The First Victim

drive to them one by one. She hoped that particular car wash was listed, but there was no saying it was. She could try any number of wild attempts like that, or she could act like a journalist and get down to business. Suffering under a headache and the pressure of time passing much too quickly, aching over Melissa’s disappearance and the tape’s implication that she had aggressively gone after the story, Stevie resorted to what she knew best: journalism. The story started with Gwen Klein. It was as simple as that.

The LSO was crowded, its fiberglass seats filled with a cross section of the city’s diverse population. She wore a baseball cap and kept her head down, not wanting to be recognized as she wandered the enormous room. Of the seven teller windows, four were in use. Stevie drew glares as she avoided the lines and headed straight to the front where small name plaques identified the tellers. In front of the third teller the sign read: Hello! I’m: GWEN. Stevie memorized that face, the Irish nose, the square-cut bangs that cantilevered out in a frosted blonde cascade. She went heavy on both the brown lipstick and the pale purple eye shadow. Klein delivered a self- important attitude via a demeaning, intolerant impatience. She was of average height with slouched shoulders. Stevie remained in line just long enough to take all this in, then feigned discouragement and walked back outside.

At 4:07 P.M., the building’s rear door opened and several employees including Klein walked to their cars and drove off. This event eerily matched what Stevie had seen on Melissa’s tape. Klein collected her kids from day care and led Stevie to 118th Street NW, a congested neighborhood of small clapboard houses. The van pulled in to #1186. Mom and the two kids left the car and headed inside the home.

With News Four at Five rapidly approaching, Stevie had no choice but to drive quickly to the studio and perform her on-camera duties, but her mind remained on #1186 118th NW, to which she returned immediately following the broadcast.

At seven o’clock, running low on patience, she left her car and headed to the front door. Answers could no longer wait.

Stevie hoped that the sharp attack of her knuckles on the front door might telegraph her attitude, her intentions, to the occupants, especially given that both a doorbell and a brass knocker were available.

To her relief it was Gwen Klein herself who answered the door. Klein recognized Stevie immediately, her face lighting up at first-the flush of a glimpse of celebrity-and then tightened in reaction to the association with news media. She stepped back and grabbed the edge of the door.

‘‘Please. . it’s a personal matter,’’ Stevie said.

‘‘I have nothing to say to the press!’’

The door began to swing shut. Stevie unleashed her only weapon. ‘‘You shut that door and I’ll have a camera crew camped on your front lawn for the next two weeks.’’

The door stopped, partially open. A moment later Gwen Klein stepped outside, out of earshot, and pulled the door to within an inch of closing. She crossed her arms at her waist as if fending off a chill.

‘‘Ms. Klein, I’m not here to make accusations, nor can I afford the luxury of wasting time.’’ She did not want to mention Melissa’s disappearance, not to someone like Klein, who if involved with supplying counterfeit licenses probably knew little of the overall operation. But Klein was the place to start, Stevie felt sure; Melissa had started with this woman. So would she.

‘‘I don’t know what you-’’

‘‘And let’s dispense with the protestations of innocence or ignorance. I have no time for it. We both know exactly why I’m here, and if you play this otherwise, I’ll turn and walk away and you’ll have lost your chance.’’

‘‘Chance at what?’’ Blank-faced and suddenly silent, Gwen Klein waited nervously.

‘‘Do you follow the news?’’ Stevie asked, met only by that same blank stare. ‘‘Are you aware of the ship captain who drowned? The ship captain responsible for transporting the container of illegals? The man’s death was not an accident, Ms. Klein.’’ She lowered her voice for effect and said, ‘‘You have to come to grips with the fact that he was murdered. Killed, because someone didn’t want him questioned by the police. . the INS. . whoever. Are you listening?’’ Klein’s eyes went glassy and distant, as if looking right through Stevie.

‘‘How long until whoever is paying you for those driver’s licenses decides you too are a liability?’’

Klein’s mouth sagged open. As her jaw jutted out to speak, Stevie cut her off.

‘‘I want the whole story. The truth, start to finish. Who contacted you, what they offered, how it worked, how long it’s been going on. If,’’ she said strongly, ‘‘you are willing to share this with me openly and honestly, I’m willing to forget all about your sad little life and your bad decisions. You have children.’’ The woman winced. ‘‘I’m not here to expose your behavior to your children, your neighbors, your employer.’’

‘‘But how did you-’’

‘‘Never mind how. What matters is the truth. It’s all that matters. I need the truth. You give me the truth, I go away. I can’t remember your name. Do you understand what I’m offering you? I can use the First Amendment to protect you. What do you think they will offer you? What do you think they offered the ship captain?’’

The woman’s head snapped up. She looked left and right, as if afraid of the neighbors or someone else watching her. She met eyes with Stevie. Hers were hard and cold as she said, ‘‘Not here. Not now. You’ve got to leave.’’ She stepped backward into the house, her hand blindly searching out the door.

‘‘I need answers,’’ Stevie cautioned, ‘‘or I’ll tear your life open on your front lawn.’’ She warned her, ‘‘Don’t underestimate me.’’

‘‘Not here.’’

‘‘We’ll talk.’’

The door closed further.

Stevie rushed her words. ‘‘We have to talk. You have to choose sides. Me or them?’’

The door slammed shut. A full minute later, Gwen Klein pulled back a drape and peered out at Stevie, who remained on the front steps. Klein would want to discuss Stevie’s offer with her husband, Stevie thought, so she would give her the night. One night. In the meantime, Stevie decided to make as if she were leaving. She climbed into her car and drove off. She came around the block, switched off her lights and parked. It was going to be a long night.

CHAPTER 21

'I tell you, this girl, she stupid and she scared.’’ The Mexican kept his congested voice intentionally low despite the loud groaning of pleasure from the big screen. He spoke in a clipped Hispanic mix of thick accent and misplaced grammar. He’d been sick for a while now. In the pulsing flicker of light, six silhouettes could be seen in the various rows of the theater, all sitting well apart from one another and none anywhere near the two men who occupied the center of the back row.

The reflected light from the screen caught the other man’s profile as he unstuck his right sole from whatever glue was down there, spilled soda or otherwise. He averted his face from both the brightness of the screen and the unspeakable acts portrayed by the two naked women in the grainy film. He understood the necessity of choosing such places for their meetings-the choice had been his, after all- but it didn’t mean he had to like it. He kept his voice calm and quiet, negating any remote possibility of being overheard. ‘‘I can handle the reporter. Our friend will settle down.’’ He never mentioned names, not ever. He knew all the tricks available to law enforcement. He trusted nobody. ‘‘Let’s keep cool heads. This too shall pass.’’

‘‘It’s coming apart on you.’’

‘‘Nothing is coming apart on anyone. A few speed bumps is all. It’s to be expected with something this size. Shit happens. It’s no reason to lose our cool.’’

‘‘What do you mean, you handle reporter?’’ the Mexican asked.

‘‘Not like that. Let’s just keep cool about this, okay?’’ the other man encouraged.

‘‘I do the girl?’’

‘‘Absolutely not. She’ll be fine.’’

‘‘I tell you, she not fine. Very upset. Last week it was the car wash in the middle of rainstorm. No brains at all.’’ He pointed to the screen. ‘‘This? This is the only thing girls do right.’’