The First Victim lbadm-6

by Ridley Pearson

  Boldt dodged through the traffic and took off after the suspect, Mulgrave still shouting orders into his radio.

  The suspect ran left at the next corner and disappeared from view.

  His lungs burning, his right knee tightening, Boldt lost ground to Mulgrave and called out, ‘‘Backup?’’

  ‘‘On route!’’ the detective answered.

  They needed this man in custody. To lose the suspect was not an option. Both cops turned left at the corner, Mulgrave already breaking across the street, the suspect nowhere in sight.

  Sirens approached. The street rose up a hill. No suspect. Mulgrave headed across the street and down an alley.

  Boldt stopped and spun in a circle. Their boy had either entered one of the buildings or had gone down that alley. Faced with a tough decision-await the radio cars and the uniforms so that they sealed off any chance of the suspect sneaking past, or pick one of the buildings to search before the suspect had time to escape-Boldt studied the wall of brick buildings that lined the northern side of the street, his eyes darting window to window, one building to the next.

  It appeared first as a shadow, then an image: a woman in a third-floor window, one hand spread open on the glass. Descending a stairway, she had clearly stepped aside for someone. It was that spread hand that convinced him-the fear it implied. Boldt took the chance.

  His police shield displayed in his coat’s breast pocket, Boldt took two stairs at a time, passing the middle-aged woman on the second floor’s landing. She pointed up. Boldt kept moving, never breaking stride. He had the advantage of surprise now. He had to move fast before he lost it.

  By the fourth floor he was severely winded but still climbing. The movement came from his right as he turned left toward the final flight of stairs. It came as a change of color, of lighting, as if someone had dropped a curtain or waved a flag. It came as a flash of heat up his spine, his right arm climbing instinctively but opening him to the blow to his ribs. His momentum moved him away from the blow rather than into it; he was thrown off balance, careening into a chair that sat alongside a standing ashtray. He grabbed hold of a leg of that chair and hurled it in the general direction of his assailant, simultaneously reaching for his gun. The chair’s four metal feet screeched like fingers on a blackboard, then traveled toward the stairs and, as if planned, as if calculated, flew off the top edge, rebounded off the far wall and headed end over end as if aimed at the unfortunate soul in its path.

  The suspect, after shoving Boldt and then starting back down the stairs, never saw that chair. It came after him as if it were tethered to him, jumping and springing into the air and crashing only to lift again, gaining velocity. Boldt was back to his feet by the time the chair impacted, not only tripping up the man but sending him down the subsequent flight of stairs following the same route the chair had traveled. A tumbler, a circus act gone awry, the dull snapping of bone on stone.

  Despite the fall, the man clamored to his feet but then sagged under the pain and Boldt was upon him. A handcuff snapped around the wrist in a ritual all too familiar to both men. Boldt patted him down for weapons while reciting the Miranda like a man talking in his sleep. He arrested the suspect on charges of trafficking in stolen goods and assaulting a police officer.

  ‘‘I didn’t steal nothing!’’ he complained as he was led down the stairs.

  ‘‘You’ve got some thinking to do between here and downtown,’’ Boldt cautioned the man. ‘‘If you’ve got half a brain in there, you’ll

  trade a walk for the talk.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, yeah. . but I’m telling you, I didn’t steal nothing!’’

  ‘‘If you’re smart, you’ll lose the broken record,’’ Boldt advised. ‘‘Then again,’’ he reconsidered, ‘‘if you were smart, we wouldn’t be here, would we?’’

  CHAPTER 32

  Gaylord Riley dragged his fingers against his sweating cheek as if rubbing a lantern for good luck, stoically proud of his refusal to talk to police and patiently awaiting his attorney. His stained polyester shirt stuck to him like cellophane so that his chest hairs rose like tree roots struggling up through old asphalt. The Box had warmed behind LaMoia’s mounting frustration to where both men were panting and in need of a glass of water.

  ‘‘The thing a prick like you doesn’t understand, Riley, is that this is the wrong time to lawyer-up.’’

  ‘‘As if there’s ever a right time as far as you’re concerned.’’

  ‘‘I got a PA outside who will repeat to you everything I’ve been saying. You’re a known fence. Fraud has you on file.’’

  ‘‘Never been convicted of nothing!’’

  ‘‘You give up whoever laid this gear on you and you walk out of here, no harm, no foul.’’

  ‘‘That’s bullshit and we both know it. That big guy. . he said assaulting an officer. He fell down is all-a shoelace or something. I didn’t assault no officer!’’

  ‘‘You want me to get him in here? Hang on a second!’’ LaMoia went to the door. Boldt, who had been looking on through the one-way glass was already at the door by the time LaMoia opened it.

  Boldt stepped inside. Old times: he and LaMoia working a suspect. All they needed was Daphne in the room for the picture to be complete. Boldt said, ‘‘You talk, you walk. I told you that.’’

  ‘‘I’d rather hear it from a lawyer,’’ the suspect said.

  ‘‘By which time, you won’t hear it,’’ Boldt answered.

  LaMoia sat back down in the chair facing the man. ‘‘Stupid is one thing. You were stupid to get into this-to call the station, set up the meet. But don’t be dumb. Don’t be an asshole, who thinks he knows more about how this works than we do. We’ve got jails filled with those numb-nuts, I’m telling you. You lawyer-up, you start things in motion that we’re helpless to stop. You bring in the college boys and you, me and the lieutenant are in chairs over in the corner watching the suits do the dance. Is that what you want? Honestly?’’ He felt he was getting through to the guy. Gaylord Riley looked ready to pop a blood vessel.

  ‘‘All we want is to start a dialogue here,’’ Boldt encouraged. ‘‘Get some words going back and forth. Work through the attitude down to the truth. If we do that in a timely fashion, there’s no reason lawyers have to be any part of this. Your little ransom attempt never happened.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t ransom nothing!’’

  ‘‘That’s what I’m saying,’’ Boldt agreed. ‘‘It never happened.’’

  LaMoia cautioned, ‘‘We got you on videotape, audiotape and stills. We got maybe a dozen witnesses to this thing, pal-law enforcement officers, every one of them. What do you think you and your lawyer are going to use against that?’’

  The man looked back and forth between the two detectives, the epitome of a scared little boy. LaMoia loved every minute of it. He didn’t have the degrees for it, but he thought maybe he should be a hostage negotiator, some guy who looks the bomber in the eye and dares the slob to push the button. He felt good all over, like after sex.

  The suspect said, ‘‘He was Chinese. Twenty-one, twenty-two. Strong. Small. Never seen him before. Not since. Didn’t know what he had-thought it was a camcorder.’’

  ‘‘Gang kid?’’ Boldt asked, wiping any surprise off his face. Business as usual. Inside he was reeling with excitement. He knew better than to ask if he’d given a name.

  ‘‘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.

  ‘‘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 I look 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. I give 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 I tell 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. ‘‘I didn’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 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?’’

  ‘‘I think 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 I supposed 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.

  CHAPTER 33

  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 well-timed wiggle in her chair-she had the full arsenal at her disposal. Ready, indeed.

  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 god-damn 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.

  ‘‘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.’’

  ‘‘And you?’’

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

  She laughed at the comment.

  He continued. ‘‘I suppose 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 fre
edom?’’

  ‘‘We both know where those women were headed,’’ he reminded. ‘‘Sweatshops? Brothels? Is that the dream you’re selling?’’

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

  ‘‘Should I be surprised? A dinner like this? And I thought it was because you found me so irresistible.’’

  ‘‘The cops used me.’’

  ‘‘Welcome aboard.’’

  ‘‘Confiscated evidence.’’

  ‘‘I saw 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 I gave her that camera.’’

  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 I got 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 I press for the right to view this digital tape. Let’s say they grant me that. What then? I give you a book report?’’