‘‘What evidence?’’
‘‘The thing is, we can work with you. We would like to work with you. But it would have to be in an exclusive relationship-we would have to trust each other to the point that you would not air nor share certain information, and that we, likewise, would not work with other reporters or news agencies until giving you first dibs on what we have.’’
‘‘And if we work this out?’’ Stevie inquired.
‘‘We’d want to see the videotapes-yes, of course. We’d want you to name your sources. We, in turn, would open up the autopsy prelim on Jane Doe to you. We’d share, Ms. McNeal. We’d give Melissa the best shot at coming home. The way we’re working now-well, it’s not working. . that’s just the point.’’
A knock came on the door. Stevie jumped. ‘‘Ms. McNeal?’’ a voice said from the other side. ‘‘You’re wanted on the set.’’
Daphne offered, ‘‘I can help you find sleep. I can work with you on the loss of appetite. That offer comes without precondition.’’
‘‘Who said I can’t sleep?’’ Stevie barked defensively.
‘‘No strings attached.’’
‘‘I’m wanted on the set.’’
‘‘You can’t do this alone.’’ She added, ‘‘And the INS can’t clear a missing persons case. If they’ve represented themselves otherwise, it’s unfair to you.’’
Stevie felt and looked paralyzed.
‘‘The name is Matthews,’’ Daphne reminded. ‘‘The switchboard will put you through. My voice mail has my pager number. I’m available to you around the clock.’’ Daphne placed one of her cards next to the cosmetics. ‘‘I’m hoping you’ll call.’’
‘‘I’m wanted on the set,’’ she repeated. She pulled open the door and left.
But when Daphne looked down, she noticed her business card was gone.
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 269 DAYS MISSING
CHAPTER 29
The Seattle Aquarium was located out on a pier in the heart of the heavily touristed waterfront, a collection of crab and chowder houses and ferry traffic servicing the outlying islands. Seagulls swarmed fallen crumbs, picking the wide sidewalk clean. The familiar smell of suntan lotion hung in the air along with the choke of diesel fumes, a taste of salt spray and the permanent musty tang of rotting wood, indelible and almost sugary on the tongue.
Boldt walked quickly, not because he was late, but because he was driven by a mounting fear that the investigation itself was late, that Melissa Chow had run out of time. Nine days-far too long. He did not accept that there was a mortal power greater than that of the Seattle Police, that whoever was behind the container shipments and the recent murders could remain a step ahead, could murder their way into silencing the sources that might open up the case. But privately, his own fear of these people was wearing him down. The ruthlessness and daring of killing the potential witnesses and leaving them for police to find reminded everyone involved that no one was safe. Not even police.
Gwen Klein, the LSO employee, appeared to be the most recent statistic. She had failed to show up for work. She had gone missing right at the moment that LaMoia’s team had found out about her and had decided, in a failed attempt, to put her under surveillance. Mc-Neal had run an ‘‘Employee of the Week’’ piece on News Four at Five that Boldt blamed on the woman’s disappearance. The stupidity of the press never ceased to amaze him.
The pressure on all involved had intensified, especially on Boldt and LaMoia. Too many dead bodies. A reporter missing. Television news turning the screws and making inroads ahead of police. There was talk of creating a task force to include SPD and the INS, although both sides were resisting. For Boldt, as he quickened his pace yet again, all of it took a backseat to locating Melissa Chow, who appeared to be not only a possible victim but also a key witness. To find this woman was to simultaneously bring down the people behind both the murders and the importing of human beings-he felt certain of it.
Dr. Virginia Ammond was a tomboy in her mid-forties with a freckled Irish complexion, callused hands and a Ph.D. in marine sciences. She dressed in faded jeans rolled at the cuff and an immodestly tight T-shirt that bore the aquarium’s logo.
‘‘The medical examiner’s request to identify the fish scales went first to the university, but was passed on to me for confirmation.’’
Boldt visited the aquarium regularly with his kids, the floor plan familiar to him. Ammond walked him down the descending ramp that led deeper underground and into the heart of the facility-a 360degree viewing room completely surrounded by glass and water, where fish circulated freely, lending the visitor the feeling of being submerged.
She led Boldt to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and into a room where a stereoscopic microscope awaited them.
She explained, ‘‘I know it’s an inconvenience for you to come down here, but phone calls just don’t do it for me. Now this first plate is one of the less common fish scales in the sample your people provided our department. Notice the more pointed area where the scale actually attaches to the fish, like shingles on a roof. Of particular interest to us, to you, is the more heartlike shape of this scale, along with that serrated edge. Okay?’’
Ammond switched plates and moved him to a comparison microscope.
‘‘This is a side-by-side comparison,’’ she told him. ‘‘Look carefully at both scales.’’
Boldt brought his eyes to the scope. ‘‘Okay.’’
‘‘Recognize our friend?’’
‘‘On the left.’’
‘‘Very good. Yes. And to the right?’’
‘‘A smoother edge. Less of a point. It’s clearer. This may sound stupid, but the one on the right looks newer.’’
‘‘Gold star, Lieutenant. You didn’t minor in marine biology, did you? Yes, the scale to the right is from a live silver salmon in our back tanks. The sample we received from you consisted primarily of scales from both king and silver salmon.’’
‘‘But not our friend?’’ he asked, using her term.
‘‘No. We found two such scales in the sample. They’re from a variety of Snake River coho. What’s of interest is that this particular species has been extinct for over two decades.’’
‘‘Run that by me again,’’ Boldt said.
‘‘The Snake River coho disappeared twenty-two years ago. Tens of millions of coho used to make the annual journey up the Columbia and into Idaho, the Snake River species among them.’’
‘‘Extinct,’’ Boldt repeated, withdrawing his police pad and making a note.
‘‘Exactly.’’
She grinned. The white of her teeth gleamed against the freckled face. ‘‘Your explanation over the phone intrigues me. You collected these off a dead woman’s feet. You mentioned shipping containers, and I’d have to question that. A container in service twenty-two years? Not likely. A ship is more like it.’’
‘‘A cannery?’’
‘‘Could be. Yes. Why not? This way,’’ Ammond said, showing Boldt out of the lab.
They walked back into the main galleries. She spoke loudly to be heard above the crowd noise.
‘‘Have you seen our fisheries display?’’
‘‘I imagine,’’ Boldt answered.
‘‘The trawlers?’’ she asked, pointing.
An entire wall had been devoted to the history of commercial fishing. It traced the earliest Native American settlements to the contemporary five-mile gill nets used by the Russians and Japanese as well as the enormous floating canneries. Text and illustrations were complimented by cutaway models of the various vessels, and it was to one of these that Dr. Ammond led Boldt.
‘‘Commercial trawler, fairly common to Pacific fleets for the last twenty to fifty years with few modifications. Bigger now.’’ She pointed out the aft hold. ‘‘The catch is stored here, as it comes in. The crew then sorts, cleans and washes the catch, discarding the unwanted or undesirables, and the gutted, finished product is moved by conveyors to the forward hold.’’ She indicate
d a huge room that occupied most of the front of the ship. ‘‘This hold is one giant freezer. These trawlers are able to stay out to sea days, weeks or months.’’ She took a deep breath, the tomboy in her replaced by the expert. ‘‘Now given your mention of illegals, I’m inclined to see this trawler in a whole new light. Maybe the catch isn’t so good this year. Maybe I’m putting Chinese illegals in my forward hull. Maybe this is quite an old ship-a very old ship-and despite the regular cleanings the crew gives these holds, a few scales remain behind, indicating a species of fish we haven’t seen for over two decades.’’
‘‘And if it’s a cannery?’’
‘‘That works for me. The canneries go back further than the processing trawlers. This aquarium was a cannery in its former life. Any number of structures along the shoreline in this city have been, or once were, associated with commercial fishing. From Harbor Island to Interbay, Salmon Bay to Lake Union.’’
‘‘You’re saying I have my work cut out for me,’’ he stated. ‘‘I can’t narrow down the old canneries by the fish scales you’ve identified.’’
‘‘The university has catalogued the history of commercial fisheries. That would include canneries. This industry dates back over a hundred and fifty years.’’
Boldt said, ‘‘Twenty-two years is all we care about.’’
Her face erupted into a smile. ‘‘Let me make a few calls.’’
CHAPTER 30
Lacey Delgato had thick calves, no waist and a nose that cast a long shadow-behind her back, cops called her ‘‘the Sun Dial.’’ She wore an unfashionably long black skirt zipped too tightly across her seat so that a labyrinth of intersecting folds and seams showed in an unsightly display. She had a voice like a squeeze toy, a trial attorney’s tendency to act out her words and an abrasive laugh that warned of her cynicism. Her one extravagance was Italian shoes. Her tall heels tapped out her quickened pace against the Justice Building’s marble corridor. ‘‘This individual has offered to sell the camera back to KSTV.’’
‘‘A digital camera?’’ LaMoia clarified. ‘‘You’re sure about that?’’ 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 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. I needed 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. ‘‘I haven’t had dinner in three days. I slept an hour and a half last night.’’
‘‘We could skip dinner, I suppose.’’
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.
‘‘I called Robbery figuring they would watch the drop,’’ Delgato explained. ‘‘The minute I mentioned KSTV they put me on to you. They said anything to do with the television station went to you. . I told them I only 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 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? I don’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?’’
‘‘I don’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 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-I can’t have it broadcast to the world. There’s a woman missing. I have 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, the
y’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 I feel 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.
CHAPTER 31
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.
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