Frustration winning out, Boldt said, ‘‘Just do the job.’’ The point wasn’t so much the dead body, the loss of a possible witness, it was the decision behind the death, the swiftness with which someone had acted, and Boldt’s realization that these people were a step ahead of him, knew his intentions. Outside of his own squad and the INS, only Mama Lu had been told of his intentions to interrogate the ship captain, although whoever had hired the man to transport the container would have foreseen the inevitability of his being questioned and might have acted not only to prevent it, but to send a signal to future ship captains to keep their mouths shut.
LaMoia’s earlier mention of Tidwell, the detective who had retired on disability after investigating an illegals case, rang in Boldt’s ears. These people played tough. He had only to look down at the captain’s puffy face for a reminder. He thought of Sarah and Miles and Liz. Maybe this case wasn’t worth the risk. Maybe that was the other purpose of this kill. Maybehewas supposed to seehis ownface lying thereonthe dock.
Forensic sciences—the responsibility of Bernie Lofgrin’s Scientific Identification Division (SID)—had made so many advancements over the past twenty years that crime scene procedure had been reinvented to accommodate the painstakingly exact collection of evidence, including photography and videography, as well as the careful preservation of the physical environment on and around the cadaver. When coupled with careful documentation, thoroughly working a homicide crime scene could, and in this case did, easily consume two to three hours.
At the start of the third hour, Boldt was notified that the entire crew of the Visage had been found asleep in quarters aboard ship and was being held by the Coast Guard for SPD questioning. He expected they would back up each other’s perfect alibis, but LaMoia would interrogate all of them nonetheless. If anyone could get a person to talk, it was John.
By seven o’clock, the local TV stations had cameras and crews on location, joining a half dozen other reporters, along with the morbidly curious that peopled any homicide crime scene. A zoo scene. A public spectacle. A political nightmare if reporters made the connection to the container and took the spin that police had lost control to organized crime. Boldt would be hearing about this one for days.
As if reading his thoughts, a voice said from behind, ‘‘I don’t know about you, but for us, this is going to be a public relations nightmare.’’
Boldt turned and shook hands with Brian Coughlie.
‘‘Once he’s connected to the Visage it hits the fan,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘The crew has been rounded up.’’
‘‘I heard,’’ Coughlie said, letting Boldt know he had some impressive contacts. LaMoia had grabbed the crew in near secrecy. ‘‘It’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about; we’ve got the interpreters—I thought we might share that work. We could handle it for you, if you’d rather.’’
‘‘We’re okay,’’ Boldt said, refusing both offers.
‘‘Could be my fault,’’ Coughlie said, allowing the comment to hang in the air. ‘‘I put the word out on him like you asked. Maybe that was the wrong call.’’
The guy delivered it as if he’d rehearsed it, which bothered Boldt. The truth was: Coughlie bothered Boldt; the feds always had hidden agendas.
Looking down at the black body bag, Coughlie said, ‘‘Maybe he had a name to give us.’’
‘‘Mama Lu?’’
‘‘Five years ago, maybe. Now? I don’t think so, no. Not that she doesn’t have serious pull. Of course she does. But control? Doubtful. We watched her closely for two, maybe three years. Your guys, too— OC.’’ He meant Organized Crime. ‘‘Phone taps, audits, undercover work. We ate shit on that one. Tried twice with a grand jury; failed both times. We still look in that direction every now and again, but not very hard. She has made some serious friends downtown.’’
‘‘I like her for this.’’
‘‘Be careful.’’
‘‘That’s what they say,’’ Boldt said.
‘‘Do me a favor. After you’ve worked the crew, let me have a shot at them. Maybe we get lucky.’’
It was a compromise Boldt could live with.
The two men shook hands.
Coughlie avoided the press as he left, deftly ducking under the police tape and running quickly to his car, driving off as reporters chased him.
Boldt used the distraction to order the body bag into the chuck wagon. If the captain’s death sent any message, it was a simple one— people involved with this one were going to die.
He hoped like hell he wasn’t on the list himself.
CHAPTER 16
little more than twenty-four hours after reporting Melissa missing, Stevie, her guilt and fear levels increasing exponentially, took matters into her own hands, deciding to return to Melissa’s and search more carefully.
Pioneer Square on a Friday night teemed with a mixture of the college crowd, tourists, indigents and police. A person could buy anything from a microbrewery beer to a Persian rug. Stevie drove her 325i a dozen blocks and left it in a parking garage. During the short walk to the square, she allowed herself to wonder why Melissa had chosen such a noisy, crowded, touristy location in which to live. They were so different from one another, and yet so close. For Stevie, any stroll down the street meant the likelihood of contact with her viewing public—autograph-seeking strangers who would see her and want to meet her. She hated that part of her job.
In hopes of avoiding recognition, she dressed down in jeans and T-shirt and wore no make-up. She walked with her head down, threading her way through the crush of people, making her way to Melissa’s apartment.
She climbed the steps, rang the buzzer and let herself in. She trudged up flights of stairs, unlocked the door and stepped inside the apartment. The door locked behind her, the only sounds the dull beat of a nearby rock club. She took her time feeding the fish. ‘‘Anyone here?’’ she called out, hopelessly. Again, the lived-in feel of the apartment got to her. The bedroom might have been left that morning the way it looked—clothes tossed around. That toothbrush standing sentry in the water glass still hurt her the most, and it struck her how odd it was that such a small, insignificant item could convey so much. The pain in her weighed as a numbness now, a sleep-deprived aching, a longing to start all over, to win a second chance. There was no one to hear her appeal, just a ringing in her ears and a hollow emptiness in the center of her chest like a bad case of butterflies. She roamed the small apartment, feverish with anxiety, finally resorting to pulling open cabinets and peering behind furniture. It was this last effort that won her a reward. She saw it piled behind the couch, utilizing the wall plugs—some of the station’s electronic gear. It was the SVHS setup Melissa had used in the van, including two waist-belt battery packs. Stevie unplugged both packs and rummaged through the gear, discovering three videotapes, the first two marked ‘‘Klein,’’ the third, ‘‘car wash.’’ Just the sight of the handwriting stung Stevie with fear. At that moment she would have traded a dozen hot news stories for the chance to have Melissa back safely.
She glanced over at the bookshelf and saw a porcelain doll, its cheek cracked, its eyes staring directly at her. Her emotions overcame her.
The afternoon sunlight played off the walls and crown molding, blinding the man standing at attention in the oil painting that hung above the fireplace. The air in the room smelled of Father’s tobacco, while outside the sun struggled through dust and automobile exhaust, always the same dull wheat straw, never brilliant like Switzerland. The Chinese seemed surrounded by dust, consumed by it.