First Victim

‘‘So it was . . . professional?’’ she asked them both tentatively.

Gaynes looked to Boldt and then back to McNeal. ‘‘They . . . he? . . . knew what to do. Knew the building. Your location. The elevator pass. We’re assuming it wasn’t blind luck that got him up here, and it certainly was not a random act.’’

‘‘Was

not

,’’ Stevie clarified, needing to hear the words again.

‘‘They’d scouted the building,’’ Boldt stated. ‘‘That’s how it looks to us.’’

Stevie knew she should say something, but she couldn’t think what. She couldn’t think hardly at all. ‘‘So they meant to—’’

‘‘We don’t know what they had in mind,’’ Boldt corrected, intentionally interrupting and preventing the words from being spoken. Maybe he was superstitious about that.

‘‘Klein . . .’’

‘‘We don’t know that,’’ Gaynes echoed her lieutenant.

Boldt retreated to an earlier subject. ‘‘We’d just as soon get you out of here, Ms. McNeal. When you’re ready. When you’re up to it.’’

‘‘Are you going to show me photos?’’ she asked. ‘‘Maybe I can recognize the guy.’’

‘‘We can try that—later today, or Monday morning—if you like,’’ Boldt said, but it was clear he didn’t believe she’d make identification.

‘‘A hotel,’’ Stevie muttered.

‘‘When you’re up to it.’’

‘‘I hate this.’’

‘‘Yes,’’ Boldt agreed. ‘‘We’d like to work with you,’’ he added, reminding her of his earlier offer.

‘‘About the sergeant,’’ she said, nodding toward the bedroom’s open door. ‘‘How the hell did he respond so quickly?’’

‘‘We were lucky this time,’’ Boldt answered.

‘‘That doesn’t answer my question,’’ Stevie said. Boldt remained impassive. He wasn’t going to answer the question. ‘‘Was he following me?’’ she asked indignantly. ‘‘Do you have me under surveillance?’’

Boldt noticed the three gray boxes by her television set and was drawn to them. He said, ‘‘Are these the tapes?’’

‘‘Those are private property.’’

‘‘Who knew about these tapes? We did, yes. But who else? A producer, an editor?’’

‘‘No one!’’

Thinking aloud, he stated, ‘‘We’ve been assuming whoever broke in here was coming after you. But what if we’re mistaken? Or maybe it was supposed to be a two-for-one: look like a robbery gone bad. A VCR, some jewels, these tapes. You’re killed or injured in the process.’’

Stevie paled, hesitated a long time, looked directly at Boldt and finally offered, ‘‘I mentioned the tapes to Brian Coughlie. Both the VHS and the digital. I asked him for help with the digital tape. You should have allowed me to view that tape!’’

‘‘When was this?’’

‘‘Wednesday night. The meeting you knew about. Dinner. Cough-lie knew I had the VHS tapes up here. The first ones she shot. I as much as told him so.’’ She waited for some reaction from him. ‘‘You don’t think—?’’

‘‘I heard you,’’ he snapped.

The dull drone of city traffic filled the room, barely audible, competing with the gentle hush of the ventilation system. A ship’s horn far in the distance, followed by a police siren like a wounded cat. These sounds were as much a part of this city as its weather.

She objected, ‘‘But it doesn’t necessarily mean that Coughlie —’’

‘‘No, it doesn’t,’’ Boldt said, interrupting her. He looked around, closed the bedroom door firmly and said, ‘‘Okay. Now, let’s start all over.’’

MONDAY, AUGUST 31

14 DAYS MISSING

CHAPTER 48

he signed off the same way each day: ‘‘This is Stevie McNeal for William Cutler and all of the News Four at Five team. Have a good evening. Thanks for joining us. Stay safe.’’ By the end of any broadcast Studio A’s initial chill was tempered by the heat thrown from the dozens of overhead lights and the staggering assemblage of sophisticated electronics. The weather in the fake skyline behind the anchor desk never changed, nor did the time of day, suspending viewers in the rare Seattle sunset that sustained thirty miles visibility. The news repeated itself, the 3 Ds: death, disease, disaster. On that day the lead story concerned Klein’s death—her ‘‘questionable suicide,’’ as told by Stevie McNeal, who had witnessed the incident first-hand. Billy-Bob Cutler, with his upright, Eagle Scout look, covered a scandal at the convention center concerning catering overcharges.

Two weeks since she’d seen Melissa alive.

‘‘Clear!’’ the floor director called out sharply. ‘‘We’re black in five, four, three . . . We’re out. Thank you everyone!’’

Two weeks. In some ways it felt like yesterday; it felt like years.

Billy-Bob jumped up from his chair like a quarterback breaking from the huddle. He removed his audio gear and headed straight for the exit—for a beer with his public—pats on the back on his way out.

Stevie could have removed her mike herself, but in no hurry to go anywhere, she waited for the soundman. Two weeks. Where? Why? She hadn’t left the studio all day, in part out of a concern for security, in part because of the endless meetings. Management—hoping to protect their investment, no doubt—wanted two bodyguards assigned. Stevie wanted her independence, arguing that the break-in had been coincidental and was unrelated to Klein’s death and the events surrounding her investigation; arguments that fell on deaf ears. A compromise was struck: Because she had already moved to the Four Seasons under a different name, hotel security would be provided. The police had called off the hallway guard. The station would beef up its security, something already built into the business plan, so that while she was inside KSTV she and everyone in the facility would be well protected. She was free to come and go of her own choosing—they encouraged use of the Town Car—as long as she notified security of her movements; she would carry a small GPS transmitter in her purse to identify her location at all times. In the unlikely event anything should happen to her, they would, at the very least, have a way to track her down.

These negotiations complete, the broadcast over, an entire day exhausted, she briefly settled into her office, intent to be out of there as quickly as possible and to a much needed sleep. She reviewed e-mail and phone messages. Her world crumbling, she looked around and wondered how long all this could last, how long her thirty- seven-year-old face would hold, how long her public and the station would want her. It was a vicious business. Careers were canceled with overnight ratings. Another new face was always waiting. And whereas men would work broadcasts well into their fifties and sixties, women rarely stayed in front of the camera past forty.