The First Victim lbadm-6

by Ridley Pearson

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?’’

  ‘‘I show 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.

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 2710 DAYS MISSING

  CHAPTER 34

  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 workout 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?’’

  ‘‘I don’t like it.’’

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

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Sure you do.’’

  ‘‘She’s dead?’’ Boldt asked.

  ‘‘I’m leaning that way.’’

  ‘‘Don’t.’’

  ‘‘Based on?’’

  ‘‘Just don’t,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘I want 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.’’

  ‘‘I call you ‘Lieu’ and everyone’s gonna think I’m using your first name. I gotta 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 when 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 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 I hope for all our sakes it goes really bad.’’ He hesitated a moment and then added warmly, ‘‘Thanks. . Lieutenant.’’

  Boldt pulled open the door.

  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.

  ‘‘A private showing,’’ LaMoia said, starting the tape rolling. ‘‘Who’s buying the popcorn?’’

  Boldt wasn’t in a joking mood.

  The sound and picture were of a city street by day, the camera held about waist height. The video title stamp was set incorrectly to January 3. The time was 6:19 P.M. Boldt didn’t trust that either. The two discernible background conversations were of a couple discussing a Native American festival and another two or three men all complaining about their jobs.

  ‘‘The camera’s concealed,’’ Boldt said softly.

  ‘‘In a briefcase, maybe.’’

  ‘‘Agreed.’’

  The scenery suddenly blurred and a city bus was seen approaching.

  ‘‘It’s a bus stop,’’ LaMoia said.

  ‘‘Yup.’’

  ‘‘That make sense to you?’’

  ‘‘Let’s watch,’’ Boldt suggested.

  The air brakes hissed and the bus pulled to a stop. Shot from the hip, as the video was, the scene played out from a child’s height and perspective. Boldt thought about his own kids, Miles and Sarah, and worried that he wasn’t seeing enough of them. He was barely seeing Liz either, for that matter-unless he counted the hours she was sleeping. With his insomnia back in full swing, he saw a lot of Liz while she slept. He lay there and worried-it didn’t seem to matter about what; his kind of worry was a world unto itself.

  They caught their first glimpse of Melissa in a shiny piece of steel or aluminum, or maybe even a mirror inside the bus. It happened so quickly that it was hard to tell. But there she was-twenty-something, almost pretty, blue jeans and a Wazoo sweatshirt-climbing the stairs of the bus. There was too much noise to pick out any particular conversation, but the camera seemed intent on the left side of the bus. It was obvious that she had worked at maintaining that angle as long as she did, given that she was walking the center aisle the whole time.

  ‘‘What do you think?’’ LaMo
ia asked.

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ Boldt answered. He didn’t like the man interrupting every few seconds. He wanted to watch the video, to get inside the images, not be constantly yanked back into the viewing room with his sergeant.

  ‘‘Someone on the left side interests her.’’

  ‘‘Let’s just watch it one time through. You think?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, sure.’’

  Melissa took a seat about two-thirds of the way down the bus, across from the vehicle’s rear door, but the lens remained aimed on the same side of the bus. Images streamed by outside the windows.

  LaMoia said immediately, ‘‘She wants to be able to leave in a hurry.’’

  Boldt said nothing. Lead by example, he was thinking.

  After only a few more seconds there was an abrupt jerk in the image, and the time stamp advanced eleven minutes. She had stopped and then restarted the recording. Boldt made note in the dark of the eleven-minute break.

  ‘‘You trying to intimidate me, Sarge? Should I be taking notes?’’

  ‘‘I’ll take the notes,’’ Boldt said.

  The bus turned and lumbered up a downtown street. The change in architecture said as much. It was noticeably darker outside- twilight. The nose of the bus lowered, all the passengers thrown slightly forward in their seats.

  ‘‘Third Avenue bus tunnel,’’ LaMoia said.

  ‘‘Yup.’’

  ‘‘She’s following someone. What do you want to bet?’’

  ‘‘Let’s watch.’’

  LaMoia snorted, excited by what he saw and disappointed in Boldt’s stubborn silence.

  The bus pulled to a stop inside the tunnel and a dozen passengers stood to disembark. The camera continued to record as one waist and torso after another passed by. It then swung and Melissa carried it off the bus and into the bus stop where some passengers headed for exits and others awaited connections. For the first time, the camera clearly singled out one man in particular.

  ‘‘There he is,’’ LaMoia said anxiously. ‘‘Whoever he is.’’

  The man grew increasingly larger as the camera approached. For an instant, he was held in profile, but an overhead ceiling lamp burned a bright white hole into the image and erased the man’s face.

  ‘‘Damn!’’ LaMoia gasped. ‘‘We had him.’’

  ‘‘She had him,’’ Boldt corrected. ‘‘The question that has to be asked: Did he have her?’’

  ‘‘You think he made her?’’

  ‘‘We know he made her, John,’’ Boldt reminded. ‘‘We just don’t know when.’’

  ‘‘This shit gets on my nerves.’’

  ‘‘I can tell.’’

  ‘‘Film, I’m talking about.’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ Boldt said.

  She stopped at a city map, turned and sat down, presumably on a bench. The camera turned ever so slightly and held the man’s back in frame.

  ‘‘She’s good at this, you know? A good aim.’’

  The image jumped. In the lower right-hand corner, seven minutes had elapsed. The man’s back was still on the screen. He wore an old moth-holed sweatshirt with a hood, black jeans and waffle-soled boots. The man’s black wavy hair and build suggested ethnic blood-a big Hispanic or South Pacific man. It meant nothing without a better look.

  ‘‘Why this guy?’’ LaMoia spoke aloud.

  ‘‘That’s the relevant question,’’ Boldt agreed.

  ‘‘Klein? Did she connect the missing skirt with this Frito Bandito?’’

  ‘‘That’s a racial slur, John. You’re a sergeant now.’’

  ‘‘This rice and beans gentleman,’’ he said, correcting himself. ‘‘Tommy Taco?’’

  ‘‘Way to go.’’

  ‘‘Thank you.’’

  A bus pulled to a stop. Passengers disembarked. The suspect boarded, followed a moment later by the camera and the woman carrying it. The image didn’t last long. She established the man’s location on the bus. Another cut. Elapsed time, seventeen minutes.

  Boldt was thinking about timing specific bus routes. He wondered how many they would have to deal with.

  ‘‘Exit, Tommy, stage right,’’ LaMoia said, as if directing the film.

  The broad-shouldered sweatshirt descended the steps. The camera moved toward the door, but then abruptly stopped. Only the sweatshirt disembarked. Melissa had apparently thought better than to join him out on a darkened stretch of sidewalk in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘‘Well, she’s not completely stupid,’’ LaMoia said, picking up on the obvious.

  ‘‘Recognize the area? The location?’’

  ‘‘You kidding? Those doors were open for maybe five seconds,’’ LaMoia complained.

  ‘‘Rewind,’’ Boldt instructed.

  Imitating a sports announcer, LaMoia said, ‘‘Our bus-cam will now perform instant replay as the star of our show descends the rear steps.’’ He was as nervous outside as Boldt was on the inside. The missing woman had followed a man-a big man, a laborer perhaps, maybe not Caucasian. She had followed him for the better part of an hour, at night, on two different buses while carrying a briefcase concealing a camera.

  They made three successive attempts to identify any landmark or piece of skyline when the bus doors opened, but to no avail.

  The next cut was equally as abrupt as the others.

  ‘‘We’re a day later,’’ Boldt observed. ‘‘That last shot. Rewind. . Yes. See?’’

  The camera panned left to right. Small white lights glowed in the darkness. As the aperture adjusted, both men rocked forward at the same moment. Dozens of Chinese women-all with shaved heads, all wearing jeans and T-shirts-sat behind large industrial sewing machines, frantic with work. Others manned cutting tables, busy with razor knives and scissors chained to the tables. Melissa’s rapid breathing mixed with the roar of machinery and played loudly from the television’s stereo speakers.

  ‘‘Jesus,’’ LaMoia muttered.

  The screen zoomed and the lighting improved as a few of the women seamstresses were captured in close-up. They appeared bruised and beaten. ‘‘Oh my God,’’ Melissa remarked in a dry whisper. The next shot was of a chained ankle, blood raw. She gasped as the camera focused. Then another shackled ankle, and another. ‘‘The graveyard,’’ the woman’s voice whispered hoarsely.

  ‘‘Hilltop?’’ LaMoia asked.

  Boldt shot him a look. Had Melissa made a connection to their Jane Doe? How? When?

  Another edit jump. The screen stole his attention.

  The ominous groan of machinery continued throughout, grating and annoying. The camera closed in on a black surface, where there suddenly appeared a small hole the size of a silver dollar. The lens approached that hole and then focused automatically. It was a small room, poorly lit by a construction light. The sound of running water. Naked women-their heads and genitals shaved-hose water running down over them. They whispered amongst themselves. It sounded Chinese.

  For once, LaMoia knew to keep his quick-witted adolescent comments to himself.

  Another edit. A woman-Melissa? — stood in a dark bathroom working a razor on her scalp. The scene was only seconds long. She turned to face the camera and smiled. She said in a whisper, ‘‘This is Melissa Chow for KSTV News. I’m going undercover now. I will join the sweatshop’s general population. This is where I become one of them.’’

  ‘‘Oh, shit,’’ LaMoia said.

  The woman reached out and turned off the camera. The screen flashed black.

  ‘‘The sound is so hollow,’’ Boldt remarked, his musician’s ears ever sensitive.

  The sounds were of women’s voices speaking Chinese. The camera faded in from black to an extreme close-up of a woman’s face. She was bald. She spoke in whispered Chinese. The interview lasted close to a minute, the camera cropped at the crown of her head and the peak of her chin, the close-up dramatizing her words. Even without a translator, her message was of horrid conditions and fear; the tears told that much. Another fade to bl
ack, and then faded back in at yet another close-up of a different woman. There were three interviews in all. All done in whisper. All in Chinese, not a word of English spoken. The third was interrupted by a woman’s voice speaking harshly. A warning perhaps. The camera aimed down to show a dormitory of woven mats and polarfleece blankets. Several women slept. Most of the mats went empty. The screen went black and then fuzzy.

  LaMoia and Boldt sat watching a gray sparkled screen. LaMoia turned down the sound. He fast-forwarded the tape, making sure they missed nothing. ‘‘You feel sick to your stomach?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Did you ever play with Chinese handcuffs when you were a kid?’’ Boldt asked. ‘‘The woven tubes? You stuck your fingers inside?’’

  ‘‘Sure. I remember those. What about them?’’

  ‘‘The tube constricted. You could slip your fingers in, but you couldn’t pull them back out.’’

  ‘‘Those were chains on those ankles, Sarge.’’

  ‘‘It’s what happened to her,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘She got herself inside, but she couldn’t get back out.’’

  ‘‘Like Chinese handcuffs.’’

  Boldt nodded. He felt better than he had in days. ‘‘The good news is, she can speak the language, and with her head shaved, she looks like everyone else.’’

  ‘‘You’re thinking she’s still alive,’’ LaMoia said, his troubled voice barely rising above a whisper. The tape had set a mood, had captured them.

  ‘‘I think she is, yes,’’ Boldt said, equally softly. ‘‘The camera surfacing challenges that, I know. But the reason we haven’t found her?’’ he asked rhetorically. ‘‘Is because they haven’t found her, either.’’ He turned to LaMoia in the dark, his silhouette captured by the light from the sparkling gray screen, making him look sickly and pallid. ‘‘Who knows?’’ Boldt said. ‘‘They may not even know she’s in there.’’

  CHAPTER 35

  "Can get you nice suit cheap,’’ Mama Lu told Boldt. She occupied most of the doorway of a building marked only in Chinese characters. She wore a red cotton tent dress, and leather sandals and she carried a rubber-tipped bamboo cane that didn’t look right on her. In the daylight, out of her dim lair, Boldt saw her as much younger, mid-fifties perhaps.