The First Victim

CHAPTER 22

When INS Field Operations Director Brian Coughlie was announced by the building’s doorman, Stevie McNeal was wearing only a terrycloth robe, her hair wet and freshly combed out. She had dragged herself out of bed an hour later than usual, having kept the Klein home under surveillance until two in the morning. She studied Coughlie on the apartment’s small black-and-white security monitor: He stood talking to the doorman as if they were old friends. Just the way he carried himself bothered her-overly comfortable, chatty, casual; but with the underhandedness of a card shark. Coughlie was part actor. A large part, if she were the judge. His unannounced visit bothered her, bordered on invasion of privacy or some form of harassment-the feds muscling their way into the media’s business. Then it occurred to her that if she played this right, she might turn the tables and milk him for information.

To do so, she would have to play part actor herself-she would have to pretend not to be repulsed by him. She told the doorman that she would call down for him when she was ready, enjoying a renewed sense of control.

She slipped into a pair of jeans, pulled on a camisole top and a white T-shirt, making sure she wasn’t advertising herself. She didn’t want him getting any ideas.

A few minutes later Coughlie was standing in the middle of her substantial living room enjoying the view. She wondered how a public servant on a government paycheck felt surrounded by such opulence, how much envy and anger played for his emotions, how much of the long-established discord between the press and law enforcement stemmed not from ideology but paycheck envy. She could imagine his attitude: The container deaths and Melissa’s safe return meant little or nothing, another file to close.

What drove a person to sign up with the INS in the first place, she wondered. What kind of person volunteered to be a glorified border guard?

‘‘Nice view,’’ he said, as if expected to compliment.

‘‘The nature of your visit, Agent Coughlie?’’

‘‘Brian.’’ He fingered a carved piece of black stone a friend had brought back from Egypt. He held it upside down and admired its base. He offered her a small pamphlet that she accepted. ‘‘You asked Adam Talmadge about this: investigative techniques used in our preliminary interviews.’’

‘‘I asked him about the training to identify political prisoners and victims of torture.’’

‘‘Political refugee interviews,’’ he corrected. ‘‘We’re not the bad guys, Ms. McNeal.’’

‘‘You’re part of the system. . Brian. And the system is part of the problem.’’

‘‘My trouble with this view,’’ he said, his inflection implying a question. ‘‘Looking down on something is not the same thing as looking it in the eye.’’

‘‘Lessons in perspective?’’

He offered: ‘‘How would you and your cameras like to pay a visit to Fo-No, our Fort Nolan detention facility? A chance to see our operation firsthand?’’

‘‘Look it in the eye. Gain a little perspective?’’

‘‘You got it.’’

‘‘And what do I offer you in return?’’ she asked suspiciously.

‘‘Nothing.’’

‘‘I’m supposed to buy that?’’

‘‘Does it sound like I’m selling? Are you always so skeptical?’’

‘‘You came here to drop off a pamphlet and offer me access to your detention facility? I’m supposed to accept the Santa Claus routine?’’

‘‘We have to be enemies on this? Tell me why.’’

‘‘You can’t buy cooperation from me,’’ she warned. ‘‘A pamphlet and a visit of Fort Nolan and I’m supposed to give something back- withhold a story, supply you with sources-what is it your boss is after?’’

‘‘We could discuss Melissa Chow.’’

‘‘They shared that with you?’’

‘‘A missing persons case believed tied to illegal aliens?’’ he asked rhetorically. ‘‘You want SPD including us, believe me. And the FBI and the King County Police. There is talk of a task force. It’s our job to find this woman.’’

‘‘A job? I suppose so,’’ she said, mulling this over.

‘‘Let’s talk about this whistle-blower.’’

‘‘Oh. . okay. I get it,’’ she said sarcastically. ‘‘Terrific.’’

‘‘Do you?’’

‘‘They couldn’t get the name out of me, so now it’s your turn to try.’’

‘‘You want to find her, don’t you?’’ He didn’t deny her accusation. ‘‘We need to question this guy. He could help clarify the details, give us the specifics you’re unable to give us.’’

‘‘Or is it the videos?’’ she asked. ‘‘That’s it, isn’t it? They’ve sent you to try to talk me out of the videos. Well, forget it.’’ She immediately regretted mention of the videos because his florid skin and tightened expression informed her that he’d never heard of them, though he recovered quickly.

He said, ‘‘The videos are especially important to us.’’

‘‘I just bet they are,’’ she said.

‘‘They show what? People? Buildings? The container? The ship?’’

‘‘Nice try.’’

‘‘How much are you willing to gamble?’’ he interrupted. ‘‘Your friend has disappeared. The ship captain has been killed. Do you want to be next in line?’’

‘‘Are you threatening me?’’

‘‘Just trying to scare you,’’ he said. ‘‘Listen, I do this for a living- investigate illegal alien rings, the Chinese mob, the gangs. It may be hard to conceive of, but just maybe I’ve had a little more experience at it than you. And as for your paranoia. . I don’t operate the way the cops do. There’s no reason for me to expose your sources or what’s on that video. I work a network of informants and snitches. I probably get ninety percent of my information from them. Would it make sense for me to expose my sources? Your sources? My guys wouldn’t trust me after that. Think about it! Do you have any idea what it is you’re investigating? No, you don’t. They made your friend disappear, Ms. McNeal. Think about it! Where’s that leave you, you go nosing around?’’

‘‘I’ll read the pamphlet. Thanks for stopping by.’’

He was not to be deterred. He apparently felt obliged to educate her. She wanted him out of there. ‘‘The vast majority of illegals come across the Mexican border-and that includes Asians and East Europeans. Most arrive owing at least half the fee charged to smuggle them into the country-five to ten thousand dollars. The men are shipped off to migrant labor camps, the girls to brothels and sweatshops. They’re kept in service until they earn out the balance owed. It’s not pretty.’’

Was that where Melissa was, she wondered. In some brothel or sweatshop? She cringed. ‘‘Are you trying to tell me someone’s turned Melissa into a sex slave?’’

‘‘These container ships go both ways, Ms. McNeal. You go poking around, you go stirring things up. . With your looks you’d probably end up in Syria, the property of some prince. Is that hair natural? Blondes command a premium.’’

‘‘You’re threatening me?’’ she asked, astonished.

‘‘What is it with you?’’ he asked. ‘‘Am I the enemy?’’

‘‘Are you?’’

Outside the huge plate-glass windows, a jet sank in the vast expanse of sky. It flew behind Brian Coughlie and out the other side of him, like some kind of magic trick.

She said, ‘‘As a reporter you wonder what kind of person signs up to be an INS agent.’’

‘‘Is that right?’’ he said. ‘‘That’s funny, because as a federal agent you kinda wonder about people who make a business out of sabotaging your investigations and turning them into sound bites.’’

‘‘No one’s sabotaging you.’’

‘‘You went after Adam Talmadge like he was the enemy,’’ he reminded. ‘‘You seem to forget it’s our job to save these people.’’

‘‘Save them or deport them?’’

‘‘I didn’t invent the system,’’ he pointed out.

‘‘Just doing your job?’’ she asked sarcastically.

His face burned red and he looked away angrily. He spoke to the back lights of the jet descending toward Boeing Field. ‘‘A pragmatist says my job is to offer people a chance at a new life; a pessimist says that I’m in the business of wrecking other people’s dreams. I live with it. Same as you. The press tears apart more lives than I ever will.’’

‘‘And where’s all that leave Melissa?’’

‘‘I can help with that.’’

She cautioned him again, ‘‘I won’t reveal my sources. Neither would you-you just said so yourself.’’

‘‘Trust me,’’ he said.

She nodded faintly and whispered privately, ‘‘I’m working on that.’’