scene.
Boldt arrived ahead of the chuck wagon—the medical examiner’s emerald green panel van that transported cadavers—and refilled his plastic tea mug before venturing out to join the two uniformed patrol officers who had responded to the original call and who had correctly established a crime scene perimeter in an effort to protect the scene. The sky was brighter now. The wharf area where the body had been found was within easy walking distance of a half dozen bars and rooms for rent by the hour. It was a decrepit stretch of sea-rotted piers, their tops stained white by seagulls, the air pungent with seaweed, engine oil and the exhaust of a patrol car left running to power headlights aimed onto the ugliness of the captain’s soggy body stretched out on the cracked and weathered blacktop.
The patrolman pointed, ‘‘This big guy over here seen the body on his way to his boat. Says he was floating face down right about here,’’ he said, walking over and indicating a space between pier and hull. ‘‘Side of his head all thumped in like that, looks like maybe he slipped. There’s some blood smeared back here.’’
Sure enough, a foot-long streak of something dark brown was adhered to the hull of a wooden fishing boat. ‘‘Could be,’’ Boldt agreed, not eager to rule the death an accident, nor to accept its timing as coincidental. If the captain had talked, if he’d cut a deal with either Boldt or Coughlie, if he’d tried to scapegoat the responsibility for the container and the deaths of the illegals, then any number of people might have wanted him dead. Boldt wondered if his own candor during the shipboard interviews had gotten the captain killed. ‘‘There’s a Polaroid in my trunk. Make yourself useful and take a couple pictures,’’ Boldt said to the patrolman. He handed him the car keys. ‘‘Canvass the neighborhood. See what we can come up with in terms of witnesses.’’
‘‘People around here talk?’’ the young officer questioned sarcastically.
Frustration winning out, Boldt said, ‘‘Just do the job.’’ The point wasn’t so much the dead body, the loss of a possible witness, it was the decision behind the death, the swiftness with which someone had acted, and Boldt’s realization that these people were a step ahead of him, knew his intentions. Outside of his own squad and the INS, only Mama Lu had been told of his intentions to interrogate the ship captain, although whoever had hired the man to transport the container would have foreseen the inevitability of his being questioned and might have acted not only to prevent it, but to send a signal to future ship captains to keep their mouths shut.
LaMoia’s earlier mention of Tidwell, the detective who had retired on disability after investigating an illegals case, rang in Boldt’s ears. These people played tough. He had only to look down at the captain’s puffy face for a reminder. He thought of Sarah and Miles and Liz. Maybe this case wasn’t worth the risk. Maybe that was the other purpose of this kill. Maybehewas supposed to seehis ownface lying thereonthe dock.
Forensic sciences—the responsibility of Bernie Lofgrin’s Scientific Identification Division (SID)—had made so many advancements over the past twenty years that crime scene procedure had been reinvented to accommodate the painstakingly exact collection of evidence, including photography and videography, as well as the careful preservation of the physical environment on and around the cadaver. When coupled with careful documentation, thoroughly working a homicide crime scene could, and in this case did, easily consume two to three hours.
At the start of the third hour, Boldt was notified that the entire crew of the
By seven o’clock, the local TV stations had cameras and crews on location, joining a half dozen other reporters, along with the morbidly curious that peopled any homicide crime scene. A zoo scene. A public spectacle. A political nightmare if reporters made the connection to the container and took the spin that police had lost control to organized crime. Boldt would be hearing about this one for days.
As if reading his thoughts, a voice said from behind, ‘‘I don’t know about you, but for us, this is going to be a public relations nightmare.’’
Boldt turned and shook hands with Brian Coughlie.
‘‘Once he’s connected to the
‘‘I heard,’’ Coughlie said, letting Boldt know he had some impressive contacts. LaMoia had grabbed the crew in near secrecy. ‘‘It’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about; we’ve got the interpreters—I thought we might share that work. We could handle it for you, if you’d rather.’’
‘‘We’re okay,’’ Boldt said, refusing both offers.
‘‘Could be my fault,’’ Coughlie said, allowing the comment to hang in the air. ‘‘I put the word out on him like you asked. Maybe that was the wrong call.’’
The guy delivered it as if he’d rehearsed it, which bothered Boldt. The truth was: Coughlie bothered Boldt; the feds always had hidden agendas.
Looking down at the black body bag, Coughlie said, ‘‘Maybe he had a name to give us.’’
‘‘Mama Lu?’’
‘‘Five years ago, maybe. Now? I don’t think so, no. Not that she doesn’t have serious pull. Of course she does. But control? Doubtful. We watched her closely for two, maybe three years. Your guys, too— OC.’’ He meant Organized Crime. ‘‘Phone taps, audits, undercover work. We ate shit on that one. Tried twice with a grand jury; failed both times. We still look in that direction every now and again, but not very hard. She has made some serious friends downtown.’’
‘‘I like her for this.’’
‘‘Be careful.’’
‘‘That’s what they say,’’ Boldt said.
‘‘Do me a favor. After you’ve worked the crew, let me have a shot at them. Maybe we get lucky.’’
It was a compromise Boldt could live with.
The two men shook hands.
Coughlie avoided the press as he left, deftly ducking under the police tape and running quickly to his car, driving off as reporters chased him.
Boldt used the distraction to order the body bag into the chuck wagon. If the captain’s death sent any message, it was a simple one— people involved with this one were going to die.
He hoped like hell he wasn’t on the list himself.
CHAPTER 16
little more than twenty-four hours after reporting Melissa missing, Stevie, her guilt and fear levels increasing exponentially, took matters into her own hands, deciding to return to Melissa’s and search more carefully.
Pioneer Square on a Friday night teemed with a mixture of the college crowd, tourists, indigents and police. A person could buy anything from a microbrewery beer to a Persian rug. Stevie drove her 325i a dozen blocks and left it in a parking garage. During the short walk to the square, she allowed herself to wonder why Melissa had chosen such a noisy, crowded, touristy location in which to live. They were so different from one another, and yet so close. For Stevie, any stroll down the street meant the likelihood of contact with her viewing public—autograph-seeking strangers who would see her and want to meet her. She hated that part of her job.
In hopes of avoiding recognition, she dressed down in jeans and T-shirt and wore no make-up. She walked with her head down, threading her way through the crush of people, making her way to Melissa’s apartment.
She climbed the steps, rang the buzzer and let herself in. She trudged up flights of stairs, unlocked the door and stepped inside the apartment. The door locked behind her, the only sounds the dull beat of a nearby rock club. She took her time feeding the fish. ‘‘Anyone here?’’ she called out, hopelessly. Again, the lived-in feel of the apartment got to her. The bedroom might have been left that morning the way it looked—clothes tossed around. That toothbrush standing sentry in the water glass still hurt her the most, and it struck her how odd it was that
