Ridley Pearson - The First Victim

Stevie turned then and faced her. ‘‘I’ll tell you what-let’s just do our jobs: You find Melissa; I’ll report it as news when you do. End of discussion.’’

‘‘We have a solid lead we’re pursuing,’’ Daphne said. ‘‘The woman in the grave. In death, she told us something.’’

As tortured as Stevie felt, she remained alert, hanging on Daphne’s every word. The lack of sleep. . the loss of appetite. . she knew too much, this woman. It felt invasive-a violation. And yet it also made her feel like someone actually understood what she was going through. Finally someone who understood. Tricks? It had to be a trick. The cops were full of them.

Daphne said, ‘‘Our first hard evidence. We think we’ve established a time line that suggests this woman is an earlier victim-a first victim. Do you know the significance of a first victim in a crime, Ms. McNeal? The first victim is generally the one who is handled carelessly. It’s only later the criminal mind thinks to start making better preparations, thinks to plan more carefully. This was sloppy. Hasty. This woman was handled poorly. That’s in our favor.’’

‘‘What evidence?’’

‘‘The thing is, we can work with you. We would like to work with you. But it would have to be in an exclusive relationship-we would have to trust each other to the point that you would not air nor share certain information, and that we, likewise, would not work with other reporters or news agencies until giving you first dibs on what we have.’’

‘‘And if we work this out?’’ Stevie inquired.

‘‘We’d want to see the videotapes-yes, of course. We’d want you to name your sources. We, in turn, would open up the autopsy prelim on Jane Doe to you. We’d share, Ms. McNeal. We’d give Melissa the best shot at coming home. The way we’re working now-well, it’s not working. . that’s just the point.’’

A knock came on the door. Stevie jumped. ‘‘Ms. McNeal?’’ a voice said from the other side. ‘‘You’re wanted on the set.’’

Daphne offered, ‘‘I can help you find sleep. I can work with you on the loss of appetite. That offer comes without precondition.’’

‘‘Who said I can’t sleep?’’ Stevie barked defensively.

‘‘No strings attached.’’

‘‘I’m wanted on the set.’’

‘‘You can’t do this alone.’’ She added, ‘‘And the INS can’t clear a missing persons case. If they’ve represented themselves otherwise, it’s unfair to you.’’

Stevie felt and looked paralyzed.

‘‘The name is Matthews,’’ Daphne reminded. ‘‘The switchboard will put you through. My voice mail has my pager number. I’m available to you around the clock.’’ Daphne placed one of her cards next to the cosmetics. ‘‘I’m hoping you’ll call.’’

‘‘I’m wanted on the set,’’ she repeated. She pulled open the door and left.

But when Daphne looked down, she noticed her business card was gone.

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 269 DAYS MISSING

The Seattle Aquarium was located out on a pier in the heart of the heavily touristed waterfront, a collection of crab and chowder houses and ferry traffic servicing the outlying islands. Seagulls swarmed fallen crumbs, picking the wide sidewalk clean. The familiar smell of suntan lotion hung in the air along with the choke of diesel fumes, a taste of salt spray and the permanent musty tang of rotting wood, indelible and almost sugary on the tongue.

Boldt walked quickly, not because he was late, but because he was driven by a mounting fear that the investigation itself was late, that Melissa Chow had run out of time. Nine days-far too long. He did not accept that there was a mortal power greater than that of the Seattle Police, that whoever was behind the container shipments and the recent murders could remain a step ahead, could murder their way into silencing the sources that might open up the case. But privately, his own fear of these people was wearing him down. The ruthlessness and daring of killing the potential witnesses and leaving them for police to find reminded everyone involved that no one was safe. Not even police.

Gwen Klein, the LSO employee, appeared to be the most recent statistic. She had failed to show up for work. She had gone missing right at the moment that LaMoia’s team had found out about her and had decided, in a failed attempt, to put her under surveillance. Mc-Neal had run an ‘‘Employee of the Week’’ piece on News Four at Five that Boldt blamed on the woman’s disappearance. The stupidity of the press never ceased to amaze him.

The pressure on all involved had intensified, especially on Boldt and LaMoia. Too many dead bodies. A reporter missing. Television news turning the screws and making inroads ahead of police. There was talk of creating a task force to include SPD and the INS, although both sides were resisting. For Boldt, as he quickened his pace yet again, all of it took a backseat to locating Melissa Chow, who appeared to be not only a possible victim but also a key witness. To find this woman was to simultaneously bring down the people behind both the murders and the importing of human beings-he felt certain of it.

Dr. Virginia Ammond was a tomboy in her mid-forties with a freckled Irish complexion, callused hands and a Ph.D. in marine sciences. She dressed in faded jeans rolled at the cuff and an immodestly tight T-shirt that bore the aquarium’s logo.

‘‘The medical examiner’s request to identify the fish scales went first to the university, but was passed on to me for confirmation.’’

Boldt visited the aquarium regularly with his kids, the floor plan familiar to him. Ammond walked him down the descending ramp that led deeper underground and into the heart of the facility-a 360degree viewing room completely surrounded by glass and water, where fish circulated freely, lending the visitor the feeling of being submerged.

She led Boldt to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and into a room where a stereoscopic microscope awaited them.

She explained, ‘‘I know it’s an inconvenience for you to come down here, but phone calls just don’t do it for me. Now this first plate is one of the less common fish scales in the sample your people provided our department. Notice the more pointed area where the scale actually attaches to the fish, like shingles on a roof. Of particular interest to us, to you, is the more heartlike shape of this scale, along with that serrated edge. Okay?’’

Ammond switched plates and moved him to a comparison microscope.

‘‘This is a side-by-side comparison,’’ she told him. ‘‘Look carefully at both scales.’’

Boldt brought his eyes to the scope. ‘‘Okay.’’

‘‘Recognize our friend?’’

‘‘On the left.’’

‘‘Very good. Yes. And to the right?’’

‘‘A smoother edge. Less of a point. It’s clearer. This may sound stupid, but the one on the right looks newer.’’

‘‘Gold star, Lieutenant. You didn’t minor in marine biology, did you? Yes, the scale to the right is from a live silver salmon in our back tanks. The sample we received from you consisted primarily of scales from both king and silver salmon.’’

‘‘But not our friend?’’ he asked, using her term.

‘‘No. We found two such scales in the sample. They’re from a variety of Snake River coho. What’s of interest is that this particular species has been extinct for over two decades.’’

‘‘Run that by me again,’’ Boldt said.

‘‘The Snake River coho disappeared twenty-two years ago. Tens of millions of coho used to make the annual journey up the Columbia and into Idaho, the Snake River species among them.’’

‘‘Extinct,’’ Boldt repeated, withdrawing his police pad and making a note.