LaMoia’s eye fell back to that hangman’s noose. The lines of the noose had been gone over repeatedly, the ink dark and saturated and leaving little doubt in his mind how the artist had voted.
CHAPTER 31
The man offering to sell the camera back to KSTV chose the Wednesday lunch hour and a granite bench alongside the water shower at the old Nordstrom’s terrace for the drop. It was a sunny day, the last week of August, that brought out joggers and tourists, panhandlers and skateboarders. Office workers sought out sun-worshipping perches for a peaceful sandwich and a twenty-minute tan. Women hiked their skirts up over their knees. Men loosened their ties and rolled up their sleeves. Summertime in the Emerald City. At the other end of town a group of three hundred Asians were gathered to march on City Hall. Fifty off-duty officers had been called up.
Mixed into the crowd by the water fountain, eleven undercover cops kept their eyes on Stevie McNeal, who carried a thousand dollars cash, a KSTV tote bag, and a severe expression that contradicted the TV personality. McNeal wore a lavaliere microphone clipped to her bra, its wire taped down her back. LaMoia, as the Command Officer- the CO-wore a headset in a refitted steam cleaning van, forfeited years earlier in a drug conviction, and currently used as Mobile Communications Dispatch-or MoCom for short. He had an unobstructed view of the water shower fountain and bench out a mirrored side window of one-way glass. The loud noise of the fountain’s falling water bothered the audio technician, a diminutive man with a silver stud in his left ear who by job definition could remain level and calm through the bloodiest of firestorms.
‘‘That fountain is loud. She’s wearing a condenser, which is a problem. We’re not going to hear her so good.’’
‘‘Well at least there’s some justice,’’ LaMoia said. ‘‘Maybe it won’t make such good TV.’’ The KSTV crew occupied an unmarked blue step van in front of GapKids. They too were monitoring Stevie’s wireless.
‘‘Stand by,’’ the tech said, addressing all the undercover officers. ‘‘It’s show time.’’
As Stevie sat down onto the stone bench she exhaled calmly in an attempt to settle herself. The water shower sculpture was a fifteen-foot L that a person could walk through without getting wet, curtains of water falling on both sides of its narrow aisle. Kids loved it, squealing with delight as they hurried through. Downwind of the sculpture, a cooling mist prevailed.
She missed the man’s approach. He sat down next to her, a Seattle Seahawks bag held by the straps. He said, ‘‘You look different on TV.’’
‘‘So they say.’’
He was mid-forties, balding, wearing clothes that had been popular a decade earlier and with a nose that begged for rhinoplasty. His oily hair shined wetly in the sunlight. He smoked a filter cigarette that attached itself to his lower lip wet with spit. He engaged in a perpetual squint to avoid the stinging spiral of smoke and the bright sunshine.
He did not look at her, his head up, eyes alert. A careful man. A planner. The cops had warned her that any man willing to take such a risk was either dumb, greedy, or both. Violent, maybe. Not to be trusted, for certain. She kept close tabs on him.
‘‘How do you want to do this?’’ she asked.
‘‘You hand me the envelope,’’ he said looking straight ahead, ‘‘and I leave the bag behind.’’
‘‘I have to see it first,’’ she corrected.
‘‘We can do that,’’ he agreed, shoving the bag toward her. ‘‘Go ahead.’’
Stevie dragged the bag over to her. She carefully unzipped it and peered inside. Brushed aluminum casing, the brand name, SONY. She felt choked. She had handed this camera to Melissa. She hated herself for it. Worse, the camera’s tape indicator was blank. No tape inside. Stung with disappointment, she reached inside. ‘‘I have to see that it’s our call letters on it.’’
‘‘They’re on there,’’ he said. ‘‘Have a look.’’
She turned the camera so that the call letters were visible. She said, ‘‘There’s no tape.’’
He said, ‘‘If there’s more you want, then we gotta talk.’’
‘‘You talk,’’ she offered. ‘‘I’ll listen.’’
‘‘You’re interested in what was inside,’’ he suggested.
Her heart beat frantically. ‘‘Am I?’’
‘‘You gotta come up with another five large.’’
‘‘You should have mentioned this.’’
He said, ‘‘I didn’t realize the thing was loaded until after we had us a deal.’’
The demand of five hundred dollars seemed so cheap to her.
‘‘What’s on the tape?’’ she asked.
‘‘No clue,’’ he answered.
‘‘Five hundred dollars for a blank tape?’’
‘‘Not my problem. You want the tape or not?’’
‘‘Do you have it on you?’’
‘‘Five hundred dollars gets you the tape,’’ he said. He tossed the cigarette. Sparks flew and the butt wandered in a lazy arc on the pavers. ‘‘You want it or not? I haven’t got all day.’’
‘‘We had a deal,’’ she persisted. ‘‘I give you a thousand dollars and you give me the camera. The tape comes with the camera.’’
‘‘The tape does not come with the camera,’’ he said vehemently. ‘‘You got yourself an ATM card?’’ he asked.
‘‘I’m listening,’’ Stevie answered.
The man said, ‘‘You give me the thousand now and take the camera. Then you withdraw the five hun out of the ATM and meet me back here in ten minutes.’’
‘‘We go together,’’ she objected.
‘‘No way. Meet me back here, ten minutes.’’
‘‘You’ll have the tape on you,’’ she said, trying to sound definite.
‘‘Ten minutes,’’ he repeated.
Stevie stared off at the water fountain.
‘‘What are you doing?’’
‘‘I’m thinking,’’ she answered.
In the MoCom van LaMoia debated the offer made by the extortionist. The dispatcher awaited his decision, knowing better than to press. ‘‘Did you get all that?’’ he asked Boldt.
‘‘Copy,’’ Boldt replied. McNeal’s wire transmissions were carried over a set of Walkman headphones he wore. He had declined LaMoia’s offer to be in the MoCom van. As the day shift sergeant who had taken the complaint, the missing persons case was LaMoia’s lead. Despite his own desire to take over, Boldt understood the necessity of the lead officer having full authority. A surveillance could turn in a matter of seconds. ‘‘It’s your call,’’ he reminded.
Boldt’s Chevy Cavalier was parked only a few yards away in a tow-away zone. With his cellphone pressed to his ear, he was enjoying a cup of Earl Grey tea at a Seattle’s Best Coffee in a plastic lawn chair out front of the Westlake Center from where he owned a slightly elevated and somewhat distant view of the occupied bench alongside the water shower. The SONY Walkman was actually a police-band radio monitor, its yellow all-weather headphones still in his ears despite the use of the cellphone.
LaMoia asked, ‘‘What the hell’s he up to?’’
‘‘You have to make the call, John. She’s waiting.’’
‘‘It’s a go!’’ LaMoia confirmed to the dispatcher, who threw a switch on his console and gave the go-ahead.
LaMoia leaned back nervously and said, ‘‘I hate this shit.’’
Not twenty feet away from the granite bench where Stevie and her visitor sat, a street bum suddenly spilled an entire garbage bag of crushed aluminum cans out onto the pavers. Her visitor jumped, a fresh cigarette bobbing in his lips and spraying embers that he batted off his lap. With the man distracted, Stevie quickly looked over her left shoulder as coached. A woman not ten feet away-Detective Bobbie Gaynes, although she didn’t remember the name-signaled a thumbs-up, giving approval for the second ransom. Gaynes continued on, skirting her way past Andy Milner, the undercover cop in the role of the street bum who was busy collecting the spilled cans.