First Victim

A car door shut loudly, the dust swirling around Father, who suddenly stood alone among the curious peasants.

‘‘I will see Little Sister tonight?’’ Stephanie asked Su-Su in Chinese.

‘‘Youtake long trip,’’ she replied. ‘‘A long, long trip across the ocean.’’

‘‘And you?’’ Stephanie asked.

The woman, already in tears, broke down and hid her face. ‘‘My child . . .’’ she said, ‘‘my child.’’

Stevie thought of television cameras as the most powerful weapons in the world—they affected far more people than any bomb. It had taken her thirteen years to fully understand and take advantage of that power. She believed fervently that with just two minutes of the right air time, a person could change the world.

For her there were to be no more tedious interviews with INS directors, shipping company executives and politicians. Melissa’s early surveillance footage was both potent and incriminating. Coughlie had encouraged her to use the power at her disposal, and he was right. Klein had gone into hiding. Leads were running out. If she teased the police while calling on the public to help, she felt she could bring the police back to the bargaining table. She wanted that digital tape. She wanted Melissa back.

The floor director signaled her. The camera’s red light illuminated. She was live.

Good morning. Eleven days ago a reporter from this station,

Melissa Chow, went missing. This is a clip of her shot two

months ago that some of you may recall.

On the screen, Melissa stood high on a bluff, the Sound’s green waters in the background, her jet black hair tossed by the wind. A white passenger ferry slid into view as she said into the camera, ‘‘The state’s passenger ferry system has never carried more people more miles than it has over the past twelve months. But what of postponed maintenance schedules, hiring practices, rumors of embezzlement and drunken pilots . . . ?’’

The television screens across the state returned to a picture of Stevie at the anchor desk.

That is Melissa Chow. She is twenty-six years old. She is Chinese by birth. She speaks English with little or no accent. She stands five feet two inches and is approximately one hundred and five pounds. She is believed to have been investigating illegal immigrants at the time of her disappearance and is feared to be in grave danger. On the screen you are now seeing images she recorded prior to her disappearance. The first is of a licensing service office worker, Gwen Klein, who is presently wanted by police for questioning. This next shot is of an unknown male, in whom Melissa was clearly interested prior to her going missing. The dire circumstances of her disappearance speak for themselves. Police have few, if any, clues. Anyone having any information leading to her recovery will be rewarded ten thousand dollars cash by this station . . .

Jimmy Corwin jumped out of his chair on the other side of the soundproof glass and threw his arms in the air, waving frantically. He then pulled at what little hair he had left and mouthed a series of shouted orders at his team. Stevie hoped they weren’t cutting her off and going to ad.

Any such information will be treated confidentially by the police. Your coming forward will never be made public, not ever— whether an innocent observer who happened to see something, or one of the very people responsible for Melissa’s disappearance. We want her back.

You, the people of Washington State, are the finest anywhere. We at KSTV have lost one of our own. We appeal to you, our community, for information—any information—that may help us bring Melissa home safely. The number on your television screen is a toll-free number that connects you directly to the police. It can be called from any phone, anywhere, twenty-four hours a day.

Please

help us find our friend.

Thank you for your concern.

‘‘Clear!’’ the floor director shouted.

The hush that followed Stevie’s announcement was shattered by Corwin hollering over the intercom, his voice booming into the room.

‘‘Who the hell authorized that? That script wasn’t in the booth! McNeal, my office, this minute!’’

For the benefit of the microphone still clipped to her turtleneck, Stevie said calmly, ‘‘If the money’s a problem, Jimmy, don’t worry— I’m prepared to pay the reward myself. And if you want to talk to me, it will be in my office, but you’ll have to get in line. I have a hunch my phone is about to start ringing.’’

CHAPTER 39

oldt had just stepped out of the shower when he heard his pager’s annoying beep. The bedside phone rang nearly simultaneously, and Boldt knew immediately there was either a dead body or trouble. He felt leashed to these devices, no longer ever truly alone, the idea of public service taken to a level of absurdity that left him without a private moment—not even a few minutes in the shower.

Liz climbed out of bed naked, and Boldt winced to acknowledge that the body that had once sparked so much desire in him was now mostly a reminder of his wife’s battle with cancer. Her ribs showed. She answered the phone. ‘‘Hello? Yes it is, Captain. He’s in the shower.’’ She listened carefully before signing off by saying, ‘‘Yes, I’ll be sure to tell him.’’

‘‘I’m turning the TV on for you,’’ she announced. ‘‘That was Sheila Hill. You know I really resent having to call her by her rank. Why does it bother me so much that my husband reports to a woman with half his experience, half his brains and more than half again his paycheck? She wants you tuned in to Channel Four right away. You’re supposed to be interested.’’

Boldt entered the living room dripping wet with a towel wrapped around his waist. Ten minutes later he was creating his own lane and passing traffic behind the incessant strobe of the dash-mounted-bubble gum light while talking on the cellular.

‘‘We’re going to be flooded with calls,’’ Boldt warned LaMoia. ‘‘We burned her and she burned us back. She just sank us and the investigation.’’

‘‘Options?’’ a groggy LaMoia asked.

‘‘We move ahead of the tidal wave that’s certain to come. If we don’t, it’ll trap us and drown us. Call Coughlie over at INS. We want

a list of any and every possible sweatshop location in the city.’’ ‘‘That’s all I tell him?’’ ‘‘Tell him we’re going to start kicking some doors in, and that we

want—no, we need—his foot to lead the way. That ought to get a rise out of him.’’

CHAPTER 40

acant structures were a scourge to any city because they ended up crack houses, gang lairs and arson targets. It was their designation within this last category that made them of interest to the Seattle Fire Department. SFD tracked all structures vacant more than one calendar year. Boldt knew this from his involvement with an arson investigation two years earlier.

Within half an hour of his request, Boldt had on his desk a ten-page list of every known vacant structure in