Ridley Pearson - The First Victim

Outside the art museum there stood on enormously tall steel plate sculpture of a man pounding an equally huge hammer. To Stevie, it looked Russian, a holdover of Stalinism, a dedication to the might of the worker. Her escort grew increasingly nervous with their approach, perhaps sensing the trap that was laid for him. Her own anxiety increased with each step, and she worried that the police didn’t have anyone in place yet.

A group of Japanese tourists had collected in the courtyard awaiting their tour guide. She felt several of the men staring. Others shot pictures of the Russian worker.

‘‘You don’t need me for this,’’ the man complained to her.

‘‘I don’t trust you,’’ she said, spinning and confronting.

‘‘You take picture us?’’ a Japanese man asked Stevie, extending his camera toward her and indicating his smiling friends. Stevie hesitantly accepted the camera.

‘‘I don’t have time for this,’’ her escort objected again.

‘‘Settle down,’’ she whispered. Focusing the camera she spun the zoom by mistake. Behind the group of grinning tourists, she saw the steam-cleaning van turn left, cross traffic and pull to the side of the street. She clicked the shutter, capturing only the tourists’ heads. The Cavalry had arrived.

Boldt approached the museum’s sunken courtyard wishing McNeal would lower the camera and get a look at him. He slowed but did not stop, passing within a yard or two of the man at her side. Detective Mulgrave appeared to his left and entered the museum ahead of him. It would all move quickly now even if it felt like slow motion.

He paused at the museum’s glass doors and studied the reflection as McNeal handed the camera back to the Japanese tourist. As she turned toward the entrance, he wondered if she would recognize him from the back, deciding that she probably would.

Stevie McNeal didn’t seem like she missed much.

In the back of the van, LaMoia spoke into the radio handset, ‘‘If this goes south, if our boy makes tracks, Mulgrave stays on him. MoCom will follow. Lynch, you put your body in front of McNeal if needed.’’

‘‘Roger that,’’ Lynch confirmed.

‘‘If we have to move on him, I want it down and dirty,’’ he ordered. ‘‘We got civilians in there. Copy?’’

The radio sparked with several distinct pops as undercover detectives tripped their radios. This told LaMoia plenty. His operatives were in place. No one could speak. It was going down.

Stevie stepped up to the coat check and handed the colored tag to the Asian behind the counter. She wondered if this woman had once been an illegal, and realized she had a stereotype to overcome. Her escort had stopped ten feet back in the midst of museum foot traffic coming and going, reminding her of a dog poised on a street curb considering crossing traffic. His face florid and feverish, he had broken into a sweat out in the courtyard.

She too was sweating. It seemed her chance to save Melissa-if there still was a chance-came down to these next few minutes and the tape promised. Boldt stepped up to the counter alongside of her and spoke clearly to one of the coat check attendants.

‘‘What if I lost my claim check?’’ he asked. He was buying time.

The girl had turned to face the array of cubbyholes, looking for the match to Stevie’s claim check. ‘‘You gotta have your tag,’’ the other man informed Boldt.

Boldt patted his pockets. ‘‘But if I don’t?’’ he asked. Stevie’s confidence gained with his being so close.

The girl plunked down the camera bag in front of Stevie. Her heart fluttered; she had handed this bag to Melissa the last time she’d seen her.

Stevie turned. The man said, ‘‘Okay, we’re outta here.’’

‘‘Not yet.’’

‘‘Bullshit,’’ he hissed, leaning in close with his tobacco breath. ‘‘This sucker’s done. Gimme the five.’’

She wanted to confirm the existence of the tape before surrendering the cash.

A fist tightened around her upper arm.

‘‘Outside,’’ the man ordered. ‘‘We’re done here.’’ His sideburns leaked pearls of sweat.

Stevie hesitated briefly, her fingers hovering on the camera bag’s zipper. She moved toward the wall, a water fountain, forcing him to release her. He let go and pursued her to the wall; her arm tingled with relief.

She pulled the zipper, realizing that despite her intentions to stay calm, her anticipation had won the moment. Her heart felt ready to explode. She opened the bag and peered inside: a pair of black slippers with red roses embroidered on the toes. Her throat tightened- they were Melissa’s. She moved them aside. The small tape was there as well. She didn’t understand the next few seconds when blood chemistry and emotions overcame all rational thought, when memories of Melissa and those slippers were all that mattered. Tears erupting from her eyes, she took the man by his sport coat, pulled her face to his and shook him, crying, ‘‘Where is she? What have you done to her?’’

The stunned man plunged his hand into the shopping bag and came out with her wallet. ‘‘The money!’’ he said, his head lifting, his dark eyes flashing as he saw one of the detectives reaching for a weapon.

The man pocketed the wallet, turned Stevie, and shoved her into Boldt. He dodged across the entrance lobby, weaving through tourists, using them as protection. Stevie stumbled into Boldt’s arms. He stood her up and took off at a run.

Detective Mulgrave shouted loudly, ‘‘Police! Everyone stay where you are!’’ The English-speaking visitors dove to the carpet. The Japanese smiled and took a moment longer to react. Shouts and cries followed. A uniformed museum guard stepped forward to block one of the exit doors.

Boldt and Mulgrave ran toward the entrance as the suspect dropped his shoulder into the guard driving him through the glass door. The guard went down hard. The suspect fled outside, Boldt and Mulgrave immediately behind.

Boldt shouted at the suspect. Mulgrave called into his handheld for backup. The man crossed through traffic stopped at the light and ran hard, heading south on First Avenue.

Boldt caught a glimpse of LaMoia and a uniform out of the corner of his eye and, at the same time, a cameraman trailing black wires as he leaped out of KSTV’s large blue panel truck which was stopped in traffic. The cameraman hit the sidewalk running. LaMoia and the uniform hit the cameraman’s wires and all three went down.

Boldt dodged through the traffic and took off after the suspect, Mulgrave still shouting orders into his radio.

The suspect ran left at the next corner and disappeared from view.

His lungs burning, his right knee tightening, Boldt lost ground to Mulgrave and called out, ‘‘Backup?’’

‘‘On route!’’ the detective answered.

They needed this man in custody. To lose the suspect was not an option. Both cops turned left at the corner, Mulgrave already breaking across the street, the suspect nowhere in sight.

Sirens approached. The street rose up a hill. No suspect. Mulgrave headed across the street and down an alley.

Boldt stopped and spun in a circle. Their boy had either entered one of the buildings or had gone down that alley. Faced with a tough decision-await the radio cars and the uniforms so that they sealed off any chance of the suspect sneaking past, or pick one of the buildings to search before the suspect had time to escape-Boldt studied the wall of brick buildings that lined the northern side of the street, his eyes darting window to window, one building to the next.

It appeared first as a shadow, then an image: a woman in a third-floor window, one hand spread open on the glass. Descending a stairway, she had clearly stepped aside for someone. It was that spread hand that convinced him-the fear it implied. Boldt took the chance.