First Victim

New Care Health Clinic across from Harborview Medical Center. Any persons having confirmed direct contact with anyone known to be carrying this virus are strongly encouraged to seek immunization and/or a series of specially created antibiotics at New Care between the hours of twelve and one P.M. and eight and ten P.M, daily, until further notice or the limited supply runs out. Health care officials stress the severity of the problem, the systemic nature of the contagion and the importance of this preventive treatment program. For further information, interested viewers can call this toll-free number twenty-four hours a day.

She read the 888 number that Boldt had provided her, a number that ran directly to the fifth floor of the Public Safety building and had both caller-ID and trap-and-trace functions enabled.

‘‘In other news . . .’’ She returned to the top of the prepared broadcast. As she read from her sheet the TelePrompTer scrolled backward and caught up with her. Corwin would have to edit during the first break and cut a story or shorten weather or sports to accommodate Stevie’s unexpected announcement. He would never drop an ad—the station had its priorities set.

An amazing sense of relief pulsed through her. Any effort to save Melissa was worth the price. Boldt’s trap was properly set. She had joined forces with the police and they with her, and she thought that if anything, this was a lesson for both sides. She wondered if she had a year to keep her anchor chair, or a week, or a day. Truthfully, she didn’t care. If Melissa came home because of this one sixty-second manipulation of the truth . . .

Then, in what she considered a moment of brilliance, as she finished reading the lead story and the camera bearing the red light switched to Billy-Bob Cutler, she stood from her anchor chair, stripped off the microphone and earpiece, distracting but not interrupting her co-anchor, and marched off the set. When she turned not toward her dressing room and the bathroom there but toward the studio exit, the floor director rushed away from the set and caught up.

‘‘Ms. McNeal?’’ she hissed, stopping Stevie and turning her. ‘‘Anything wrong?’’

Jimmy Corwin’s lean frame appeared through the door to the control booth and froze, understanding her intentions from the expression on her face. Surprisingly, he spoke calmly. ‘‘If this story is sound, then why not include it in the script?’’ Corwin was a newsman. Corwin knew before making a single phone call. ‘‘Who’s your contact on this?’’

Stevie met eyes with him. ‘‘Billy-Bob will have to take my remaining segments. He’ll do fine.’’

‘‘Mr. Cutler? The whole broadcast?’’ the floor director inquired.

Corwin said, ‘‘Tell me this story is going to check out. What the hell is going on here?’’

She liked Corwin. She hated to do this to him—to the station. She took a deep breath and said, ‘‘I have a bus to catch.’’

CHAPTER 57

need you. Pronto. She split the station early. I’m in trouble here.’’ Coughlie had paged Rodriguez to call him back, taking a huge risk by using his cellphone but seeing no way around it. The call had been returned nearly instantly. He heard the barroom noise in the background and knew that Rodriguez was in some happy hour haunt watching News Four at Five. They both had made a regular diet of it.

He followed the BMW toward downtown, wondering what she was up to. First the story about a flu vaccine, then the sudden departure. He knew how Rodriguez would react to that lead story. He had to involve the man in McNeal’s surveillance in order to keep him from going to that health clinic. Coming from her mouth as it had, the story had sounded plausible, even legitimate, but for a variety of reasons Coughlie was deeply suspicious: The INS would have been told if Fort Nolan’s population was at any kind of health risk. It was a glitch in her story that he couldn’t see past. Fearing some kind of trap, some kind of sting, he needed to keep Rodriguez clear of the clinic. The guy had been pretty damn sick for the last several weeks, had buried women who had died with similar symptoms and had repeatedly complained about his health. Coughlie feared that the man would take the bait. If Rodriguez had any love, it was for any kind of medication.

Rodriguez said, ‘‘Forget it. No can do. Got me an appointment.’’ The big man sniffled snot back into the back of his throat. It sounded grotesque.

‘‘This health clinic? Forget about it. It’s a trap.’’

‘‘I’m busy.’’

‘‘It’s a trap. The cops tricked her into this. Listen, I’m following her right at this very moment,’’ Coughlie said. ‘‘I need help with this.’’

‘‘Busy.’’

‘‘Listen to me—’’

Rodriguez interrupted, ‘‘Try me later.’’ The line clicked.

‘‘Hello?’’ Coughlie said into the receiver, astonished the man would hang up on him. A first. ‘‘Hey!’’ he shouted. He held out the cellphone and stared at it, placed it back to his ear and repeated, ‘‘Hey!’’ Nothing.

McNeal parked the BMW.

Coughlie pulled over, fearing he might have to follow her on foot.

McNeal approached a bus stop and stood there waiting. A bus stop? She had mentioned to him that one of Melissa’s surveillance videos had shown a bus. Rodriguez regularly used the bus to reach the sweatshop. Brian Coughlie went numb with the thought.

He tried the pager again. But this time, his cellphone never rang with the return call.

A city bus pulled to a stop. People shoved for position. Stevie McNeal climbed aboard.

CHAPTER 58

s Stevie sat across from the rear door of the city bus watching the landscape parade past, she reminded herself of the big man with the hooded sweatshirt, consulting a color printout—a freeze- frame— from the video. She tracked the exact second the bus arrived and departed each of its stops, looking for an elapsed time of twenty-two minutes and seventeen seconds as recorded on the digital video. Believing she was onto something, she wanted to test her theory before taking up SPD’s time with it. Adding to her excitement was the realization that she might have lost her tail—as unintentional as it was—by leaving the station through a back exit during a time she was anticipated to be on-air. She assumed, quite rightly, that if there was any time her guards ran for a bite to eat, or took a break, it was during the two-hour period that N4@5 typically occupied. As much as she appreciated the reassurance of their presence she preferred her independence, especially on the eve of what she believed was to be a major discovery. This way she could savor the moment of delivering news of her discovery to Boldt or LaMoia—or better yet, both at the same time. If she found the sweatshop, or even the general neighborhood where the man had left the bus route, she would be doing something positive to help Melissa, not just sitting back and being a target of these people. Playing the victim was not her idea of taking part.

Her eye constantly referenced the printout she held in her lap, the eerie dark image of the big man a blur at the bus door, but the stair-step pattern of the skyline seen through the bus windows distinct, if not distinctive. Looking outside again, she intentionally blurred her eyes to recapture the vague image on the printout. Still nothing; the background offered not a hint of the footage Melissa had shot. Melissa needed her and she was not