The First Victim

by Ridley Pearson

  ‘‘Watch dis. You see dat? Can you believe dey show dat? Damn!’’

  ‘‘Forget her. You got it? She’s handled.’’

  ‘‘You think?’’

  ‘‘She saw Klein. Count on it.’’

  ‘‘She got plenty of nerve, that one. Too bad Ididn’t get to—’’

  ‘‘Enough!’’ He didn’t want any association with Rodriguez. Whenever he met with him, their conversations deteriorated into monosyllabic thug speak. Coughlie reminded himself he needed to keep his distance. ‘‘Forget her,’’ he repeated.

  ‘‘You give the word, everyone forget her.’’

  ‘‘Nothing on your own,’’ Coughlie reminded, beginning to warm under the collar both out of anger and because his eye kept straying to the screen. ‘‘No more like that forklift. That was stupid! We stay on track for the next delivery. No choice, or I’ll be the one having an unexplained accident. Got it? We’ve got a break after this next one. I can use that time to get us through this. Nothing more from you unless it comes from me.’’

  Coughlie resorted to the one anesthetic he knew would work, at least temporarily: He slipped the man a two-hundred-dollar bonus for the attack at the apartment. He knew Rodriguez would use it to selfmedicate. If Coughlie was lucky, it would get him through the weekend.

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  04-20-01 09:29:31

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  C H A P T E R 4 7

  ‘‘Idon’t remember all that much. It happened so quickly.’’ Stevie McNeal wore a T-shirt over her pajamas. The T-shirt promoted a five-mile run to benefit cancer, with KSTV as a sponsor. Teams of police had been inside her apartment for nearly two hours. The Sunday morning sun was trying to steal the night from the sky. The apartment still smelled of weapons fire.

  Detective Bobbie Gaynes, looking as tired as the rest, nodded sympathetically.

  LaMoia, cupping a disposable blue ice pack to the side of his face, directed traffic in the living room where SID shot photographs and dusted for prints.

  She thought that the police were worse than the press when it came to turning a place into a zoo.

  Lou Boldt sat in a chair facing the news anchor. He looked older.

  ‘‘When you’re dressed,’’ Boldt informed her, ‘‘we’ll move you to a hotel. Detective Gaynes will stay in your room with you, if that’s okay. We’ll post a uniform in the hall, outside a room next door, a room that will be empty.’’

  ‘‘What about Edwardo?’’ she asked to blank expressions. ‘‘The night watchman.’’

  ‘‘Emergency room. Concussion,’’ Boldt answered. ‘‘We’ll question him in the morning.’’

  ‘‘Ididn’t mean that, ’’ Stevie said.

  ‘‘They knew what they were doing,’’ Gaynes explained. ‘‘Clubbed him, took his keys, killed the building’s phone system, removed the security video. Without you, we’ve got nothing.’’

  ‘‘I’ve provided you as much detail as I can.’’

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  04-20-01 09:29:33

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  RIDLEY PEARSON

  ‘‘I’m sure you have,’’ Boldt said patiently, though he was clearly disappointed.

  ‘‘So it was . . . professional?’’ she asked them both tentatively. Gaynes looked to Boldt and then back to McNeal. ‘‘They . . . he? . . . knew what to do. Knew the building. Your location. The elevator pass. We’re assuming it wasn’t blind luck that got him up here, and it certainly was not a random act.’’

  ‘‘Was not, ’’ Stevie clarified, needing to hear the words again.

  ‘‘They’d scouted the building,’’ Boldt stated. ‘‘That’s how it looks to us.’’

  Stevie knew she should say something, but she couldn’t think what. She couldn’t think hardly at all. ‘‘So they meant to—’’

  ‘‘We don’t know what they had in mind,’’ Boldt corrected, intentionally interrupting and preventing the words from being spoken. Maybe he was superstitious about that.

  ‘‘Klein . . .’’

  ‘‘We don’t know that,’’ Gaynes echoed her lieutenant. Boldt retreated to an earlier subject. ‘‘We’d just as soon get you out of here, Ms. McNeal. When you’re ready. When you’re up to it.’’

  ‘‘Are you going to show me photos?’’ she asked. ‘‘Maybe Ican recognize the guy.’’

  ‘‘We can try that—later today, or Monday morning—if you like,’’

  Boldt said, but it was clear he didn’t believe she’d make identification.

  ‘‘A hotel,’’ Stevie muttered.

  ‘‘When you’re up to it.’’

  ‘‘Ihate this.’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ Boldt agreed. ‘‘We’d like to work with you,’’ he added, reminding her of his earlier offer.

  ‘‘About the sergeant,’’ she said, nodding toward the bedroom’s open door. ‘‘How the hell did he respond so quickly?’’

  ‘‘We were lucky this time,’’ Boldt answered.

  ‘‘That doesn’t answer my question,’’ Stevie said. Boldt remained impassive. He wasn’t going to answer the question. ‘‘Was he following me?’’ she asked indignantly. ‘‘Do you have me under surveillance?’’

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  04-20-01 09:29:33

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  Boldt noticed the three gray boxes by her television set and was drawn to them. He said, ‘‘Are these the tapes?’’

  ‘‘Those are private property.’’

  ‘‘Who knew about these tapes? We did, yes. But who else? A producer, an editor?’’

  ‘‘No one!’’

  Thinking aloud, he stated, ‘‘We’ve been assuming whoever broke in here was coming after you. But what if we’re mistaken? Or maybe it was supposed to be a two-for-one: look like a robbery gone bad. A VCR, some jewels, these tapes. You’re killed or injured in the process.’’

  Stevie paled, hesitated a long time, looked directly at Boldt and finally offered, ‘‘Imentioned the tapes to Brian Coughlie. Both the VHS and the digital. Iasked him for help with the digital tape. You should have allowed me to view that tape!’’

  ‘‘When was this?’’

  ‘‘Wednesday night. The meeting you knew about. Dinner. Coughlie knew Ihad the VHS tapes up here. The first ones she shot. Ias much as told him so.’’ She waited for some reaction from him. ‘‘You don’t think—?’’

  ‘‘Iheard you,’’ he snapped.

  The dull drone of city traffic filled the room, barely audible, competing with the gentle hush of the ventilation system. A ship’s horn far in the distance, followed by a police siren like a wounded cat. These sounds were as much a part of this city as its weather. She objected, ‘‘But it doesn’t necessarily mean that Coughlie —’’

  ‘‘No, it doesn’t,’’ Boldt said, interrupting her. He looked around, closed the bedroom door firmly and said, ‘‘Okay. Now, let’s start all over.’’

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  04-20-01 09:29:33

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  $$AD

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  M O N D AY , AU G U S T 3 1

  1 4 D AY S M I S S I N G

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  04-20-01 09:27:20

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  C H A P T E R 4 8

  She signed off the same way each day: ‘‘This is Stevie McNeal for William Cutler and all of the News Four at Five team. Have a good evening. Thanks for joining us. Stay safe.’’ By the end of any broadcast Studio A’s initial chill was tempered by the heat thrown from the dozens of overhead lights and the staggeri
ng assemblage of sophisticated electronics. The weather in the fake skyline behind the anchor desk never changed, nor did the time of day, suspending viewers in the rare Seattle sunset that sustained thirty miles visibility. The news repeated itself, the 3 Ds: death, disease, disaster. On that day the lead story concerned Klein’s death—her ‘‘questionable suicide,’’ as told by Stevie McNeal, who had witnessed the incident first-hand. Billy-Bob Cutler, with his upright, Eagle Scout look, covered a scandal at the convention center concerning catering overcharges. Two weeks since she’d seen Melissa alive.

  ‘‘Clear!’’ the floor director called out sharply. ‘‘We’re black in five, four, three . . . We’re out. Thank you everyone!’’

  Two weeks. In some ways it felt like yesterday; it felt like years. Billy-Bob jumped up from his chair like a quarterback breaking from the huddle. He removed his audio gear and headed straight for the exit—for a beer with his public—pats on the back on his way out. Stevie could have removed her mike herself, but in no hurry to go anywhere, she waited for the soundman. Two weeks. Where? Why? She hadn’t left the studio all day, in part out of a concern for security, in part because of the endless meetings. Management—hoping to protect their investment, no doubt—wanted two bodyguards assigned. Stevie wanted her independence, arguing that the break-in had been coincidental and was unrelated to Klein’s death and the events sur253

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  04-20-01 09:29:34

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  rounding her investigation; arguments that fell on deaf ears. A compromise was struck: Because she had already moved to the Four Seasons under a different name, hotel security would be provided. The police had called off the hallway guard. The station would beef up its security, something already built into the business plan, so that while she was inside KSTV she and everyone in the facility would be well protected. She was free to come and go of her own choosing—they encouraged use of the Town Car—as long as she notified security of her movements; she would carry a small GPS transmitter in her purse to identify her location at all times. In the unlikely event anything should happen to her, they would, at the very least, have a way to track her down.

  These negotiations complete, the broadcast over, an entire day exhausted, she briefly settled into her office, intent to be out of there as quickly as possible and to a much needed sleep. She reviewed e-mail and phone messages. Her world crumbling, she looked around and wondered how long all this could last, how long her thirty-sevenyear-old face would hold, how long her public and the station would want her. It was a vicious business. Careers were canceled with overnight ratings. Another new face was always waiting. And whereas men would work broadcasts well into their fifties and sixties, women rarely stayed in front of the camera past forty.

  When she caught sight of Brian Coughlie in the control room talking to Corwin, her heart fluttered, and her first childish instinct was to hide so that he couldn’t find her. Next, terror struck her. Following her questioning by Boldt, she suspected Coughlie’s involvement, either with the importation of illegals or even possibly the deaths and Melissa’s disappearance. It had not occurred to her that with his credentials he could gain access to the station without question. She didn’t want him here. She wanted nothing to do with him!

  A moment later, he stepped into her office.

  t

  Coughlie arrived at the unscheduled meeting with McNeal hoping either to scare her into seclusion and force her to withdraw from her

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  04-20-01 09:29:35

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  story, or to convince her to share the VHS videotapes that Melissa had shot from the van. Her disappearance or murder would bring the national media spotlight onto the case, and he couldn’t bear up under that kind of scrutiny. He would be discovered. He hoped at the very least to reinforce his authority and stay on top of her and of what she knew.

  As directed, he sat down onto a colorful chintz couch while she lightly sponged off her cosmetics in a brightly lit mirror.

  ‘‘Iheard about the break-in,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Idon’t appreciate unannounced visitors. At my apartment, or here at the station.’’

  ‘‘I’m not here as a visitor. I’m here as a federal agent,’’ he announced. ‘‘I’m here to warn you who you’re playing with.’’

  ‘‘To warn me? First Klein, then my own apartment, and you’re going to warn me?’’ she asked incredulously.

  ‘‘Offering the reward was a mistake. Maybe you meant to punish the police by flooding them with calls—you were upset over this digital tape. But instead, you put yourself at the center of it.’’

  ‘‘The gloves are off.’’

  ‘‘Ihear the first officer on the scene was LaMoia,’’ he said, restructuring his line of attack. ‘‘Let me ask you this: How does a sergeant end up the first cop on the scene at that hour of the night?’’

  ‘‘Meaning?’’

  ‘‘He should have been home in bed or downtown writing up paperwork on Klein. The police have you under surveillance. What else explains a sergeant being the first officer?’’

  She processed all this and felt a sickening twist to her stomach, but she recovered quickly and maintained the offensive. She lied convincingly. ‘‘Of course they did. Following Klein, Irequested twentyfour-hour protection. In a minute you’re going to tell me that you’ve been following me as well—and tapping my phones and bugging my apartment.’’

  He tried to remain calm through this, but she took his blinking eyes as an indication of strained nerves. ‘‘It’s all one big conspiracy, right? The Chinese mob, or whoever’s behind this, has paid off every.......................... 7400$$

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  one in law enforcement, and only the press is in the way of all this quietly disappearing from the public conscience. Is that about right?’’

  ‘‘You shouldn’t joke about such things,’’ he cautioned. ‘‘These people play tough.’’

  ‘‘Firsthand knowledge?’’

  ‘‘Absolutely.’’

  ‘‘Not hands-on knowledge, Ihope.’’

  ‘‘You’re still joking? Are you aware of the size of the rock you’re attempting to roll over?’’

  ‘‘I’ll roll over any rock that I think is on top of Melissa. It’s too bad you don’t work for these people, because if you did I’d tell you to pass along to them to simply return Melissa. Give her back to me. She shows up alive on my doorstep and this story will tank so fast you wouldn’t believe it!’’ It seemed to her like a valid bargaining chip, one that he might even mistakenly believe.

  ‘‘Did they tell you about the raid on the chop shop?’’ he asked. She stumbled. ‘‘Of course,’’ she lied again, working too long on her face. Her voice broke as she asked, ‘‘Does that mean what Ithink it means?’’

  ‘‘On the surface, it means her van was stolen and recovered, that’s all. In this city that would normally not constitute any kind of event. But given the rest of what we know, it holds all sorts of significance. I led that raid. The arrests were ours—federal. Chinese gang members, every last one. Connected to the illegals? Not that we’ll ever prove. But why did a gang-run chop shop have your friend’s van? Any guesses?’’

  She couldn’t catch her breath. She tried brushing the spray out of her hair to cover her moment of paralysis. Two weeks . . .

  ‘‘We won’t get squat out of any of them—guaranteed. In their world you rat, you die. Inside or out, it doesn’t matter. Rules are rules.’’

  She swiveled in her chair and faced him. ‘‘Suggestions?’’

  ‘‘We need to join forces,’’ he suggested, not answering her. ‘‘SPD can’t help you with an illegals investigation. Have you f
igured that out yet? This chop shop? That was ours! They couldn’t get a warrant fast enough. That’s my point. We can move way faster than they can. We

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  04-20-01 09:29:35

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  can and do take all sorts of liberties they can’t. You want to tap a pay phone? That’s us. Take them weeks to get a warrant like that. You want to raid a sweatshop? Where do you think they’ll turn? Right here,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ve got the probable cause and they don’t. Night and day, I’m telling you. You know what I think?’’ he asked, not allowing her a reply. ‘‘Ithink you and me should go into business together. We start with these videotapes and we work backward. Iknow that you probably think you’ve already done that, but we do this for a living! You want your friend back? We start there. That’s where we start.’’

  Now she was without her usual stage makeup, and she felt that she looked much older. Her grim expression wedded with her exhaustion and grief to paint a picture of pain and impatience. She tore off the paper bib that protected her dress and crunched it into a ball that she held on to, so that her fist was tight and bloodless. He announced, ‘‘Ithink you should turn the VHS tapes over to me and take a vacation. I’ll push to gain access to the digital tapes as well. You leave town for a while. Long enough for us to make it safe for youaround here.’’ This, she decided, was an intentional emphasis. He was threatening her. He, too, had taken the gloves off.

  ‘‘And if Istay?’’

  ‘‘After what you’ve been through?’’ he asked. ‘‘Who can protect someone that well? You don’t know these people like Ido. These gang members are worthless excuses for human beings. Ask Boldt . . . LaMoia . . . they’ll tell you the same thing. One mistake, a bullet through the back of the head. Pop!’’ He clapped his hands loudly, jangling her nerves. ‘‘That’s all. No explanation. No remorse. You want to challenge those kind of people?’’

  ‘‘Comes with the turf. You challenge them on a daily basis, right? You look healthy to me.’’ She met eyes with him and would not let him go. ‘‘How’s that work?’’

  ‘‘They smoke a federal agent and they’ll never sleep. A reporter? Your friend Melissa knows how they feel about reporters.’’