The First Victim

CHAPTER 68

Whoever had designed the ventilation system for the interrogation rooms had either flunked engineering or had it in for detectives and suspects. The Box, as the largest of the rooms was referred to, smelled vaguely of tobacco smoke and strongly of the acrid, bitter body odor that accompanied panic and a person’s last vestiges of freedom. The room was small nonetheless, impressively bland, and home to a cigarette-scarred table bolted to the floor and, on that night, three black formed-fiberglass chairs, one occupied by the shackled suspect, the other two by Daphne Matthews and Boldt.

Boldt understood the time pressures. With police closing in, with the SS Hana in custody of the Coast Guard and under investigation by the INS, with gang members in lockup, the sweatshop would be shut down as soon as physically possible. Boldt had a call into Mama Lu; LaMoia had detectives attempting to make contact with the Asian food distribution warehouse owned by one of the Great Lady’s companies. But ultimately it came down to a bird in the hand: His best chance to locate the sweatshop remained with this one interrogation.

LaMoia had contacted Talmadge at home as ordered by Boldt. To everyone’s surprise and disappointment, it was Talmadge himself, not Coughlie, who had come down to Public Safety to view the interrogation. Talmadge looked pale and visibly shaken, though he said nothing to explain his condition. LaMoia stood with the man on the other side of the one-way glass watching Boldt and Matthews work their magic. But LaMoia wasn’t watching the interrogation; his eyes were on the shaky Adam Talmadge.

For Boldt and Matthews, teaming up on a suspect was like two singers joining in on a duet. They had done this enough times to communicate with only body language and voice inflection. As a psychologist, Matthews tended to humanize the event while Boldt used the existence of physical evidence to maintain pressure.

‘‘You’re in some kind of trouble,’’ Boldt said to the kid.

He was a Chinese youth in his late teens, early twenties, with a neck like a water buffalo and pinprick eyes. His teeth were bad and he’d been in too many fights: Angry scars beaded from the edge of his lips, the turn of his nose and the slant of his eyes. He attempted a game face but the shine on his upper lip and the tinge of scarlet below his ears gave away his anxiety.

Daphne said, ‘‘You’re alone in this room, and you’ll be alone in a jail cell, but we know you’re not alone in this.’’

‘‘I no do nothing, bitch.’’

Boldt shifted in his chair as if to smack the guy, a fine performance. Daphne reached out and blocked him. Good cop, bad cop- ‘‘sweet and sour,’’ as they called it. Boldt ran off a list of offenses including assault and attempted murder of a police officer, the last of which set the suspect to a vigorous blinking, a kind of tic that continued to manifest itself well into the interrogation.

Boldt said, ‘‘Your priors occupy two and a half pages. Your name appears on a roster compiled by our Gang Squad. You are in violation of your parole. Any judge gets one look at these charges and you’re gone for good.’’

‘‘So let’s just see about that,’’ the kid said. ‘‘You got the sheet, Butch,’’ he said to Boldt. ‘‘How much hard time I done?’’ He grinned, ‘‘Butch and Bitch. What a pair you are!’’

‘‘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.