If he got laid in the process, so much the better. Judging by the look of her, it would make for an unforgettable evening. The way she kept moving her butt in the chair was making him excited. But his interest in her was for what she knew, not what kind of ride she was. SPD was stonewalling the INS, and vice versa-business as usual. He stuck to the food and wine. Women loved to talk if you gave them half the chance. The way she was hitting the wine, she’d be giving a god-damn keynote address in a few minutes. Not to be outdone, he took a sip himself. Decent stuff. Archery Something. A yuppie wine-peanut noir was what he’d nicknamed it. He’d take a Chablis any day. At sixty bucks a bottle, he thought she was trying to impress him. Nice try, he said to himself. It took more than a chest and an attitude to fix his game.
‘‘Why does a person join the INS?’’ she asked, meeting eyes with him.
‘‘Why does a person put her face in front of a million people every afternoon?’’
‘‘It’s four hundred thousand,’’ she corrected, ‘‘and it’s not a fair comparison. The public image of the INS is gatekeepers, border guards.’’
‘‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’’
‘‘Tell me I’m wrong.’’
‘‘Power hungry ex-football players?’’ he asked, stabbing a piece of thin ham off the appetizer plate that had some kind of Italian name. Cheap bastards cutting it that thin. ‘‘We have our fair share of those. It’s a fair shot to take.’’
‘‘And you?’’
‘‘If I’d wanted to be a hero I’d have been a fireman.’’
She laughed at the comment.
He continued. ‘‘I suppose you start out thinking you’re part of the group that gives people a shot at this country, its freedom, its opportunity. That’s the underlying charter, don’t forget. You find a lot of patriots in the Service. And in the job interviews, that’s what they play up: the opportunity you’re giving these people. The power that comes with it? Sure. Racism? Probably right. Some of the guys who sign up want nothing more than to smack some Mexican across the face with a nightstick. I’ve seen it. But they’re ferreted out pretty quickly, those guys, believe me. No one wants them around. The flip side is that we also protect what’s left of this country for those who have a legal right to it. Illegals dilute the status quo. They sponge off social programs that they’ve never paid into. You don’t charge at the gate, you go broke.’’
‘‘But there’s paying and then there’s paying. What about the detainees?’’ she asked. ‘‘Three or four weeks in a container with dead bodies. How badly do they want it? Haven’t they paid a high enough price for their freedom?’’
‘‘We both know where those women were headed,’’ he reminded. ‘‘Sweatshops? Brothels? Is that the dream you’re selling?’’
‘‘I need a favor,’’ she stated bluntly, reaching for the wine bottle and pouring them both more.
‘‘Should I be surprised? A dinner like this? And I thought it was because you found me so irresistible.’’
‘‘The cops used me.’’
‘‘Welcome aboard.’’
‘‘Confiscated evidence.’’
‘‘I saw the piece.’’
‘‘You watch the broadcast?’’
‘‘Every day,’’ he answered.
‘‘I’m flattered. What the broadcast didn’t tell you: They recovered a tape. Not VHS, but digital. Footage she shot after I gave her that camera.’’
He took this all in along with another sip of wine and said, ‘‘You want me to get the digital tape for you.’’
‘‘They double-crossed me. That tape is rightfully mine.’’
‘‘Let’s just say that the idea interests me.’’
‘‘If the tape contains anything, it has to do with the illegals-that was the story we were working. Melissa wanted the digital camera because it was small and easy to carry. As in surveillance. Judging by the VHS tapes she shot before I got her the digital, I’m thinking she boarded a bus maybe. A car wash. I’m not sure. But whatever she shot, it has to do with illegals. And that’s your turf.’’
He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Car wash? Where the hell had that come from? Time to give Rodriguez a call and close it down. He felt like bailing on dinner and making the call immediately.
He said, ‘‘So I press for the right to view this digital tape. Let’s say they grant me that. What then? I give you a book report?’’
The dress was a pleasure to look at. She knew about packaging, this one. She knew how to move to distract a man’s attention.
‘‘Yes. Exactly. You tell me what you saw,’’ she answered.
‘‘And in return?’’
‘‘I show you the VHS tapes: the first three tapes that Melissa shot. Quid pro quo.’’
‘‘This car wash. .’’ he tested. He had to know the extent of what she knew. If she knew too much, then he had some tough decisions to make.
She teased, ‘‘I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.’’
He couldn’t stop himself from grinning. She was good this one. Extremely good. ‘‘You’re okay,’’ he said.
‘‘I’m a hell of a lot better than okay, Brian. You just have to trust me.’’
‘‘I’m working on that,’’ he said, echoing her words of their last meeting. He boldly winked at her and won a wide smile. He loved the dance more than anything. And this one knew how to dance.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 2710 DAYS MISSING
CHAPTER 34
Boldt elected to view the contents of the digital videotape against the recommendations of every attorney consulted. Chow’s disappearance mandated action, as did the larger implication of her possible connection to the dead illegals, the two murdered witnesses and Klein’s having vanished. He had no choice in the matter. If a court eventually ruled against him, throwing out whatever the tape might reveal and whatever case they had built along with it, he would need a different way to that same evidence, something he would have to workout when needed. He wasn’t going to allow attorneys to set his agenda.
‘‘Why the suit?’’ LaMoia asked. ‘‘You going to a funeral?’’
‘‘Lot 17,’’ Boldt answered. Lot 17 was King County’s Tomb of the Unknown Victim-a five-acre piece of forest land where all the Jane and John Does were put to rest. The Doe family now numbered over two hundred. ‘‘The women from the container.’’
‘‘Seriously?’’ LaMoia answered. ‘‘I’d rather we hold on to them.’’
‘‘If I want to wear a suit, I’ll wear a suit.’’
‘‘You’re making up that shit about Lot 17.’’
‘‘Yes.’’ He didn’t tell him the real reason, despite their friendship. Rumor spread too quickly on the fifth floor.
Both men moved quickly down the stairs, Boldt feeling more agile than he had in years. Liz’s illness had cost him twenty-five pounds in what Dixon called ‘‘a grief diet.’’ The pounds had not come back, and he was glad for it.
‘‘What do you make of the camera and slippers?’’
‘‘I don’t like it.’’
‘‘Me neither. A woman without her shoes is kinda like a car without its tires. Know what I mean?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Sure you do.’’
‘‘She’s dead?’’ Boldt asked.
‘‘I’m leaning that way.’’
‘‘Don’t.’’
‘‘Based on?’’
‘‘Just don’t,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘I want her alive.’’
‘‘It has been like ten days since anyone’s seen her, Sarge.’’
‘‘I’m a lieutenant now. You’ve got to stop calling me that.’’
‘‘I call you ‘Lieu’ and everyone’s gonna think I’m using your first name. I gotta call you Sarge. Otherwise it’s ‘Lieutenant’ and that’s just way too long. You know?’’
‘‘Get used to it.’’
‘‘Look who’s talking.’’
Boldt stopped on a landing and looked LaMoia in the eye. Both men knew he was going to say something, but he didn’t.