She had left the graveyard only hours earlier, relieved that the body wasn’t Melissa’s but pained and haunted by the sight of that poor girl lying down there in the mud, all breath gone from her body. Such finality drove Stevie to take immediate action, her grief and terror overtaking her. Any fate could have befallen Melissa—death, captivity, white slavery. It had been over a week. A lifetime? The combination of the dead body in the grave and Melissa’s sparse but haunting narration of the videos pushed Stevie beyond any professional capacity to handle her situation. Guilt ridden and obsessed with finding the woman, she succumbed to her spent emotions and heightened anxiety. At first bit by bit, this internal decay now crossed a threshold that left her in a constant state of panic.
Typically the public would never tolerate an individual cutting into the line, might even respond violently, but add the possibility of a TV appearance and smiles appeared on their otherwise impatient faces.
‘‘Ms. Gwen Klein!’’ Stevie shouted out, her voice commanding such authority that her target froze behind the teller window. It took Klein a moment, at which point she headed for an Employees Only door behind the counter.
‘‘Ms. Klein! You are KSTV’s state employee of the week!’’ Stevie glanced to her left, toward the managing supervisor’s office and the man in the button-down shirt and tie who occupied the doorway.
‘‘Gwen!’’ the supervisor shouted. He nodded toward her teller window, indicating for her to return.
Klein stopped, looking first to the supervisor and then to the waiting room with its seventy citizens and McNeal with her team. She had a weighty decision to make.
If the woman ran, Stevie was prepared to turn her interview hostile. She too held her breath. ‘‘Let’s hear it for Ms. Klein,’’ Stevie prodded.
The room broke into applause.
The supervisor once again indicated the teller window.
Klein, distraught and churning, offered Stevie a mean-spirited look and returned to her window where Stevie and her crew waited.
The supervisor licked his fingers and spit-combed a few strands of hair off his shining forehead.
Klein and Stevie stepped face to face.
‘‘Ms. Klein,’’ Stevie began in a voice of seeming adulation for her subject. ‘‘Gwen! It has come to the attention of this reporter, and KSTV viewers and staff, that you approach your job not only with diligence, but with enthusiasm, joy and efficiency.’’ She paused just long enough for her gallery to sparsely applaud. ‘‘In a world that moves too fast for most of us, and a job where the lines move too slowly . . .’’ another pause for the requisite laughter ‘‘. . . you are an inspiration to all of us. KSTV would like to present you with . . .’’ she vamped for an appropriate-sounding gift, since nothing had been arranged, ‘‘dinner for two at the Palomino restaurant in City Center, and two tickets to the musical Rent, now playing at the Fifth Avenue Theater.’’ The crowd lit up with applause. ‘‘Here is our IOU, which you can redeem—later on,’’ she emphasized, ‘‘at the KSTV studios.’’ She slipped a folded three-by-five card across the stone countertop. Klein made the mistake of opening the card.
On it was written: I know about the car wash.
Klein paled.
Stevie said, ‘‘Can you share with our viewers the secret to keeping your customers so satisfied, so impressed with you as a person?’’
‘‘I ahh. .. No . .. No .. .’’
‘‘Well . . . Thank you, Gwen Klein, for setting such a fine example. KSTV hopes you enjoy the gift.’’ She signaled the cameraman and the lights faded and the camera went off his shoulder, and the small crowd dispersed as people regained their places in line.
Stevie leaned across the counter and whispered through a faked smile, ‘‘I’ll air this footage unless you meet with me.’’
‘‘I can’t.’’
‘‘I’ll be expecting a call.’’ Stevie stepped away from the window.
Klein glanced once again at the three-by-five card, all blood gone from her face.
The cameraman, gathering his gear, asked skeptically, ‘‘Since when do we feature an Employee of the Week?’’
‘‘Since now,’’ Stevie said, hurrying toward the door, her public gawking from a distance.
CHAPTER 27
oldt and LaMoia walked a couple blocks to the Public Library and took a seat on a recently added bench out front. They took a moment to scan the area around them, alert for anyone eavesdropping. Boldt nodded his okay. He felt badly about the need for secrecy, about the games within games, but LaMoia had started this, and for the moment Boldt did not see a way out.
LaMoia spoke softly, looking straight ahead. ‘‘I was tempted to put Gaynes on her, so we didn’t miss anything.’’
‘‘Forget it! You know this is suicide if anyone finds out,’’ Boldt reminded. ‘‘We’ll be chalking tires. We can get away with me filling in for you, just as long as no one gets wise as to what you’re up to.’’
‘‘She watched a house up on 118th Northwest last night until two
A.M. Name of Klein. Late morning I follow her from Hilltop back to the station. She and a film crew take off to an LSO on Greenwood a half hour later. This interesting you yet?’’
‘‘I’m not comfortable with any of this.’’
‘‘It wasn’t your idea!’’ LaMoia reminded.
‘‘Maybe that’s why I’m not comfortable with it.’’
‘‘So I check the name on the house she’s watching against state payroll. What else connects the two, right?’’ He said sarcastically, ‘‘She’s bringing a film crew in to renew her license, I suppose.’’ He lost the attitude and said, ‘‘There’s an LSO employee name of Gwendolyn Klein. The connection has got to be driver’s licenses.’’ He pointed out, ‘‘Illegals need documents.’’
‘‘If it proves good, we’ll have to find some other way to connect the dots,’’ Boldt reminded. ‘‘If McNeal ever found out we had her under surveillance and that we stole her sources . . . she’d not only have us in court, but we’d lose our suspect.’’
‘‘You worry too much,’’ LaMoia said. ‘‘What about a random credit check on a handful of LSO workers that just happens to turn up Klein. She has got to have some unexplained money in her pockets if she’s good for this. ’’
‘‘But what made us run the check of LSO employees in the first place?’’ Boldt asked.
‘‘I see what you mean.’’
‘‘It has to be a believable trail. Then we never mention McNeal.’’ Boldt asked, ‘‘What about Coughlie? Maybe his people already have suspicions that there’s documentation coming out of the LSOs. Something like that could make the connection for us.’’
‘‘Not a good idea. I wouldn’t go there. He paid her a visit first thing this morning.’’
‘‘
Before
we found the body at Hilltop?’’
‘‘Right. Was with McNeal for the better part of an hour.’’
‘‘She
has
been busy.’’
‘‘We gotta figure they’re working together somehow.’’
‘‘Information exchange,’’ Boldt suggested. ‘‘He promises her an exclusive to the story as long as there’s a two-way flow of information.’’
‘‘And they’re cutting us out?’’ an exasperated LaMoia cried out. He added, ‘‘I hate that shit!’’
‘‘Just because he got to her first?’’ Boldt teased.
‘‘Exactly!’’ LaMoia added, ‘‘But he didn’t think to put her under surveillance.’’