‘‘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 dark.......................... 7400$$
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ness 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.’’
‘‘Ibelieve 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. Iwould 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 ob.......................... 7400$$
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served, 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, ‘‘Imake 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.
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C H A P T E R 5 1
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 272
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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.
She had a bus to ride.
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Fall was a time of dying, the annual ritual of transition from summer’s lush wealth to winter’s bleak bankruptcy. Volunteer Park sat poised behind an affluent neighborhood’s three-story colonial homes. The park housed the Asian art museum and a stone water tower. At night it played host to hard-core drug use. All walks of society appreciated a good view. Boldt met his wife in the museum’s parking lot from where the hill spilled down and away from them toward the intrusion of high-rises and the gray-green wash of the Sound. Late afternoon, the first day of September, it was busy with in-line skaters and baby strollers. Boldt smelled fall in the air. It brought a pang of anxiety. He didn’t need any more change right now. Liz’s invitation to meet away from downtown implied trouble. She knew it was more difficult for him, especially midday.
‘‘Everything
okay?’’ he asked.
She made every effort to return the weight savaged by the chemotherapy, but all these months later, she still looked the same—a piece of dried fruit, the juice of life sucked out. He loved her, appreciated her, and yet did not accept her as fully healthy in part because of her appearance, in part a resistance to the idea of sharing management of the family with her. Her sickness had put Boldt in charge of the kids, the schedule, even the meals and menus. And though he welcomed the relief from his duties, he also felt a bit like a dictator, unwilling to recognize the democracy.
‘‘Where are you?’’ she asked accusingly.
‘‘I’m here.’’
‘‘You were off somewhere else.’’
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‘‘I’m right here, Liz.’’
‘‘You’re slipping back into it, you know? The twelve-hour days. The leaving before they’re up and coming home after they’re asleep.’’
She had brought him to Volunteer Park to lecture him on old habits dying hard?
‘‘I’m working on stuff,’’ he confessed. ‘‘Trying to work things out.’’
‘‘Living with my being healthy,’’ she stated. ‘‘It’s hard for you.’’
‘‘I’m working stuff out,’’ he repeated.
She took his hand. Hers was icy. There was never any warmth in any of her extremities, as if she’d just gone for a swim in a cold lake.
‘‘Dr. Woods’ office called,’’ she said.
Boldt swooned. The world seemed to slow to a stop, all sound replaced by a whining in his ears, his vision shrinking. He managed only a guttural, ‘‘What?’’
‘‘The tests. My annual. There’s evidently a newer, more sensitive test they can run. They want me to book an appointment. You’re a part of that decision.’’
‘‘Iappreciate that,’’ he said.
She stared out at the water.
‘‘It’s not that I don’t respect your faith. It’s that I don’t understand it.’’
She explained, ‘‘They say they want me in for an early flu shot. They say they’re worried about me getting the flu. But Iknow Katherine. It’s about the tests.’’
‘‘Which is it? Flu shots or the tests?’’ Something teased his thoughts: the container victims had been exposed to a flu. Could he use that now?
‘‘They mentioned both. The excuse to get me in there is the flu shots.’’
‘‘It’s your decision, Liz: You want to skip the tests,’’ he said, ‘‘I’m with you.’’ But he wasn’t with her; he felt distracted. She offered, ‘‘You have to be fully behind this. Ineed—’’
‘‘My faith?’’
She smiled. ‘‘Idon’t expect miracles.’’
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Boldt caught Dixon in the middle of an autopsy. An eighty-fiveyear-old widow had fallen off a ladder while changing a light bulb and had broken her neck. The law required Dixon to cut her up and take his samples, and though typically an assistant would have handled such a case, the late summer vacation schedule put the burden on the boss. He went about it with all the enthusiasm of a parking lot cashier.
The room smelled foul despite the ventilation system. Boldt hated the taste it left in his mouth.
‘‘Flu shots?’’ Dixon asked.
Boldt said, ‘‘What if the illegals aren’t the only ones sick? These Hilltop women were raped—that’s close contact. What if the skin irritation on Jane Doe was from industrial detergent, as in a car wash?’’
Clearly impressed, Dixon said, ‘‘Not so far-fetched.’’
‘‘Close physical contact,’’ Boldt repeated. ‘‘You said yourself it was highly contagious. What if it spread? What if a couple guys are real sick? What if the evening news happened to report that a flu shot and an antibiotic had just come available? That both were specific to what authorities were calling the ‘container flu’?’’
‘‘The antibiotic wouldn’t be specific to the flu,’’ Dixon advised.
‘‘So they issue a retraction? The point being that we could use it as bait. We’ve seen guards on the videos. People have been around these women. Close contact. Someone has buried them. Handled them.’’
The doctor’s gloved hands made sucking noises inside the cadaver. He said, ‘‘This is no Ebola, or something—it’s a very bad flu. It’s treatable.’’
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‘‘But if the news plays it up, if there’s a treatment available at a clinic, if our people are at that clinic, and if it requires them to fill out a form that includes an exposure date—’’
‘‘That’s completely unnecessary!’’
‘‘But they don’t know that! The average guy doesn’t know that! I wouldn’t know that. Jill Doe was in the ground weeks ahead of Jane Doe. Jane Doe was dead before the container. The point being that if we can trick someone into naming a date ahead of the container’s arrival, then that person will have to explain his exposure.’’
‘‘No one would ever run such a story. It’s medically unsound. They fact check, you know? Your only hope is with the tabloids, believe me.’’
‘‘My hope is that this office will issue a press release,’’ Boldt stated bluntly.
Dixon’s hands stopped, submerged in the corpse. ‘‘Well then, you just lost all hope.’’ He said firmly, ‘‘Iunderstand what you’re going for, Lou. In a warped kind of way, it even makes sense. It’s a pretty good idea. But Icannot put this department in the position you’re asking me to. If we lose integrity and trust, if the public believes we’re willing to manipulate the truth for the good of SPD . . . It just doesn’t work. We’re a team of medical professionals. Believe me, we have image problems enough without this kind of thing: ‘second-rate doctors’; ‘surgeons whose only patients are dead.’ Can’t do it, Lou.’’
‘‘But it might work,’’ Boldt suggested, looking for encouragement.
‘‘I’d give it a qualified yes—a highly qualified yes.’’ He repeated,
‘‘But it doesn’t matter. You’ll never get anyone to run the story.’’
Boldt said, ‘‘Iwouldn’t be so sure about that.’’
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Betweenthechauffeur-drivenTownCarsandherown325i,Stevie realized she had not ridden a Seattle city bus until then, surprised by the diversity of its riders and the unexpected neighborliness of its passengers. She had thought the bus system a place for poor people, the homeless and indigent, ‘‘The Unseen Minority’’ as they had been called in a feature piece on N4@ 5. Instead, on that Tuesday afternoon she found teenagers, college kids, moms and children, even a businessman or two. They read books, newspapers, knitted, listened to Walkmans, shared a conversation, or stared out the windows, which was what Stevie did, ever alert for landmarks that might signal the location where Melissa’s subject had disembarked. In her right hand, Stevie carried a printout from the digital video for comparison. The bus stops came and went. People switched seats. The doors hissed shut. The bell line buzzed the driver. She marked a tourist map as she went, indicating the running time of the trip. With the video time-stamped, it seemed one possible way to identify the bus stop this man had taken.
The bus route dragged on, her broadcast nearing. After ten more minutes, as they approached the Fremont Bridge, she realized the bus trip would have to wait. She had a meeting scheduled with Boldt to determine if they should air the clips of Mama Lu. Frustrated with the idea of giving up s
he nonetheless disembarked, crossed the street and rode another bus back into town. As it turned out, Boldt was waiting for her.
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Brian Coughlie felt obsessed with her. Aware that following the botched attack in her apartment, the police or the other security were more than likely to keep her under protection, Coughlie nonetheless assigned two of his own INS agents to also watch her from a distance, to report not only her every movement but who else was keeping tabs. When his people reported her boarding a city bus Coughlie became perplexed. Try as he did, he couldn’t make sense of her riding public transportation out to Fremont Bridge and then back into the city again. Was it something she had gleaned from one of the videos? A tip from an informer from the hotline? What? Worse: How did he stop her?
He had gone without sleep, compensating for this additional fatigue through a liberal dose of amphetamines and as much espresso as he could force down. He lived broadcast to broadcast, terrified at what she might come up with next, debating his options and not liking any of them. To watch her broadcasts felt to him like professional leprosy: watching the slow rotting of his own career as bits and chunks sloughed off.
Two days more. His focus remained this last shipment of illegals yet to arrive, although he felt plagued by the police’s recent discovery of three more buried bodies in Hilltop Cemetery and what those cadavers might reveal to the experts. Rodriguez was a liability—his solutions only created additional problems. More terrifying to him personally was that his request for police to share this Hilltop information had gone without any acknowledgment or reciprocity. LaMoia hadn’t even returned the call. What was that about?
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He couldn’t pick up and run even if he’d wanted to; it wasn’t the police he was worried about, but the Chinese ‘‘businessmen’’ who owned him. A person didn’t run from such people, not ever. You stood and faced the music. You implicated others in the failure; you framed people if necessary.
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