The First Victim lbadm-6

by Ridley Pearson

  ‘‘You don’t like this one?’’ Boldt complained.

  ‘‘It okay. A little big on you I think. Bad color. Too dark for skin tone. I have cousin.’’

  ‘‘Skin tone?’’ He had bought the suit on sale too many years ago to remember. Her comments made him self-conscious. He worried about how his suit might play in his later appointment.

  She struck Boldt as something of a Chinese Winston Churchill the way she held the cane and faintly bowed to him as he spoke.

  Boldt had sandwiched the stop between the conclusion of the video session with LaMoia and his upcoming job interview, intending to work the woman for information on the location of sweatshops. But she had other ideas.

  Sensing his impatience and urgency, Mama Lu demanded they meet at a location of her choosing: a nondescript building on a busy street in the heart of the International District.

  ‘‘I have an appointment,’’ he continued.

  ‘‘This not take long,’’ she told him. Mama Lu set her own pace, her own tempo. In the world of jazz, she was a ballad, not bebop. ‘‘You will be so kind,’’ she said, indicating the door.

  Boldt opened the door for her, stepping close enough to smell a faint trace of jasmine and was reminded of her gender, something easily forgotten when enveloped by her commanding presence. As she passed, he said softly, ‘‘Another woman was found dead. Another Chinese. Head shaved. Bad shape.’’ He caught himself slipping into her clipped mode of speech.

  ‘‘Chinese, or Chinese-American? You see, to us there is much difference, Mr. Both. I show you.’’ She led Boldt down a short red hallway and through a bright pink door into a large, open room filled with fifty or more Asian children. They sat at low tables in groups of five or six. Finger paintings hung from the fabric-covered walls; a hand-drawn English alphabet was draped above the blackboard like a banner. There were beanbags, dollhouses, plastic forts and a wall of books. It was busy but not loud. Xylophones hammered out halftone Chinese melodies.

  Boldt read a modest plastic sign mounted to the wall and understood immediately that she was playing politics. Beneath the prominent Chinese characters on the sign were the words Hongyang Lu Child Center and Woman’s Shelter. Mama Lu was sole proprietor.

  As if on cue-and he had to wonder about that-several adorable children ran to greet the great lady, clutching to her tent dress and jumping for her arms. Little dolls. Boldt thought of his own Sarah, and how quickly her childhood was slipping away. He was working long hours again, a pattern he had broken during Liz’s illness, and though there were a million justifications for it, he suddenly wondered if he was working or running from something. Daphne had put these thoughts in him, and he couldn’t get away from them.

  Mama Lu interrupted his thoughts. ‘‘These my children: American citizens. They born here, live here. Grow up, make money, pay taxes.’’ She spoke in Chinese to the half dozen children crowding her and they ran back to their stations. ‘‘Older girls upstairs,’’ she said, pointing to the ceiling. ‘‘Different problems.’’

  Boldt counted ten young adult women supervisors, far more per child than at his own children’s day care. One of these young women approached and spoke softly and cordially, welcoming them. Unless a well-conceived act, Mama Lu was no stranger here. The woman shook Boldt’s hand and asked if the police would ever consider coming and talking to the students. He offered to do so himself.

  Mama Lu glowed with his offer. The woman headed back to her kids and Mama Lu said to Boldt, ‘‘This girl once part of shelter. Now teacher, give back to community. This free day care. Anyone welcome.’’

  ‘‘You’re a very generous woman.’’

  ‘‘Not point! Pay attention! Children American. No illegal. Born here means American citizens.’’

  ‘‘Whether or not their parents were or are legals, yes, I understand the way the laws work.’’

  ‘‘The laws not work,’’ she countered. ‘‘Pay attention. These children are alive, Mr. Both. They grow up, pay taxes. American citizens.’’

  ‘‘I understand,’’ Boldt replied.

  In a menacing tone she hissed, ‘‘You understand nothing.’’

  Boldt told her, ‘‘We have evidence. A videotape. Other evidence as well. There’s a sweatshop. . The people doing this will be caught and punished.’’ He allowed that to hang in the air along with the clanging xylophones and the joyous squeals. ‘‘Those who cooperate with us,’’ Boldt told her, ‘‘are treated differently in the eyes of the law.’’

  ‘‘Law does not have eyes. Law is blind. Law does not see parents, only children.’’ She swept her pudgy hand across the room.

  ‘‘Lady Justice is blind,’’ Boldt corrected.

  She squinted up at him like a person looking into the sun. ‘‘Why you make so much trouble?’’

  ‘‘These people did nothing to help these women when they became sick. You don’t need laws to tell you that is a crime! If one of these children became sick with the flu, would you simply allow the child to die?’’

  ‘‘You not sure of this,’’ she tested.

  ‘‘Oh yes, we’re sure.’’ He leaned in closely to her and whispered faintly. ‘‘The woman in the graveyard-buried without a casket, without a service, dumped into the mud-had been violently raped.’’ He added reluctantly, ‘‘Every cavity.’’

  This news clearly struck her. Red-hot anger flashed behind her dark eyes.

  ‘‘Starved to death, raped and buried,’’ Boldt repeated before leaning farther away. ‘‘They froze her body-we’re not sure for how long, or why. We know she was a part of a sweatshop. Her fingers. .’’

  Mama Lu stood, leaning on the cane in stunned silence, the gleeful sounds of children swirling about them.

  ‘‘A sweatshop could not operate in this city without your knowledge,’’ Boldt said boldly. ‘‘I’m not suggesting your participation, only your awareness.’’ He added, ‘‘Can you continue to condone such behavior? Help me stop them, Great Lady. You will be a hero, a great friend to this city.’’

  ‘‘People arrive from overseas,’’ she said, equally softly. ‘‘They have no place find work. Government no allow them work. Much need this work, Mr. Both. What to do? Make lady favors? This kind of work? Die of disease? This not fair. Very much not fair.’’

  ‘‘They starved her and they raped her.’’ Boldt was struck by the severity of their discussion, especially when contrasted to the gleeful enthusiasm that surrounded them. ‘‘This is fair?’’

  ‘‘Horrible,’’ the lady gasped. ‘‘Your visit much appreciated.’’

  ‘‘No, no, no!’’ Boldt corrected. ‘‘We believe this sweatshop is in a cannery-an old cannery perhaps. We have evidence to support this.’’

  ‘‘Many canneries, once upon a time. Big city. Big area.’’

  ‘‘Exactly,’’ he said. ‘‘Help me, Great Lady. We find the sweatshop, we stop looking,’’ he suggested. This won her attention. He nodded his insistence. ‘‘If we don’t find the right sweatshop, we’re going to be conducting a lot of raids. Bottom line: The people who did this are going down for it.’’

  ‘‘And these children?’’ she asked. ‘‘Their mothers once made the clothing you speak of. This is how they survived. What of them?’’

  ‘‘Four women are dead. Medical Examiner says three had given birth. Their children have no mothers. Is that what you want?’’

  ‘‘You have two children,’’ she said, surprising Boldt with her knowledge. ‘‘One boy, Miles. Daughter, Sa-ra,’’ she mispronounced. ‘‘You love your daughter, Mr. Both?’’

  He didn’t answer. He glared at her, his heart racing, suddenly wishing he’d never met her. He swallowed hard, recalling the time Sarah had been kidnapped. He understood that hell firsthand; he relived it almost every night, the unspoken source of his insomnia.

  ‘‘You see child?’’ she asked, pointing out a small girl no older than two. ‘‘Her mother give birth this child, yes? In China-one child only. If boy,
he grow up, keep family home, take care parents. Girl moves away with husband. Girl child no good. Many daughters born, but left in street, never seen again. Yes?’’

  Boldt could think only of Sarah and Miles. Why had she mentioned them? How had she known?

  ‘‘Many daughter sent to cousins in America. Here, Seattle. Yes? Mother pay much money for this. Mother come later, in bottom of ship. In container. Yes? American government say she not political refugee, has no right live in America. You, Mr. Both? You refuse her chance to be with own daughter? She work hard many years, no papers. Earn much money. Find green card. Citizen now.’’ She added with a faint smile, ‘‘This America. Everything for sale.’’

  Boldt held his tongue, still thinking about Sarah and the idea of daughters abandoned at birth, or shipped away to a distant land. He felt cold. Sick to his stomach.

  ‘‘We don’t know her name,’’ he finally said. ‘‘The woman we found in the grave. Raped, starved. No name. She won’t be buying her freedom. She won’t be buying anything.’’ He tried once again to get his point across. ‘‘There are people who say there’s no way a sweatshop can operate in this city without your knowledge.’’

  She craned forward ominously. ‘‘You believe such things?’’

  ‘‘A woman is missing. I must find her. I must stop these people who treat these women this way. It’s going to stop, Great Lady, with or without you. I would be most grateful for any guidance you could give me in where to look for this sweatshop. Believe me, no one need ever know my source for such information.’’

  ‘‘Leave this alone, Mr. Both,’’ she said. ‘‘This dangerous, everyone involved. Yourself too. You help me very much coming here, tell me these things.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t come here to help you. I came here to ask you to help me.’’

  She pointed to the door. ‘‘Of course I help you. No problem. But you must listen, yes? This woman who make the news on the TV, she make wrong people mad. Your name too get mentioned. You make her listen-no make so much trouble. Bad for everyone.’’ She warned ominously, ‘‘You watch for shadows, Mr. Both-shadows not cast by you. Wrong people make mad.’’

  Boldt felt his throat go dry as he restated, ‘‘Our evidence is growing. We will find the people responsible. We will put them out of business.’’ He caught himself reducing his sentences to clipped English, pandering to her in ways he did with few others. For all he knew she spoke fluent English. ‘‘They, and anyone associated with them, are going to prison.’’

  She said, ‘‘Go home your children, your wife, Mr. Both.’’

  ‘‘It doesn’t work like that,’’ Boldt objected. ‘‘Lady Justice may be blind, Great Lady. The police are not. We are the law, no one else. Not you, not anyone else.’’

  ‘‘We both idealists. Yes?’’ When she grinned her dentures showed, as perfect as a picket fence. Those teeth didn’t belong in such a face. They robbed her of character. ‘‘Too bad for both of us.’’

  CHAPTER 36

  Boldt waited ten minutes outside the offices of Boeing’s vice president of human resources, alone with his battered briefcase, his ten-year-old suit and a stomach churning with raw nerves. He was always in the role of the one doing the questioning, never the object of it. The idea of some corporate executive, with a title so long that it couldn’t possibly fit on a business card, quizzing him about his life, his family, his dreams, struck him as deeply disturbing. How did he explain that he didn’t want the job, only that he needed the added income? How did he explain that if Sheila Hill confined him to a desk, he’d just as soon the desk be across town for twice the pay? That sitting at that desk while others were at the game was a cruel form of torture? How did he tell another human being that in a way not morbid at all, he lived for the fieldwork, the dead bodies, if only because they kept his mind alive, his imagination active, and his raison d’etre intact?

  The thick glass of the coffee table was littered with aviation and golf magazines. Across the fairly antiseptic reception room, a matronly secretary stayed busy at her phone and computer, though she didn’t appear too absorbed by the work, finding enough time to repeatedly sneak glimpses of Boldt and his nervous demeanor. He brushed the shoulders of the dark suit clean, inspected the hang of his tie. His hand darted into his crotch quickly to ensure his fly was up; the secretary caught that movement and taking it for a signal, lifted her head slightly, peered above a set of half glasses and said, ‘‘Shouldn’t be much longer.’’

  Melissa Chow hadn’t been seen in ten days. This was the only clock running in his head.

  ‘‘No, it shouldn’t,’’ Boldt agreed, forcing a moment of paralysis onto her otherwise expressionless face.

  He checked his watch. Instead of seeing the minute or hour hand again, he saw the date. Ten days. The rule book would say she was dead. Boldt had the video-he believed otherwise. With the sweatshop now a matter of record, he had evidence to follow. He glanced at the aviation magazines, his head reeling.

  LaMoia, who continued to keep McNeal under surveillance despite the risks, would keep Gaynes on researching polarfleece imports and manufacture; others would canvas discount houses, retail outlets, and street vendors, supplying Lofgrin and the lab with samples of every blue polarfleece garment available in King County. They needed a list of every vacant structure in the county, from canneries to former schools to airplane hangars. They needed that sweatshop. The work seemed endless. Suddenly the idea of babysitting a Fortune 500 corporation and spying on its employees lost its shine. Even sitting there waiting for the vice president of human resources to get off the phone seemed a futile act.

  He glanced up at a black-and-white photo on the wall and saw three grave mounds, only to realize it was in fact the gray curving roofs of airplane hangars, not freshly dug graves. But the image served to remind him of the digital tape and Melissa’s mention of ‘‘the graveyard.’’ Were there other women buried at Hilltop Cemetery? Had they missed that?

  He grabbed the phone and dialed his own pager number. Ten seconds after he hung up, the pager sounded loudly. Glancing at it, he stood and took hold of his old ratty briefcase. ‘‘Something’s come up,’’ he informed the secretary. ‘‘I’ve got to get back to the office.’’

  ‘‘He’ll be done with the call any minute,’’ she pleaded. Boldt sensed it was her job to hold him, her problem to fix.

  ‘‘It’s urgent.’’

  The woman nodded, seemingly relieved. Official police business would let her off the hook. ‘‘May I reschedule?’’

  ‘‘I’ll call.’’

  ‘‘We can do it now. I’ve got his Day-Timer right here.’’ She flipped some pages.

  ‘‘Mine’s back at the office,’’ he said.

  ‘‘He’ll be terribly disappointed to have missed you.’’ She glanced toward the phone, clearly hoping to see the phone’s line light extinguished. She resolved to stall him. No one would walk out on conversation. ‘‘There’s a good buzz about you.’’

  ‘‘A buzz?’’ he said. ‘‘I’m glad.’’ He cringed. He didn’t want to be the topic of buzzing.

  Her index finger with its half-inch plastic nail roamed the man’s schedule. ‘‘How’s your golf game?’’

  Boldt returned a puzzled look and glanced down at the coffee table magazines. He had tried the game in another life, back when Liz had been whole and the kids only an idea discussed at the end of lovemaking.

  ‘‘They need a fourth on Friday,’’ she said. Keeping her voice low she informed him, ‘‘All the big deals are done out there. I imagine you’ll be seeing quite a bit of the golf course.’’

  ‘‘A bit rusty,’’ he said. The closest he had come in recent years was mini-golf with Miles.

  ‘‘I can pencil you in.’’

  ‘‘I don’t think so, no. I really had better check my schedule.’’ He broke with etiquette and headed for the doors.

  ‘‘You’ll call?’’ she fired off somewhat desperately.

  He winced. He w
ouldn’t call. Not for some time. First he would run things by Liz in order to include her in the decision. She planned to return to full-time work by Thanksgiving. She would interpret this job change of his as a stubborn refusal to see her as healed, as his way of financially protecting his future.

  His days of running the family alone, running things without her, were over. They had been over for several months, though he was loath to accept it. In a strange way he had become dependent on her illness, had adjusted his life to meet it head on, had focused on nothing but that for the last sixteen months, had learned well the role of single father, orphaned husband and head of household, had become dependent on her dependence on him. Her return to the family was difficult to take; his decisions were challenged again; his monarchy once more a democracy.

  At the elevators, he caught a glimpse of himself in a wall mirror. Mama Lu’s offer of a better suit teased him. More than a bad fit, its mood was wrong. LaMoia was right: He only wore a suit at funerals and award dinners.

  If he returned for the job interview he was wearing khakis and a blazer. But he wasn’t coming back, not any time soon. He knew Liz’s vote before ever hearing it. He wondered if he could get used to that kind of participation again, and if not, what he was supposed to do about it.

  CHAPTER 37

  Boldt arrived alone at Hilltop Cemetery, struck immediately by the finality of death. Melissa had mentioned ‘‘the graveyard’’ on the digital tape. It was time to review that evidence. Hence the visit.

  As a homicide cop he was surrounded by death, but not quite like this, the granite and marble headstones rising out of the lush green lawn, names rubbed illegible by decades of salt air so that the stones were nothing more than anonymous testimonies to death itself. The solitude overwhelmed him. He expected either LaMoia or Daphne to join him, having left voice mail for both, and he hoped it might be sooner than later. Visiting a graveyard seemed too close to home; he couldn’t get Liz’s illness out of his thoughts, and suddenly grief and fear overcame him. He stepped forward and leaned his weight against someone named Lillian Grace Rogers who had been in residence in that spongy earth some seventy-three years.