Ridley Pearson - The First Victim

‘‘We’ve got Klein. Maybe we should stop while we’re still ahead.’’

‘‘But we aren’t ahead,’’ LaMoia reminded. ‘‘We’re still playing catch up.’’

‘‘Well let’s play catch-up at a distance. Shall we? And let’s close the gap as quickly as possible. This thing makes me nervous.’’

‘‘It’s a way of life for you. If you weren’t worried I’d be worried.

Boldt said, ‘‘That would be a first.’’

They studied the area once more before breaking up and leaving the bench. They walked in opposite directions without ever having talked about a plan. It seemed symbolic to Boldt-LaMoia, two years into his sergeant’s stripes, was increasingly difficult to control.

Stevie was applying the last touches of blush when her name was called over KSTV’s public address system. She called reception as requested, one eye fixed on herself in the large mirror surrounded by dazzlingly bright lights that mimicked the brightness of the set. Her guest was identified as Daphne Matthews-Seattle Police. The woman from the cemetery who had tried to protect her.

An intern delivered the woman to Makeup. Without the raincoat and hood, Matthews came off as quite pretty. Dark features on olive skin. Her presence put Stevie on guard. She was conditioned not to trust the cops.

Daphne had a job to do. She lived for the fieldwork the way Boldt did, and the fact that he had asked her to do this made it all the more important to her to succeed. He still had this effect on her, this unintentional yet underhanded control that for years she had fought to overcome. Struggled, was more like it. She could point her life this way or that, redirecting it as far away from him as possible-her on-again, off-again engagement to Owen Adler the most overt example- but inevitably her emotions returned to him. Comfort. Home.

She saw in his eyes that these feelings were reciprocated, though it went unmentioned between them. No hot glances. No teasing. Those days were behind them. He with his family and his wife, as passionate a father and husband as one could ask for; she, like a sailboat without its keel, pointing strongly into the wind but endlessly sideslipping and losing her course.

It was some kind of horrific joke, the way she tried to throw it away only to have it come boomeranging back at her. Those emotions for him. The desire that wormed hot like an infection deeply within her. If she heard his voice, she turned to look. If his name was spoken, she listened in-all the while wearing the mask of indifference. She understood that she had to move on. She believed it. But accomplishing it was something altogether different. All the education in the world could not explain this to her. Nothing seemed to help.

And so when he asked her to see McNeal for him, she responded immediately like a child eager to please the teacher-and she hated herself for it.

‘‘I’m on the set in a minute,’’ Stevie said, giving herself a way out.

‘‘This won’t take long.’’

‘‘We met at the cemetery, right?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ Daphne took a seat in one of the two padded swivel chairs that faced the bright mirror, but she turned to face Stevie, who in profile continued working with the blush. ‘‘I wanted to talk about Melissa. Anything you can provide us. . It’s all a help to the investigation.’’

‘‘Such as the videotapes?’’

‘‘Evidence is LaMoia’s department. I’m more interested in her habits, lifestyle, friends, relationships-that sort of thing.’’

‘‘You’re a shrink?’’

‘‘A psychologist.’’

Stevie nodded, congratulating herself. ‘‘I didn’t have you pegged as a cop. This is making a lot more sense to me.’’

‘‘The thing about a missing persons case, Ms. McNeal, is that there are often leads that don’t get pursued for one reason or another. We know this from hindsight. From the-’’

‘‘-cases where they don’t come back. . are never found,’’ Stevie completed.

‘‘We believe Melissa is still alive. That she’s either in hiding, or has been abducted, but that she’s alive.’’

‘‘And you base this on?’’

‘‘The fact that we haven’t found her body,’’ Daphne said bluntly, stunning the other woman. ‘‘They’re using violence to make statements. Why would they treat Melissa any differently?’’

‘‘Because she’s a reporter.’’

‘‘Is that what you think?’’ Daphne questioned. ‘‘You think it’s a passport of some sort? Don’t believe it, Ms. McNeal. They don’t make those kinds of distinctions. They’re sending messages. The easiest way to send you a message is to deliver Melissa’s body.’’

‘‘Maybe they know me better than that,’’ she said, leaning back and turning her face to the mirror. ‘‘It would only incite my wrath.’’

‘‘It’s not incited already?’’ Daphne said, suspiciously. ‘‘I don’t believe that. You know what I think? I think you’re not sleeping, not eating well. I think you’ve probably been looking long and hard at a bottle of wine, maybe drinking a little more than usual. You lie awake thinking about all the ‘what ifs.’ You blame yourself. You blame her. You blame us. And none of it goes away.’’

Stevie blinked furiously, trying to discourage the tears that threatened. She took a deep breath trying to contain herself. ‘‘You’ll excuse me,’’ she said, ‘‘I have to be on the set.’’ She averted her face while she returned the blush brush to the Formica countertop.

‘‘Tell me I’m wrong.’’

‘‘What is it you want?’’ Stevie said, stopped at the door, her back to Daphne.

‘‘You’ll blame yourself even more if you withhold information from us. I can help you deal with the grief, Ms. McNeal. It’s what I do. You may be convincing yourself otherwise at the moment-the police are incompetent; the police don’t play fair-all the arguments neatly worked out. Professional ethics. Or maybe you think the case isn’t ours to give away, that it’s the INS, only the INS, who can help you. So you put your eggs in that basket.’’ She paused. ‘‘How am I doing?’’

‘‘You think too much.’’

‘‘Professional liability. What’d you have for dinner last night? Breakfast, this morning? When was your last glass of wine? It’s red wine, isn’t it? Expensive, I bet. But you’re drinking alone. And how’s that feel? Not very good, I bet.’’

‘‘We’re done here.’’ She couldn’t will her arm to open the door. She stood there, her back to the woman. Frozen.

‘‘You find yourself missing people-not just Melissa, but your family, your last relationship, anyone and everyone who’s gotten close.. who is close.’’

Stevie shook her head violently.

Daphne continued, unrelenting. ‘‘The INS oversees illegal immigration-no question about it. But a missing persons investigation? That’s us. Would I hand you a sports story? And what about the INS? If you’re the one running illegal aliens into this country, into this port, who’s the first person you need on your payroll, the first person you must compromise? Do you think we missed that? Do you think we’re sharing every lead with Coughlie and Talmadge? Why should we do that until we know more about them? And that takes a while, believe me.’’

‘‘Turf wars? This is supposed to be news to me? You people fight your petty games while the investigation stagnates. I’ve seen it a hundred times from the other side of that anchor desk. That adoption ring last year-same thing happened there, right? One hand not washing the other. Same old story.’’

‘‘Not turf wars, Ms. McNeal. Cautious is all. We’re careful about to whom we go volunteering information. Are you?’’