‘‘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!’’
‘‘Shut up!’’ LaMoia barked. ‘‘We’re talking here!’’
Boldt said, ‘‘He found it and figured he’d make himself a couple extra bucks.’’
‘‘So he hocks it with this bozo,’’ LaMoia said.
Boldt informed the man, ‘‘We’re going to ask you to look at photo arrays.’’
‘‘Mug shots.’’
‘‘Right,’’ the lieutenant said. ‘‘You point him out, you walk out of here-’’
‘‘Hey! That weren’t no part of the deal! That’s bullshit.’’
LaMoia stood abruptly, startling the man. He leaned across the table. ‘‘Don’t interrupt the lieutenant, asshole! The man’s talking to you.’’
Boldt repeated, ‘‘You’ll look at the photos. You point him out, you walk out of here tonight. You don’t find him, you do a night in lockup for the assault, and you look at more photos tomorrow. You give us a face, we give you a passport.’’
‘‘This is bullshit!’’
‘‘This is your way out of here,’’ LaMoia corrected. ‘‘Or would you rather we call the attorneys, and tell them you won’t cooperate?’’
‘‘But I did cooperate!’’ he protested.
LaMoia turned to Boldt. ‘‘Do you think he’s cooperating, Sarge?’’
‘‘I think he’s making up stories,’’ Boldt said.
‘‘I’m telling you the way it went down!’’ the man shouted.
‘‘And he’s yelling at us,’’ LaMoia observed.
Boldt said, ‘‘You give us a face that checks out, and you walk.’’
LaMoia cautioned, ‘‘If you’re making this shit up, you’re toast.’’
‘‘He was just some kid! Some Chinese kid. How am I supposed to know the difference?’’
‘‘They all look alike?’’ LaMoia challenged in a threatening tone. ‘‘Don’t go there, pal.’’ He lied to pressure the man: ‘‘You don’t want to get within a few miles of that, given that the lieutenant here is married to a lovely Chinese woman and has five little daughters to prove it.’’
The suspect looked as if he’d swallowed an ice cube or was choking on unchewed meat.
Boldt had to turn to the door so the man wouldn’t catch his grin. ‘‘Let’s get it started,’’ he said to his sergeant, wondering where LaMoia came up with such stuff.
CHAPTER 33
As a reporter, Stevie had perfected the art of using people, and though her last several years as a news anchor had clearly dulled those talents, they were not altogether lost. She understood the powerful effect that her body and looks had upon men, as well as the envy they incited in women-how to harness and exploit those attributes as needed. She needed them now. Brian Coughlie had access to SPD that she did not. She had picked the best restaurant in the city. She wore a low scooped teal dress that turned heads. She was ready.
Her body ached with fatigue and exhaustion after the police sting, but she wasn’t going to surrender to it until she made it through the dinner and had accomplished what she had come to accomplish. Judge Milton Abrams was blocking KSTV’s viewing of the videotape that she had personally recovered. Boldt, Abrams and others had burned her, and her only chance to return the favor lay with the man who now sat across the table from her.
Campagne was indeed one of the city’s finest restaurants. Brian Coughlie, there at her invitation, looked slightly out of place, but she didn’t let that bother her. Her celebrity had created a buzz in the restaurant the moment she’d arrived. She played it up, hoping to intimidate Coughlie, who was nothing but a government worker bee with a bad tailor. It was an odd alliance at best, and she intended to milk him for everything she could get. She would stop short of sleeping with him, but he certainly didn’t know that.
A hint of sexual suggestion, an occasional compliment, a well-timed wiggle in her chair-she had the full arsenal at her disposal. Ready, indeed.
Coughlie was not about to turn down an invitation from this one. He’d been trying to think of a way to get her alone, to find out as much about her missing friend as possible. One man’s ceiling was another man’s floor. As a media source she had contacts and resources that he did not. Following her late afternoon piece that police had allegedly confiscated evidence belonging to the station, her invitation to dinner had come as a godsend. She needed him-the beginning of any negotiation.
If he got laid in the process, so much the better. Judging by the look of her, it would make for an unforgettable evening. The way she kept moving her butt in the chair was making him excited. But his interest in her was for what she knew, not what kind of ride she was. SPD was stonewalling the INS, and vice versa-business as usual. He stuck to the food and wine. Women loved to talk if you gave them half the chance. The way she was hitting the wine, she’d be giving a god-damn keynote address in a few minutes. Not to be outdone, he took a sip himself. Decent stuff. Archery Something. A yuppie wine-peanut noir was what he’d nicknamed it. He’d take a Chablis any day. At sixty bucks a bottle, he thought she was trying to impress him. Nice try, he said to himself. It took more than a chest and an attitude to fix his game.
‘‘Why does a person join the INS?’’ she asked, meeting eyes with him.
‘‘Why does a person put her face in front of a million people every afternoon?’’
‘‘It’s four hundred thousand,’’ she corrected, ‘‘and it’s not a fair comparison. The public image of the INS is gatekeepers, border guards.’’
‘‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’’
‘‘Tell me I’m wrong.’’
‘‘Power hungry ex-football players?’’ he asked, stabbing a piece of thin ham off the appetizer plate that had some kind of Italian name. Cheap bastards cutting it that thin. ‘‘We have our fair share of those. It’s a fair shot to take.’’
‘‘And you?’’
‘‘If I’d wanted to be a hero I’d have been a fireman.’’
She laughed at the comment.
He continued. ‘‘I suppose you start out thinking you’re part of the group that gives people a shot at this country, its freedom, its opportunity. That’s the underlying charter, don’t forget. You find a lot of patriots in the Service. And in the job interviews, that’s what they play up: the opportunity you’re giving these people. The power that comes with it? Sure. Racism? Probably right. Some of the guys who sign up want nothing more than to smack some Mexican across the face with a nightstick. I’ve seen it. But they’re ferreted out pretty quickly, those guys,
