First Victim

‘‘You see child?’’ she asked, pointing out a small girl no older than two. ‘‘Her mother give birth this child, yes? In China—one child only. If boy, he grow up, keep family home, take care parents. Girl moves away with husband. Girl child no good. Many daughters born, but left in street, never seen again. Yes?’’

Boldt could think only of Sarah and Miles. Why had she mentioned them? How had she known?

‘‘Many daughter sent to cousins in America. Here, Seattle. Yes? Mother pay much money for this. Mother come later, in bottom of ship. In container. Yes? American government say she not political refugee, has no right live in America. You, Mr. Both? You refuse her chance to be with own daughter? She work hard many years, no papers. Earn much money. Find green card. Citizen now.’’ She added with a faint smile, ‘‘This America. Everything for sale.’’

Boldt held his tongue, still thinking about Sarah and the idea of daughters abandoned at birth, or shipped away to a distant land. He felt cold. Sick to his stomach.

‘‘We don’t know her name,’’ he finally said. ‘‘The woman we found in the grave. Raped, starved. No name. She won’t be buying her freedom. She won’t be buying anything.’’ He tried once again to get his point across. ‘‘There are people who say there’s no way a sweatshop can operate in this city without your knowledge.’’

She craned forward ominously. ‘‘You believe such things?’’

‘‘A woman is missing. I must find her. I must stop these people who treat these women this way. It’s going to stop, Great Lady, with or without you. I would be most grateful for any guidance you could give me in where to look for this sweatshop. Believe me, no one need ever know my source for such information.’’

‘‘Leave this alone, Mr. Both,’’ she said. ‘‘This dangerous, everyone involved. Yourself too. You help me very much coming here, tell me these things.’’

‘‘I didn’t come here to help you. I came here to ask you to help me.’’

She pointed to the door. ‘‘Of course I help you. No problem. But you must listen, yes? This woman who make the news on the TV, she make wrong people mad. Your name too get mentioned. You make her listen—no make so much trouble. Bad for everyone.’’ She warned ominously, ‘‘You watch for shadows, Mr. Both—shadows not cast by you. Wrong people make mad.’’

Boldt felt his throat go dry as he restated, ‘‘Our evidence is growing. We will find the people responsible. We will put them out of business.’’ He caught himself reducing his sentences to clipped English, pandering to her in ways he did with few others. For all he knew she spoke fluent English. ‘‘They, and anyone associated with them, are going to prison.’’

She said, ‘‘Go home your children, your wife, Mr. Both.’’

‘‘It doesn’t work like that,’’ Boldt objected. ‘‘Lady Justice may be blind, Great Lady. The police are not. We are the law, no one else. Not you, not anyone else.’’

‘‘We both idealists. Yes?’’ When she grinned her dentures showed, as perfect as a picket fence. Those teeth didn’t belong in such a face. They robbed her of character. ‘‘Too bad for both of us.’’

CHAPTER 36

oldt waited ten minutes outside the offices of Boeing’s vice president of human resources, alone with his battered briefcase, his ten-year-old suit and a stomach churning with raw nerves. He was always in the role of the one doing the questioning, never the object of it. The idea of some corporate executive, with a title so long that it couldn’t possibly fit on a business card, quizzing him about his life, his family, his dreams, struck him as deeply disturbing. How did he explain that he didn’t want the job, only that he needed the added income? How did he explain that if Sheila Hill confined him to a desk, he’d just as soon the desk be across town for twice the pay? That sitting at that desk while others were at the game was a cruel form of torture? How did he tell another human being that in a way not morbid at all, he lived for the fieldwork, the dead bodies, if only because they kept his mind alive, his imagination active, and his raison d’etre intact?

The thick glass of the coffee table was littered with aviation and golf magazines. Across the fairly antiseptic reception room, a matronly secretary stayed busy at her phone and computer, though she didn’t appear too absorbed by the work, finding enough time to repeatedly sneak glimpses of Boldt and his nervous demeanor. He brushed the shoulders of the dark suit clean, inspected the hang of his tie. His hand darted into his crotch quickly to ensure his fly was up; the secretary caught that movement and taking it for a signal, lifted her head slightly, peered above a set of half glasses and said, ‘‘Shouldn’t be much longer.’’

Melissa Chow hadn’t been seen in ten days. This was the only clock running in his head.

‘‘No, it shouldn’t,’’ Boldt agreed, forcing a moment of paralysis onto her otherwise expressionless face.

He checked his watch. Instead of seeing the minute or hour hand again, he saw the date. Ten days. The rule book would say she was dead. Boldt had the video—he believed otherwise. With the sweatshop now a matter of record, he had evidence to follow. He glanced at the aviation magazines, his head reeling.

LaMoia, who continued to keep McNeal under surveillance despite the risks, would keep Gaynes on researching polarfleece imports and manufacture; others would canvas discount houses, retail outlets, and street vendors, supplying Lofgrin and the lab with samples of every blue polarfleece garment available in King County. They needed a list of every vacant structure in the county, from canneries to former schools to airplane hangars. They needed that sweatshop. The work seemed endless. Suddenly the idea of babysitting a Fortune 500 corporation and spying on its employees lost its shine. Even sitting there waiting for the vice president of human resources to get off the phone seemed a futile act.

He glanced up at a black-and-white photo on the wall and saw three grave mounds, only to realize it was in fact the gray curving roofs of airplane hangars, not freshly dug graves. But the image served to remind him of the digital tape and Melissa’s mention of ‘‘the graveyard.’’ Were there other women buried at Hilltop Cemetery? Had they missed that?

He grabbed the phone and dialed his own pager number. Ten seconds after he hung up, the pager sounded loudly. Glancing at it, he stood and took hold of his old ratty briefcase. ‘‘Something’s come up,’’ he informed the secretary. ‘‘I’ve got to get back to the office.’’

‘‘He’ll be done with the call any minute,’’ she pleaded. Boldt sensed it was her job to hold him, her problem to fix.

‘‘It’s urgent.’’

The woman nodded, seemingly relieved. Official police business would let her off the hook. ‘‘May I reschedule?’’

‘‘I’ll call.’’

‘‘We can do it now. I’ve got his Day-Timer right here.’’ She flipped some pages.

‘‘Mine’s back at the office,’’ he said.

‘‘He’ll be terribly disappointed to have missed you.’’ She glanced toward the phone, clearly hoping to see the phone’s line light extinguished. She resolved to stall him. No one would walk out on conversation. ‘‘There’s a good buzz about you.’’

‘‘A buzz?’’ he said. ‘‘I’m glad.’’ He cringed. He didn’t want to be the topic of buzzing.

Her index finger with its half-inch plastic nail roamed the man’s schedule. ‘‘How’s your golf game?’’

Boldt returned a puzzled look and glanced down at the coffee table magazines. He had tried the game in another life, back when Liz had been whole and the kids only an idea discussed at the end of lovemaking.

‘‘They need a fourth on Friday,’’ she said. Keeping her voice low she informed him, ‘‘All the big deals are done out there. I imagine you’ll be seeing quite a bit of the golf course.’’

‘‘A bit rusty,’’ he said. The closest he had come in recent years was mini-golf with Miles.

‘‘I can pencil you in.’’

‘‘I don’t think so, no. I really had better check my schedule.’’ He broke with etiquette and headed for the doors.

‘‘You’ll call?’’ she fired off somewhat desperately.