoia took this as a bad sign, for it supported the man’s innocence. He wanted Coughlie defined—on or off his list of suspects—he didn’t want to keep guessing.
‘‘His interest here?’’ LaMoia asked.
‘‘Building permits,’’ she said. ‘‘Must have spent a half hour going over them.’’
‘‘Current? Past?’’
‘‘Current. Said that construction sites often employed illegals—
illegal immigrants, you know?—for the manual labor, the ‘grunt jobs,’
Ithink he called them. Said construction permits were a great resource for the INS.’’
This made sense. LaMoia sank a little lower, his suspicions dashed. ‘‘Then you’d seen him before?’’ he inquired, thinking to ask.
‘‘Me? Oh, no. Never once. Not ever.’’
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‘‘You’re new to this department?’’
‘‘Aren’t you the one for compliments!’’ she said. ‘‘Eighteen years I’ve worked here behind this counter.’’
‘‘Other INS agents?’’
‘‘Here? Never. Not so as they identified themselves, anyway.’’
LaMoia considered all this carefully as he asked to be shown the same material Coughlie had viewed.
LaMoia spent twenty minutes reviewing the exact same construction permits as had Brian Coughlie but failed to connect any importance to his case. He considered every angle: location of the sites; any possible connection to Mama Lu. He found nothing. He asked a dozen questions, including if Coughlie had focused on any particular permit, if he had asked for any specific qualification. The woman couldn’t help him.
He could feel the connection staring back at him but could not see it. He decided to let it go, hoping it might make sense to him later, the way that sometimes happened.
t
�
��‘Where to from here?’’ Gaynes asked.
‘‘Igotta get back to the surveillance,’’ LaMoia replied from the passenger seat of her Chevy. He didn’t see the point in wheels like this. No style. Nothing to offer.
He’d brought her a cup of mocha coffee, and she had seemed touched that he knew the way she took it.
‘‘Me?’’ she asked.
‘‘Try his crib. Try his office. Make up some bullshit if you have to. Try to find him. Keep me up to speed. If you strike out, when you get back to PS check with the lab. The Doc said he passed the Jill Doe evidence on to Lofgrin. Where’s it at? How come we don’t have it?’’
‘‘The Sarge?’’
‘‘He’s doing the dance with Mama Lu. He may have something—
providing we ever see him again.’’
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‘‘Don’t joke around like that,’’ she chastised him. ‘‘That shit bothers me.’’
‘‘Who’s joking?’’ LaMoia replied, taking one last noisy sip from the cup’s plastic lid before venturing back outside.
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‘‘We’re working together, right?’’ McNeal asked Boldt from the other end of a cellular call.
‘‘Far as I’m concerned.’’ His mind was on Mama Lu—the location of that sweatshop. If the Great Lady wouldn’t cooperate, then, as far as he was concerned, their one and only chance of finding Melissa, of busting the sweatshop, came down to the shipment expected that same night. Stevie McNeal, and her world of problems, was far from his thoughts.
‘‘Together as in: Whatever Ihave, you have and vice versa.’’
‘‘As in,’’ Boldt confirmed, his attention still drifting.
‘‘This surveillance that was reported,’’ she said, waking him up some. ‘‘What are your chances of making this bust?’’
‘‘Until they reported it, our chances were pretty good, Ithink.’’
‘‘And now?’’
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