The First Victim

CHAPTER 7

"What do we know?’’ Boldt asked LaMoia before the man ever sat down. Boldt’s office had been transformed into an art gallery, the present exhibition finger painting and crayon coloring by daughter Sarah and son Miles. He treasured each and every drawing, had invented titles for most; the scientists were wrong about the world spinning on an axis-it revolved around his two kids.

‘‘I been following up on that fabric. Spent the weekend with dockhands, Customs and my face in the Yellow Pages. That’s the part of this job you forget, Sarge. When you went up to Lieutenant you got your weekends back.’’

‘‘The polarfleece,’’ Boldt said.

‘‘Yeah, the bales we hauled out of that container along with the body bags,’’ LaMoia answered.

Boldt spoke with great but unfounded confidence, for he was only guessing. ‘‘There’s no bill of lading that can be connected to it. No record of the container number. No import company on record.’’

‘‘Two out of three ain’t bad, Sarge.’’

‘‘Where’d I miss?’’

‘‘Officially there’s no import company that we can tie to that container,’’ LaMoia corrected. ‘‘No paperwork-true enough. But unofficially?’’ When LaMoia got something right, which was more often than not, he enjoyed dragging out the success like a kid retelling an old joke he’s just heard for the first time. Bernie Lofgrin in the crime lab had the same bad habit of turning what could be a one-line answer into a ten-minute lecture. Boldt felt no obligation to egg him on by responding, so he waited him out. ‘‘After I struck out IDing that container, I decided to put the word out on the street. Nice and gentle like. . nothing too severe. There’s an art to working the street, you

know?’’ he said, fishing for a compliment.

‘‘Uh-huh,’’ Boldt agreed.

‘‘It’s like lovemaking: You start slow and easy and let things develop of themselves.’’

‘‘Try to get around to your point sometime today, if possible.’’

LaMoia didn’t so much as flinch. He was on stage; he was performing. Nothing could rattle him. ‘‘So rather than make an issue out of this, I just let it be known that we would be interested in whosoever might be ordering polarfleece by the container load. Okay? I know it’s not Eddie Bauer or REI’cause I’ve already checked with them. Can’t be a mom-and-pop with that kind of quantity. So what the fuck, chuck?’’

‘‘John!’’ Boldt raised his voice enough to send the two-minute warning.

‘‘It wasn’t a snitch, Sarge-wasn’t no squirrel. The right snitch, and I coulda worked some Monopoly magic on him, you know? ‘Get out of jail for free,’ or something along those lines. Okay? Coulda come up with a name, a contact, something firm enough to squeeze by the neck and start choking. Okay?’’ He stopped talking. Stopped, and stood there, waiting to elicit some kind of response from his lieutenant, who sat impassively enough to allow another unsuspecting person to believe he had died there in the chair. Boldt would not, did not, move. He waited. LaMoia took this all in and finally understood that he was to blink first. ‘‘Part of me thinks we should contact I.I. before they contact us. Save ’em the trouble.’’

I.I.-Internal Investigation-a pair of initials that drove a heat rash to the back of the neck of even the most honest and upright soldier-in-blue. I.I. could stall careers, stop paychecks and cause months of consultation with overworked attorneys on retainer to the Police Officers’ Benevolent Association-the union. LaMoia’s suggestion meant that whatever he’d turned up could put one or both of them directly in harm’s way. The implication was obvious-organized crime was involved.

Corruption swept through police departments and other government agencies like the flu, passed one person to the next, indiscriminate of rank, race or gender. Like any contagious disease, when its proportions became epidemic within the given population, measures were taken to eradicate or at least reduce its influence; a few scapegoats were found and hung out to dry while the others went more deeply underground.

Throughout the course of his twenty-odd years on the force, Lou Boldt had carefully avoided and had never succumbed to even a hint of impropriety, which occasionally amounted to a full-time job. He stood sentry at the gate, alert and watchful. He would not willingly rat out his fellow officer to Internal Investigations; likewise, he would not tolerate compromised police work. He purposely avoided any social contact with individuals known, or even suspected, to have ties to organized crime including certain politicians and even a few of his own superiors at SPD. If even a whiff of a rumor surfaced, Boldt mentally added the name to his list.

Professionally, he could not afford such luxury. Crimes Against Persons-CAPers-implicitly required fundamental knowledge of, and contact with, elements of organized crime, whether the Chinese Triad, the Russian Mafia, or any of a number of gangs that in recent years had begun to pick up the crumbs-the street level crimes-left behind by their larger counterparts: drugs, prostitution, auto theft and small-time gaming. While the Russian mob controlled the brothels, the gangs ran the street hookers; while the Chinese Triad imported the coke and heroin by the boatload, the gangs distributed them. Each group had cut out its own niche, and for the most part, left the other alone. Only at the street level, the gang level, was this not the case- where hotheaded loyalties and romantic notions gave way to the occasional street war leaving teenagers and twenty-five-year-olds dead in the streets.

To receive a request for a meeting with any person known to have association with such organizations could mean the kiss of death-an either/or offer that might include a threat to one’s family or, to one’s life, profession or aspirations. There were few police officers who could not be reached given the appropriate pressure point. Boldt knew that of all his possible vulnerabilities, his children presented the biggest target for such people. He would never accept money, nor improved station, but if the health and welfare of Miles and Sarah were brought into play, he knew he would be faced with one of two choices-strike back, or roll over. Each cop knew his own vulnerabilities; Boldt, whose daughter had once been threatened, guarded his carefully.

A cop’s home number was never given out, never published in the phone books. Some lied to neighbors about their profession both to protect their families and to avoid being called into petty disagreements. The game of dodging compromise, of avoiding corruption, was never-ending and required great vigilance on the part of any police officer, Boldt included. When the call came from Mama Lu, he briefly gave pause. It was the day he had feared most of his professional career.

LaMoia was the messenger. They had moved to the fifth floor’s coffee lounge. Boldt shut the doors and prepared himself a cup of tea.

‘‘So there’s this girl I went out with for a while name of Peggy Wan.’’

‘‘Woman,’’ Boldt corrected. ‘‘Let’s hope so anyway.’’

‘‘We hit if off pretty great. Not that it lasted.’’

‘‘Not that that’s news,’’ Boldt said.

‘‘But we stayed friends. Are you interested in this?’’ LaMoia asked.

‘‘If it’s going somewhere. If it’s the Further Adventures of. . I can do without it this morning. Your trail is littered with Peggy Wans, John. For your sake I hope someone comes along who actually means something to you.’’

‘‘Just ’cause I’m altar-shy. . Gosh, Sarge, I didn’t know you cared.’’

Boldt hesitated a moment too long to keep things on a joking level. ‘‘Yes,’’ he said, ‘‘I do care.’’

LaMoia stiffened while his smile softened and his eyes found a lint ball in the far corner of the room. His bottom lip twitched beneath

his mustache.

Boldt said, ‘‘So tell me about Peggy Wan.’’

LaMoia took a second longer to recover, to regain the boyish enthusiasm and cocky independence that were his trademarks. ‘‘So Peggy is evidently the niece of Mama Lu-although Asians throw around this aunt and uncle business a little too often, if you know what I mean. And so maybe that explains why Peggy-God bless her silky smooth tush-went the way of other LaMoia conquests. A little too tight around the collar, you know what I mean. I hang with that piece of work and pretty soon I’m going to be doing the dance with Mama Lu herself-am I right? And then I’m jammed but good.’’

‘‘So Peggy’s name gets a line through it in Seattle’s most famous black book.’’

‘‘But evidently she does reciprocate the favor-’’

‘‘The legend lives on,’’ Boldt said.

‘‘-on account I hear from Peggy last night. She calls my crib, right? Which means she lifted my number off the home phone because I never gave it to her.’’

‘‘Bedside phone, no doubt.’’

‘‘And what does she want but to arrange a meet between you and her aunt?’’

‘‘Me?’’

‘‘That’s what I said to her.’’

‘‘Mama Lu?’’

‘‘Exactly.’’

‘‘Oh, shit,’’ the man cursed uncharacteristically. ‘‘Why me?’’ Boldt protested.

‘‘I can’t answer that. I imagine she can, and will.’’

‘‘You’re coming with me.’’

‘‘I wasn’t invited.’’

‘‘Doesn’t matter. Two of us in the room, it changes the approach.’’ Boldt reconsidered. ‘‘Only if you’re all right with it. No arm twisting here, John. I don’t want to put you into something. . you know.’’

‘‘Yeah, I do know. But I’m cool with it. You want me to hang with you, I’ll hang.’’

‘‘We may both hang,’’ Boldt warned ominously.

Two sinewy, lithe men stood outside the Korean grocery smoking non-filters that smelled like burning tires. Two men going nowhere. They both wore nylon gym pants that whistled as they moved to follow LaMoia and Boldt through the store’s screen door. A seagull complained loudly, flying overhead, trapped by the buildings. The International District occupied a forty-block area south of the downtown core and just north of the industrial wastelands that gave way to Boeing Field. Of unremarkable architecture and few tax dollars, the District’s only color was its energetic people.

‘‘I’m LaMoia,’’ the sergeant said, turning to greet the welcoming committee. ‘‘This is Boldt. She’s expecting us.’’

The men’s faces were placid and unresponsive until one of them nodded, his neck so stiff that the gesture ended up more of a bow.

Boldt bowed back to the man.

LaMoia mumbled, ‘‘That’s only for the Japanese, Sarge. These two are Chinese.’’

The grocery smelled of ginger and hot oil. Its floor plan violated the fire code with not a spare inch of unused space: diapers and paper products kissing the century-old tin ceiling where a dust-encrusted paddle fan spun slowly, trailing broken lengths of spider web like bunting.

They were escorted through the impossibly cramped butcher department where a bone-thin grandmother wielded a Chinese knife like an axe into a side of beef. Wizened and otherwise frail looking, she had a smile that flooded them with kindness, and her eyes flirted.

‘‘I think she likes you,’’ LaMoia said as they climbed noisy wooden stairs through a dark hallway.

‘‘I hope she does,’’ Boldt replied, unprepared for what he saw next. Mama Lu was the size of Orson Welles. She wore a bright red housedress with gorgeous black hair braided down to her waist. Surrounded by piles of books and a single black rotary dial telephone, she occupied a wingback chair under the floral shade of a standing lamp that fit her more like a commercial hair dryer. Yellowing roller shades were pulled to block any sun, and a persistent air conditioner struggled in the one window that remained free of a covering, offering a limited view of Elliott Bay and the islands beyond.

Mama Lu reached into a glass of water with fingers as fast as a frog’s tongue and had her teeth in before her guests had introduced themselves. When she spoke, the windy baritone emanated from somewhere beneath the substantial bosom that hung off her like the continental shelf. By the sound of her, she had smoked for a long, long time. Maybe still did, unless the green oxygen bottle standing in the corner was more than decoration.

‘‘You honor me with this visit,’’ she said in passable English.

‘‘It is said,’’ Boldt began, ‘‘that Miss Lu’s family is very large indeed: mother to many, friend to all. You have made substantial contributions to our Police Athletic League, to the firemen and to the hospitals, and for this the city and its people are extremely grateful.’’

‘‘We are all of one family, yes?’’

‘‘I wish more were as thoughtful of the family as you, Great Lady.’’

‘‘Ya-Moia, you are friend to Peggy Wan.’’

‘‘Yes, Miss Lu.’’

‘‘She say you honest man. This man with you, Mr. Both, he honest man?’’

‘‘As honest and as good a man as any man I know.’’

‘‘That says much, Ya-Moia.’’

LaMoia bowed slightly.

‘‘Tell me about investigation, Mr. Both,’’ she said. There was no mention of which investigation.

‘‘Chinese immigrants are being treated like dogs, shipped here in huge metal boxes, like kennels, without water, without food. It is inhuman and it must stop.’’

‘‘When a person runs from a monster, he is prepared to suffer.’’

‘‘But these people pay for this.’’

‘‘My grandfather and I rode in the bottom of a freighter without sunshine, without fresh air for over a month. My grandfather paid much money for this. Things not so different today. My people have been running from the Red Chinese for many generations now.’’

‘‘People enter this great country in many ways, some legal, some not,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘I am not here to judge that. But three women died in that container. Young women. Their lives ahead of them. Everyone involved is going to jail. Everyone. They will end up in metal boxes just like their victims. Those who cooperate with the police will receive the lightest sentences.’’

Mama Lu did not move, did not twitch. She sat like a piece of stone in her padded throne, all levity, all kindness gone from her face. ‘‘Yes,’’ she said deliberately slowly, ‘‘I agree.’’

Boldt was surprised by this, and spoke what his mind had already prepared to say. ‘‘The young women who survived will not cooperate with us, will not share any information with us.’’

‘‘They scared of you. With good reason, I might add. Police at home not like police here. But there are others. These children, their families, in both countries, will suffer if they cooperate.’’

‘‘And your family.’’

‘‘You give me far too much credit, Mr. Both,’’ she said, her accent suddenly lessened, her voice softer yet more severe, her hard eyes fixed on Boldt and not releasing him. ‘‘I have no influence over these children.’’ She struggled with a deep breath and said, ‘‘Three died. Yes. Very sad. But tell me this please: How many die if they stay behind?’’

‘‘I’m only responsible for Seattle, Great Lady,’’ Boldt announced.

‘‘I will make inquiries,’’ she said, nodding her large head once again. ‘‘Let an old lady see what she can find out.’’

‘‘The ship responsible,’’ Boldt said, ‘‘the captain would be a good place to start.’’

‘‘You travel in the dark, Mr. Both. Move slowly. The dark holds many unseen dangers.’’

‘‘The dark eventually gives way to the light.’’

‘‘Not always. Ask Officer Tidwell. But I will help you. In return, you will tell me of progress of investigation, will keep my good name

out of press. So tired of the lies.’’

‘‘We’re all tired of the lies.’’

‘‘Chinese blood moves in my veins, Mr. Both. These three were my sisters, my children.’’

‘‘Your customers?’’ he dared to ask.

She grinned. ‘‘You bite hand that feeds you?’’

‘‘When I’m hungry enough,’’ he answered.

She lifted her soft pudgy hand and held it for a moment as if expecting he might kiss it. Then she waved, dismissing them.

Boldt stood, and LaMoia along with him.

LaMoia said, ‘‘I thank you, Miss Lu.’’

‘‘You be nice Peggy Wan, Ya-Moia. She my niece.’’ Directing her attention back to Boldt, she said, ‘‘Move slowly. The dark holds many challenges. Maybe I offer some light.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘You will visit whenever you like, whenever you have something to tell me. You always welcome.’’

Boldt caught himself in a bow, lifted his head and grinned at her.

Back on the street and well away from the Korean grocery LaMoia

said, ‘‘Are you crazy, Sarge? You basically accused her.’’

‘‘I communicated my suspicions.’’

‘‘Oh, you communicated all right.’’

‘‘If she’s smart, she gives them up. They’ll never bring her into it, not with her reach. They wouldn’t last a week in lock-up. She gives us this operation, and she skates. What was that about Tidwell?’’

LaMoia warned, ‘‘You remember Tidwell. Organized Crime?’’

‘‘Retired?’’

‘‘Retired! He went out for a morning jog, came back on a stretcher. Every damn bone broken. Claimed he’d been hit by a car. Car with four legs is more like it. Left the department on a medical disability ’cause he can’t walk right.’’

‘‘Mama Lu?’’

‘‘Remember that semi with the Mexicans in the back? Dead of fumes? Word was Mama Lu had a piece of that trucking company. That was Tidwell’s baby until his unfortunate accident.’’

‘‘Are you trying to warn me, John?’’

‘‘She was, that’s for sure,’’ he said emphatically, eyes wide. The leather soles of his ostrich boots slapped the sidewalk loudly with each long stride. He said to Boldt, ‘‘I’m just trying to tell you to listen up. Either that, or I’d up my Blue Cross if I was you.’’