The First Victim lbadm-6

by Ridley Pearson

  By seven o’clock, the local TV stations had cameras and crews on location, joining a half dozen other reporters, along with the morbidly curious that peopled any homicide crime scene. A zoo scene. A public spectacle. A political nightmare if reporters made the connection to the container and took the spin that police had lost control to organized crime. Boldt would be hearing about this one for days.

  As if reading his thoughts, a voice said from behind, ‘‘I don’t know about you, but for us, this is going to be a public relations nightmare.’’

  Boldt turned and shook hands with Brian Coughlie.

  ‘‘Once he’s connected to the Visage it hits the fan,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘The crew has been rounded up.’’

  ‘‘I heard,’’ Coughlie said, letting Boldt know he had some impressive contacts. LaMoia had grabbed the crew in near secrecy. ‘‘It’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about; we’ve got the interpreters-I thought we might share that work. We could handle it for you, if you’d rather.’’

  ‘‘We’re okay,’’ Boldt said, refusing both offers.

  ‘‘Could be my fault,’’ Coughlie said, allowing the comment to hang in the air. ‘‘I put the word out on him like you asked. Maybe that was the wrong call.’’

  The guy delivered it as if he’d rehearsed it, which bothered Boldt. The truth was: Coughlie bothered Boldt; the feds always had hidden agendas.

  Looking down at the black body bag, Coughlie said, ‘‘Maybe he had a name to give us.’’

  ‘‘Mama Lu?’’

  ‘‘Five years ago, maybe. Now? I don’t think so, no. Not that she doesn’t have serious pull. Of course she does. But control? Doubtful. We watched her closely for two, maybe three years. Your guys, too- OC.’’ He meant Organized Crime. ‘‘Phone taps, audits, undercover work. We ate shit on that one. Tried twice with a grand jury; failed both times. We still look in that direction every now and again, but not very hard. She has made some serious friends downtown.’’

  ‘‘I like her for this.’’

  ‘‘Be careful.’’

  ‘‘That’s what they say,’’ Boldt said.

  ‘‘Do me a favor. After you’ve worked the crew, let me have a shot at them. Maybe we get lucky.’’

  It was a compromise Boldt could live with.

  The two men shook hands.

  Coughlie avoided the press as he left, deftly ducking under the police tape and running quickly to his car, driving off as reporters chased him.

  Boldt used the distraction to order the body bag into the chuck wagon. If the captain’s death sent any message, it was a simple one- people involved with this one were going to die.

  He hoped like hell he wasn’t on the list himself.

  CHAPTER 16

  A little more than twenty-four hours after reporting Melissa missing, Stevie, her guilt and fear levels increasing exponentially, took matters into her own hands, deciding to return to Melissa’s and search more carefully.

  Pioneer Square on a Friday night teemed with a mixture of the college crowd, tourists, indigents and police. A person could buy anything from a microbrewery beer to a Persian rug. Stevie drove her 325i a dozen blocks and left it in a parking garage. During the short walk to the square, she allowed herself to wonder why Melissa had chosen such a noisy, crowded, touristy location in which to live. They were so different from one another, and yet so close. For Stevie, any stroll down the street meant the likelihood of contact with her viewing public-autograph-seeking strangers who would see her and want to meet her. She hated that part of her job.

  In hopes of avoiding recognition, she dressed down in jeans and T-shirt and wore no make-up. She walked with her head down, threading her way through the crush of people, making her way to Melissa’s apartment.

  She climbed the steps, rang the buzzer and let herself in. She trudged up flights of stairs, unlocked the door and stepped inside the apartment. The door locked behind her, the only sounds the dull beat of a nearby rock club. She took her time feeding the fish. ‘‘Anyone here?’’ she called out, hopelessly. Again, the lived-in feel of the apartment got to her. The bedroom might have been left that morning the way it looked-clothes tossed around. That toothbrush standing sentry in the water glass still hurt her the most, and it struck her how odd it was that such a small, insignificant item could convey so much. The pain in her weighed as a numbness now, a sleep-deprived aching, a longing to start all over, to win a second chance. There was no one to hear her appeal, just a ringing in her ears and a hollow emptiness in the center of her chest like a bad case of butterflies. She roamed the small apartment, feverish with anxiety, finally resorting to pulling open cabinets and peering behind furniture. It was this last effort that won her a reward. She saw it piled behind the couch, utilizing the wall plugs-some of the station’s electronic gear. It was the SVHS setup Melissa had used in the van, including two waist-belt battery packs. Stevie unplugged both packs and rummaged through the gear, discovering three videotapes, the first two marked ‘‘Klein,’’ the third, ‘‘car wash.’’ Just the sight of the handwriting stung Stevie with fear. At that moment she would have traded a dozen hot news stories for the chance to have Melissa back safely.

  She glanced over at the bookshelf and saw a porcelain doll, its cheek cracked, its eyes staring directly at her. Her emotions overcame her.

  The afternoon sunlight played off the walls and crown molding, blinding the man standing at attention in the oil painting that hung above the fireplace. The air in the room smelled of Father’s tobacco, while outside the sun struggled through dust and automobile exhaust, always the same dull wheat straw, never brilliant like Switzerland. The Chinese seemed surrounded by dust, consumed by it.

  The precocious young girl with the ring curls tied off with red satin ribbon clutched her porcelain doll with determination, alone in the lavishly decorated sitting room awaiting introductions. Stephanie didn’t want this other girl living here. She wanted Su-Su and Father all to herself. Father had left the room only minutes before, accompanied by two of his deputies and an embassy aide, leaving the sweet smoke behind as a reminder. Father seemed always accompanied by someone.

  She heard the front door open. Su-Su called her name from the hallway, but Stephanie did not answer. Let them find me, she thought.

  ‘‘Miss Stephanie?’’ came another appeal, as the door to the room opened. Su-Su stood about half the height of Father. She walked in short little steps and pursed her lips rather than smiled. She spoke softly with a thick Chinese accent. She could speak French as well, and read music. Stephanie had no idea what it was like to have a mother, but Su-Su was probably pretty close to the real thing. Father liked her, too. He touched her sometimes, lightly, quickly; it made her purse her lips and blush. Su-Su had a son of her own. This girl was said to be her niece, and in need of a home. Stephanie didn’t like the sound of that. She wasn’t big on sharing.

  The large white door swung open in a lazy arc, and there at SuSu’s side, clutching her silken dress, was a tiny girl with jet black hair, bowl cut at her shoulders and bangs that hung to the sharp slashes of her eyebrows, bright red cheeks and wide eyes of wonder, as first she took in the splendid room, and then, a heartbeat later, Stephanie her-self-her satin bows, her dress and doll. Everything changed in that instant.

  ‘‘Miss Stephanie, allow me introduce to you my niece, Mi Chow. Your father say we will call her Melissa.’’ Su-Su spoke to the little girl in Chinese and Stephanie understood every word. Su-Su was a good teacher. She said, ‘‘This is Stephanie, your big sister.’’

  The girl’s face lit up and filled the room with light.

  ‘‘Welcome, Little Sister,’’ Stephanie said in her best Mandarin. Both girls giggled in unison.

  Stevie quickly collected the tapes and, eager to view them, hurried from the apartment and down into the chaos of Pioneer Square. She had no choice but to join the crowd, and it was only moments before she heard, ‘‘Hey, Tina! Look who it is!’’ Footsteps approached from be
hind and a man pulled roughly on her elbow. ‘‘Channel Four, right? We watch you every night!’’

  Stopped at a corner, she glanced over some heads, willing the pedestrian signal to change. ‘‘Channel Four, right?’’ the balding man repeated. ‘‘Right,’’ she said, clutching the tapes tightly. Someone else was there, someone watching her. She could feel it.

  The light changed.

  Stevie fought her way quickly across the street-straight ahead.

  She checked behind herself, paranoia working on her. Every face seemed as if it were looking directly at her. Panic rose inside her. She reminded herself that she had the tapes. Presumably they would tell her something.

  The parking garage was two blocks away and closing. She picked up her pace.

  With half a block to go she broke into a slow jog, again hearing footsteps behind her. The same fan? Someone else? She didn’t want the answer.

  Her car was at a pre-pay parking lot, and the booth had closed at 10 P.M., thirty minutes earlier. The entrance was now chained, the exit guarded by a set of outbound springed tire spikes.

  She entered the dimly lit garage at a near run, the tapes held firmly under her arm, her mouth bitter and dry, her heart racing. She wanted to be home, behind the safety of a doorman, two dead bolts and a security system. She wanted to be anywhere but in an unattended downtown parking garage.

  The trailing footsteps followed her into the garage, and then suddenly went silent-or was it only her imagination?

  She dared a single glance backward, and nearly gasped at the sight of a silhouette of a man moving quickly toward her.

  A mugging? she wondered.

  ‘‘Wait!’’ The male voice echoed loudly off the cement walls. She reached her car and fumbled with the wireless remote, clicking the doors unlocked. She fished for the pepper spray she carried in her purse.

  Behind her, shoes on cement like hands clapping.

  She pulled the driver door open, tossed the tapes onto the passenger seat, and armed with the spray aimed outward, slipped into the front seat.

  ‘‘Ms. McNeal!’’ Closer now, suddenly more familiar. ‘‘It’s John LaMoia.’’

  She looked up into the man’s sweating face.

  ‘‘I was watching the apartment,’’ he explained. ‘‘The disappearance is at the top of our list.’’

  ‘‘You scared me to death.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t want to shout your name in those crowds.’’ His eyes found the passenger seat and the three tapes in their plastic boxes. ‘‘I didn’t see you go into the apartment with those.’’

  ‘‘I have a key. I feed her fish.’’

  ‘‘The fish watch videos, do they?’’

  Melissa’s tapes were hers and hers alone. She would view them first and pass them along, if pertinent. She felt the tapes burning a hole in the seat. She pulled the door shut, turned the key and lowered the window.

  LaMoia spoke softly. ‘‘Listen, this is strictly off the record, but this illegals investigation is getting nasty.’’

  ‘‘The ship captain,’’ she said. ‘‘We got that right in spite of you.’’

  ‘‘It’d be safer for everyone if you gave me those videos-they’re hers, right? Melissa’s? You don’t want to fool around with these people.’’

  ‘‘You want the tapes, you’re going to run smack into the First Amendment. These are news tapes.’’

  ‘‘I had hoped to run smack into cooperation. Don’t we both want the same thing?’’ He added, ‘‘To find her?’’

  ‘‘Nice try.’’

  He pleaded, ‘‘I need whatever’s on those tapes. Melissa needs me to see those tapes.’’

  ‘‘We’ll talk,’’ she said. She rolled up her window. LaMoia leaned to speak to her, but his words mumbled incoherently through the glass.

  As she drove out of the garage, she reached over and touched the tapes. She picked them up and dropped them onto the backseat floor behind her. There wasn’t anywhere safe for those tapes. There wasn’t anywhere safe at all.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 225 DAYS MISSING

  CHAPTER 17

  Bobbie Gaynes entered Boldt’s office mid-Saturday morning without knocking and pulled up a chair while her lieutenant placed a pencil mark in the margin of the report he was reading in order to mark his spot.

  He looked up and saw his son’s crayon artwork hung on the glass wall that looked out on the hallway. It hung there to add color, to relieve the monotony of gray that some interior designer had imposed on the place, and to remind him of his priorities. Liz did not like him working weekends. His son’s self-portrait fluttered as a pair of detectives hurriedly passed the office door.

  ‘‘Go ahead,’’ Boldt said, knowing in advance that the topic of discussion was crane rentals. Having lost the Visage to a homicide likely to go down as an accident, Boldt had all but given up that leg of the investigation, assigning Gaynes to investigate crane rentals and possible links to the barge and tug that had attempted the failed transfer.

  ‘‘You just don’t own a crane. Okay?’’ Gaynes advised. ‘‘It’s not something you keep in your garage. You rent them or lease them.’’ She referred to her notes. ‘‘There are five outfits between here and Tacoma that rent or lease the kind of equipment capable of lifting a container.’’

  Boldt had brought her up to Homicide single-handedly, breaking the gender barrier for the first time and landing her into a tough assignment. She had rallied behind the challenges, required to repeatedly prove herself, but never holding a grudge. She did some of the best police work on the fifth floor. The latest attack on her had her gay and in a relationship with an ousted detective. It was an invented story meant to smear her. The dust had yet to settle.

  ‘‘A woman’s gone missing. A reporter, no less.’’

  She eyed him curiously. ‘‘You want to rent one of these cranes, you need bonding, all sorts of insurance, you name it.’’

  ‘‘She was investigating something to do with the containers,’’ he said. ‘‘The brass is having conniptions. It’s all about how the press will tear us apart if something has happened to her and we don’t find her first.’’ He added, ‘‘For them, that is. For us: we’ve got a missing persons who may have busted open this investigation.’’

  ‘‘You want this?’’

  Boldt said, ‘‘I need the short form. We do, or do not have record of a rental the night of that storm?’’

  ‘‘The paperwork to prove it? No. A rental? Maybe. I’m going to need some manpower.’’

  ‘‘If you’re pulling for OT, you’ve got it.’’ He was not fond of his new role as administrator, guidance counselor and disciplinarian-all of which were required of a lieutenant. He often felt like little more than a file drawer between his captain, Sheila Hill, and the sergeants and squads that worked beneath him.

  ‘‘Third place I try, a place called Geribaldi’s Equipment, I make the guy behind the counter real nervous with mention of cash rentals that bypass the paperwork. He’s sweating bullets by the time I’m through explaining how aiding and abetting works in the eyes of the law. Takes me outside for a smoke. Says how maybe a telescoping crane went out the morning of that storm that he knows for a fact it didn’t make it into the books because when he tried to rent out the same crane, it didn’t happen to exist in the yard. His manager blamed the screwup on him-but also told him not to worry about it. Said maybe the paperwork had been misplaced.’’

  ‘‘So there’s no proof a crane went out,’’ Boldt pressed. ‘‘What’s the good news?’’

  ‘‘I’ve got the manager’s name: Zulia. I was thinking maybe we check the guy’s bank accounts for an extra deposit or two.’’ She added, ‘‘I’d like to sit on his crib, the yard, monitor his bank transactions. I could use a couple guys for surveillance. Maybe we have a little chat with him in the Box.’’

  ‘‘Okay, let’s do it.’’

  ‘‘First we gotta find him. He has taken an unexpected vacation.’’

  Boldt
said, ‘‘Rental shops are easy targets for theft. All that equipment sitting outside. Protection makes sense.’’

  Gaynes asked, ‘‘Mama Lu?’’ She knew what Boldt was thinking when others seldom had a clue.

  Boldt said, ‘‘If she wants someone found, I imagine it’s only a matter of time.’’

  ‘‘In that case, you might mention our missing reporter.’’

  ‘‘Point taken.’’

  ‘‘You’re looking for a world of hurt, you go opening that door,’’ LaMoia said, interrupting from the doorway. He added, ‘‘McNeal lifted some videotapes from our girl’s apartment last night. I’m thinking they gotta be relevant to my investigation. She’s not in the mood to share and claims she’ll hide behind first amendment privileges if we come after them.’’

  ‘‘How do we know this?’’ Gaynes asked.

  Boldt didn’t answer her. Instead he said to LaMoia, ‘‘We go after the tapes anyway. Find a judge that’s running for reelection. Let him figure it out.’’

  ‘‘Waste of time,’’ LaMoia said.

  Boldt conceded. ‘‘Okay, so we work the cranes. Mama Lu’s a businesswoman. She knows when to cut her losses. She doesn’t want us dragging in every gang member for questioning. That makes her look weak.’’

  ‘‘She also cuts throats, Sarge,’’ LaMoia warned. ‘‘Or at least her soldiers do.’’

  ‘‘Set up a meeting,’’ Boldt requested.

  ‘‘I don’t think this is so smart,’’ LaMoia complained.

  ‘‘Set it up,’’ Boldt repeated sharply.

  The artwork rustled on LaMoia’s way out.

  ‘‘Surveillance of the rental place is approved,’’ Boldt told Gaynes. ‘‘Work it out with Special Ops.’’

  CHAPTER 18

  Mama Lu occupied the same wingback throne as she had on his first visit. Only the dress had changed: teal with black embroidery. She wore it wrapped around herself like a towel. Her long black braid fell over her shoulder heavy like a horsetail.