‘‘Not so much crane’s fault. Seas too high. Both captains are fools to make try. But we try.’’
‘‘The crane dropped the container?’’
‘‘No. No. Not crane. Guy lines snapped.’’ He moved his leathery hands in a circle as if shaping a sphere out of clay. ‘‘Container spin. Fall into water.’’
‘‘And your captain tried to recover them?’’
The man did not answer. He stared back through hollow eyes.
‘‘He did not try,’’ Boldt said.
The man sat stoically. The answers were not with him.
‘‘Go,’’ Boldt told him.
The man appeared stunned by the offer.
‘‘Go,’’ Boldt repeated, ‘‘before I change my mind.’’
The young man hurried from the room, pulling the steel door shut behind himself with the familiar hollow thunk of a jail cell door.
Boldt knew from earlier discussions with Port Authority that this investigation had become a question not only of jurisdiction but of whether any crime could be proven: The ship’s manifest was unlikely to list the dumped container, and it certainly would not list humans as its cargo. Even if it could be confirmed that the Visage had been carrying the container, the captain could claim it had been lost to the storm, that its contents had never been known. A ship held hundreds of containers-hundreds of secrets-and it was usually the case that their contents were listed but never actually verified by captain or crew. Customs inspected less than 10 percent of arriving containers. Even so, with confirmation that the container had been aboard the Visage, Boldt had to try for the shipping manifest. If paperwork existed for the container, it would list the shipper.
Time, Boldt realized, remained his best weapon. If he threatened a delay, and thus prevented the ship from sailing, he might force the captain to cooperate. As backup, he had the INS’s authority to impound any vessels involved in the transportation of illegals. They did this regularly, as did the DEA.
He collected his things and sent for LaMoia. Time was everything.
Boldt was halfway into his explanation to Talmadge when the man passed responsibility, and the call, to deputy director Brian Coughlie, and Boldt had to start his explanation all over again. It seemed Cough-lie, in charge of field operations, investigations and processing the illegals, had more direct experience in impounding vessels, which was what Boldt hoped to set in motion.
‘‘You’d like a chat with the captain,’’ Coughlie summarized, ‘‘and you’re willing to play hardball to get it.’’
‘‘You have authority to impound or even confiscate the ship. You’ve done so before.’’
‘‘All the time. But I’d need a smoking gun for that.’’
‘‘How about the testimony of a crew member?’’
‘‘Good, but not great. The crew always holds some grudge against the captain. Anything else?’’
‘‘You could threaten him with impounding,’’ Boldt encouraged.
‘‘Sure I could,’’ Coughlie agreed.
‘‘And?’’
‘‘Maybe the captain is dumb enough to fall for it.’’
‘‘You don’t think so.’’
Coughlie said, ‘‘Listen, we could be more convincing if you guys picked him up on charges. That’s a kind of pressure we can’t apply. Some of them gamble, some of them whore, all of them drink. If this guy is facing criminal charges of some kind then there’s no harassment involved, no intimidation. International law gets sticky.’’ He hesitated on the other end, and when Boldt failed to respond, Coughlie said, ‘‘Listen, we used to cut deals with the detainees-they talk, we cut them some slack-but it’s such a crapshoot, such a waste of time, we gave up trying. We just ship them back home now. Return to sender. There are too many protections, too many complications with international law.’’
Boldt realized that Coughlie knew the details of his own interrogation out at Fort Nolan. The interpreter? The detainee herself? The idea that Coughlie already had the line on one of Boldt’s interrogations disturbed him. The feds were never up front about anything!
Coughlie offered, ‘‘Let me put the word out on this captain. I have plenty of contacts dockside, believe me. Someone has seen him. I get word on his location, your boys watch him and hope for a miscue. If you pounce, the only thing I ask is that you share any information you get.’’
‘‘That works for me.’’ But he wasn’t sure why he said it.
CHAPTER 14
Stevie McNeal, accustomed to more attention than what she received from the Seattle Police Department, sat impatiently in an uncomfortable chair in the Crimes Against Persons reception area, next to a secretary pool of Hispanic, Asian and African-American women busy at computers.
She remembered LaMoia from the raising of the container. Flippant, cocky and a womanizer, if she was any judge of character. Adding to insult, she had the sinking feeling she was going to have to reintroduce herself.
‘‘Stevie McNeal,’’ she reminded him, as loath as she was to do so.
‘‘I know,’’ he said. ‘‘We met last week. You wouldn’t remember.’’
‘‘But I do remember.’’ She won him over with that one comment, and congratulated herself on knowing how to play him. He traveled the length of her-head to toe with a few layovers-before offering her a chance to sit down. Across the room, a number of heads began turning. There were times celebrity had its benefits.
She said, ‘‘I’m working with a freelance reporter to assist me in my ongoing series. She does the footwork and the footage. I do the voice-overs. It’s an investigative, expository piece. I’ve lost contact with her. I want you to find her.’’
‘‘To say I’m a fan would not be fair, Ms. McNeal. Not always. But I’m familiar with your work. I’ve been taping this series on the illegals-both to see myself on TV,’’ he offered a toothy smile, ‘‘and to pick up any leads you might have to offer.’’
‘‘Her name’s Melissa Chow. Chinese by birth. Five foot two. A hundred and five pounds. Oval face, small nose. . I have pictures.’’ She passed them to him.
LaMoia studied the snapshots. ‘‘She’s just a colleague?’’
‘‘We’re sisters. Legally. It’s a long story. We grew up together. My father brought her over from China when she was little, and we adopted her. She’s family, and now she’s in the middle of doing this work for me, and she’s gone missing.’’
‘‘Missing for how long?’’ LaMoia asked.
‘‘I don’t know exactly. I last saw her on Monday.’’
‘‘It’s Thursday.’’
‘‘Thank you for that,’’ Stevie said. ‘‘I loaned her one of the station’s digital cameras, and sent her off to get a story. I’ve lost touch with her.’’
‘‘We can put a photograph of her into our radio cars. We can get her paperwork going,’’ he conceded. ‘‘But most of the investigative work I suspect you’ve already done: contacting co-workers, family members, friends, neighbors. If you’d gotten anywhere, you wouldn’t be here.’’
‘‘And here I am.’’
He jotted down a note. ‘‘We’ll check with pawnshops.’’
‘‘You think she sold the camera?!’’ she asked, incredulous. ‘‘Do you have any idea what is going on here? Melissa stuck her nose into something she shouldn’t have and she’s gone missing. That’s it. That’s all. We need to find her, and we need to find her fast.’’
‘‘Let’s start again,’’ he suggested. ‘‘She was working on your series? The illegals?’’
‘‘She was following a lead I got on this illegals story.’’
He bowed his head and gave her a telling look.
‘‘I don’t know exactly how far she had gotten, where she was going with it.’’
‘‘We need to know exactly what she was working on,’’ LaMoia prompted.
‘‘There was a man who offered us some information,’’ Stevie explained cautiously.
‘‘His name?’’ LaMoia inquired.
‘‘He wished to remain anonymous. I honored that. We met at a restaurant.’’