First Victim

on its roof, came the angry honking of a car horn. Stevie associated the honking with the van, though reminding herself there was no way to be sure of that.

Only as Klein—or whoever was wearing that hooded rain gear— emerged from the cement bunker, that taillight still glowing, only as that person marched through the rain and the camera followed to focus on a dilapidated construction trailer on the back half of the lot, did it occur to Stevie that Klein had driven to a car wash in the rain. Hadn’t Melissa mentioned something about a car wash? The figure approached the trailer and beat on the door relentlessly, finally raising her voice loud enough to be picked up by the camera inside the van.

Melissa whispered faintly, ‘‘That a girl . . . Come on home to Mama.’’

After battling the rain and the trailer’s door, the figure retreated back to the van and drove away, aiming toward and passing immediately in front of the van and the camera. Stevie stopped the tape and rewound it several times, reaching out for her glass of juice only to find she had drained it. She finally resorted to advancing the footage frame by frame: the approaching van, its windshield glinting a reflection of an overhead street light, a face behind the wheel, just barely glimpsed: Gwen Klein. She zeroed the footage counter—she wanted to be able to return to that image. Then she let the tape run.

Melissa had stayed with the trailer in an act of investigative journalism that confirmed her nose for a story. According to the video’s time stamp, twenty minutes passed before that trailer door came open. A large figure of a man, too dark to see clearly, ran through the rain. The camera panned down the block, passing darkened stores too obscured by the weather and the darkness to identify. And there in the corner of the frame appeared Melissa’s profile as she rushed to the window to peer outside and follow the man. Stevie gasped at the sight.

‘‘A bar,’’ Melissa said for the benefit of the camera. She passed in front of the lens, this time moving to the rear of the van, the camera still running. A moment later another break in the recording was signaled by gray fuzz and waving colorful squiggles.

A brief shot of that same man running through the rain, back to the trailer, the time stamp indicating a passage of five minutes. Another cut. The van was moving now, the camera aimed out the windshield. ‘‘He boarded a bus,’’ Melissa said for the benefit of her tape. The van swung a full U-turn, blurring the identifying lights and buildings and annoying Stevie as it bounced so violently as to be nothing but blurred and jerky imagery. Then she identified a city bus up ahead and realized moments later that Melissa was in pursuit. The chase led out and down a street still too jerky to recognize, past an I-5 on-ramp that Stevie felt certain she could find. The bus took a series of turns, made stops and continued on, the camera running tape all the while. Twenty minutes of this pursuit passed until the city’s downtown landmarks were easily identified. The bus traveled north on Third Avenue, the van immediately behind, Melissa jerking the vehicle to the curb at every stop in search of that same figure disembarking from the bus.

‘‘No . . .’’ she said, ‘‘I don’t see him.’’

The bus started back up. The van followed.

One block passed, then another. Stevie felt the tension in her chest and a bubble stuck in her throat, Melissa’s determination palpable even across the videotape. At last the bus veered and sank into the bus tunnel, with the van following until Melissa realized she could not enter. She swore aloud and the picture went dark.

This was the last image on the tape: that city bus dropping down into a tunnel reserved for buses only, and the camera falling as it briefly caught a shot of a frustrated Melissa behind the wheel. ‘‘Damn camera’s too big . . .’’ she mumbled to herself, her last words recorded on tape.

Her request for the digital camera made sense then—something light and portable, easily carried. That request had been met on Monday. Perhaps she had intended to follow this same man again. Perhaps she had even boarded a bus or entered the bus tunnel as a pedestrian.

Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . perhaps . . . Stevie caught herself tempted to toss the juice glass across the room, but placed it back down and poured a refill. As with any good lead, the tapes presented as many questions as they offered answers. She could look up the locations of car washes in the Yellow Pages and 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