Ridley Pearson - The First Victim

‘‘Yeah, I do know. But I’m cool with it. You want me to hang with you, I’ll hang.’’

‘‘We may both hang,’’ Boldt warned ominously.

Two sinewy, lithe men stood outside the Korean grocery smoking non-filters that smelled like burning tires. Two men going nowhere. They both wore nylon gym pants that whistled as they moved to follow LaMoia and Boldt through the store’s screen door. A seagull complained loudly, flying overhead, trapped by the buildings. The International District occupied a forty-block area south of the downtown core and just north of the industrial wastelands that gave way to Boeing Field. Of unremarkable architecture and few tax dollars, the District’s only color was its energetic people.

‘‘I’m LaMoia,’’ the sergeant said, turning to greet the welcoming committee. ‘‘This is Boldt. She’s expecting us.’’

The men’s faces were placid and unresponsive until one of them nodded, his neck so stiff that the gesture ended up more of a bow.

Boldt bowed back to the man.

LaMoia mumbled, ‘‘That’s only for the Japanese, Sarge. These two are Chinese.’’

The grocery smelled of ginger and hot oil. Its floor plan violated the fire code with not a spare inch of unused space: diapers and paper products kissing the century-old tin ceiling where a dust-encrusted paddle fan spun slowly, trailing broken lengths of spider web like bunting.

They were escorted through the impossibly cramped butcher department where a bone-thin grandmother wielded a Chinese knife like an axe into a side of beef. Wizened and otherwise frail looking, she had a smile that flooded them with kindness, and her eyes flirted.

‘‘I think she likes you,’’ LaMoia said as they climbed noisy wooden stairs through a dark hallway.

‘‘I hope she does,’’ Boldt replied, unprepared for what he saw next. Mama Lu was the size of Orson Welles. She wore a bright red housedress with gorgeous black hair braided down to her waist. Surrounded by piles of books and a single black rotary dial telephone, she occupied a wingback chair under the floral shade of a standing lamp that fit her more like a commercial hair dryer. Yellowing roller shades were pulled to block any sun, and a persistent air conditioner struggled in the one window that remained free of a covering, offering a limited view of Elliott Bay and the islands beyond.

Mama Lu reached into a glass of water with fingers as fast as a frog’s tongue and had her teeth in before her guests had introduced themselves. When she spoke, the windy baritone emanated from somewhere beneath the substantial bosom that hung off her like the continental shelf. By the sound of her, she had smoked for a long, long time. Maybe still did, unless the green oxygen bottle standing in the corner was more than decoration.

‘‘You honor me with this visit,’’ she said in passable English.

‘‘It is said,’’ Boldt began, ‘‘that Miss Lu’s family is very large indeed: mother to many, friend to all. You have made substantial contributions to our Police Athletic League, to the firemen and to the hospitals, and for this the city and its people are extremely grateful.’’

‘‘We are all of one family, yes?’’

‘‘I wish more were as thoughtful of the family as you, Great Lady.’’

‘‘Ya-Moia, you are friend to Peggy Wan.’’

‘‘Yes, Miss Lu.’’

‘‘She say you honest man. This man with you, Mr. Both, he honest man?’’

‘‘As honest and as good a man as any man I know.’’

‘‘That says much, Ya-Moia.’’

LaMoia bowed slightly.

‘‘Tell me about investigation, Mr. Both,’’ she said. There was no mention of which investigation.

‘‘Chinese immigrants are being treated like dogs, shipped here in huge metal boxes, like kennels, without water, without food. It is inhuman and it must stop.’’

‘‘When a person runs from a monster, he is prepared to suffer.’’

‘‘But these people pay for this.’’

‘‘My grandfather and I rode in the bottom of a freighter without sunshine, without fresh air for over a month. My grandfather paid much money for this. Things not so different today. My people have been running from the Red Chinese for many generations now.’’

‘‘People enter this great country in many ways, some legal, some not,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘I am not here to judge that. But three women died in that container. Young women. Their lives ahead of them. Everyone involved is going to jail. Everyone . They will end up in metal boxes just like their victims. Those who cooperate with the police will receive the lightest sentences.’’

Mama Lu did not move, did not twitch. She sat like a piece of stone in her padded throne, all levity, all kindness gone from her face. ‘‘Yes,’’ she said deliberately slowly, ‘‘I agree.’’

Boldt was surprised by this, and spoke what his mind had already prepared to say. ‘‘The young women who survived will not cooperate with us, will not share any information with us.’’

‘‘They scared of you. With good reason, I might add. Police at home not like police here. But there are others. These children, their families, in both countries, will suffer if they cooperate.’’

‘‘And your family.’’

‘‘You give me far too much credit, Mr. Both,’’ she said, her accent suddenly lessened, her voice softer yet more severe, her hard eyes fixed on Boldt and not releasing him. ‘‘I have no influence over these children.’’ She struggled with a deep breath and said, ‘‘Three died. Yes. Very sad. But tell me this please: How many die if they stay behind?’’

‘‘I’m only responsible for Seattle, Great Lady,’’ Boldt announced.

‘‘I will make inquiries,’’ she said, nodding her large head once again. ‘‘Let an old lady see what she can find out.’’

‘‘The ship responsible,’’ Boldt said, ‘‘the captain would be a good place to start.’’

‘‘You travel in the dark, Mr. Both. Move slowly. The dark holds many unseen dangers.’’

‘‘The dark eventually gives way to the light.’’

‘‘Not always. Ask Officer Tidwell. But I will help you. In return, you will tell me of progress of investigation, will keep my good name

out of press. So tired of the lies.’’

‘‘We’re all tired of the lies.’’

‘‘Chinese blood moves in my veins, Mr. Both. These three were my sisters, my children.’’

‘‘Your customers?’’ he dared to ask.

She grinned. ‘‘You bite hand that feeds you?’’

‘‘When I’m hungry enough,’’ he answered.

She lifted her soft pudgy hand and held it for a moment as if expecting he might kiss it. Then she waved, dismissing them.

Boldt stood, and LaMoia along with him.

LaMoia said, ‘‘I thank you, Miss Lu.’’

‘‘You be nice Peggy Wan, Ya-Moia. She my niece.’’ Directing her attention back to Boldt, she said, ‘‘Move slowly. The dark holds many challenges. Maybe I offer some light.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘You will visit whenever you like, whenever you have something to tell me. You always welcome.’’

Boldt caught himself in a bow, lifted his head and grinned at her.

Back on the street and well away from the Korean grocery LaMoia

said, ‘‘Are you crazy, Sarge? You basically accused her.’’

‘‘I communicated my suspicions.’’

‘‘Oh, you communicated all right.’’

‘‘If she’s smart, she gives them up. They’ll never bring her into it, not with her reach. They wouldn’t last a week in lock-up. She gives us this operation, and she skates. What was that about Tidwell?’’

LaMoia warned, ‘‘You remember Tidwell. Organized Crime?’’