The First Victim lbadm-6

by Ridley Pearson

‘‘You see? You hate us until you need us.’’

  ‘‘Are you so different?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘You ask around about Lou Boldt,’’ she said, ‘‘and you get back this guy larger than life. As a reporter you don’t trust those myths. Those guys don’t exist anymore. They lived in another era. White walls and wide lapels.’’

  ‘‘And if you ask around about Stevie McNeal,’’ he said, ‘‘you hear that she’s much more than a pretty face, that she’s one of the few anchors in this town who’s capable of reporting a story, not just reading into a camera.’’

  ‘‘What is it I have to do?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘You have to use that anchor chair to force someone’s hand.’’

  She debated this long and hard. She looked at him curiously, cocking her head as if getting a better view. ‘‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’’

  Boldt reached into his pocket and pulled out the digital tape confiscated in the sting. ‘‘Let’s get to work,’’ he said.

  CHAPTER 49

  "This is out of order.’’ Boldt pointed to the screen.

  They had reviewed all the tapes together. They were taking their second look at the digital tape.

  McNeal’s expression was grave, her reaction time delayed like a person working off a translator. From his experience when his own Sarah had been abducted, Boldt knew this horror firsthand: the hollow resonance of people’s voices as they spoke to you; the way the clock hand refused to creep forward; the insomnia.

  ‘‘I beg your pardon?’’ Stevie said, finally responding to him.

  ‘‘You’re the reporter here-don’t get me wrong. But the outside of the bus on the VHS looks dirty to me, like it has been raining, whereas the bus on the digital tape, the one she boards, is clean. We get just a glimpse of it, but it’s not the same bus, believe me. And if that’s right, then there may be as much as a day or two between the VHS and this digital tape being shot. If that’s true, as thorough as she is in her reporting, then maybe there’s another tape. Maybe there’s one still missing. And if there is, who knows what’s on it? Maybe that’s the tape that establishes the location of the sweatshop-or even the people responsible.’’

  She studied the two screens-one showing the back of the dirty bus as it descended into the bus tunnel; the other, the opening shot on the digital tape. She said, ‘‘I told Brian Coughlie there was a tape missing, but at the time I was just making it up-trying to buy Melissa some time. I just assumed the remaining tape I gave her was blank, but you’re right about the dirt.’’

  ‘‘So she may have shot yet another tape.’’

  ‘‘It’s possible.’’ Her voice was fragile and did not carry. ‘‘She may have simply had nothing to shoot for a day. It happens. You know surveillance work.’’

  He proposed, ‘‘Let’s assume that when the camera was confiscated it contained the second of the two digital tapes, not the first. Let’s say the first had already been shot and put aside, and whoever got the camera only got the second tape.’’

  She said hoarsely, ‘‘So maybe there is a second tape.’’

  ‘‘We have to explain that camera showing up. If whoever’s behind this found it, would they hock it? Not likely! Destroy it, yes, but hock it? We have Riley’s statement-the man you met at the water shower fountain-that it was a gang kid who brought the camera to him in the first place. So maybe this kid simply found the camera, or stole it, or maybe she hid it. That would make it a random discovery. He doesn’t tell anyone about it-he simply hocks it to cash in on his discovery. But conversely, maybe she used it to buy this kid’s silence, or to help her to escape-’’

  ‘‘And if that was all she had to trade, what happens next time they come looking?’’

  ‘‘Or maybe someone in the sweatshop-one of the leaders-took it, traded it, used it. It doesn’t mean they’ve found her,’’ he reminded.

  ‘‘I aired her photo,’’ Stevie whispered. ‘‘They’ve identified her.’’

  ‘‘We can’t confirm that.’’

  ‘‘Thepapersran it. .the other stations. You’d have to live in a vacuum to have missed that photo.’’ Equally softly she said, ‘‘I screwed this up.’’ She added, ‘‘All because you bastards were moving too slowly.’’ He’d been waiting for that. Blame followed on anger’s coattails.

  Boldt allowed a moment for the air to clear and held to the high ground. ‘‘We’ll pull a picture of the car wash and distribute it to every radio car on patrol. Someone will recognize it. You. . you have two assignments. One is to go back over this digital tape and translate. I don’t mean the spoken language-what the women are saying-we’ve already had that done. She gets their histories, the conditions aboard ship-’’

  ‘‘I speak Mandarin,’’ she reminded. ‘‘We’ve seen the tape twice.’’

  ‘‘What I need-we need-is to be inside Melissa’s head. Her thoughts. Emotions. Why is it she dwells so much on the ship’s conditions, when we’re assuming all they saw was the inside of that container? She mentions the ship over and over. We need all that subtext.’’

  ‘‘The second?’’

  ‘‘I need you to craft a smear piece. I need you make someone look pretty damn bad.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know how I can get by putting something on the air that’s pure fantasy.’’

  He hesitated, needing her, and said, ‘‘Nothing libelous, but bad enough that she’ll squirm.’’ He asked, ‘‘How long does something like that take?’’

  She considered all this, her face a mixture of curiosity and concern. She answered reluctantly, ‘‘Anywhere from a couple of hours to a couple of days. Depends on who the subject is, what kind of existing footage we have.’’

  ‘‘It doesn’t have to be long, just powerful.’’

  ‘‘You’re sounding more like a producer than a cop.’’ She tried to smile, but her face only found a grimace.

  ‘‘You know a woman called Mama Lu?’’ Boldt asked.

  She arched her back, opened her eyes and said sarcastically, ‘‘The crime lord? You really do want me killed.’’

  ‘‘Former crime lord,’’ he corrected. ‘‘More of a politician these days. She’s the one. She has the answers.’’

  ‘‘She’s behind the disappearance?’’ Stevie asked. ‘‘She’s who Coughlie’s protecting?’’

  ‘‘We don’t know anything for certain. My gut says Mama Lu has the answers. Some of the answers? All of the answers? I don’t know. But I’ll never get any of them without some way to open her up. She’s getting older. She wants acceptance in the community. That’s her pressure point.’’

  ‘‘Let me check the clip files,’’ Stevie said, committing to helping him. ‘‘How soon do you need it?’’

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 115 DAYS MISSING

  CHAPTER 50

  Mama Lu’s empire included the largest Asian food distributorship in King County and partial ownership in Asian restaurants in the city, one of which was the unmarked noodle shop where Boldt found her engaged with a bowl of brown broth, shrimp, green onion and ginger, the smell of which encouraged him to accept her offer of a bowl for himself, though he made it clear he was required to pay for this out of pocket, a condition she tolerated.

  Dressed in a blue cavalcade of cotton, her flesh inflated from joint to joint, wrist to elbow, so that if he reached out and touched her, the skin would feel taut and ready to burst. When she smiled, her eyes fell into shadow, elongating to thin black slivers like chips of coal in the face of a snowman; her lips, too, grew long and thin, stretched like a rubber band across her false teeth.

  The soup was delicious.

  ‘‘How is your wife’s health, Mr. Both?’’

  Boldt considered the number of times he’d been asked this question over the past eighteen months and the hundreds of variations and forms it took, from sympathetic expressions to probing curiosity. But from the mouth of this woman, the inquiry sent a chill through him.

  ‘‘Do the Chinese have any sayings abou
t coincidence?’’ Boldt asked, attempting to change the subject.

  ‘‘I not Confucius, Mr. Both. Humble businesswoman. You no want talk of wife? How about the children?’’

  ‘‘It’s not a social visit, I’m afraid,’’ he answered, his skin prickling. He would not put his family at risk; he had been through that, had learned the hard way. But he thought back to her day-care center and his children as something they had in common. ‘‘My children are the light of my life. There is so much wonder through their eyes, so

  much is new. I learn something from them every day.’’

  ‘‘Children are windows to past and future. Much to learn.’’

  ‘‘And your children?’’ he asked. ‘‘The ones I met?’’

  ‘‘Yes. .’’ she said, sipping grotesquely from the Chinese spoon and spreading her smile onto the table.

  They ate in silence then, for Boldt could not salvage any more common ground between them; they ate like lovers, talking only with their eyes. By the end of the brief meal Boldt felt oddly confident.

  She pushed the bowl aside with her forearm, dabbed her large mouth with a paper napkin and burped softly. ‘‘Good enough to savor twice,’’ she said.

  Boldt finished and placed his bowl aside as well, perceiving correctly that so placed the bowls could no longer capture the words spoken between them and thus business could now be discussed. She supported this notion with her inquiry.

  ‘‘Now, what accounts for your visit?’’ she asked.

  Collecting his thoughts, he bowed his head. ‘‘We-the police, that is-investigate the ship’s captain and he drowns; we inquire after the manager of the equipment rental, and his forklift explodes; we hear of a government worker selling counterfeit driver’s licenses and she sucks oven gas-all convenient coincidences to whoever is profiting from the transportation of illegals.’’

  She said only, ‘‘Trouble comes in threes.’’

  ‘‘It doesn’t require a great leap of faith to suspect that someone with inside knowledge is remaining one step ahead of us.’’

  ‘‘Change begins in our own house,’’ she said. She touched her enormous chest. ‘‘Inside ourselves.’’

  ‘‘We, the police, that is, have shared each step of our investigation with Immigration and Naturalization.’’

  Her eyes became darker, if that were possible.

  ‘‘And only them,’’ he continued.

  ‘‘You have shared much with me as well,’’ she offered, testing to see where his suspicions lay.

  ‘‘The government does not pay its workers well,’’ he said. ‘‘One can easily imagine a dissatisfaction with the system, an openness to the persuasion of corrupting influences.’’ He continued cautiously. ‘‘You, Great Lady, might have heard of such a government employee, and whereas I would understand, even respect your reluctance to mention any names, I thought perhaps were I to speak the names, you might be able to show some indication, make some sign to me that might prevent me from wasting my time.’’

  ‘‘You overestimate me, Mr. Both. I humble businesswoman. A few investments here and there.’’

  With the carrot failing, he decided to try the stick. ‘‘A certain television station intends to run a series on power and influence within the International District and the Asian community and its relationship to the flow of illegal immigrants into the city.’’ Boldt pulled the VCR cassette from his coat pocket and set it on the table. ‘‘You may want to see some of the footage they intend to use. Arrests that didn’t need to happen. Courtroom trials that ended in hung juries.’’ He met eyes with her and said, ‘‘It’s so unfair the way the press can air our dirty laundry, trials that have long since been forgotten by most.’’

  ‘‘You have influence with this station,’’ she suggested calmly.

  ‘‘Influence might be too strong a word. They are as hard on the police as they are on the innocent businesswoman. In their search for the guilty they stop at nothing. The rules are so different for the police.’’

  Mama Lu kept quiet, mulling over what Boldt had told her. When she spoke, she sounded happy, as if not bothered by any of it.

  ‘‘Do you take any pride in a knowledge of astrology, Mr. Both?’’

  ‘‘As ignorant as a babe,’’ he confessed.

  ‘‘Do you pay any attention to the calendar, professionally, personally?’’

  ‘‘Only in terms of pay days.’’ He smiled at this mountain, whose features began to melt like wax too close to the fire.

  ‘‘You see, the Chinese pay particular attention to the calendar. Take the phases of the moon for instance. Important to crops, the cycle of the woman, the seas. Extremely important in warfare. No? The darkness of the new moon is every general’s ally.’’ Her emphasis was not

  missed on him.

  He searched her eyes. ‘‘I’m listening.’’

  She frowned, not wanting to be so direct. ‘‘These people delivering the new citizens, they consider themselves at war with the government. No? Do not forget, Mr. Both, the storm they call Mary caused much delay at sea. You said so yourself. Run out of food and water.’’

  Then Boldt saw it: The arrival of the Visage had been targeted to coincide with a new moon when the resulting darkness would help hide the transfer between the crane and the barge. It was at once both simple and convincing. ‘‘A time schedule,’’ the cop suggested optimistically.

  ‘‘There you have it,’’ she agreed, opening her huge, rubber hand as if offering its invisible contents.

  ‘‘The new moon.’’

  ‘‘I believe you find it upon us shortly,’’ she said. She rummaged in a purse at her feet and withdrew a complex wheel of Chinese characters, numbers and windows. She spun the various elements of the wheel to the desired setting and said, ‘‘Thursday, two days from now.’’

  He glanced at his watch, every passing minute carried weight. ‘‘Just like that?’’ he asked, surprised by her cooperation. Or was she intentionally misleading him?

  Anticipating his suspicions she said, ‘‘No want TV story. True. But more than that, Mr. Both. A woman’s body is God’s treasure. Its magic makes children, bears milk, delivers life. To violate this. . to enter a woman unwanted is the most unforgivable sin in all God’s creation. I would rather be killed than succumb to this fate. You tell me on last visit about violation of woman found buried. Ifind out what you tell me is true. No food, water, even illness, is regrettable but understandable conditions of any such a war. This other violation, unforgivable. Must stop.’’

  He suggested, ‘‘Two days is not much time.’’

  ‘‘Ship sail from Hong Kong in time to reach Seattle on new moon. How many ship can there be?’’ She stared at him like a disapproving teacher. ‘‘Police make much trouble about rental of crane,’’ she observed, intriguing him. ‘‘Your doing, Mr. Both. If no crane rented, what option left?’’

  Boldt digested her message. ‘‘The container will have to make shore.’’

  ‘‘You good listener.’’

  Boldt pulled out five dollars to leave for the soup. She waved him off, but he left it anyway.

  She said, ‘‘I make exception, watch television news tonight.’’ She shoved the video back toward him. ‘‘The past have no place in present. Keep the past where it belongs.’’

  ‘‘I’ll see what I can do,’’ Boldt said. He caught himself as he bowed slightly.

  ‘‘And as to that other matter you raised, Mr. Both,’’ she called out after him, stopping him. ‘‘You have good instincts. The Chinese never trust anyone in government.’’

  He hurried, feeling crushed by time. Another shipment of illegals was due. What that meant for Melissa was anybody’s guess.

  CHAPTER 51

  Had Boldt not requested Stevie to repeatedly review Melissa’s digital tape, perhaps she would not have done so, too upset at those darkened images of the sweatshop and the horrid conditions described in the close-up interviews. But his suggestion that Melissa
might be not only alive but undiscovered by the enemy charged her with a renewed hope that sputtered and flickered inside her, giving off light like a lamp with a bad wire.

  She attempted to deal with her mood swings, for the dryness in her throat and the stinging in her eyes. She could not recall her last meal. She found it impossible to sleep, the hotel room offering her no feeling of safety despite the presence of hotel security. Nor did she understand why it was so difficult for her to remain focused. She constantly caught herself stuck in some memory of Melissa, her vision clouded by it, her senses stolen from her. She had been robbed of her existence, denied it. She needed out of this-no longer simply for Melissa’s sake, but for her own. If she failed, she would fail completely, would crumble, unable to work, unable to live; she felt absolutely certain of this.

  In one of her wanderings, her immediate task dissolving behind this curtain of regret and anger, her eye fell onto the frozen image of a city bus on the video. Not the bus in particular, but its route number, posted electronically on its side. The route number, glimpsed briefly as Melissa boarded the bus in her attempt to follow the big man wearing the hooded sweatshirt. Mexican? Chinese? She couldn’t be sure. But that route number! The man’s destination was somewhere along that bus route. A quick review of the other video confirmed that he had changed buses at least once. Melissa had followed him into the bus on her second try. Had he transferred to the same route both times? What if he’d ridden the bus to the sweatshop? What if she compared that particular bus route to the list of vacant structures that Boldt had confirmed the police were investigating? What if they could follow the rat to the nest?

  She trembled with excitement, suddenly feeling fully awake and invigorated. It seemed so obvious to her. So overlooked. What could it hurt if she checked it out on her own? What damage could be done by a simple bus ride around town? What if she could bring Boldt the location of the sweatshop?

  She clicked off the monitors, removed the tapes and hurried to lock them in her office despite the fact they were only copies-the originals safe with Boldt.