The First Victim

CHAPTER 33

As a reporter, Stevie had perfected the art of using people, and though her last several years as a news anchor had clearly dulled those talents, they were not altogether lost. She understood the powerful effect that her body and looks had upon men, as well as the envy they incited in women-how to harness and exploit those attributes as needed. She needed them now. Brian Coughlie had access to SPD that she did not. She had picked the best restaurant in the city. She wore a low scooped teal dress that turned heads. She was ready.

Her body ached with fatigue and exhaustion after the police sting, but she wasn’t going to surrender to it until she made it through the dinner and had accomplished what she had come to accomplish. Judge Milton Abrams was blocking KSTV’s viewing of the videotape that she had personally recovered. Boldt, Abrams and others had burned her, and her only chance to return the favor lay with the man who now sat across the table from her.

Campagne was indeed one of the city’s finest restaurants. Brian Coughlie, there at her invitation, looked slightly out of place, but she didn’t let that bother her. Her celebrity had created a buzz in the restaurant the moment she’d arrived. She played it up, hoping to intimidate Coughlie, who was nothing but a government worker bee with a bad tailor. It was an odd alliance at best, and she intended to milk him for everything she could get. She would stop short of sleeping with him, but he certainly didn’t know that.

A hint of sexual suggestion, an occasional compliment, a well-timed wiggle in her chair-she had the full arsenal at her disposal. Ready, indeed.

Coughlie was not about to turn down an invitation from this one. He’d been trying to think of a way to get her alone, to find out as much about her missing friend as possible. One man’s ceiling was another man’s floor. As a media source she had contacts and resources that he did not. Following her late afternoon piece that police had allegedly confiscated evidence belonging to the station, her invitation to dinner had come as a godsend. She needed him-the beginning of any negotiation.

If he got laid in the process, so much the better. Judging by the look of her, it would make for an unforgettable evening. The way she kept moving her butt in the chair was making him excited. But his interest in her was for what she knew, not what kind of ride she was. SPD was stonewalling the INS, and vice versa-business as usual. He stuck to the food and wine. Women loved to talk if you gave them half the chance. The way she was hitting the wine, she’d be giving a god-damn keynote address in a few minutes. Not to be outdone, he took a sip himself. Decent stuff. Archery Something. A yuppie wine-peanut noir was what he’d nicknamed it. He’d take a Chablis any day. At sixty bucks a bottle, he thought she was trying to impress him. Nice try, he said to himself. It took more than a chest and an attitude to fix his game.

‘‘Why does a person join the INS?’’ she asked, meeting eyes with him.

‘‘Why does a person put her face in front of a million people every afternoon?’’

‘‘It’s four hundred thousand,’’ she corrected, ‘‘and it’s not a fair comparison. The public image of the INS is gatekeepers, border guards.’’

‘‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’’

‘‘Tell me I’m wrong.’’

‘‘Power hungry ex-football players?’’ he asked, stabbing a piece of thin ham off the appetizer plate that had some kind of Italian name. Cheap bastards cutting it that thin. ‘‘We have our fair share of those. It’s a fair shot to take.’’

‘‘And you?’’

‘‘If I’d wanted to be a hero I’d have been a fireman.’’

She laughed at the comment.

He continued. ‘‘I suppose you start out thinking you’re part of the group that gives people a shot at this country, its freedom, its opportunity. That’s the underlying charter, don’t forget. You find a lot of patriots in the Service. And in the job interviews, that’s what they play up: the opportunity you’re giving these people. The power that comes with it? Sure. Racism? Probably right. Some of the guys who sign up want nothing more than to smack some Mexican across the face with a nightstick. I’ve seen it. But they’re ferreted out pretty quickly, those guys, believe me. No one wants them around. The flip side is that we also protect what’s left of this country for those who have a legal right to it. Illegals dilute the status quo. They sponge off social programs that they’ve never paid into. You don’t charge at the gate, you go broke.’’

‘‘But there’s paying and then there’s paying. What about the detainees?’’ she asked. ‘‘Three or four weeks in a container with dead bodies. How badly do they want it? Haven’t they paid a high enough price for their freedom?’’

‘‘We both know where those women were headed,’’ he reminded. ‘‘Sweatshops? Brothels? Is that the dream you’re selling?’’

‘‘I need a favor,’’ she stated bluntly, reaching for the wine bottle and pouring them both more.

‘‘Should I be surprised? A dinner like this? And I thought it was because you found me so irresistible.’’

‘‘The cops used me.’’

‘‘Welcome aboard.’’

‘‘Confiscated evidence.’’

‘‘I saw the piece.’’

‘‘You watch the broadcast?’’

‘‘Every day,’’ he answered.

‘‘I’m flattered. What the broadcast didn’t tell you: They recovered a tape. Not VHS, but digital. Footage she shot after I gave her that camera.’’

He took this all in along with another sip of wine and said, ‘‘You want me to get the digital tape for you.’’

‘‘They double-crossed me. That tape is rightfully mine.’’

‘‘Let’s just say that the idea interests me.’’

‘‘If the tape contains anything, it has to do with the illegals-that was the story we were working. Melissa wanted the digital camera because it was small and easy to carry. As in surveillance. Judging by the VHS tapes she shot before I got her the digital, I’m thinking she boarded a bus maybe. A car wash. I’m not sure. But whatever she shot, it has to do with illegals. And that’s your turf.’’

He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Car wash? Where the hell had that come from? Time to give Rodriguez a call and close it down. He felt like bailing on dinner and making the call immediately.

He said, ‘‘So I press for the right to view this digital tape. Let’s say they grant me that. What then? I give you a book report?’’

The dress was a pleasure to look at. She knew about packaging, this one. She knew how to move to distract a man’s attention.

‘‘Yes. Exactly. You tell me what you saw,’’ she answered.

‘‘And in return?’’

‘‘I show you the VHS tapes: the first three tapes that Melissa shot. Quid pro quo.’’

‘‘This car wash. .’’ he tested. He had to know the extent of what she knew. If she knew too much, then he had some tough decisions to make.

She teased, ‘‘I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.’’

He couldn’t stop himself from grinning. She was good this one. Extremely good. ‘‘You’re okay,’’ he said.

‘‘I’m a hell of a lot better than okay, Brian. You just have to trust me.’’

‘‘I’m working on that,’’ he said, echoing her words of their last meeting. He boldly winked at her and won a wide smile. He loved the dance more than anything. And this one knew how to dance.

THURSDAY, AUGUST 2710 DAYS MISSING