Ridley Pearson - The First Victim

His police shield displayed in his coat’s breast pocket, Boldt took two stairs at a time, passing the middle-aged woman on the second floor’s landing. She pointed up. Boldt kept moving, never breaking stride. He had the advantage of surprise now. He had to move fast before he lost it.

By the fourth floor he was severely winded but still climbing. The movement came from his right as he turned left toward the final flight of stairs. It came as a change of color, of lighting, as if someone had dropped a curtain or waved a flag. It came as a flash of heat up his spine, his right arm climbing instinctively but opening him to the blow to his ribs. His momentum moved him away from the blow rather than into it; he was thrown off balance, careening into a chair that sat alongside a standing ashtray. He grabbed hold of a leg of that chair and hurled it in the general direction of his assailant, simultaneously reaching for his gun. The chair’s four metal feet screeched like fingers on a blackboard, then traveled toward the stairs and, as if planned, as if calculated, flew off the top edge, rebounded off the far wall and headed end over end as if aimed at the unfortunate soul in its path.

The suspect, after shoving Boldt and then starting back down the stairs, never saw that chair. It came after him as if it were tethered to him, jumping and springing into the air and crashing only to lift again, gaining velocity. Boldt was back to his feet by the time the chair impacted, not only tripping up the man but sending him down the subsequent flight of stairs following the same route the chair had traveled. A tumbler, a circus act gone awry, the dull snapping of bone on stone.

Despite the fall, the man clamored to his feet but then sagged under the pain and Boldt was upon him. A handcuff snapped around the wrist in a ritual all too familiar to both men. Boldt patted him down for weapons while reciting the Miranda like a man talking in his sleep. He arrested the suspect on charges of trafficking in stolen goods and assaulting a police officer.

‘‘I didn’t steal nothing!’’ he complained as he was led down the stairs.

‘‘You’ve got some thinking to do between here and downtown,’’ Boldt cautioned the man. ‘‘If you’ve got half a brain in there, you’ll

trade a walk for the talk.’’

‘‘Yeah, yeah. . but I’m telling you, I didn’t steal nothing!’’

‘‘If you’re smart, you’ll lose the broken record,’’ Boldt advised. ‘‘Then again,’’ he reconsidered, ‘‘if you were smart, we wouldn’t be here, would we?’’

Gaylord Riley dragged his fingers against his sweating cheek as if rubbing a lantern for good luck, stoically proud of his refusal to talk to police and patiently awaiting his attorney. His stained polyester shirt stuck to him like cellophane so that his chest hairs rose like tree roots struggling up through old asphalt. The Box had warmed behind LaMoia’s mounting frustration to where both men were panting and in need of a glass of water.

‘‘The thing a prick like you doesn’t understand, Riley, is that this is the wrong time to lawyer-up.’’

‘‘As if there’s ever a right time as far as you’re concerned.’’

‘‘I got a PA outside who will repeat to you everything I’ve been saying. You’re a known fence. Fraud has you on file.’’

‘‘Never been convicted of nothing!’’

‘‘You give up whoever laid this gear on you and you walk out of here, no harm, no foul.’’

‘‘That’s bullshit and we both know it. That big guy. . he said assaulting an officer. He fell down is all-a shoelace or something. I didn’t assault no officer!’’

‘‘You want me to get him in here? Hang on a second!’’ LaMoia went to the door. Boldt, who had been looking on through the one-way glass was already at the door by the time LaMoia opened it.

Boldt stepped inside. Old times: he and LaMoia working a suspect. All they needed was Daphne in the room for the picture to be complete. Boldt said, ‘‘You talk, you walk. I told you that.’’

‘‘I’d rather hear it from a lawyer,’’ the suspect said.

‘‘By which time, you won’t hear it,’’ Boldt answered.

LaMoia sat back down in the chair facing the man. ‘‘Stupid is one thing. You were stupid to get into this-to call the station, set up the meet. But don’t be dumb. Don’t be an asshole, who thinks he knows more about how this works than we do. We’ve got jails filled with those numb-nuts, I’m telling you. You lawyer-up, you start things in motion that we’re helpless to stop. You bring in the college boys and you, me and the lieutenant are in chairs over in the corner watching the suits do the dance. Is that what you want? Honestly?’’ He felt he was getting through to the guy. Gaylord Riley looked ready to pop a blood vessel.

‘‘All we want is to start a dialogue here,’’ Boldt encouraged. ‘‘Get some words going back and forth. Work through the attitude down to the truth. If we do that in a timely fashion, there’s no reason lawyers have to be any part of this. Your little ransom attempt never happened.’’

‘‘I didn’t ransom nothing!’’

‘‘That’s what I’m saying,’’ Boldt agreed. ‘‘It never happened.’’

LaMoia cautioned, ‘‘We got you on videotape, audiotape and stills. We got maybe a dozen witnesses to this thing, pal-law enforcement officers, every one of them. What do you think you and your lawyer are going to use against that?’’

The man looked back and forth between the two detectives, the epitome of a scared little boy. LaMoia loved every minute of it. He didn’t have the degrees for it, but he thought maybe he should be a hostage negotiator, some guy who looks the bomber in the eye and dares the slob to push the button. He felt good all over, like after sex.

The suspect said, ‘‘He was Chinese. Twenty-one, twenty-two. Strong. Small. Never seen him before. Not since. Didn’t know what he had-thought it was a camcorder.’’

‘‘Gang kid?’’ Boldt asked, wiping any surprise off his face. Business as usual. Inside he was reeling with excitement. He knew better than to ask if he’d given a name.

‘‘Are there any that aren’t?’’ he quipped. ‘‘No clue.’’

‘‘He speak English?’’ LaMoia asked.

‘‘Pidgin shit,’’ the man answered. ‘‘Marble mouth.’’

‘‘Tattoos? Marks?’’ Boldt asked.

‘‘Just a kid looking to cash in. A little scared of the whole thing, you know?’’

‘‘Scared of making the deal,’’ LaMoia clarified.

‘‘Right.’’

‘‘So you thought it was hot,’’ Boldt said.

‘‘Of course it was hot,’’ the man declared. ‘‘Do I look like a buyer for Macy’s?’’

‘‘He called it a camcorder,’’ LaMoia repeated.

‘‘Yeah, right. Didn’t know shit about it. I’m telling you: He came in, wanted some money for it. I give him two bills and he books. Whole thing, maybe a minute or two.’’

‘‘Two bills for a twelve-thousand-dollar camera,’’ LaMoia said.

‘‘Hey, the station’s call letters are engraved on the bottom. What can I tell you? He must’a never seen it. Didn’t know how expensive this digital shit is. I’m telling you: He didn’t know what he had, that kid. And the way he was nervous and all: He was either a junkie, or worried about making the deal somehow. That kind of build, that strength, I’m not thinking he was a junkie. More like a kid who stole his own mother’s car stereo.’’

‘‘He found it,’’ Boldt said to LaMoia. ‘‘He found it, or he took it from her-’’

‘‘But he didn’t tell no one,’’ LaMoia completed.

‘‘Who?’’ the suspect asked. ‘‘I didn’t take nothing from nobody!’’