‘‘You think you can duck this? You think anyone gives a rat’s ass about stepping in and standing up for you?’’ Boldt said.
The kid smirked.
Boldt dropped the bomb early so that Daphne could get to work on him. ‘‘We’re turning you over to the feds, my friend: transportation of illegals, three counts of murder—depraved indifference to life; two counts of rape; numerous RICO racketeering charges. This isn’t staying in state courts.’’
The kid’s face gave away his surprise. Perhaps Coughlie, or someone like him, had shielded the gang from prosecution in the past. With some money spread around to big-name attorneys or even under the table to the local judges, they ducked the heavy sentences and the hard time. That wasn’t going to happen this time; Boldt had taken great pains to ensure SPD kept this one for themselves.
‘‘After the federal trial, after you’ve been sentenced to who knows how many consecutive life terms,’’ Boldt continued, ‘‘then you’ll be remanded to state custody and tried well away from King County on the assault and attempted murder of a police officer.’’
Daphne cut in like a limber dancer tapping Boldt on the shoulder. ‘‘The latter of which carries the death penalty.’’
‘‘Lethal injection,’’ Boldt said, ‘‘although there’s a lot of talk about bringing back hanging.’’
The kid’s shiny black eyes tracked between them like a spectator at a tennis match. ‘‘No way you do this.’’
‘‘Yes, way,’’ Boldt replied. ‘‘You see that mirror? There’s a federal agent on the other side of it. Federal prosecutors are on their way over. This is political, you see? Nothing worse to get screwed up in than a political case. I’m telling you—nothing worse. Everybody’s got to look good, and the only way that happens is if someone pays the big price, and right now that someone is you, Mr. Tan.’’
‘‘What we’re offering,’’ Daphne interrupted, ‘‘is to work with you on this. You didn’t attack the lieutenant in that alley, you ran. That’s in your favor here.’’
‘‘I ran!’’ the kid pointed out to Boldt, who remained impassive.
Daphne said, ‘‘You did produce a knife and you did throw that knife, but maybe you were off balance to begin with, maybe that knife just kind of fell out of your hand on the way down. You see where I’m going?’’
He didn’t see much. While Mr. Tan listened to Daphne he concentrated on Boldt, well aware of where the trouble was coming from. ‘‘I dropped the knife,’’ he spurted out, a well-trained mynah bird. ‘‘Off balance.’’
She said, ‘‘Which may indeed explain a lot and, it’s conceivable, might help you present a defense, but it won’t touch the federal charges, and that’s really where your problems lie. You and Mr. Wong are our only two suspects at the moment. One of you was the leader, one the follower. Once we determine where that responsibility lies, then the breaking-and-entering, the trespassing charges will be filed along with the rest, all of which unfortunately suggest you intended to smuggle illegals into this country.’’
‘‘We just playing around with a crane, man!’’ he pleaded to Boldt.
Boldt manipulated the truth, as was permitted him by the courts. Police had this one shot at a suspect who waived his right to an attorney—the interrogation. After that it was lawyers, courts and plea bargains. Both Tan and Wong had seen the court-appointed attorney side of the justice system enough times to believe they stood a better chance controlling their own destiny with the cops. Boldt advised him, ‘‘We seized the ship out in the bay. The captain gave up the Delancy Avenue marina. That’s a gun aimed at your head, pal. You or Mr. Wong. We’re not sure who.’’
‘‘It’s him, man. It’s him!’’
‘‘What’s him?’’ Daphne said.
Those untrusting eyes tried again, searching the two for whom to try. ‘‘The container,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m the crane operator, but that’s all! I’m telling you, I don’t know shit about what’s inside.’’
Boldt felt a wave of relief at the man’s mention of the container. It connected a purpose to the operation of the crane. He needed the sweatshop’s location; he needed Coughlie’s involvement, but just the mention of that word opened doors previously shut.
‘‘What we need is cooperation,’’ Daphne said. ‘‘We need the particulars, Mr. Tan. If you’re just the crane operator, if you’re just a hired hand, then it’s Mr. Wong we need to talk to. Unfortunately, if you can’t help us out, you won’t be buying yourself much of a break. Does that make sense to you?’’
‘‘No, it don’t!’’
‘‘The way it works, the one with the most information for us gets the most breaks.’’
Boldt said, ‘‘We need to know where that container was headed once it landed.’’
‘‘And we need to know who’s been protecting you,’’ she said. Answering his expression she continued, ‘‘Oh, yes, we know all about it.’’
‘‘We have someone here with us tonight who is very interested in that—a federal agent.’’
‘‘Well, bring him on,’’ the suspect said. ‘‘Let’s talk turkey.’’ He leaned back and kicked his feet up onto the table in a bold and arrogant gesture. Boldt was about to reprimand him for the act when he noticed the bottom of the man’s boots.
Clinging to the rubber between heel and worn-down sole was a small but unmistakable clot of fish scales.
CHAPTER 69
tevie McNeal’s final chance to find Melissa literally spilled out of her purse as she wrestled for her cellphone in the helicopter’s tight confines and a city bus map fell out onto the clear plastic floor beneath her feet.
‘‘Wait a minute!’’ she’d instructed the pilot, retrieving the map. ‘‘Can you fly this route for me?’’
‘‘We’re low on fuel.’’
‘‘As much as we have time for then,’’ she said. ‘‘This area in particular.’’ She pointed out the area where Coughlie had climbed aboard, distracting her. ‘‘We’re looking for old canneries along here.’’
‘‘Salmon Bay? Once upon a time. Mostly restaurants and boathouses now.’’
‘‘Let’s take a look.’’
The helicopter veered north.
Turning to the technician, Stevie asked, ‘‘These binoculars? They can see heat?’’
‘‘You bet.’’
‘‘Body heat?’’
‘‘That’s the idea,’’ he answered.
‘‘Through a wall?’’
‘‘No way.’’
‘‘A window?’’
‘‘A warm room would mean warm glass, which would produce some degree of green instead of black—so, sure. But it depends.’’
‘‘But people crowded into a room,’’ she suggested, ‘‘big machinery, people sweating.’’
The kid answered, ‘‘We’d get some kind of read on that I suppose.
Listen, I’d rather have that camera that Seven has, but we may have toasted that thing. All we can do is try.’’
At the edge of Lake Union they slowed, passing Fremont Bridge and moving west along the ship canal and into Salmon Bay. Hundreds, if not thousands, of boats of every kind crowded marinas along this stretch. Some of the boats glowed faintly green through the binoculars, holding out hope for Stevie. She trained the lenses onto the roofs and darkened windows of the buildings that lined the south shore of the waterway. The technician used another set of binoculars to view the north shore.
