Ridley Pearson - The First Victim

He took this all in along with another sip of wine and said, ‘‘You want me to get the digital tape for you.’’

‘‘They double-crossed me. That tape is rightfully mine.’’

‘‘Let’s just say that the idea interests me.’’

‘‘If the tape contains anything, it has to do with the illegals-that was the story we were working. Melissa wanted the digital camera because it was small and easy to carry. As in surveillance. Judging by the VHS tapes she shot before I got her the digital, I’m thinking she boarded a bus maybe. A car wash. I’m not sure. But whatever she shot, it has to do with illegals. And that’s your turf.’’

He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Car wash? Where the hell had that come from? Time to give Rodriguez a call and close it down. He felt like bailing on dinner and making the call immediately.

He said, ‘‘So I press for the right to view this digital tape. Let’s say they grant me that. What then? I give you a book report?’’

The dress was a pleasure to look at. She knew about packaging, this one. She knew how to move to distract a man’s attention.

‘‘Yes. Exactly. You tell me what you saw,’’ she answered.

‘‘And in return?’’

‘‘I show you the VHS tapes: the first three tapes that Melissa shot. Quid pro quo.’’

‘‘This car wash. .’’ he tested. He had to know the extent of what she knew. If she knew too much, then he had some tough decisions to make.

She teased, ‘‘I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.’’

He couldn’t stop himself from grinning. She was good this one. Extremely good. ‘‘You’re okay,’’ he said.

‘‘I’m a hell of a lot better than okay, Brian. You just have to trust me.’’

‘‘I’m working on that,’’ he said, echoing her words of their last meeting. He boldly winked at her and won a wide smile. He loved the dance more than anything. And this one knew how to dance.

THURSDAY, AUGUST 2710 DAYS MISSING

Boldt elected to view the contents of the digital videotape against the recommendations of every attorney consulted. Chow’s disappearance mandated action, as did the larger implication of her possible connection to the dead illegals, the two murdered witnesses and Klein’s having vanished. He had no choice in the matter. If a court eventually ruled against him, throwing out whatever the tape might reveal and whatever case they had built along with it, he would need a different way to that same evidence, something he would have to workout when needed. He wasn’t going to allow attorneys to set his agenda.

‘‘Why the suit?’’ LaMoia asked. ‘‘You going to a funeral?’’

‘‘Lot 17,’’ Boldt answered. Lot 17 was King County’s Tomb of the Unknown Victim-a five-acre piece of forest land where all the Jane and John Does were put to rest. The Doe family now numbered over two hundred. ‘‘The women from the container.’’

‘‘Seriously?’’ LaMoia answered. ‘‘I’d rather we hold on to them.’’

‘‘If I want to wear a suit, I’ll wear a suit.’’

‘‘You’re making up that shit about Lot 17.’’

‘‘Yes.’’ He didn’t tell him the real reason, despite their friendship. Rumor spread too quickly on the fifth floor.

Both men moved quickly down the stairs, Boldt feeling more agile than he had in years. Liz’s illness had cost him twenty-five pounds in what Dixon called ‘‘a grief diet.’’ The pounds had not come back, and he was glad for it.

‘‘What do you make of the camera and slippers?’’

‘‘I don’t like it.’’

‘‘Me neither. A woman without her shoes is kinda like a car without its tires. Know what I mean?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Sure you do.’’

‘‘She’s dead?’’ Boldt asked.

‘‘I’m leaning that way.’’

‘‘Don’t.’’

‘‘Based on?’’

‘‘Just don’t,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘I want her alive.’’

‘‘It has been like ten days since anyone’s seen her, Sarge.’’

‘‘I’m a lieutenant now. You’ve got to stop calling me that.’’

‘‘I call you ‘Lieu’ and everyone’s gonna think I’m using your first name. I gotta call you Sarge. Otherwise it’s ‘Lieutenant’ and that’s just way too long. You know?’’

‘‘Get used to it.’’

‘‘Look who’s talking.’’

Boldt stopped on a landing and looked LaMoia in the eye. Both men knew he was going to say something, but he didn’t.

‘‘Lofgrin called,’’ LaMoia stated, referring to the head of the forensics lab. ‘‘Said he picked up fish scales on the bottom of those slippers. Wants me to stop by when we’re done with Tech Services.’’

Although the discovery of the fish scales intrigued Boldt for their apparent connection to Jane Doe, Boldt felt a stab of envy and misgiving. He wanted SID calling him, not his sergeants. But given his advancement to lieutenant, it wasn’t going to be that way. The lab and the ME’s office notified the lead officer first, and a lieutenant was rarely, if ever, a lead officer. Supervisor, yes. Consultant, yes. But not lead. Boldt wasn’t sure why this mattered so much to him, but it did. He didn’t want to be the second to know, he didn’t want to be the bridesmaid. He wanted it to be his pager to go off-even though he hated the things; his phone to ring; his decision. When a case went bad he was now called to the office rather than the crime scene. It just wasn’t right. This, in part, explained the suit he was wearing. He had a job interview lined up for later in the day. Not even Liz knew about it. He was in turmoil over the decision to take the interview, much less the job if it were offered.

They stopped at the fire door to the basement floor. It had been painted with so many coats that it had a leathery look. ‘‘If anything decent comes out of this video,’’ Boldt cautioned, ‘‘we need to be thinking about how else we might obtain it in case some judge shuts us down.’’

LaMoia’s resources were legendary. He had friends who had friends who had access to the most sensitive and privately guarded information-financial and otherwise. Some said it was all those past girlfriends; others claimed he’d once been military intelligence. He never said a word about it, extending the legend and keeping his sources protected. ‘‘You got it,’’ he said.

Boldt told him, ‘‘It’s a job interview, but I don’t want anyone to know.’’ That sobered LaMoia.

‘‘Yeah? Well I hope for all our sakes it goes really bad.’’ He hesitated a moment and then added warmly, ‘‘Thanks. . Lieutenant.’’

Boldt pulled open the door.

The geek in Tech Services said something about dubbing the digital down to an SVHS master and handed LaMoia the remote wand-yet another sign of who was lead officer-and told him to summon him if they needed anything, or when they were through. He left the two men by themselves in a small darkened room in front of a twenty-seveninch color television.

‘‘A private showing,’’ LaMoia said, starting the tape rolling. ‘‘Who’s buying the popcorn?’’

Boldt wasn’t in a joking mood.

The sound and picture were of a city street by day, the camera held about waist height. The video title stamp was set incorrectly to January 3. The time was 6:19 P.M. Boldt didn’t trust that either. The two discernible background conversations were of a couple discussing a Native American festival and another two or three men all complaining about their jobs.

‘‘The camera’s concealed,’’ Boldt said softly.

‘‘In a briefcase, maybe.’’

‘‘Agreed.’’

The scenery suddenly blurred and a city bus was seen approaching.