First Victim

such a small, insignificant item could convey so much. The pain in her weighed as a numbness now, a sleep- deprived aching, a longing to start all over, to win a second chance. There was no one to hear her appeal, just a ringing in her ears and a hollow emptiness in the center of her chest like a bad case of butterflies. She roamed the small apartment, feverish with anxiety, finally resorting to pulling open cabinets and peering behind furniture. It was this last effort that won her a reward. She saw it piled behind the couch, utilizing the wall plugs—some of the station’s electronic gear. It was the SVHS setup Melissa had used in the van, including two waist-belt battery packs. Stevie unplugged both packs and rummaged through the gear, discovering three videotapes, the first two marked ‘‘Klein,’’ the third, ‘‘car wash.’’ Just the sight of the handwriting stung Stevie with fear. At that moment she would have traded a dozen hot news stories for the chance to have Melissa back safely.

She glanced over at the bookshelf and saw a porcelain doll, its cheek cracked, its eyes staring directly at her. Her emotions overcame her.

The afternoon sunlight played off the walls and crown molding, blinding the man standing at attention in the oil painting that hung above the fireplace. The air in the room smelled of Father’s tobacco, while outside the sun struggled through dust and automobile exhaust, always the same dull wheat straw, never brilliant like Switzerland. The Chinese seemed surrounded by dust, consumed by it.

The precocious young girl with the ring curls tied off with red satin ribbon clutched her porcelain doll with determination, alone in the lavishly decorated sitting room awaiting introductions. Stephanie didn’t want this other girl living here. She wanted Su-Su and Father all to herself. Father had left the room only minutes before, accompanied by two of his deputies and an embassy aide, leaving the sweet smoke behind as a reminder. Father seemed always accompanied by someone.

She heard the front door open. Su-Su called her name from the hallway, but Stephanie did not answer. Let them find me, she thought.

‘‘Miss Stephanie?’’ came another appeal, as the door to the room opened. Su-Su stood about half the height of Father. She walked in short little steps and pursed her lips rather than smiled. She spoke softly with a thick Chinese accent. She could speak French as well, and read music. Stephanie had no idea what it was like to have a mother, but Su-Su was probably pretty close to the real thing. Father liked her, too. He touched her sometimes, lightly, quickly; it made her purse her lips and blush. Su-Su had a son of her own. This girl was said to be her niece, and in need of a home. Stephanie didn’t like the sound of that. She wasn’t big on sharing.

The large white door swung open in a lazy arc, and there at SuSu’s side, clutching her silken dress, was a tiny girl with jet black hair, bowl cut at her shoulders and bangs that hung to the sharp slashes of her eyebrows, bright red cheeks and wide eyes of wonder, as first she took in the splendid room, and then, a heartbeat later, Stephanie her-self—her satin bows, her dress and doll. Everything changed in that instant.

‘‘Miss Stephanie, allow me introduce to you my niece, Mi Chow. Your father say we will call her Melissa.’’ Su-Su spoke to the little girl in Chinese and Stephanie understood every word. Su-Su was a good teacher. She said, ‘‘This is Stephanie, your big sister.’’

The girl’s face lit up and filled the room with light.

‘‘Welcome, Little Sister,’’ Stephanie said in her best Mandarin. Both girls giggled in unison.

Stevie quickly collected the tapes and, eager to view them, hurried from the apartment and down into the chaos of Pioneer Square. She had no choice but to join the crowd, and it was only moments before she heard, ‘‘Hey, Tina! Look who it is!’’ Footsteps approached from behind and a man pulled roughly on her elbow. ‘‘Channel Four, right? We watch you every night!’’

Stopped at a corner, she glanced over some heads, willing the pedestrian signal to change. ‘‘Channel Four, right?’’ the balding man repeated. ‘‘Right,’’ she said, clutching the tapes tightly. Someone else was there, someone watching her. She could feel it.

The light changed.

Stevie fought her way quickly across the street—straight ahead.

She checked behind herself, paranoia working on her. Every face seemed as if it were looking directly at her. Panic rose inside her. She reminded herself that she had the tapes. Presumably they would tell her something.

The parking garage was two blocks away and closing. She picked up her pace.

With half a block to go she broke into a slow jog, again hearing footsteps behind her. The same fan? Someone else? She didn’t want the answer.

Her car was at a pre-pay parking lot, and the booth had closed at 10 P.M., thirty minutes earlier. The entrance was now chained, the exit guarded by a set of outbound springed tire spikes.

She entered the dimly lit garage at a near run, the tapes held firmly under her arm, her mouth bitter and dry, her heart racing. She wanted to be home, behind the safety of a doorman, two dead bolts and a security system. She wanted to be anywhere but in an unattended downtown parking garage.

The trailing footsteps followed her into the garage, and then suddenly went silent—or was it only her imagination?

She dared a single glance backward, and nearly gasped at the sight of a silhouette of a man moving quickly toward her.

A mugging? she wondered.

‘‘Wait!’’ The male voice echoed loudly off the cement walls. She reached her car and fumbled with the wireless remote, clicking the doors unlocked. She fished for the pepper spray she carried in her purse.

Behind her, shoes on cement like hands clapping.

She pulled the driver door open, tossed the tapes onto the passenger seat, and armed with the spray aimed outward, slipped into the front seat.

‘‘Ms. McNeal!’’ Closer now, suddenly more familiar. ‘‘It’s John LaMoia.’’

She looked up into the man’s sweating face.

‘‘I was watching the apartment,’’ he explained. ‘‘The disappearance is at the top of our list.’’

‘‘You scared me to death.’’

‘‘I didn’t want to shout your name in those crowds.’’ His eyes found the passenger seat and the three tapes in their plastic boxes. ‘‘I didn’t see you go into the apartment with those.’’

‘‘I have a key. I feed her fish.’’

‘‘The fish watch videos, do they?’’

Melissa’s tapes were hers and hers alone. She would view them first and pass them along, if pertinent. She felt the tapes burning a hole in the seat. She pulled the door shut, turned the key and lowered the window.

LaMoia spoke softly. ‘‘Listen, this is strictly off the record, but this illegals investigation is getting nasty.’’

‘‘The ship captain,’’ she said. ‘‘We got that right in spite of you.’’

‘‘It’d be safer for everyone if you gave me those videos—they’re hers, right? Melissa’s? You don’t want to fool around with these people.’’

‘‘You want the tapes, you’re going to run smack into the First Amendment. These are news tapes.’’

‘‘I had hoped to run smack into cooperation. Don’t we both want the same thing?’’ He added, ‘‘To find her?’’

‘‘Nice try.’’

He pleaded, ‘‘I need whatever’s on those tapes. Melissa needs me to see those tapes.’’

‘‘We’ll talk,’’ she said. She rolled up her window. LaMoia leaned to speak to her, but his words mumbled incoherently through the glass.

As she drove out of the garage, she reached over and touched the tapes. She picked them up and dropped them onto the backseat floor behind her. There wasn’t anywhere safe for those tapes. There wasn’t anywhere safe at all.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 22

5 DAYS MISSING