‘‘Please. . it’s a personal matter,’’ Stevie said.
‘‘I have nothing to say to the press!’’
The door began to swing shut. Stevie unleashed her only weapon. ‘‘You shut that door and I’ll have a camera crew camped on your front lawn for the next two weeks.’’
The door stopped, partially open. A moment later Gwen Klein stepped outside, out of earshot, and pulled the door to within an inch of closing. She crossed her arms at her waist as if fending off a chill.
‘‘Ms. Klein, I’m not here to make accusations, nor can I afford the luxury of wasting time.’’ She did not want to mention Melissa’s disappearance, not to someone like Klein, who if involved with supplying counterfeit licenses probably knew little of the overall operation. But Klein was the place to start, Stevie felt sure; Melissa had started with this woman. So would she.
‘‘I don’t know what you-’’
‘‘And let’s dispense with the protestations of innocence or ignorance. I have no time for it. We both know exactly why I’m here, and if you play this otherwise, I’ll turn and walk away and you’ll have lost your chance.’’
‘‘Chance at what?’’ Blank-faced and suddenly silent, Gwen Klein waited nervously.
‘‘Do you follow the news?’’ Stevie asked, met only by that same blank stare. ‘‘Are you aware of the ship captain who drowned? The ship captain responsible for transporting the container of illegals? The man’s death was not an accident, Ms. Klein.’’ She lowered her voice for effect and said, ‘‘You have to come to grips with the fact that he was murdered. Killed, because someone didn’t want him questioned by the police. . the INS. . whoever. Are you listening?’’ Klein’s eyes went glassy and distant, as if looking right through Stevie.
‘‘How long until whoever is paying you for those driver’s licenses decides you too are a liability?’’
Klein’s mouth sagged open. As her jaw jutted out to speak, Stevie cut her off.
‘‘I want the whole story. The truth, start to finish. Who contacted you, what they offered, how it worked, how long it’s been going on. If,’’ she said strongly, ‘‘you are willing to share this with me openly and honestly, I’m willing to forget all about your sad little life and your bad decisions. You have children.’’ The woman winced. ‘‘I’m not here to expose your behavior to your children, your neighbors, your employer.’’
‘‘But how did you-’’
‘‘Never mind how. What matters is the truth. It’s all that matters. I need the truth. You give me the truth, I go away. I can’t remember your name. Do you understand what I’m offering you? I can use the First Amendment to protect you. What do you think they will offer you? What do you think they offered the ship captain?’’
The woman’s head snapped up. She looked left and right, as if afraid of the neighbors or someone else watching her. She met eyes with Stevie. Hers were hard and cold as she said, ‘‘Not here. Not now. You’ve got to leave.’’ She stepped backward into the house, her hand blindly searching out the door.
‘‘I need answers,’’ Stevie cautioned, ‘‘or I’ll tear your life open on your front lawn.’’ She warned her, ‘‘Don’t underestimate me.’’
‘‘Not here.’’
‘‘We’ll talk.’’
The door closed further.
Stevie rushed her words. ‘‘We have to talk. You have to choose sides. Me or them?’’
The door slammed shut. A full minute later, Gwen Klein pulled back a drape and peered out at Stevie, who remained on the front steps. Klein would want to discuss Stevie’s offer with her husband, Stevie thought, so she would give her the night. One night. In the meantime, Stevie decided to make as if she were leaving. She climbed into her car and drove off. She came around the block, switched off her lights and parked. It was going to be a long night.
CHAPTER 21
"I tell you, this girl, she stupid and she scared.’’ The Mexican kept his congested voice intentionally low despite the loud groaning of pleasure from the big screen. He spoke in a clipped Hispanic mix of thick accent and misplaced grammar. He’d been sick for a while now. In the pulsing flicker of light, six silhouettes could be seen in the various rows of the theater, all sitting well apart from one another and none anywhere near the two men who occupied the center of the back row.
The reflected light from the screen caught the other man’s profile as he unstuck his right sole from whatever glue was down there, spilled soda or otherwise. He averted his face from both the brightness of the screen and the unspeakable acts portrayed by the two naked women in the grainy film. He understood the necessity of choosing such places for their meetings-the choice had been his, after all- but it didn’t mean he had to like it. He kept his voice calm and quiet, negating any remote possibility of being overheard. ‘‘I can handle the reporter. Our friend will settle down.’’ He never mentioned names, not ever. He knew all the tricks available to law enforcement. He trusted nobody. ‘‘Let’s keep cool heads. This too shall pass.’’
‘‘It’s coming apart on you.’’
‘‘Nothing is coming apart on anyone. A few speed bumps is all. It’s to be expected with something this size. Shit happens. It’s no reason to lose our cool.’’
‘‘What do you mean, you handle reporter?’’ the Mexican asked.
‘‘Not like that. Let’s just keep cool about this, okay?’’ the other man encouraged.
‘‘I do the girl?’’
‘‘Absolutely not. She’ll be fine.’’
‘‘I tell you, she not fine. Very upset. Last week it was the car wash in the middle of rainstorm. No brains at all.’’ He pointed to the screen. ‘‘This? This is the only thing girls do right.’’
He felt knots in his jaw muscles form like hard nuts. He told himself to settle down. ‘‘Admittedly, it’s not a perfect situation. She made a poor decision by coming to you. That’s regrettable. But she’ll stay on schedule with the deliveries. You watch. When she comes back, you tell her that we’re taking care of the reporter, that everything’s fine.’’
‘‘And if she don’t come back? If she misses the delivery?’’
There was no silence in the theater, the pale-skinned teenagers on the screen filling every moment with either excited panting, exaggerated licking, or pleasure-ridden cooing. The other man rode out a particularly frantic climax before whispering to the Mexican, ‘‘If we have problems with her, we’ll go looking to resolve them.’’
‘‘That sounds better. I tell you what. . in the middle of a god-damn rainstorm!’’
‘‘But we talk first, you and me. She’s not the only one making poor decisions. No more fork lift fires. Comprendo?’’
The Mexican pursed his lips. The man shaved infrequently, bathed infrequently and had the teeth of an old horse. ‘‘Speed bumps. . like for the automobile? This kind of speed bump?’’
‘‘It’s an expression. That’s all.’’
‘‘No, I get it. Speed bumps. I get it.’’ Proud of himself, he plunged his meaty hand into the cold popcorn and stuffed his mouth with it. He offered the bag to the other. Speaking through the mouthful, he said, ‘‘You stay for next show?’’
He glanced to his right. The seat was empty. Brian Coughlie was gone.
TUESDAY, AUGUST 258 DAYS MISSING
CHAPTER 22
When INS Field Operations Director Brian Coughlie was announced by the building’s doorman, Stevie McNeal was wearing only a terrycloth robe, her hair wet and freshly combed out. She had dragged herself out of bed an hour later than usual, having kept the Klein home under surveillance until two in the morning. She studied Coughlie on the apartment’s small black-and-white security monitor: He stood talking to the doorman as if they were old friends. Just the way he carried himself bothered her-overly comfortable, chatty, casual; but with the underhandedness of a card shark. Coughlie was part actor. A large part, if she were the judge. His unannounced visit bothered her, bordered on invasion of privacy or some form of harassment-the feds muscling their way into the media’s business. Then it occurred to her that if she played this right, she might turn the tables and milk him for information.