Ridley Pearson - The First Victim

‘‘I’m listening,’’ Stevie answered.

The man said, ‘‘You give me the thousand now and take the camera. Then you withdraw the five hun out of the ATM and meet me back here in ten minutes.’’

‘‘We go together,’’ she objected.

‘‘No way. Meet me back here, ten minutes.’’

‘‘You’ll have the tape on you,’’ she said, trying to sound definite.

‘‘Ten minutes,’’ he repeated.

Stevie stared off at the water fountain.

‘‘What are you doing?’’

‘‘I’m thinking,’’ she answered.

In the MoCom van LaMoia debated the offer made by the extortionist. The dispatcher awaited his decision, knowing better than to press. ‘‘Did you get all that?’’ he asked Boldt.

‘‘Copy,’’ Boldt replied. McNeal’s wire transmissions were carried over a set of Walkman headphones he wore. He had declined LaMoia’s offer to be in the MoCom van. As the day shift sergeant who had taken the complaint, the missing persons case was LaMoia’s lead. Despite his own desire to take over, Boldt understood the necessity of the lead officer having full authority. A surveillance could turn in a matter of seconds. ‘‘It’s your call,’’ he reminded.

Boldt’s Chevy Cavalier was parked only a few yards away in a tow-away zone. With his cellphone pressed to his ear, he was enjoying a cup of Earl Grey tea at a Seattle’s Best Coffee in a plastic lawn chair out front of the Westlake Center from where he owned a slightly elevated and somewhat distant view of the occupied bench alongside the water shower. The SONY Walkman was actually a police-band radio monitor, its yellow all-weather headphones still in his ears despite the use of the cellphone.

LaMoia asked, ‘‘What the hell’s he up to?’’

‘‘You have to make the call, John. She’s waiting.’’

‘‘It’s a go!’’ LaMoia confirmed to the dispatcher, who threw a switch on his console and gave the go-ahead.

LaMoia leaned back nervously and said, ‘‘I hate this shit.’’

Not twenty feet away from the granite bench where Stevie and her visitor sat, a street bum suddenly spilled an entire garbage bag of crushed aluminum cans out onto the pavers. Her visitor jumped, a fresh cigarette bobbing in his lips and spraying embers that he batted off his lap. With the man distracted, Stevie quickly looked over her left shoulder as coached. A woman not ten feet away-Detective Bobbie Gaynes, although she didn’t remember the name-signaled a thumbs-up, giving approval for the second ransom. Gaynes continued on, skirting her way past Andy Milner, the undercover cop in the role of the street bum who was busy collecting the spilled cans.

Stevie handed the man on the bench the envelope with the thousand dollars knowing that every serial number on every bill was accounted for. ‘‘Okay,’’ she said, ‘‘we’ve got a deal.’’

Stevie took her time walking to the ATM assuming that the police would need every minute to regroup and follow her. She recognized a few of the detectives-though the introductions had been fast and furious during her briefing and she didn’t remember a single name.

She strolled casually up the slight rise of Fourth Avenue, approaching the ATM where she thought she recognized one of the detectives. The man met eyes with her and quickly indicated his wristwatch. The signal was obvious: They wanted more time.

The detective stepped away from the ATM. She suddenly appreciated the police in a way she never had before. The surveillance team was keeping up with her despite the change in plans. Their presence lent her a feeling of safety. Nonetheless, she stepped up to the ATM with adrenaline charging her system.

She inserted her card and punched in her PIN. Twenty seconds later her money was delivered, followed by her card. She turned in time to see two punk kids coming directly at her, their intentions forecast in their determined eyes. She’d been set up. Tape or no tape, they were going to mug her for the five hundred in broad daylight. Stevie stepped back toward the ATM machine.

At that same moment, a blur of activity erupted to her right. A homeless man collided with a woman and stole her two shopping bags, violently shoving her to the sidewalk. He sprinted away from her heading directly toward the two youths approaching Stevie.

The downed woman shouted for help. Two uniformed police charged around the corner of the building shouting at the homeless man, and finally tackling him. At the sight of cops, the two punks scattered, one heading down Fourth Avenue, the other east on Olive.

Stevie stepped away from the ATM and collected herself. They were all cops, she realized-the street person, the assaulted woman- the event staged to scare off the punks. Guardian angels took on the strangest forms.

Halfway back down the street a hand gripped her elbow firmly. ‘‘Walk’’. . the man said.

‘‘Let go of my arm,’’ Stevie demanded.

Still holding her, the man placed a claim check in her hand. ‘‘The art museum,’’ he said. She glanced down at the claim check.

‘‘A woman was mugged,’’ she said.

‘‘It’s a dangerous city.’’

‘‘You think I’ll give you five hundred dollars for a worthless claim check?’’

He answered, ‘‘If you don’t, you’ll never know what was on that tape.’’

‘‘You’re not getting the money until I have the tape in hand.’’

‘‘That’s not how this works.’’

‘‘That’s exactly how it works,’’ Stevie said.

‘‘If you don’t want to play,’’ the man declared, ‘‘then we got nothing to discuss.’’ He pulled her to the side out of the flow of pedestrians.

‘‘Just to remind you: I have five hundred dollars here that has your name on it.’’

‘‘Gimme the five,’’ the man said anxiously.

‘‘Let’s take a walk,’’ she suggested. ‘‘Ten minutes and you’re five hundred dollars richer.’’

‘‘That ain’t the way it’s gonna work,’’ he said.

‘‘Then it’s not going to work,’’ she declared. She reached into the bag and offered the claim check, wondering if he noticed her trembling fingers.

‘‘Keep it. Just give me the money,’’ he pleaded.

‘‘Let’s take a walk,’’ she said cheerily. Retaining the claim check, she walked away from him, realizing he had no choice but to follow. She counted to herself-one thousand one, one thousand two-her anticipation mounting as she reached the pedestrian crossing where the light changed instantly. She crossed with the light.

‘‘I ain’t got no time for this,’’ the man’s voice complained over her left shoulder.

‘‘Sure you do,’’ she replied, looking straight ahead. ‘‘This is the easiest five hundred you’ve ever made.’’ She kept walking, not knowing if he was following or not, but never so much as checking her stride.

‘‘The woman has got nerve,’’ LaMoia remarked in back of the van, his cellphone clutched to his ear. ‘‘What-do-ya say we pop the lid on this thing? You farting in here or what?’’ he asked the dispatcher.

‘‘No sir.’’ The dispatcher got up and slowly cranked open the van’s skylight.

‘‘Smells like a dog let loose in here,’’ LaMoia commented, fanning the air.

‘‘I’m going on foot,’’ Boldt announced into the phone.

‘‘We got her covered,’’ LaMoia said somewhat arrogantly.

‘‘Just the same, I’m going on foot.’’

LaMoia said, ‘‘We’ll relocate the team to the museum. We got four on foot. They’re your back-up.’’

Boldt said, ‘‘If he puts another hand on her, John, if he gets an idea to liberate that five hundred, we’re all over him.’’

‘‘Understood.’’ He added, ‘‘We screw this up, hell, it’ll make Brokaw.’’