overworked attorneys on retainer to the Police Officers’ Benevolent Association—the union. LaMoia’s suggestion meant that whatever he’d turned up could put one or both of them directly in harm’s way. The implication was obvious—organized crime was involved.
Corruption swept through police departments and other government agencies like the flu, passed one person to the next, indiscriminate of rank, race or gender. Like any contagious disease, when its proportions became epidemic within the given population, measures were taken to eradicate or at least reduce its influence; a few scapegoats were found and hung out to dry while the others went more deeply underground.
Throughout the course of his twenty-odd years on the force, Lou Boldt had carefully avoided and had never succumbed to even a hint of impropriety, which occasionally amounted to a full-time job. He stood sentry at the gate, alert and watchful. He would not willingly rat out his fellow officer to Internal Investigations; likewise, he would not tolerate compromised police work. He purposely avoided any social contact with individuals known, or even suspected, to have ties to organized crime including certain politicians and even a few of his own superiors at SPD. If even a whiff of a rumor surfaced, Boldt mentally added the name to his list.
Professionally, he could not afford such luxury. Crimes Against Persons—CAPers—implicitly required fundamental knowledge of, and contact with, elements of organized crime, whether the Chinese Triad, the Russian Mafia, or any of a number of gangs that in recent years had begun to pick up the crumbs—the street level crimes— left behind by their larger counterparts: drugs, prostitution, auto theft and small-time gaming. While the Russian mob controlled the brothels, the gangs ran the street hookers; while the Chinese Triad imported the coke and heroin by the boatload, the gangs distributed them. Each group had cut out its own niche, and for the most part, left the other alone. Only at the street level, the gang level, was this not the case— where hotheaded loyalties and romantic notions gave way to the occasional street war leaving teenagers and twenty-five-year-olds dead in the streets.
To receive a request for a meeting with any person known to have association with such organizations could mean the kiss of death—an either/or offer that might include a threat to one’s family or, to one’s life, profession or aspirations. There were few police officers who could not be reached given the appropriate pressure point. Boldt knew that of all his possible vulnerabilities, his children presented the biggest target for such people. He would never accept money, nor improved station, but if the health and welfare of Miles and Sarah were brought into play, he knew he would be faced with one of two choices—strike back, or roll over. Each cop knew his own vulnerabilities; Boldt, whose daughter had once been threatened, guarded his carefully.
A cop’s home number was never given out, never published in the phone books. Some lied to neighbors about their profession both to protect their families and to avoid being called into petty disagreements. The game of dodging compromise, of avoiding corruption, was never-ending and required great vigilance on the part of any police officer, Boldt included. When the call came from Mama Lu, he briefly gave pause. It was the day he had feared most of his professional career.
LaMoia was the messenger. They had moved to the fifth floor’s coffee lounge. Boldt shut the doors and prepared himself a cup of tea.
‘‘So there’s this girl I went out with for a while name of Peggy Wan.’’
‘‘Woman,’’ Boldt corrected. ‘‘Let’s hope so anyway.’’
‘‘We hit if off pretty great. Not that it lasted.’’
‘‘Not that that’s news,’’ Boldt said.
‘‘But we stayed friends. Are you interested in this?’’ LaMoia asked.
‘‘If it’s going somewhere. If it’s the Further Adventures of . . . I can do without it this morning. Your trail is littered with Peggy Wans, John. For your sake I hope someone comes along who actually means something to you.’’
‘‘Just ’cause I’m altar-shy . . . Gosh, Sarge, I didn’t know you cared.’’
Boldt hesitated a moment too long to keep things on a joking level. ‘‘Yes,’’ he said, ‘‘I do care.’’
LaMoia stiffened while his smile softened and his eyes found a lint ball in the far corner of the room. His bottom lip twitched beneath
his mustache.
Boldt said, ‘‘So tell me about Peggy Wan.’’
LaMoia took a second longer to recover, to regain the boyish enthusiasm and cocky independence that were his trademarks. ‘‘So Peggy is evidently the niece of Mama Lu—although Asians throw around this aunt and uncle business a little too often, if you know what I mean. And so maybe
‘‘So Peggy’s name gets a line through it in Seattle’s most famous black book.’’
‘‘But evidently she does reciprocate the favor—’’
‘‘The legend lives on,’’ Boldt said.
‘‘—on account I hear from Peggy last night. She calls my crib, right? Which means she lifted my number off the home phone because I never gave it to her.’’
‘‘Bedside phone, no doubt.’’
‘‘And what does she want but to arrange a meet between you and her aunt?’’
‘‘Me?’’
‘‘That’s what I said to her.’’
‘‘Mama Lu?’’
‘‘Exactly.’’
‘‘Oh, shit,’’ the man cursed uncharacteristically. ‘‘Why me?’’ Boldt protested.
‘‘I can’t answer that. I imagine she can, and will.’’
‘‘You’re coming with me.’’
‘‘I wasn’t invited.’’
‘‘Doesn’t matter. Two of us in the room, it changes the approach.’’ Boldt reconsidered. ‘‘Only if you’re all right with it. No arm twisting here, John. I don’t want to put you into something . . . you know.’’
‘‘Yeah, I do know. But I’m cool with it. You want me to hang with you, I’ll hang.’’
‘‘We may both hang,’’ Boldt warned ominously.
Two sinewy, lithe men stood outside the Korean grocery smoking non-filters that smelled like burning tires. Two men going nowhere. They both wore nylon gym pants that whistled as they moved to follow LaMoia and Boldt through the store’s screen door. A seagull complained loudly, flying overhead, trapped by the buildings. The International District occupied a forty-block area south of the downtown core and just north of the industrial wastelands that gave way to Boeing Field. Of unremarkable architecture and few tax dollars, the District’s only color was its energetic people.
‘‘I’m LaMoia,’’ the sergeant said, turning to greet the welcoming committee. ‘‘This is Boldt. She’s expecting us.’’
The men’s faces were placid and unresponsive until one of them nodded, his neck so stiff that the gesture ended up more of a bow.
Boldt bowed back to the man.
LaMoia mumbled, ‘‘That’s only for the Japanese, Sarge. These two are Chinese.’’
The grocery smelled of ginger and hot oil. Its floor plan violated the fire code with not a spare inch of unused space: diapers and paper products kissing the century-old tin ceiling where a dust-encrusted paddle fan spun slowly, trailing broken lengths of spider web like bunting.
They were escorted through the impossibly cramped butcher department where a bone-thin grandmother wielded a Chinese knife like an axe into a side of beef. Wizened and otherwise frail looking, she had a smile that flooded them with kindness, and her eyes flirted.
‘‘I think she likes you,’’ LaMoia said as they climbed noisy wooden stairs through a dark hallway.
‘‘I hope she does,’’ Boldt replied, unprepared for what he saw next. Mama Lu was the size of Orson Welles. She wore a bright red housedress with gorgeous black hair braided down to her waist. Surrounded by piles of books and a single black rotary dial telephone, she occupied a wingback chair under the floral shade of a standing lamp that fit her more like a commercial hair dryer. Yellowing roller shades were pulled to block any sun, and a persistent air conditioner struggled in the one window that remained free of a covering, offering a limited view of Elliott Bay
