as the slack was removed, and a pillar of slate gray exhaust rose from the crane’s rusted stack. The container’s sunken end lifted from the black water that spilled from every crack, and the cries grew sharper, splitting the air and running chills down Boldt’s spine. A cheer rang out from the workmen as the container cleared the water altogether, suspended and dangling as the crane moved it to dry land. Boldt was not among those cheering, his nose working overtime. He pulled out his notebook and marked the time. Dead body, he wrote alongside the numbers.
A man stepped through the police line, the officers clearing the way as he displayed his ID. Broad- shouldered, he exuded a confidence that advertised the sports he’d played in college, while the inexpensive suit clearly said ‘‘federal agent.’’ Brian Coughlie introduced himself as the INS investigator in charge. Shaking his hand was like taking hold of a stick.
Boldt didn’t know many agents from the Immigration and Naturalization Service and said so. He added, ‘‘Glad to have your help on this one.’’
‘‘What you’re going to find in there, once they get the doors open, is anywhere from fifteen to seventy illegals. More than likely, all of the adults are Asian women in their teens and twenties: better for the sweatshops and whorehouses, which is where they all would have ended up. These container shipments have been a thorn in our side for over a year now. Glad to finally have one with something inside.’’
‘‘Part of that something is dead,’’ said Boldt, who was a little put off by Coughlie’s arrogance. Boldt touched his own nose, answering Coughlie’s quizzical expression.
‘‘You think?’’ Coughlie asked. ‘‘These things arrive pretty damn ripe, I’ll tell you what.’’
‘‘Dead,’’ Boldt ventured. ‘‘And that makes the others in there witnesses.’’
‘‘You already jockeying for position, Lieutenant?’’ Coughlie asked calmly. ‘‘A reminder, lest you forget: These are illegal immigrants, so my boss is calling this ours. I pick ’em up and I deliver them to federal detention. You want to visit our house and have a chat with them, we got no problem with that. But your boss will have to clear it with my boss. Okay? Meantime, these visitors-the live ones, anyway-take a trip on federal tires, not the local variety.’’
‘‘And the dead ones?’’
‘‘Yours to keep,’’ Coughlie said. ‘‘That okay with you?’’
‘‘So long as you keep them apart from your general population. I don’t want them hearing stories, getting coached.’’
‘‘We’ll clean ’em up, shave ’em, and give ’em their own custom chain-link cage,’’ Coughlie agreed. ‘‘No problemo. Barracks K. Our detention facility is part of what used to be Fort Nolan. You know Fo-
No?’’
‘‘I know of it.’’
‘‘You golf?’’
‘‘No,’’ Boldt answered.
‘‘Too bad. They’ve got a great eighteen out there. Maintained courtesy of the taxpayer. You and me-we’d a been smarter to be military. Can’t beat that retirement package.’’
LaMoia approached at a run. Boldt made the introductions. LaMoia shook hands with Coughlie but on his face was the expression of someone who’d picked up a sticky bottle of honey by mistake.
‘‘We’ve got the turf problems all worked out,’’ Boldt said, easing LaMoia’s concerns.
‘‘Somebody’s dead,’’ LaMoia remarked.
‘‘Ahead of you on that,’’ Boldt said.
LaMoia reached into his coat pocket and brought out a pair of plastic gloves and a tube of Vicks VaporRub.
Boldt accepted the tube after LaMoia had smeared a line under his nose. He passed it to Coughlie, who did the same. Some things a person couldn’t live without.
When the container was finally opened with a bolt cutter, a hush overcame the crowd as one by one, nine Chinese women-partially naked, bone thin and weak-were helped into waiting ambulances. Some on their feet, some on stretchers.
Three women came out in body bags.
Coughlie suggested Boldt give it a few days before attempting interviews. ‘‘I seen worse, Lieutenant. But I’ve also seen better, too.’’
‘‘Thing about our squad,’’ LaMoia informed Coughlie, ‘‘the victims don’t typically get up and walk away.’’
‘‘Three of them didn’t,’’ Boldt reminded somberly.
‘‘Whereas in mine,’’ Coughlie explained, ‘‘we’re not in the habit of sending them home in a pine box.’’
Stevie McNeal arrived by Yellow Cab and was met by two of the remote crew, one who handed her an umbrella and a wireless microphone, another who explained camera position. Stevie headed straight for the yellow police tape that she was prohibited to cross, and crossed it anyway.
‘‘Hey!’’ a black uniformed officer with a young, boyish face shouted from beneath his police cap, ‘‘You can’t-’’
Stevie stopped and faced the man, allowing him a moment to recognize her.
‘‘Oh,’’ he said.
She looked him in the eye, putting just enough juice behind her determined expression and said, ‘‘Who’s in charge?’’
‘‘LaMoia’s lead,’’ he answered obediently. ‘‘But the lieutenant’s here too.’’ He pointed out a group of silhouettes.
She stood facing LaMoia, Boldt and Coughlie. There weren’t enough ambulances on hand. A few of the illegals, wrapped in EMT blankets, were being offered water to drink. Between the Coast Guard and the police, there were uniformed officers everywhere.
LaMoia said, ‘‘This is a restricted area. Press has to stay on the other side of the tape.’’
‘‘The rumors are wild back there, Sergeant. Some say serial killer, some say illegals.’’
‘‘Illegals,’’ Coughlie answered. Stevie locked eyes with him. He wore an INS identification.
‘‘We’ll have a statement shortly,’’ Boldt interjected.
Stevie tried to determine who to play to. She asked the INS guy, ‘‘Is this yours or SPD’s?’’
Coughlie answered, ‘‘Believe it or not, we’re working in concert on this.’’
‘‘So who’s in charge of this love-in?’’
One of the body bags was carried past them by a team working for the King County Medical Examiner.
‘‘Not ready for prime time,’’ LaMoia quipped.
‘‘We’ll have a statement shortly,’’ Boldt repeated.
Stevie nodded, suddenly unable to speak.
CHAPTER 3
They met in the International District on a clear and sunny Tuesday afternoon, the intense sunlight capturing all the surroundings in a golden luminescence. Stevie McNeal arrived early, unusual, if not unheard of for her, charged with excitement.
She dressed down for the meeting in blue jeans, a black cotton T-shirt and a new khaki safari overshirt she’d recently bought. Despite her American heritage, she still spoke with a faintly British accent, courtesy of her father’s overseas service.
House of Hong, a dim sum restaurant alongside an elevated stretch of I-5 south, occupied a plain cement block of a structure with a large red plastic sign on the roof for all to see. Its modest parking lot, the asphalt cracked and heaved, was surrounded by a wilted chain-link fence draped like bunting from rusting bent stanchions. The clatter inside was Mandarin, which was the language Stevie used to greet the maitre d’, who was clearly surprised by her perfect inflection. He led her toward a table where a Chinese woman sat with her back to the door.
