First Victim

delivering.

The bus pulled to yet another stop. Fremont Bridge—the same place she had turned around her last time out. She checked the printout and glanced up, her eyes stinging, her head ringing with defeat and grief. If only Melissa knew how much she cared, how much she loved her; if only she had taken the time to be with her, to involve her in her life—maybe even then things would be different, she would feel differently somehow, but she had not done these things. She deeply regretted it now.

Stevie had little time to think about such things. She looked up as Brian Coughlie climbed onto the bus.

He moved down the aisle deliberately, self-confident and strong, looking directly at her and never taking his eyes off her, and for an instant a spike of fear raced through her. Where the hell had he come from? What the hell did he want?

The seat next to her was vacant. She would have gladly had it occupied by the smelliest street person at that moment, although the determination in Coughlie’s eyes indicated nothing would stop him from taking that seat. The bus rolling, Coughlie sat down next to her and looked straight ahead.

‘‘I caught your act,’’ he said, still looking toward the front of the bus. ‘‘A Watchman,’’ he explained. ‘‘Nifty little gadget. I keep one with me everywhere I go now. Addicted to the news, I guess you could say.’’

‘‘What a coincidence,’’ Stevie said, ‘‘both of us on the same bus and all.’’

‘‘In your dreams,’’ he replied. ‘‘SPD dropped the ball when you took off from the station. Not my boys. No sir. Right there is the difference between local and federal, I’m telling you. Be glad we’re on your side.’’

‘‘You’ve been following me,’’ she said with disgust.

‘‘Hell, you’ve so many people watching your ass you might as well be leading a parade. You’re a regular majorette!’’ His arrogance disturbed her—a different man from the one previously seeking partnership.

The bus bounced. All the passengers’ heads rose and fell in unison. Stevie’s teeth chattered, but that had nothing to do with the bus’s jerky movements.

‘‘Tell me about that little stunt of yours.’’

‘‘Stunt?’’ Her legs shook she was so nervous.

‘‘Your idea or Boldt’s? This flu thing . . . It’s a simple enough question.’’ He waited for her, but she couldn’t find a defendable answer, couldn’t find her voice at all. ‘‘You reported this flu was spreading out at Fo-No—Fort Nolan. who gave you that? Who’s your source on that? Or did you make it up? Does the news simply make things up? This is my turf we’re talking about here.’’ His crimson face took on a greenish purple under the tube lights. ‘‘I’ll catch hell for this. You know that? Health inspectors. ACLU. You buried us with that piece.’’ He pursed his lips and edged forward on the seat. ‘‘This story is bullshit.’’

‘‘The CDC issued—’’

‘‘Oh, that’s bullshit! We’d have seen it before anyone else! Don’t you get it? It’s our detention facility we’re talking about. We’d have been the first notified. Our population would have been the first immunized. Did they use you?’’ he asked incredulously. ‘‘Or are you part of it?’’

They met eyes. His were bloodshot and half-blind with anger. She wanted off that bus. It stopped, but she didn’t look up. ‘‘Whatever it takes to save her,’’ she said.

‘‘It was Boldt’s idea,’’ Coughlie said.

‘‘I’m telling you: The CDC issued a health bulletin.’’

‘‘And I’m telling you, it’s not possible. They used you.’’ He looked around. ‘‘And what’s this about? You don’t mind me saying so, you and a city bus have got nothing in common. Is it the videos?’’

‘‘The police found a bus ticket,’’ she lied. ‘‘It was worth a gamble.’’

‘‘If they’d found a bus ticket, it would be them riding the bus, not you. What’s going on with you? Why are you lying to me?’’

‘‘Why are you having me followed? Protection? From what? From whom? Or do you want me to do your work for you? A federal agency keeping a reporter under surveillance—’’

‘‘A witness.’’

‘‘No, Brian. Not me. You want to deal with all this, or are you going to call off your people?’’

‘‘You’re making a mistake—a big mistake.’’

‘‘It’s mine to make,’’ she said.

‘‘Yes, it is,’’ he answered. His smile turned her stomach. ‘‘So have it your way. But remember: Some mistakes are costly.’’

The bus pulled to another stop. Coughlie stood and disembarked. He didn’t look back.

CHAPTER 59

woman detective from vice named Laura Stowle was dressed in nursing whites to play the role of clinic receptionist. LaMoia commented on how a tightly packed white uniform had irresistible effects upon him, and how, based on this rare opportunity to see Stowle’s darkly handsome face and ‘‘well-rounded personality’’ in such a tantalizing costume, he needed to ask her out.

Boldt told him to keep it in his pants.

The clinic had gone along with the substitution because the receptionist required no medical training and until a doctor or paramedic became involved in the process there was no legal expectation of privacy.

‘‘The only problem with Stowle in this assignment, Sarge, is that even with her hair pulled back, she’s a little too cute, a little too much like a soap opera star instead of the minimum wage ethnic receptionist we’ve all come to expect.’’

‘‘One of these days that mouth of yours is going to get you into more trouble than it can talk itself back out of,’’ Boldt warned.

‘‘This mouth of mine ought to be registered as a weapon, what it can do to a woman.’’

‘‘You’re not scoring any points, John. Go inside and take a chair. You want to stare at Stowle? Permission granted. At least I won’t have to listen to you.’’

LaMoia occupied the chair in the far corner for two hours, wondering why it was that waiting rooms offered only grossly outof-date magazines and wall clocks the size of pizzas. He was bothered by how young the people using the free clinic were, and how much of its traffic seemed involved, one way or another, with drugs and addiction. Only seven people had arrived as a result of Stevie McNeal’s broadcast.

Each of the seven times, Stowle had signaled all four of the undercover cops inside, and Boldt in the control van. The lavaliere microphone was hidden in her dark hair, its wire running down the back neck of her dress. Seven different people, all seeking the RH-340 flu shot—all health care workers or dockhands who had been on the scene of the container recovery.

The eighth time Laura Stowle signaled LaMoia it was for a tall Hispanic male wearing a dark sweatshirt with a hood. LaMoia buried his face into a six-week-old copy of People; the janitor with the bucket and mop kneeled down to work a piece of gum from the stone floor; a wiry-looking woman in hot pants and platform shoes pulled out her lipstick and used the mirror of her compact to get a good look at the door behind her; a woman in civilian clothes, typing at a station behind Stowle, took her fingers off the keyboard and took hold of her weapon, beneath the table.

The big man was told to wait. He took a seat two chairs away from LaMoia, who had the audacity to turn to the man and say, ‘‘How ya doing?’’

‘‘Feel like shit, man,’’ the other said, his nose running, his voice rough.

‘‘I hear that,’’ LaMoia said, returning to his magazine.

After five minutes the Hispanic male was handed a form to fill out. He looked at it with contempt. Standing in front of him, Stowle explained in a bored voice, ‘‘We need your name, place of employment, if any, and relevant phone numbers for notification of follow-up. They’re very important. If you need the Spanish form—’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ he grunted.