First Victim

CHAPTER 3

hey 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.

Melissa was Chinese, twenty-six years old, with a simple, confined beauty, more radiance than pure looks. She wore a white man-tailored button-down shirt and blue jeans, her only jewelry a rubber watch that had extra buttons for lap times. She swam two miles every day at the YWCA, and she kept her hair unusually short so that it fit easily under her cap.

Stevie said, ‘‘You look good, Little Sister.’’

‘‘And you.’’

‘‘Thank you for coming on such short notice.’’

‘‘I love seeing you. You know that,’’ Melissa said. ‘‘A chance at a job as well? What could be better?’’

‘‘I just don’t trust men arranging secret meetings, even ones offering to sell important information.’’

‘‘If I’d been through what you’ve been through . . .’’ Melissa said.

A year earlier, Stevie had been stalked for over three months. When the private security firm the station hired finally caught the man, he turned out to have an arrest record for sexual assault, rape and kidnapping, though no convictions.

A waitress interrupted, offering fresh dim sum from a steaming bamboo container. Melissa politely declined. She removed a stenographer’s pad from her purse and placed it on the white linen tablecloth. Everything in its place: that was Melissa. ‘‘So?’’ she said.

Stevie explained, ‘‘He claims to have information tied to that container that came ashore. You like the stories with teeth. It’s not a documentary, but—’’

‘‘No, listen, I appreciate it. Freelancing, you take what you can get.’’

‘‘Not that I haven’t offered to get you a job with the station.’’

‘‘Not that you haven’t offered,’’ Melissa echoed. ‘‘When I earn a job at a station, then that’s different.’’ They’d been over this a dozen times. ‘‘We grew up in the same house. We spend our weekends together, our holidays.’’

‘‘Our vacations,’’ Stevie interrupted.

‘‘But if you used your celebrity to get me a job . . .’’

‘‘I understand perfectly well.’’

‘‘Even this,’’ Melissa said, indicating the restaurant, ‘‘makes me uncomfortable.’’

‘‘You’re perfect for this. You’re Chinese and you’re a freelancer. If this bozo has anything worthwhile, who better to pursue the story?’’ Stevie added, ‘‘Besides, what a great excuse to charge a lunch off to the station!’’

Melissa grinned and nodded. She sobered and said, ‘‘All that you’ve done for me. And don’t deny it! If I could repay one-tenth of these favors—’’

‘‘What good is anything if you don’t use it? These are my fifteen minutes of fame. When yours come—and they will come—I’m counting on you to let some of it rub off on me.’’

‘‘Not likely.’’

‘‘Don’t say that. Your production work is the best around. You’ll see. A story like this . . . if it proves to be good information . . . This could break you out, change everything.’’

‘‘I’m not holding my breath.’’

As the only Caucasian male in the restaurant, the man they were expecting stood out upon his arrival. Balding, overweight, with a drinker’s nose and cheeks and an apparent taste for ill-fitting discount sports jackets, he arrived carrying beads of perspiration beneath his unfashionably long sideburns and down his equally florid neck. He searched the restaurant, looking a little distraught until recognizing Stevie. She signaled him and he sat down, eyeing Melissa guardedly. He said to Stevie, ‘‘You look different than on TV.’’

‘‘Your phone call,’’ Stevie said. He was not a man with whom she wanted to lunch. She ordered an iced tea, wanting this meeting over as quickly as possible.

‘‘Your eyes? Your hair? I don’t know.’’ He mopped his face with the restaurant’s napkin and glanced around for a waiter. He ordered a Cape Cod, a vodka and cranberry, and also waved off the offer of food.

Melissa used her Chinese to request they be left alone, stopping the onslaught of dim sum.

‘‘I watch you every night. The news.’’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘‘I thought you were the one to make the offer to, you know?’’ Again, he glanced at Melissa.

‘‘She works with me,’’ Stevie clarified. ‘‘Let’s talk about this offer,’’ she said.

‘‘I’m a state auditor.’’

‘‘I thought it was King County,’’ she corrected.

‘‘State. I oversee inventories of a half dozen state agencies, everything from road cones to, I don’t know, fax machines.’’

‘‘How fascinating,’’ she said.

‘‘We’re with you,’’ Melissa said, salvaging Stevie’s breach.

‘‘This is a big story,’’ he said.

‘‘Then perhaps we should hear it,’’ Melissa encouraged.

He touched Stevie’s hand and she instinctively jerked hers away. ‘‘Maybe I called the wrong person,’’ he said.

‘‘Maybe you did,’’ Stevie agreed. ‘‘You touch me again and you’re having pepper spray for lunch.’’

He apologized. ‘‘I’ve never done anything like this: whistle-blowing to the press. It’s not something I’m comfortable with.’’

‘‘You count police cones,’’ Stevie said, recovering slightly from her malaise. ‘‘Are you comfortable with that?’’

‘‘What else do you count, Mr. . . .’’ Melissa asked, attempting to drag his name out of him.

He mopped his face again. His teeth were stained from smoking. ‘‘Do you know how movie houses keep track of the popcorn they sell?’’

‘‘Popcorn?’’ Stevie blurted out. ‘‘You’re passing me a hot tip about movie-house popcorn?’’

‘‘It’s not by how much they pop, because it only takes a few kernels to make a cup of popped popcorn, and it’s too random to estimate how many kernels go into each cup . . . and also because they end up throwing out the stuff they haven’t sold at the end of the night, or between shows.’’

‘‘Listen . . . Really . . .’’

‘‘They count the bags, the cups,’’ Melissa said.

‘‘Exactly! The owner, the manager, tracks the number of bags used. They inventory the bags—small, medium, large—and that’s how much cash the employees behind the counters are responsible for putting in the till. It’s that simple. Not enough cash, the employees make up the difference, so the employees watch those bags closely. Same with soda cups. Exact same method. The number of cups used in an evening determines cash flow.’’

‘‘Bags and cups,’’ Stevie repeated, somewhat curiously.

‘‘At the LSOs—the Licensing Service Offices—it’s the laminates. The number of plastic laminates that go through each department.

These days the laminates have some printing embedded in the plastic to help cops sniff out counterfeits: Washington State Department of Transportation, it reads. That laminate validates the driver’s license. It’s very important to—’’

‘‘Counterfeiters,’’ she supplied.

He glanced between the two women.

‘‘We’re listening,’’ Melissa said, beginning to jot down notes. She flashed a look to Stevie. Melissa’s eyes were hot black pinpricks of excitement. Stevie felt a rush of heat pulse through her.

He said, ‘‘One of my responsibilities is to inventory the LSO laminates. Discards are tracked as well, so the numbers have to work out.’’

‘‘Counterfeit driver’s licenses?’’ Stevie said. ‘‘These connect to the container how?’’

‘‘Ask yourself why the state would have me counting laminates. Why bother? They cost the state two-point-six cents per laminate. Even at a few hundred, we’re talking three or four dollars’ worth.’’

‘‘Three or four hundred,’’ Melissa repeated, writing it down.

‘‘You lost me,’’ Stevie said. ‘‘The state’s waste of your manpower?’’ she asked, a little more interested. ‘‘Is that the story you’re pitching?’’

‘‘It’s the IDs,’’ Melissa said.

‘‘What’s the street value of a fake ID?’’ Stevie asked.

‘‘Now you’re catching on!’’ the man said. ‘‘What value would you put on a counterfeit driver’s license, Miss McNeal?’’

‘‘It’s Ms.,’’ she corrected. ‘‘I don’t know . . . Depends if it’s kids trying to buy cigarettes or illegals trying to buy their freedom.’’

‘‘It certainly does,’’ the man agreed.

She reconsidered. ‘‘Two hundred?’’

‘‘Five hundred?’’ Melissa asked, when the sweating man only returned a grin to Stevie.

‘‘How about thirty-five hundred per license.’’

Stevie spit some ice back into her tea. ‘‘What?’’

‘‘Legal residence is the first step toward a work permit. A work permit is the first step toward a green card. The green card leads to—’’

‘‘Citizenship.’’

He grinned. ‘‘It’s a big story. See?’’ He said, ‘‘I have a name.’’

‘‘How much?’’ Stevie asked.

‘‘Five thousand,’’ he replied without hesitation.

Stevie coughed out a laugh. ‘‘This isn’t Nightbeat. We’re not Hard Copy.’’ She returned, ‘‘Five hundred.’’

‘‘Maybe I should call Nightbeat.’’

‘‘It’s a long distance call,’’ Stevie said.

She won a laugh from him. ‘‘It’s the hair, isn’t it? You wear it different on the show.’’

‘‘It’s not a show,’’ Stevie replied. She felt cold all of a sudden. She didn’t like the business of fans. ‘‘It’s a broadcast. It’s news.’’

The man took a moment to consider the offer. ‘‘A thousand,’’ he countered.

‘‘Five hundred up front. Five hundred more if the piece runs.’’

‘‘You think I’m giving you my name? Some way to find me?’’

Melissa said, ‘‘You’ve told us you are a state auditor. You think we can’t find you?’’

‘‘The condition of my cooperation is that you leave that alone . . . leave me alone. Leave me out of it.’’ He added, ‘‘I happen to like my job.’’

Stevie repeated, ‘‘Five hundred if our producer goes along with it. Melissa here will bring you the money. You’ll provide her the name of the LSO employee with the bad laminate count. If we run the piece, you get a second five hundred. You want to call us and set up the meetings, that’s fine. Give me two hours to run it by my producer.’’

‘‘I’d rather deal with you,’’ he objected. ‘‘No offense,’’ he said to Melissa.

‘‘It’s Melissa’s story, not mine. I’m an anchorwoman, not a reporter. You let us do our jobs. You do yours.’’

‘‘You were the reporter did that container,’’ he reminded.

Melissa said, ‘‘We like our jobs, too. Let us do them.’’

He left the restaurant a few minutes later, trailing some bad cologne.

They ordered food once he was gone.

Melissa said, ‘‘You’re asking for five two-minute segments: a review of the container tragedy; this LSO expose´ if it proves out; and a piece on the detention center and what awaits illegals who’ve been detained.’’

‘‘Correct.’’

‘‘I have no problem with any of that, but if it leads to a bigger story—if I can connect these counterfeit driver’s licenses to legal illegals, if I can deliver the people behind it, I need to know you’ll stay with me, that no one’s going to push me out and steal it from me.’’

‘‘It won’t be me,’’ Stevie said. ‘‘That’s about all I can promise. As long as I’m a part of it, no one takes this from us.’’

‘‘Fair enough. And if it gets political?’’

‘‘I’ll run with this wherever it leads, wherever you take it, Little Sister. In the meantime, I keep the dialogue alive—the story alive—by interviewing anyone and everyone who’s a part of this: the INS, the cops, the detainees, whatever it takes.’’

‘‘And if Corwin doesn’t want it going that way?’’ Melissa asked.

‘‘What did we do when Su-Su didn’t want us doing something?’’ Stevie asked.

‘‘Appealed to your father,’’ Melissa answered.

‘‘If Corwin puts up road blocks, I’ll take it over his head to New York. I have plenty of contacts left.’’

‘‘You’d do that?’’

‘‘I’m agreeing to do that. For this story, yes.’’

‘‘This story, or for me?’’ Melissa asked.

‘‘The story.’’

‘‘Because I—’’

‘‘I know your principles,’’ Stevie reminded, interrupting. ‘‘This isn’t a handout. Honestly. If it proves to have legs, and you want to pursue it, I’ll stick by you. You want to go undercover, I’m with you— but only if it’s exposure, not entrapment. That’s all I’m saying.’’

‘‘Then we’ve got a deal,’’ Melissa suggested, having never discussed her pay. ‘‘You get the story. I get creative autonomy.’’

‘‘Yes,’’ Stevie agreed, ‘‘we have a deal.’’