When the container was finally opened with a bolt cutter, a hush overcame the crowd as one by one, nine Chinese women—partially naked, bone thin and weak—were helped into waiting ambulances. Some on their feet, some on stretchers.
Three women came out in body bags.
Coughlie suggested Boldt give it a few days before attempting interviews. ‘‘I seen worse, Lieutenant. But I’ve also seen better, too.’’
‘‘Thing about our squad,’’ LaMoia informed Coughlie, ‘‘the victims don’t typically get up and walk away.’’
‘‘Three of them didn’t,’’ Boldt reminded somberly.
‘‘Whereas in mine,’’ Coughlie explained, ‘‘we’re not in the habit of sending them home in a pine box.’’
Stevie McNeal arrived by Yellow Cab and was met by two of the remote crew, one who handed her an umbrella and a wireless microphone, another who explained camera position. Stevie headed straight for the yellow police tape that she was prohibited to cross, and crossed it anyway.
‘‘Hey!’’ a black uniformed officer with a young, boyish face shouted from beneath his police cap, ‘‘You can’t —’’
Stevie stopped and faced the man, allowing him a moment to recognize her.
‘‘Oh,’’ he said.
She looked him in the eye, putting just enough juice behind her determined expression and said, ‘‘Who’s in charge?’’
‘‘LaMoia’s lead,’’ he answered obediently. ‘‘But the lieutenant’s here too.’’ He pointed out a group of silhouettes.
She stood facing LaMoia, Boldt and Coughlie. There weren’t enough ambulances on hand. A few of the illegals, wrapped in EMT blankets, were being offered water to drink. Between the Coast Guard and the police, there were uniformed officers everywhere.
LaMoia said, ‘‘This is a restricted area. Press has to stay on the other side of the tape.’’
‘‘The rumors are wild back there, Sergeant. Some say serial killer, some say illegals.’’
‘‘Illegals,’’ Coughlie answered. Stevie locked eyes with him. He wore an INS identification.
‘‘We’ll have a statement shortly,’’ Boldt interjected.
Stevie tried to determine who to play to. She asked the INS guy, ‘‘Is this yours or SPD’s?’’
Coughlie answered, ‘‘Believe it or not, we’re working in concert on this.’’
‘‘So who’s in charge of this love-in?’’
One of the body bags was carried past them by a team working for the King County Medical Examiner.
‘‘Not ready for prime time,’’ LaMoia quipped.
‘‘We’ll have a statement shortly,’’ Boldt repeated.
Stevie nodded, suddenly unable to speak.
CHAPTER 3
hey met in the International District on a clear and sunny Tuesday afternoon, the intense sunlight capturing all the surroundings in a golden luminescence. Stevie McNeal arrived early, unusual, if not unheard of for her, charged with excitement.
She dressed down for the meeting in blue jeans, a black cotton T-shirt and a new khaki safari overshirt she’d recently bought. Despite her American heritage, she still spoke with a faintly British accent, courtesy of her father’s overseas service.
House of Hong, a dim sum restaurant alongside an elevated stretch of I-5 south, occupied a plain cement block of a structure with a large red plastic sign on the roof for all to see. Its modest parking lot, the asphalt cracked and heaved, was surrounded by a wilted chain-link fence draped like bunting from rusting bent stanchions. The clatter inside was Mandarin, which was the language Stevie used to greet the maitre d’, who was clearly surprised by her perfect inflection. He led her toward a table where a Chinese woman sat with her back to the door.
Melissa was Chinese, twenty-six years old, with a simple, confined beauty, more radiance than pure looks. She wore a white man-tailored button-down shirt and blue jeans, her only jewelry a rubber watch that had extra buttons for lap times. She swam two miles every day at the YWCA, and she kept her hair unusually short so that it fit easily under her cap.
Stevie said, ‘‘You look good, Little Sister.’’
‘‘And you.’’
‘‘Thank you for coming on such short notice.’’
‘‘I love seeing you. You know that,’’ Melissa said. ‘‘A chance at a job as well? What could be better?’’
‘‘I just don’t trust men arranging secret meetings, even ones offering to sell important information.’’
‘‘If I’d been through what you’ve been through . . .’’ Melissa said.
A year earlier, Stevie had been stalked for over three months. When the private security firm the station hired finally caught the man, he turned out to have an arrest record for sexual assault, rape and kidnapping, though no convictions.
A waitress interrupted, offering fresh dim sum from a steaming bamboo container. Melissa politely declined. She removed a stenographer’s pad from her purse and placed it on the white linen tablecloth. Everything in its place: that was Melissa. ‘‘So?’’ she said.
Stevie explained, ‘‘He claims to have information tied to that container that came ashore. You like the stories with teeth. It’s not a documentary, but—’’
‘‘No, listen, I appreciate it. Freelancing, you take what you can get.’’
‘‘Not that I haven’t offered to get you a job with the station.’’
‘‘Not that you haven’t offered,’’ Melissa echoed. ‘‘When I earn a job at a station, then that’s different.’’ They’d been over this a dozen times. ‘‘We grew up in the same house. We spend our weekends together, our holidays.’’
‘‘Our vacations,’’ Stevie interrupted.
‘‘But if you used your celebrity to get me a job . . .’’
‘‘I understand perfectly well.’’
‘‘Even this,’’ Melissa said, indicating the restaurant, ‘‘makes me uncomfortable.’’
‘‘You’re perfect for this. You’re Chinese and you’re a freelancer. If this bozo has anything worthwhile, who better to pursue the story?’’ Stevie added, ‘‘Besides, what a great excuse to charge a lunch off to the station!’’
Melissa grinned and nodded. She sobered and said, ‘‘All that you’ve done for me. And don’t deny it! If I could repay one-tenth of these favors—’’
‘‘What good is anything if you don’t use it? These are my fifteen minutes of fame. When yours come—and they will come—I’m counting on you to let some of it rub off on me.’’
‘‘Not likely.’’
‘‘Don’t say that. Your production work is the best around. You’ll see. A story like this . . . if it proves to be good information . . . This could break you out, change everything.’’
‘‘I’m not holding my breath.’’
As the only Caucasian male in the restaurant, the man they were expecting stood out upon his arrival. Balding, overweight, with a drinker’s nose and cheeks and an apparent taste for ill-fitting discount sports jackets, he arrived carrying beads of perspiration beneath his unfashionably long sideburns and down his equally florid neck. He searched the restaurant, looking a little distraught until recognizing Stevie. She signaled him and he sat down, eyeing Melissa guardedly. He said to Stevie, ‘‘You look different than on TV.’’
‘‘Your phone call,’’ Stevie said. He was not a man with whom she wanted to lunch. She ordered an iced tea, wanting this meeting over as quickly as possible.
