The First Victim
Page 21
‘‘More bodies?’’
‘‘If they buried one, why not others? I’m sitting there in a waiting room at Boeing, and I’m seeing graves in photos of airplane hangars and I’m thinking Jane Doe wasn’t alone up here.’’
‘‘Isn’t it pretty tricky to exhume?’’
‘‘Extremely difficult, especially given we don’t know where to look. But if there are other women buried up here, they may hold information we need. This missing reporter mentions ‘the graveyard’
on her video. I’m thinking that’s the connection we’re missing.’’
‘‘She followed someone here?’’ Daphne suggested. ‘‘Followed someone from here?’’
‘‘The gravedigger maybe. Someone who could tell them when a fresh grave came available. They keep the women frozen until they have an opening.’’
‘‘Melissa made the connection.’’
‘‘Maybe. But if the gravedigger was on the take . . .’’
‘‘He’d have to have a way to contact them,’’ she said, completing his thought.
‘‘My job is to find Melissa before she ends up here.’’
The rain slackened off and Daphne drew the hood away. She fluffed her hair and shook her head side to side. She said, ‘‘Has it occurred to you how complex an operation this is? The ships, the containers, the cargo, the rendezvous, transportation, fake IDs, graveyards, brothels, sweatshops.’’
‘‘At thirty thousand dollars a passenger, the margins are pretty good.’’
‘‘But who could pull off something like this? And with the INS out there, how long could they get away with it?’’
‘‘Big players,’’ he said. ‘‘Has to be. On that end, the Chinese Triad would know about it or control it. On this end, people like Mama Lu. That’s why I’m so interested in her. You’re right: It’s huge. It’s no mom-and-pop affair, that’s for sure.’’
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‘‘But to get away with it . . .’’ she said, coming back to her original thought. ‘‘My job in all this is to come up with a psych profile, a personality sketch of our suspect. Ibuilt a model. Closest thing Icould come up with was a beehive. Lots of worker bees following orders. They handle the day-to-day.’’
‘‘The gangs.’’
‘‘Exactly. Then come the drones. They can give orders, but they take orders, too. You work your way up this succession of power, and the thing Ikept coming back to, the bee in my bonnet—if you will—is that in the upper ranks, up near the very top, it requires, even necessitates, someone in a position of strength. Not power, not physical might; Idon’t mean that. But strength: connections, knowledge, insight.’’ She added, ‘‘No matter what model you use, they don’t get away with this without someone in that position. Luck only lasts so long. The way you win in a game this big is not to rely on luck at all.’’
‘‘Stack the deck,’’ Boldt said.
‘‘Yes. Stack the deck.’’
‘‘They’ve bought someone off,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘That’s what you’re saying.’’
‘‘Idon’t like it, either.’’
It started raining again. Daphne jerked the hood up over her head. Boldt stood in the rain. ‘‘Imaging systems.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Isaw it on the Discover Channel with Miles. Archeologist, using technologies developed by oil companies. They found dinosaur bones without digging.’’
‘‘Dinosaurs?’’
‘‘So why not humans?’’ he asked, looking up and indicating all the headstones.
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F R I D AY , AU G U S T 2 8
1 1 D AY S M I S S I N G
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With police refusing to share the video, and no word from Brian Coughlie, with it being a Friday and another long, long weekend looming before her, Stevie elected to turn to viewers for help, knowing full well it would entail an enormous risk. Now in the eleventh day of Melissa’s disappearance, she felt she had no choice. She had never experienced the bright burning glare of the studio lights quite like this—they felt more like those used in interrogations in old black-and-white films, blinding and intimidating, meant to extract the truth.
With her own words spread out on the news desk before her and echoed on the TelePrompTers, with these words hers and not some news writer’s as they typically were, she found the anchor desk, the wireless microphones and the penetrating stare of the clear glass camera lenses suddenly terrifying. Jimmy Corwin looked on from behind the thick glass of the control booth, his agitated expression a mixture of stunned amazement, twisting curiosity and deep concern. It wasn’t every Friday morning that Stevie McNeal showed up at the station at 5:30 A.M. demanding a two-minute segment on the Wake-up News and another one-minute piece on the Seattle Today cutaways that frequented the national morning show. He had negotiated such appearances by her as part of their deal when he gave Stevie the container assignment, but he had never expected her to deliver. An eerie silence enveloped the set; the morning crew were on pins and needles because they didn’t have down the peculiarities of how to manage the afternoon talent. Or so Stevie surmised. That along with her tired appearance and her lack of makeup. She wore only some lipstick. She had sent both the hair girl and powder boy packing—
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there would be no touch-ups between shots. She wore a dark cotton turtleneck that did not emphasize her curves. In fact, all of this, along with having her hair pulled back, meant that there was nothing suggestive about her whatsoever. The sexploitation of the news would have to wait for the next fresh face to come along. She was done with it. Now, as the floor director’s fingers rhythmically counted down five . . . four . . . three . . . Stevie turned inside herself searching for that sense of calm that she knew had always been there when she most needed it. The cameras were aimed on her, she reminded herself; the lights aimed on her; the hundreds of thousands of viewers hanging on her every phrase, every syllable, every nuance. Nothing compared with live television.
She was not thinking of the container series, she was not aiming to impress New York or Atlanta, she was making an effort to save a friend, a sister. Her Little Sister.
Mi Chow she had been called back then, for the name Melissa had not yet been given to her. Stephanie didn’t recall exactly how old they had been at the time; but she did remember that they’d been small enough that she had needed to stand to see out the side window of the chauffeur-driven Chrysler as it passed an open-air market, the craggy faces of the Chinese women and men hiding beneath the enormous straw hats, worn as protection against the unbearably hot sun. Mi had occupied the center of the backseat flanked by Father and a beautiful English woman that Stevie had seen at Father’s parties. Stevie could still see this woman’s hat and black veil, her bright lipstick and dark blue dress. Shiny blue leather shoes with spike heels. Stephanie saw bicycles and dust, heard the sound of chickens and smelled a noodle shop. This ride thrilled her to her core, for there was much whispering, much secrecy surrounding it, though this was some- thing Stephanie only sensed.
Her aunt Su-Su was crying softly from the passenger side of the front seat, one hand stretched back but not quite touching Mi Chow. Tears ran down her cheeks.
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with that. She glanced back at Father, whose enormous height, white skin, golden hair and broad brown mustache had once frightened Mi Chow to the point of hiding.
The open-air market passed in a blur of activity, bamboo crates and brilliant green vegetables. The lucky ones wore sandals, the rest went barefoot. The olive tunics were the same that everyone wore. Everyone everywhere. Only in the gigantic posters of the Great and Beloved Leader, and in the city, did people dress differently. Father wore a pin- striped suit, a white shirt, gold cufflinks and a broad red necktie bear- ing golden crowns. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and smoked a ciga- rette. He had a low commanding voice as he warned Stephanie to hold on tight.
The buildings streamed by in a colorful blur with the speed of the car. Stephanie let go of trying to fix to any particular image—shanties, corner markets, the bicyclists flowing like water around the car. Su-Su’s soft cries occupied her every thought—something was terribly wrong. Father spoke aloud, and all at once Su-Su spun, leaned over the seat and took hold of Mi Chow’s hands. She whispered in Chinese, and Stephanie heard her say that Mi was not to be afraid, that Su-Su and Steph and Uncle Patrick loved her very much, and that Uncle Patrick was a great man, and that Mi should listen and obey this English woman who was to accompany her.
Father was too busy looking out the car window to take in any of this. He shouted frantically at the driver, who constantly checked with him in the rearview mirror. All at once the car swerved sharply and nearly struck a man on a bicycle. The tires ground to a stop, enveloping them in a cloud of swirling brown dust. The English woman lifted Mi to her lap as Father threw open the back door and climbed out. To- gether, the three of them, Mi clutching tightly to Father, disappeared into the dust caused by a second car that had pulled up behind them. This car had been the source of Father’s earlier distraction. There was much shouting and confusion.
Su-Su called out to her niece, ‘‘Be brave, child. Steffie and Uncle Patrick will be with youlater tonight.’’
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A car door shut loudly, the dust swirling around Father, who sud- denly stood alone among the curious peasants.
‘‘I will see Little Sister tonight?’’ Stephanie asked Su-Su in Chi- nese.
‘‘Youtake long trip,’’ she replied. ‘‘A long, long trip across the ocean.’’
‘‘And you?’’ Stephanie asked.
The woman, already in tears, broke down and hid her face. ‘‘My child . . .’’ she said, ‘‘my child.’’ Stevie thought of television cameras as the most powerful weapons in the world—they affected far more people than any bomb. It had taken her thirteen years to fully understand and take advantage of that power. She believed fervently that with just two minutes of the right air time, a person could change the world.
For her there were to be no more tedious interviews with INS
directors, shipping company executives and politicians. Melissa’s early surveillance footage was both potent and incriminating. Coughlie had encouraged her to use the power at her disposal, and he was right. Klein had gone into hiding. Leads were running out. If she teased the police while calling on the public to help, she felt she could bring the police back to the bargaining table. She wanted that digital tape. She wanted Melissa back.
The floor director signaled her. The camera’s red light illuminated. She was live. Good morning. Eleven days ago a reporter from this station, Melissa Chow, went missing. This is a clip of her shot two months ago that some of youmay recall. On the screen, Melissa stood high on a bluff, the Sound’s green waters in the background, her jet black hair tossed by the wind. A white passenger ferry slid into view as she said into the camera, ‘‘The state’s passenger ferry system has never carried more people more miles than it has over the past twelve months. But what of postponed maintenance schedules, hiring practices, rumors of embezzlement and drunken pilots . . . ?’’
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The television screens across the state returned to a picture of Stevie at the anchor desk.
That is Melissa Chow. She is twenty-six years old. She is Chi- nese by birth. She speaks English with little or no accent. She stands five feet two inches and is approximately one hundred and five pounds. She is believed to have been investigating ille- gal immigrants at the time of her disappearance and is feared to be in grave danger. On the screen youare now seeing images she recorded prior to her disappearance. The first is of a licens- ing service office worker, Gwen Klein, who is presently wanted by police for questioning. This next shot is of an unknown male, in whom Melissa was clearly interested prior to her going miss- ing. The dire circumstances of her disappearance speak for themselves. Police have few, if any, clues. Anyone having any information leading to her recovery will be rewarded ten thou- sand dollars cash by this station . . . Jimmy Corwin jumped out of his chair on the other side of the soundproof glass and threw his arms in the air, waving frantically. He then pulled at what little hair he had left and mouthed a series of shouted orders at his team. Stevie hoped they weren’t cutting her off and going to ad.
Any such information will be treated confidentially by the po- lice. Your coming forward will never be made public, not ever— whether an innocent observer who happened to see something, or one of the very people responsible for Melissa’s disappear- ance. We want her back.
You, the people of Washington State, are the finest anywhere. We at KSTV have lost one of our own. We appeal to you, our community, for information—any information—that may help us bring Melissa home safely. The number on your television screen is a toll-free number that connects you directly to the police. It can be called from any phone, anywhere, twenty-four hours a day.
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Please help us find our friend.
Thank youfor your concern.
‘‘Clear!’’ the floor director shouted.
The hush that followed Stevie’s announcement was shattered by Corwin hollering over the intercom, his voice booming into the room.
‘‘Who the hell authorized that? That script wasn’t in the booth!
McNeal, my office, this minute!’’
For the benefit of the microphone still clipped to her turtleneck, Stevie said calmly, ‘‘If the money’s a problem, Jimmy, don’t worry—
I’m prepared to pay the reward myself. And if you want to talk to me, it will be in my office, but you’ll have to get in line. Ihave a hunch my phone is about to start ringing.’’
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Boldthadjuststeppedoutoftheshowerwhenheheardhispager’s annoying beep. The bedside phone rang nearly simultaneously, and Boldt knew immediately there was either a dead body or trouble. He felt leashed to these devices, no longer ever truly alone, the idea of public service taken to a level of absurdity that left him without a private moment—not even a few minutes in the shower. Liz climbed out of bed naked, and Boldt winced to acknowledge that the body that had once sparked so much desire in him was now mostly a reminder of his wife’s battle with cancer. Her ribs showed. She answered the phone. ‘‘Hello? Yes it is, Captain. He’s in the shower.’’ She listened carefully before signing off by saying, ‘‘Yes, I’ll be sure to tell him.’’
‘‘I’m turning the TV on for you,’’ she announced. ‘‘That was Sheila Hill. You know Ireally resent having to call her by her rank. Why does it bother me so much that my husband reports to a woman with half his experience, half his brains and more than half again his paycheck? She wants you tuned in to Channel Four right away. You’re supposed to be interested.’’
Boldt entered the living room dripping wet with a towel wrapped around his waist. Ten minutes later he was creating his own lane and passing traffic behind the incessant strobe of the dash-mounted-bubble gum light while talking on the cellular.
‘‘We’re going to be flooded with calls,’’ Boldt warned LaMoia. ‘‘We burned her and she burned us back. She just sank us and the investigation.’’
‘‘Options?’’ a groggy LaMoia asked.
‘‘We move ahead of the tidal wave that’s certain to come. If we 213
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don’t, it’ll trap us and drown us. Call Coughlie over at INS. We want a list of any and every possible sweatshop location in the city.’’
‘‘That’s all Itell him?’’
‘‘Tell him we’re going to start kicking some doors in, and that we want—no, we need—his foot to lead the way. That ought to get a rise out of him.’’
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Vacant structures were a scourge to any city because they ended up crack houses, gang lairs and arson targets. It was their designation within this last category that made them of interest to the Seattle Fire Department. SFD tracked all structures vacant more than one calendar year. Boldt knew this from his involvement with an arson investigation two years earlier.
Within half an hour of his request, Boldt had on his desk a tenpage list of every known vacant structure in King County. He faxed this to Dr. Virginia Ammond, who had been compiling her own list of former canneries for him. Cross-referencing this list against her own, Ammond pinpointed two possible structures—both vacant, both former canneries. When Brian Coughlie called and offered a federal search warrant to help speed up the process, Boldt accepted. Without any formal mention of it, they had formed a task force, and although their superiors—Hill and Talmadge, respectively—might fight over the concept, Boldt and Coughlie were determined to get down to business. t