The First Victim lbadm-6 Read online

  ‘‘Appealed to your father,’’ Melissa answered.

  ‘‘If Corwin puts up road blocks, I’ll take it over his head to New York. I have plenty of contacts left.’’

  ‘‘You’d do that?’’

  ‘‘I’m agreeing to do that. For this story, yes.’’

  ‘‘This story, or for me?’’ Melissa asked.

  ‘‘The story.’’

  ‘‘Because I-’’

  ‘‘I know your principles,’’ Stevie reminded, interrupting. ‘‘This isn’t a handout. Honestly. If it proves to have legs, and you want to pursue it, I’ll stick by you. You want to go undercover, I’m with you- but only if it’s exposure, not entrapment. That’s all I’m saying.’’

  ‘‘Then we’ve got a deal,’’ Melissa suggested, having never discussed her pay. ‘‘You get the story. I get creative autonomy.’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ Stevie agreed, ‘‘we have a deal.’’

  CHAPTER 4

  LaMoia delivered the medical examiner’s preliminary report on the three Chinese illegals who had died in the container. The report, though scientifically stated, remained indecisive, an enigmatic confusion that did little to support the investigation’s pursuit of homicide charges for the three deaths. The illegals had succumbed to malnutrition and dehydration, ‘‘aggravated by symptoms consistent with those caused by a virulent strain of influenza, as yet unidentified.’’ Doc Dixon’s emphasis expressed his unwillingness to draw firm conclusions-at least at the stage of the preliminary report. The prelim went on to say that the corpses had sustained postmortem contusions, likely the result of being tossed around at sea. Tissue samples were being forwarded to the Centers for Disease Control (CDC), Atlanta, in an effort to identify the particular strain of flu. The extent of malnutrition and dehydration suggested to Boldt the possibility of filing charges of ‘‘depraved indifference to human life’’ against the captain and crew that had transported the container. This, in turn, might lead to plea bargaining and names of those responsible for the trafficking in human lives. A strategy began to reveal itself, not much different than a drug raid or organized crime sting. But more than anything, he also recognized Doc Dixon’s underlying interest and curiosity in the unidentified flu strain, and the memo’s carefully worded, intentionally vague language. Dixie was holding his cards close to his vest, buying himself time for that CDC report.

  For Boldt, the fastest way to the name of that ship, to the captain and crew, was the illegals themselves-the passengers-the nine women who had survived the passage and were currently being detained by the INS.

  Fort Nolan was no longer an army base. Only its golf course had survived the budget cutting of base closures in the late 1980s. Congress could evidently see its way clear to losing a few hundred civilian jobs and a thousand infantry, but an eighteen-hole course was not to be sacrificed under any conditions. The result was that retired and active officers alike regularly shanked, hooked, pitched and putted only a hundred yards from former barracks that currently housed indigent Asians and Mexicans unlucky enough to have been caught and detained by the INS. The more fortunate among them found themselves in service as ground maintenance crew or caddies, enjoying a limited freedom, spending their days outside the razor wire and receiving the occasional gratuity.

  The base’s hasty remodel by the INS had come as a boon to the chain-link contractors in King County. Boldt pulled his department-issue Chevy Cavalier to a stop at the guard gate. He and Daphne Matthews displayed their badges and stated their business. In the far distance a man wearing khakis and a lime green crew shirt made a nice chip shot onto the green. Attorneys and government employees came and went with regularity at Fort Nolan, but a pair of Seattle cops was clearly something new, for the guard studied their identification badges carefully and, asking Boldt to pull over inside the gate, made a phone call. They were provided an over photocopied map of the facility upon which the guard hastily drew directional arrows. Daphne navigated.

  ‘‘Shouldn’t John be with us?’’ Daphne asked. ‘‘In fact, shouldn’t you be at the office and John be here?’’

  ‘‘He’s lead. He gets the joy of the paperwork,’’ Boldt replied.

  ‘‘Are we in denial of our rank, Lieutenant?’’

  ‘‘Hill and I disagree as to the job description,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘Let’s just leave it at that.’’

  ‘‘Will she leave it at that? Would you have tolerated Phil Shoswitz in the field?’’

  ‘‘It’s different.’’

  ‘‘Why? Because it’s you, not Shoswitz?’’

  ‘‘Exactly.’’

  ‘‘Have you heard the term bullheaded?’’

  ‘‘Are you familiar with the word experience?’’ he fired back at her.

  ‘‘I certainly am. And my experience,’’ she said, intentionally cutting him, ‘‘is that both you and Hill are bullheaded. Something’s got to give there-and she’s got rank on you, Lieutenant.’’

  Boldt pursed his lips and pulled up to the curb. She shot a look at him that could have caught a bush on fire.

  The interview room, plain and bare, contained two long metal tables with Formica tops surrounded by metal chairs with worn plastic cushions. On the wall hung framed portraits of the president and the regional INS director, Adam Talmadge. The interpreter was a Japanese-American woman in her forties who stood five feet tall in shoes with heels and dressed with a simple elegance.

  The detainee was young and silently defiant. Her head and eyebrows were shaved, lending her an otherworldly look. She wore over-washed denim pants and a thin denim shirt with no bra. Her blue rubber sandals slapped the gray cement floor in a steady, insistent rhythm. An aide delivered four cups of tea.

  Boldt cupped his hand and whispered to Matthews, ‘‘Do you recognize her?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Daphne answered. ‘‘But I only saw photos.’’

  ‘‘Yeah? Well I was there, and she. . I don’t know.’’ Boldt went through the formalities of introductions. Through the interpreter he attempted to explain that the police had no interest in pressing charges against this woman or any of her companions. Then, pen ready, he said to the interpreter, ‘‘Please tell her we need the name of the ship that transported the container.’’

  The interpreter told him, ‘‘You’ll never get that out of her. To give you that would put not only her at risk, but her relatives here and at home. Perhaps agent Coughlie should brief you before-’’

  ‘‘Translate the question, please,’’ Boldt said, interrupting.

  ‘‘Wait!’’ Daphne interjected, catching the interpreter’s warning eye. She whispered into Boldt’s ear.

  He shrugged and deferred to her saying, ‘‘Go ahead.’’

  Daphne addressed the detainee, ‘‘You paid a great deal of money to be brought to this country. What if we could get that money back for you, erase that debt?’’

  Boldt wrote on his pad where Daphne could read it: smart.

  The Chinese woman replied through the interpreter, ‘‘Yes. We pay money to be brought America. We in America. Yes?’’

  ‘‘She’s an illegals poster child,’’ Boldt mumbled.

  Daphne tried another tactic. ‘‘What if we arranged for you to remain in the United States legally? Would you help us then?’’

  The interpreter interjected, ‘‘I will not be party to this kind of sham.’’

  ‘‘What sham?’’ Daphne argued.

  ‘‘The Service will never agree to such a deal. Have you spoken to Agent Coughlie? Of course you haven’t! Brian Coughlie never makes such deals.’’

  Boldt inquired, ‘‘Then how do they obtain information from these people?’’

  ‘‘Listen, I’m only the translator, but I’m telling you: I’ve never offered a deal to any female detainee. It just isn’t done. The operating premise is that the women don’t know anything. They are rarely, if ever, even interviewed. The male detainees, the various gang members occasionally rounded up-the coyotes-they’re a dif
ferent story. But in terms of the women, Fort Nolan is nothing but a big bus terminal, with all the buses headed home.’’

  ‘‘All the more reason she should cooperate with us,’’ Boldt reminded. ‘‘We’re giving her a chance to be heard.’’

  ‘‘But you don’t control their destiny, the INS does. Agent Coughlie does.’’

  The subject’s eyes ticked back and forth between her interpreter and Boldt, who was beginning to dislike Coughlie already.

  Daphne said politely, ‘‘Please translate the lieutenant’s offer. If we cut her a deal that included a legitimate green card and her money returned, could she supply us with the name of the ship and any details of crossing?’’

  The translator spoke quickly behind poorly contained anger. The detainee listened carefully, looked surprised and then studied both Boldt and Daphne carefully. After a long hesitation, she shook her head no.

  ‘‘Why,’’ Daphne pleaded. ‘‘Why volunteer for deportation?’’

  The interpreter answered, ‘‘Because-’’

  Boldt chided, ‘‘Not you. Her!’’

  The Chinese woman shook her head a second time upon hearing the translated question.

  The interpreter tried again with Daphne. ‘‘They are warned before they leave the mainland that the Americans do not keep their word. Their relatives, both here in the US and in China, will suffer if they talk. To a Chinese, family is everything. It would be shameful to put any family member at risk.’’

  Boldt addressed the translator. ‘‘The people who took her money nearly killed her. They did kill three others. More will die. Maybe relatives of hers who follow in her footsteps. Doesn’t that mean anything to her?’’ He hesitated, leaned forward and warned, ‘‘Tell her that we will arrest her as an accomplice to those deaths if she does not cooperate.’’ This drew Daphne’s attention as well. He continued, ‘‘Tell her that if convicted she will not be deported, but will spend the rest of her life in a prison with convicted murderers, drug addicts and thieves. Exactly that. Exactly those words, please.’’

  The color had drained out of the translator’s face; her eyes pleaded with Daphne for intervention.

  But Daphne nodded at Boldt.

  ‘‘You wouldn’t do this,’’ the interpreter objected.

  ‘‘Not another word from you,’’ Boldt fired back, ‘‘other than what comes from her or one of us. No more editorial. Three women are dead,’’ he repeated loudly, now getting his earnestness across to the subject as well. ‘‘Now translate!’’

  The interpreter spoke to the woman, who subsequently blanched at the idea of a prison term. After a long and searching staring match with Boldt, this woman addressed her translator, who, upon hearing

  the words, suppressed a smirk.

  ‘‘What?’’ Boldt asked impatiently. ‘‘And I want it word for word.’’

  The translator did her job. The Chinese detainee smiled, for the first time without using her hand to shield her mouth. Her front teeth were missing.

  ‘‘What?’’ Boldt repeated irritably.

  The interpreter then reported, ‘‘She said you Americans must have big prisons.’’

  CHAPTER 5

  The following day, for five hundred dollars in cash, the state auditor supplied Melissa with the name Gwen Klein, and the Greenwood Licensing Service Office-in Washington State the equivalent of a Department of Motor Vehicles-where Klein worked. Melissa spent hours in the back of her van with a bulky broadcast-quality video camera and battery pack perpetually prepared to record. She shot tape of Klein leaving the LSO and running errands, tape of Klein picking up her kids from day care, tape of Klein grocery shopping. Her first ‘‘report card’’ was delivered in Stevie McNeal’s sumptuous penthouse apartment over a pair of salads that Stevie had ordered by phone. The wine was an Archery Summit Pinot. Stevie drank liberally, Melissa hardly at all.

  ‘‘About the only thing I have to report is that the husband is driving a brand new pickup truck and the house appears to have a new roof.’’

  ‘‘Extra cash,’’ Stevie suggested.

  ‘‘Or a dead relative or a generous banker. The husband pounds nails. She’s a state employee. That’s a thirty-thousand-dollar truck he’s driving, and new roofs aren’t cheap.’’

  ‘‘Let’s find out how he paid for that truck,’’ Stevie suggested.

  ‘‘That would help us to pressure her.’’

  ‘‘She’s not going to talk to us,’’ Stevie said. ‘‘Not without hard evidence of her involvement.’’

  ‘‘Driver’s licenses are small. She could make a drop anywhere.’’

  ‘‘So you stay close to her,’’ Stevie suggested.

  ‘‘I can stay close, but I can’t stick to her.’’

  ‘‘Sure you can.’’

  ‘‘Not and get tape. At least not with that camera. It’s the size of a school bus.’’

  ‘‘Let me look into getting you the digital,’’ Stevie said. ‘‘There’s a briefcase for it that we use on all the undercover stuff. You can go anywhere with it.’’

  ‘‘That would certainly help.’’

  ‘‘Not anywhere dangerous, mind you,’’ Stevie informed her. ‘‘I want you to remember that.’’ Melissa had been a risk-taker all her life.

  ‘‘And if we don’t get something more positive out of her in a day or two?’’ Melissa asked.

  ‘‘Then our friend at the dim sum doesn’t get his second payment.’’

  ‘‘And the women in that container? We forget about them?’’

  ‘‘Don’t do this to yourself,’’ Stevie said.

  ‘‘Do what?’’

  ‘‘Work yourself up. Go righteous on me.’’

  ‘‘We have two options,’’ Melissa said impatiently, brushing aside Stevie’s concerns. ‘‘Journalism 101. The first is to confront her on-camera with what we know. The second is to make something happen.’’

  ‘‘Journalism 101?’’ Stevie objected. ‘‘Since when? Confront her, sure. But entrapment?’’

  ‘‘If you can’t break the news, make the news,’’ Melissa quoted.

  ‘‘That’s not you and we both know it. Make the news? Fake the news? That’s not you! Corwin maybe, but not you.’’

  ‘‘Not make the news-bait the news. We solicit a fake ID,’’ she suggested.

  Stevie stood from the couch and paced the room. ‘‘That’s dangerously close to entrapment.’’

  Melissa reminded, ‘‘Who was it that said: ‘Real news is never found, it’s uncovered’?’’

  ‘‘Don’t take what I say out of context.’’

  ‘‘Three women died in that container. The others were stripped naked, de-loused, shaved head to toe and will be on a plane back to China in less than a week. If I approach Klein and she offers to sell me a driver’s license, then we’ve got her by the thumbs. She’s ours.

  She either leads us up the next rung of the ladder or-’’

  ‘‘We extort her?’’

  ‘‘We pressure her.’’

  ‘‘What’s gotten into you?’’ Stevie asked.

  ‘‘You hired me to get a story.’’

  ‘‘I hired you to pursue a lead. There’s a big difference.’’

  ‘‘Not to me.’’

  ‘‘Since when?’’

  ‘‘Look at me. Look at my face. If not for you and your father, that could have been me in that container. Those women are my age and younger! Are you going to walk away from them because we have to work a little harder to get the story?’’

  ‘‘You see?’’ Stevie said. ‘‘You see what happens with you?’’

  ‘‘Me? What if it’s a strong enough story to run nationally?’’ She raised her voice. ‘‘We may have different reasons, but we both want this story.’’

  ‘‘Don’t confuse the issue.’’

  ‘‘The issue is three dead women and more coming in behind them every week. The issue is the deplorable conditions that allowed those women to die.’’ Melissa added,
‘‘The police are investigating those deaths as homicides. That’s the story I’m interested in: bringing down whoever’s responsible. And I’ll tell you what: I’m willing to bend the rules for the right cause. If Klein sells me a fake ID, that’s her problem.’’

  ‘‘It’s our problem too if we handle it wrong, Little Sister. These people-’’

  ‘‘See? What people? Who? That’s exactly my point!’’

  ‘‘Let’s exercise a little patience, shall we? You’ve been on this a day and a half. Keep up the surveillance. If you want a partner, I’ll-’’

  ‘‘No! This is our story, yours and mine. No one else!’’

  ‘‘And I’m in charge,’’ Stevie asserted. ‘‘Keep an eye on her. One day is nothing.’’

  ‘‘Try telling that to the women trapped in those containers.’’

  ‘‘Patience.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, sure,’’ Melissa snorted.

  ‘‘I’ll work on getting the digital camera. That’ll help, right?’’

  Melissa beamed. ‘‘Then you do want this!’’

  ‘‘Of course I want it, Little Sister. I brought it to you, remember? But we talk it out, work it out together. We’ve got to set aside our personal agendas. I want this as much-’’

  ‘‘Yeah, yeah,’’ Melissa said interrupting. ‘‘You don’t always have to mother me, you know?’’

  ‘‘Old habits die hard.’’

  ‘‘Get me that camera.’’

  ‘‘Work with me,’’ Stevie said. ‘‘A team,’’ she suggested.

  ‘‘A team,’’ Melissa echoed.

  Through one day and into the next, Melissa Chow sat impatiently in her brown van, following and videotaping Gwen Klein’s movements, from home to the grocery, and for the second time in three days, to a car wash.

  Mid-morning, Melissa received a phone call from Stevie.

  Stevie informed her, ‘‘A friend who works with a credit rating service says that there are no loans, no liens on the Dodge 4X4 registered to Joe Klein.’’

  ‘‘Where’s that camera you promised?’’

  ‘‘Are you listening?’’

  ‘‘They own it free and clear?’’ Melissa asked, her eyes on Klein’s taillights as the van sat parked in the automatic car wash.