Ridley Pearson - The First Victim

‘‘Exactly.’’

She grinned. The white of her teeth gleamed against the freckled face. ‘‘Your explanation over the phone intrigues me. You collected these off a dead woman’s feet. You mentioned shipping containers, and I’d have to question that. A container in service twenty-two years? Not likely. A ship is more like it.’’

‘‘A cannery?’’

‘‘Could be. Yes. Why not? This way,’’ Ammond said, showing Boldt out of the lab.

They walked back into the main galleries. She spoke loudly to be heard above the crowd noise.

‘‘Have you seen our fisheries display?’’

‘‘I imagine,’’ Boldt answered.

‘‘The trawlers?’’ she asked, pointing.

An entire wall had been devoted to the history of commercial fishing. It traced the earliest Native American settlements to the contemporary five-mile gill nets used by the Russians and Japanese as well as the enormous floating canneries. Text and illustrations were complimented by cutaway models of the various vessels, and it was to one of these that Dr. Ammond led Boldt.

‘‘Commercial trawler, fairly common to Pacific fleets for the last twenty to fifty years with few modifications. Bigger now.’’ She pointed out the aft hold. ‘‘The catch is stored here, as it comes in. The crew then sorts, cleans and washes the catch, discarding the unwanted or undesirables, and the gutted, finished product is moved by conveyors to the forward hold.’’ She indicated a huge room that occupied most of the front of the ship. ‘‘This hold is one giant freezer. These trawlers are able to stay out to sea days, weeks or months.’’ She took a deep breath, the tomboy in her replaced by the expert. ‘‘Now given your mention of illegals, I’m inclined to see this trawler in a whole new light. Maybe the catch isn’t so good this year. Maybe I’m putting Chinese illegals in my forward hull. Maybe this is quite an old ship-a very old ship-and despite the regular cleanings the crew gives these holds, a few scales remain behind, indicating a species of fish we haven’t seen for over two decades.’’

‘‘And if it’s a cannery?’’

‘‘That works for me. The canneries go back further than the processing trawlers. This aquarium was a cannery in its former life. Any number of structures along the shoreline in this city have been, or once were, associated with commercial fishing. From Harbor Island to Interbay, Salmon Bay to Lake Union.’’

‘‘You’re saying I have my work cut out for me,’’ he stated. ‘‘I can’t narrow down the old canneries by the fish scales you’ve identified.’’

‘‘The university has catalogued the history of commercial fisheries. That would include canneries. This industry dates back over a hundred and fifty years.’’

Boldt said, ‘‘Twenty-two years is all we care about.’’

Her face erupted into a smile. ‘‘Let me make a few calls.’’

Lacey Delgato had thick calves, no waist and a nose that cast a long shadow-behind her back, cops called her ‘‘the Sun Dial.’’ She wore an unfashionably long black skirt zipped too tightly across her seat so that a labyrinth of intersecting folds and seams showed in an unsightly display. She had a voice like a squeeze toy, a trial attorney’s tendency to act out her words and an abrasive laugh that warned of her cynicism. Her one extravagance was Italian shoes. Her tall heels tapped out her quickened pace against the Justice Building’s marble corridor. ‘‘This individual has offered to sell the camera back to KSTV.’’

‘‘A digital camera?’’ LaMoia clarified. ‘‘You’re sure about that?’’ he asked the assistant prosecuting attorney.

‘‘I’m only repeating what was said to me,’’ Delgato replied. ‘‘It’s your case, Sergeant. You worry about what kind of camera it is.’’

‘‘Do we foresee any problems with our involvement in this?’’ he asked.

‘‘There are some issues need clearing up,’’ she informed him. He struggled to keep up with her. ‘‘Possession issues. If you monitor the drop for them as they’re asking you to do, then who gets the camera? Little things like that.’’

‘‘And our position on this is. .?’’ he asked.

‘‘Stolen evidence? You retain the confiscated property until such time it is no longer needed by us as evidence in a trial. No different than any other case.’’ She snapped her head in his direction, but never broke her stride. ‘‘Mind you, they have a slightly different interpretation. They’ll let us keep the camera, but they’re claiming that if there’s a tape in that camera then they retain the tape for themselves. Intellectual property laws are sticky. I’ve got to warn you up front about that.’’

SPD was under tremendous pressure to clear the container case. McNeal’s nightly broadcasts kept the story not only in front of the public, but on the political front burner as well. Election years were always the worst.

‘‘No mention of the missing woman? Just the camera? We’re clear that the ransom demanded is for the camera alone?’’

‘‘I’m just repeating what I was told,’’ she offered. ‘‘You heard the Asian community is going to march on the mayor’s office?’’

He said, ‘‘Thanks. I needed to be reminded.’’

‘‘They’re expecting a big crowd.’’

‘‘Only because the press will be there,’’ he said. ‘‘Take away the cameras, ten people show up.’’

She looked at him strangely, still at a near run. ‘‘You busy for dinner?’’

‘‘What dinner?’’ he asked. ‘‘I haven’t had dinner in three days. I slept an hour and a half last night.’’

‘‘We could skip dinner, I suppose.’’

The corridor’s long wooden benches were occupied by attorneys, witnesses, detectives and distraught family members. For LaMoia, it was not so much a courthouse as a processing center, the law reduced to a series of appearances, negotiations and compromises. As a cop, he couldn’t think about it without growing discouraged or even depressed. He didn’t see Delgato as a woman, only as an attorney. He didn’t know how to break it to her.

‘‘I called Robbery figuring they would watch the drop,’’ Delgato explained. ‘‘The minute I mentioned KSTV they put me on to you. They said anything to do with the television station went to you. . I told them I only wanted to do this once. I’m saying the same thing to you.’’ She was clearly angry with him for not picking up on her passes. She wasn’t going to take a third swing at the ball. She knocked on the door to a jury room and led him into where police and lawyer work ended and justice began.

Despite hundreds of court appearances, LaMoia had rarely been inside a deliberation room. It smelled of pine disinfectant. The long oval table’s edge had been victim to jurors nervously doodling. He could almost hear the deliberations-angry voices ringing off the walls. Among the ballpoint graffiti he noticed a hangman’s noose. He sat down into one of the chairs and ran his fingernail around the cartoon character’s neck. He said, ‘‘Do we know this information is good?’’

‘‘The station engraves its initials on its gear. The caller described that correctly.’’

‘‘The ransom?’’

‘‘He started at three thousand. The station settled at one-the amount of the deductible on their policy.’’

‘‘And he went for it?’’

‘‘Apparently.’’

‘‘That’s not a junkie, that’s a businessman.’’

‘‘A junkie would have hocked it,’’ she said.

‘‘Which may be what happened,’’ LaMoia concurred. ‘‘Who knows where this bozo got it from?’’

‘‘He demanded that anchor, Stevie McNeal, take the drop.’’