First Victim

‘‘What happened to Melissa?’’

‘‘I changed the whole operation,’’ he told her, avoiding an answer. ‘‘When I came in there was no way out for these women! No one ever intended to give them their freedom. They paid for a new freedom; what they got was slavery. It was me who got Klein involved, me who pointed out there was just as much profit in selling them a driver’s license as there was reselling them into prostitution!’’ He was red in the face and practically coming out of his chair.

‘‘Pointed out to whom?’’ she asked angrily. ‘‘I thought you hadn’t made the connection to the higher- ups?’’

Coughlie cocked his head at her like a puzzled dog.

‘‘You know what I think, Brian? I think you’ve made it all up. I don’t know if you fooled yourself at first into thinking you were running an undercover operation, but I doubt it. I think that was your fallback plan all along—to come up with some cockamamie story about a one-man sting. I think you slipped. You saw an agency swallowed by bureaucracy and a tide of humanity that was never going to be checked. You saw all that money, and all that opportunity—all the corruption around you—and you—’’

‘‘I’ve documented everything,’’ he protested. ‘‘Every cent.’’

‘‘And it doesn’t mean a thing if it wasn’t okayed by Talmadge.’’

‘‘And if Talmadge is on the take? How could I risk that?’’

‘‘You’ve got it all figured, don’t you? Getting people killed, accepting bribes. You can justify it all.’’ She added, ‘‘Am I supposed to erase the video for you? Erase it and forget all about Melissa?’’

‘‘She infiltrated the operation. I didn’t even know about it until you confirmed it.’’

‘‘You’re going to blame me? You . . . bastard!’’ She dove at him. The chair went over and she clawed his face, drawing blood. Coughlie dumped her and smacked her across the jaw and jumped to his feet. He grabbed hold of the cable running into the TV monitor and followed it to the console and began tearing equipment off the shelves, frantically ejecting cassettes and tearing the tape from them. ‘‘Where is it?’’ he roared.

‘‘It doesn’t exist!’’ she hollered back him, freezing him.

He turned, wild-eyed.

‘‘There is no tape!’’ she said.

He drew his weapon. ‘‘I want it now.’’

Holding her hands out in front of her to ward him off, she sat up slowly and reached for the console. Her palm held down a square button. ‘‘Okay,’’ she said, her voice echoing through overhead loudspeakers. She pointed into the studio, a dazed Brian Coughlie still holding his weapon on her.

An exhausted Lou Boldt stood on the other side of that glass. First one, then a second uniformed officer stepped out from behind the huge black curtains that surrounded the studio’s walls. All held handguns trained on Coughlie.

She said, ‘‘The tape you saw on the ship? A blank. Boldt arranged to have it delivered. It was the psychologist’s idea—Matthews. She said your ego would allow you to believe you could convince me to destroy it.’’

‘‘I was undercover!’’ he shouted through the glass. ‘‘I can prove it!’’

‘‘Where’s Melissa? What have you done with her?’’

‘‘Drop your weapon!’’ Boldt’s muted voice shouted back.

Stevie tripped another button on the console. ‘‘I taped your visit, Brian. The whole confession. How’s that for irony? I’ll probably win that Emmy Melissa promised after all.’’ She stepped up to him. ‘‘Where the hell is she?’’

CHAPTER 78

n brothel by airport,’’ the woman’s deep voice said on the other end of Boldt’s receiver. He knew that woman’s voice, but he didn’t bother to identify it by name. She gave him the address and said, ‘‘She in room on second floor. She not in good shape, but she alive. Best I could do. So sorry.’’

Boldt took McNeal with him and a radio car as backup. The drive to the airport was typically about twenty minutes. They made it in twelve.

‘‘She just calls up and tells you this?’’ Stevie said.

‘‘That’s it.’’ Boldt caught himself grinding his teeth and let his jaw hang slack to try to relax.

‘‘No explanation?’’

‘‘She pressured them into keeping her alive. It’s the only thing that makes sense.’’

‘‘She has that kind of control?’’

‘‘And then some,’’ he answered.

‘‘And waits until Coughlie is indicted to tell us?’’

‘‘If he hadn’t been indicted, we’d have never gotten the call. She’s not an angel. She’s a politician. She’s buying herself a future break . . . and she’ll get it.’’

‘‘But Coughlie could have used Melissa to plea bargain. How stupid can you get?’’

Boldt said, ‘‘Depends on what’s left of her. How much Coughlie knows. A jury might not be too sympathetic.’’

‘‘Torture?’’

‘‘They wanted that tape badly. I imagine that’s what kept her alive until our friend stepped in.’’

‘‘These people are not human beings.’’

‘‘That’s the way

they

think. That’s where it all starts.’’

She nodded. ‘‘She’s alive,’’ she gasped.

They drove past neighborhoods where the houses all looked the same and the cars were the same. Big groups of sameness. He felt bothered and anxious.

‘‘Another example of the wonderful cooperation between media and law enforcement.’’

She laughed out loud. ‘‘You win!’’

‘‘No one wins,’’ he said. ‘‘Not ever.’’ He pulled the car to a stop, a patrol vehicle parking alongside of him. The sign said NUDE GIRLS. The two-story building was painted Cape Cod gray and had enough parking for a convention center. ‘‘Are you prepared for this—for what we might find?’’

‘‘No,’’ she admitted. ‘‘Are you?’’

‘‘Gloves?’’ Boldt said, handing her a pair.

‘‘I’m not wearing gloves,’’ Stevie replied, handing them back, hurrying from the car. ‘‘Come on!’’

Boldt produced the warrant, but the uniforms led the way inside. It smelled foul, a combination of air freshener and human hell.

‘‘She had a shaved head when she came in,’’ Boldt told the obese manager, a sweaty man who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, get up out of the worn red couch. He was drinking a dark cocktail on the rocks. He smoked a thin foul cigar with a white plastic tip.

McNeal took off up the stairs. Boldt indicated for a uniform to follow her. He turned and climbed the stairs himself, leaving another uniform by the door. ‘‘No one goes anywhere,’’ he told the kid. He remembered being that young—remembered the feel of the gun on his belt and the smell of the leather. He climbed the stairs heavily.

Stevie opened one door after another—bare buttocks, sweating flesh. A salesman’s suit carefully arranged on a chair. The smell of pot and booze and familiarity. The uniform lingered a little too long at each door. Stevie moved faster and faster. Nine doors. No Melissa.

Her movements became frantic. She felt tears in her eyes and tension in every limb. An ache so deep inside her—an ache only a woman understood. Another flight of stairs. She ran now, out of breath, nearly out of life. The