He grinned. ‘‘It’s a big story. See?’’ He said, ‘‘I have a name.’’
‘‘How much?’’ Stevie asked.
‘‘Five thousand,’’ he replied without hesitation.
Stevie coughed out a laugh. ‘‘This isn’t Nightbeat. We’re not Hard Copy.’’ She returned, ‘‘Five hundred.’’
‘‘Maybe I should call Nightbeat.’’
‘‘It’s a long distance call,’’ Stevie said.
She won a laugh from him. ‘‘It’s the hair, isn’t it? You wear it different on the show.’’
‘‘It’s not a show,’’ Stevie replied. She felt cold all of a sudden. She didn’t like the business of fans. ‘‘It’s a broadcast. It’s news.’’
The man took a moment to consider the offer. ‘‘A thousand,’’ he countered.
‘‘Five hundred up front. Five hundred more if the piece runs.’’
‘‘You think I’m giving you my name? Some way to find me?’’
Melissa said, ‘‘You’ve told us you are a state auditor. You think we can’t find you?’’
‘‘The condition of my cooperation is that you leave that alone. . leave me alone. Leave me out of it.’’ He added, ‘‘I happen to like my job.’’
Stevie repeated, ‘‘Five hundred if our producer goes along with it. Melissa here will bring you the money. You’ll provide her the name of the LSO employee with the bad laminate count. If we run the piece, you get a second five hundred. You want to call us and set up the meetings, that’s fine. Give me two hours to run it by my producer.’’
‘‘I’d rather deal with you,’’ he objected. ‘‘No offense,’’ he said to Melissa.
‘‘It’s Melissa’s story, not mine. I’m an anchorwoman, not a reporter. You let us do our jobs. You do yours.’’
‘‘You were the reporter did that container,’’ he reminded.
Melissa said, ‘‘We like our jobs, too. Let us do them.’’
He left the restaurant a few minutes later, trailing some bad cologne.
They ordered food once he was gone.
Melissa said, ‘‘You’re asking for five two-minute segments: a review of the container tragedy; this LSO expose? if it proves out; and a piece on the detention center and what awaits illegals who’ve been detained.’’
‘‘Correct.’’
‘‘I have no problem with any of that, but if it leads to a bigger story-if I can connect these counterfeit driver’s licenses to legal illegals, if I can deliver the people behind it, I need to know you’ll stay with me, that no one’s going to push me out and steal it from me.’’
‘‘It won’t be me,’’ Stevie said. ‘‘That’s about all I can promise. As long as I’m a part of it, no one takes this from us.’’
‘‘Fair enough. And if it gets political?’’
‘‘I’ll run with this wherever it leads, wherever you take it, Little Sister. In the meantime, I keep the dialogue alive-the story alive-by interviewing anyone and everyone who’s a part of this: the INS, the cops, the detainees, whatever it takes.’’
‘‘And if Corwin doesn’t want it going that way?’’ Melissa asked.
‘‘What did we do when Su-Su didn’t want us doing something?’’ Stevie asked.
‘‘Appealed to your father,’’ Melissa answered.
‘‘If Corwin puts up road blocks, I’ll take it over his head to New York. I have plenty of contacts left.’’
‘‘You’d do that?’’
‘‘I’m agreeing to do that. For this story, yes.’’
‘‘This story, or for me?’’ Melissa asked.
‘‘The story.’’
‘‘Because I-’’
‘‘I know your principles,’’ Stevie reminded, interrupting. ‘‘This isn’t a handout. Honestly. If it proves to have legs, and you want to pursue it, I’ll stick by you. You want to go undercover, I’m with you- but only if it’s exposure, not entrapment. That’s all I’m saying.’’
‘‘Then we’ve got a deal,’’ Melissa suggested, having never discussed her pay. ‘‘You get the story. I get creative autonomy.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Stevie agreed, ‘‘we have a deal.’’
CHAPTER 4
LaMoia delivered the medical examiner’s preliminary report on the three Chinese illegals who had died in the container. The report, though scientifically stated, remained indecisive, an enigmatic confusion that did little to support the investigation’s pursuit of homicide charges for the three deaths. The illegals had succumbed to malnutrition and dehydration, ‘‘aggravated by symptoms consistent with those caused by a virulent strain of influenza, as yet unidentified.’’ Doc Dixon’s emphasis expressed his unwillingness to draw firm conclusions-at least at the stage of the preliminary report. The prelim went on to say that the corpses had sustained postmortem contusions, likely the result of being tossed around at sea. Tissue samples were being forwarded to the Centers for Disease Control (CDC), Atlanta, in an effort to identify the particular strain of flu. The extent of malnutrition and dehydration suggested to Boldt the possibility of filing charges of ‘‘depraved indifference to human life’’ against the captain and crew that had transported the container. This, in turn, might lead to plea bargaining and names of those responsible for the trafficking in human lives. A strategy began to reveal itself, not much different than a drug raid or organized crime sting. But more than anything, he also recognized Doc Dixon’s underlying interest and curiosity in the unidentified flu strain, and the memo’s carefully worded, intentionally vague language. Dixie was holding his cards close to his vest, buying himself time for that CDC report.
For Boldt, the fastest way to the name of that ship, to the captain and crew, was the illegals themselves-the passengers-the nine women who had survived the passage and were currently being detained by the INS.
Fort Nolan was no longer an army base. Only its golf course had survived the budget cutting of base closures in the late 1980s. Congress could evidently see its way clear to losing a few hundred civilian jobs and a thousand infantry, but an eighteen-hole course was not to be sacrificed under any conditions. The result was that retired and active officers alike regularly shanked, hooked, pitched and putted only a hundred yards from former barracks that currently housed indigent Asians and Mexicans unlucky enough to have been caught and detained by the INS. The more fortunate among them found themselves in service as ground maintenance crew or caddies, enjoying a limited freedom, spending their days outside the razor wire and receiving the occasional gratuity.
The base’s hasty remodel by the INS had come as a boon to the chain-link contractors in King County. Boldt pulled his department-issue Chevy Cavalier to a stop at the guard gate. He and Daphne Matthews displayed their badges and stated their business. In the far distance a man wearing khakis and a lime green crew shirt made a nice chip shot onto the green. Attorneys and government employees came and went with regularity at Fort Nolan, but a pair of Seattle cops was clearly something new, for the guard studied their identification badges carefully and, asking Boldt to pull over inside the gate, made a phone call. They were provided an over photocopied map of the facility upon which the guard hastily drew directional arrows. Daphne navigated.
‘‘Shouldn’t John be with us?’’ Daphne asked. ‘‘In fact, shouldn’t you be at the office and John be here?’’
‘‘He’s lead. He gets the joy of the paperwork,’’ Boldt replied.
‘‘Are we in denial of our rank, Lieutenant?’’
‘‘Hill and I disagree as to the job description,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘Let’s just leave it at that.’’
‘‘Will she leave it at that? Would you have tolerated Phil Shoswitz in the field?’’
‘‘It’s different.’’
‘‘Why? Because it’s you, not Shoswitz?’’
‘‘Exactly.’’
‘‘Have you heard the term bullheaded?’’
‘‘Are you familiar with the word experience?’’ he fired back at her.
‘‘I certainly am. And my experience,’’ she said, intentionally cutting him, ‘‘is that both you and Hill are bullheaded. Something’s got to give there-and she’s got rank on you, Lieutenant.’’
Boldt pursed his lips and pulled up to the curb. She shot a look at him that could have caught a bush on fire.