Ridley Pearson - The First Victim

True or not, at that moment Stevie accepted it, embraced it, the depth of her feelings for the girl making so much more sense. No matter what, she believed-a necessity perhaps born of the moment. No matter. Suddenly, there was no courage, no fear, no question about any of it. She felt bulletproof. Righteous.

The power cable climbed up the line toward the ship’s bow. She climbed the net on the tanker’s side, pulling herself higher and higher above the wharf, finally reaching the upper deck and the lip of slimy steel. She peered over this edge thinking there was no landscape as eerie as something man-made left abandoned. The lines creaked and sighed. Water slapped lazily all around her. The electric hum grew perceptibly louder.

She pulled herself under the rail and down onto the cold damp deck, and crawled into the shadow. She crouched and hurried toward the bow past ladders and winches, railing and line, the air thick with rust and algae. She reached the power cable and followed it to starboard, to where it spilled over the side and down to an abandoned river ferry listing badly to port, its stern also low in the water. The ferry’s deck was a good fifteen to twenty feet below her, the heavy cable passing across it and on to the next ship. Elevated on the tanker, she took a moment to look around at the graveyard. Deck, rail, stacks and bridges.

Gray decaying steel. Rust the color of dried blood. To her right she saw a steady path of gangways, ladders and planks leading one deck to the next out to the center of the graveyard and a large fishing trawler where it stopped.

Below and to her left the black cable ran straight for that trawler, looking like a piece of thread dropped from the sky.

She could see Melissa here-could recall the videos. Excitement stole through her. Little Sister!

In the distance she heard the air brakes of a bus or truck. There was no mistaking that sound.

She crossed back around to the other side of the tanker in time to see a figure scramble down a steep path through the vegetation to the only gate in the chain-link fence. A big man. A man wearing a sweatshirt and a hood. Stevie ducked out of sight.

Mama Lu looked like a prizefighter, dressed as she was in a powder blue silk robe embroidered in yellow and orange with scenes of peasants tilling the rice paddies. Her rich black hair was hoisted into a bun and secured with what looked to Boldt like an orphaned enameled chopstick, and her false teeth shined with the brilliance of having been recently dipped and cleaned. There were acres of cloth in that robe and years of wisdom in those agate eyes, and she could tell both from Boldt’s solemn expression and his timing that they had problems.

‘‘Come sit down. My legs tired.’’

The apartment above the small grocery was three or four times the size that Boldt had originally believed. The first room where she chose to receive guests and take her meals was simple and spare for the benefit of appearances; but as she led Boldt into the inner sanctum of room after room of stunning Asian antiques and artwork, of jade and scrolls and intricately carved ivory, he grabbed a glimpse of the real woman with whom he came to cut a deal.

‘‘You are bothered, Mr. Both,’’ she observed. ‘‘Please to sit.’’

He took a velvet-padded captain’s chair with mahogany arms of lion’s paws. She seemed to occupy the entire love seat where she sat. It fit her like a throne. ‘‘You like tea, don’t you?’’ She rang a small glass bell summoning a young woman of twenty dressed in a simple black silk dress and rubber slaps. ‘‘Tea,’’ she instructed. ‘‘He takes half-and-half and sugar in his,’’ she said, surprising him.

‘‘Is there anything you don’t know?’’ he asked.

‘‘We shall see,’’ she said, allowing a smile.

He nodded. She had such an uncanny way of coming directly to the point without ever seeming direct at all.

‘‘I know about the helicopter,’’ she informed him. ‘‘And yes, even the arrests on Delancy Avenue. I know that you do not visit an old woman late at night looking the way you do without much on your mind. So what is it, Mr. Both?’’

‘‘It’s bad,’’ he said.

She bowed her formidable head slightly. ‘‘Whatever is, is,’’ she said unexpectedly. ‘‘It is neither bad nor good. It exists for the reasons it exists. To qualify it is to contain it, to limit its undermining potential. Let us not judge too quickly, Mr. Both.’’

Boldt bit back his temptation to speak too quickly.

She sighed. ‘‘Are you here to arrest me?’’

‘‘I hope not,’’ he conceded.

‘‘The patrol cars,’’ she said, explaining how she guessed this. ‘‘The press?’’

‘‘On its way.’’

‘‘Most impolite.’’

The tea was delivered silently and artfully, a graceful dance of arms and hands and gold-rimmed cups of bone china. The young woman was beautiful and smelled of lilac. When she left the room her dress whispered them quiet again. Boldt sipped softly and drank a tea as rich as any he had tasted, hoping she might say something. He finally said, ‘‘I can connect your import company to the polarfleece recovered in that first container. If I have to, I’ll use it.’’

‘‘A Customs violation. A federal charge. This is not your business, Mr. Both.’’

He said nothing.

‘‘What do you need?’’ She added, ‘‘What do you come for?’’

‘‘The grocery deliveries.’’

‘‘I am not only person with groceries, Mr. Both.’’

‘‘I know what I know, Great Lady, but I’m powerless to do much of anything with it. Our system is weak. It’s flawed. It’s corrupt. But it’s all I have. It’s my only tool.’’ He added, ‘‘It’s a ship.’’ She twitched. ‘‘ We know this. You know this. I need the location-now, tonight. Right now! I’ll arrest you, embarrass you, if I’m forced to. I’m out of bullets.’’

She smiled, shocking him. ‘‘My problem is your problem,’’ she said. ‘‘If I am the source of this information, if that should ever come out, I will make an early grave. That does not interest me.’’

‘‘I can get Coughlie,’’ he said, ‘‘but it has to be tonight. It has to be now before he can move his operations.’’

‘‘You know much,’’ she said.

‘‘And if you don’t tell me?’’ he asked, feeling her resistance to actually speak the information he needed. ‘‘If I figure it out myself?’’

‘‘Self-knowledge only true knowledge.’’ She smiled again. Those teeth were perfect.

‘‘A ship,’’ he said. ‘‘A trawler. An old trawler.’’

‘‘What does police do with cars belonging drug runners?’’

‘‘Forfeited assets,’’ Boldt said, trying to follow. ‘‘We impound them. The court collects any property. .’’ He caught himself.

Her eyes sparkled.

‘‘Forfeited assets are auctioned off,’’ he said.

‘‘Not if no one wants to buy,’’ she corrected.

‘‘My God!’’ he gasped.

Another wide grin.

Boldt was dialing dispatch before he even reached the stairs.

Rodriguez waited on the wharf while Stevie watched through the camcorder’s telephoto lens as two men hurried along the improvised path of ladders and wooden ramps connecting the various boats. Finally reaching the barge, these two secured a gangway for Rodriguez to use, and the three of them then hurried toward the trawler, their urgency and tension evident from the shouting. They were too far away and it was too dark for her to record their faces or anything they said, but she recorded them anyway.

Their route was unexpectedly long and involved, the path between the ships anything but a straight line. One finger on the camera’s trigger, another pressed tightly to block the red light that showed while recording, she followed the three to the trawler where they disappeared around its far side.