The First Victim

CHAPTER 78

"In brothel by airport,’’ the woman’s deep voice said on the other end of Boldt’s receiver. He knew that woman’s voice, but he didn’t bother to identify it by name. She gave him the address and said, ‘‘She in room on second floor. She not in good shape, but she alive. Best I could do. So sorry.’’

Boldt took McNeal with him and a radio car as backup. The drive to the airport was typically about twenty minutes. They made it in twelve.

‘‘She just calls up and tells you this?’’ Stevie said.

‘‘That’s it.’’ Boldt caught himself grinding his teeth and let his jaw hang slack to try to relax.

‘‘No explanation?’’

‘‘She pressured them into keeping her alive. It’s the only thing that makes sense.’’

‘‘She has that kind of control?’’

‘‘And then some,’’ he answered.

‘‘And waits until Coughlie is indicted to tell us?’’

‘‘If he hadn’t been indicted, we’d have never gotten the call. She’s not an angel. She’s a politician. She’s buying herself a future break. . and she’ll get it.’’

‘‘But Coughlie could have used Melissa to plea bargain. How stupid can you get?’’

Boldt said, ‘‘Depends on what’s left of her. How much Coughlie knows. A jury might not be too sympathetic.’’

‘‘Torture?’’

‘‘They wanted that tape badly. I imagine that’s what kept her alive until our friend stepped in.’’

‘‘These people are not human beings.’’

‘‘That’s the way they think. That’s where it all starts.’’

She nodded. ‘‘She’s alive,’’ she gasped.

They drove past neighborhoods where the houses all looked the same and the cars were the same. Big groups of sameness. He felt bothered and anxious.

‘‘Another example of the wonderful cooperation between media and law enforcement.’’

She laughed out loud. ‘‘You win!’’

‘‘No one wins,’’ he said. ‘‘Not ever.’’ He pulled the car to a stop, a patrol vehicle parking alongside of him. The sign said NUDE GIRLS. The two-story building was painted Cape Cod gray and had enough parking for a convention center. ‘‘Are you prepared for this-for what we might find?’’

‘‘No,’’ she admitted. ‘‘Are you?’’

‘‘Gloves?’’ Boldt said, handing her a pair.

‘‘I’m not wearing gloves,’’ Stevie replied, handing them back, hurrying from the car. ‘‘Come on!’’

Boldt produced the warrant, but the uniforms led the way inside. It smelled foul, a combination of air freshener and human hell.

‘‘She had a shaved head when she came in,’’ Boldt told the obese manager, a sweaty man who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, get up out of the worn red couch. He was drinking a dark cocktail on the rocks. He smoked a thin foul cigar with a white plastic tip.

McNeal took off up the stairs. Boldt indicated for a uniform to follow her. He turned and climbed the stairs himself, leaving another uniform by the door. ‘‘No one goes anywhere,’’ he told the kid. He remembered being that young-remembered the feel of the gun on his belt and the smell of the leather. He climbed the stairs heavily.

Stevie opened one door after another-bare buttocks, sweating flesh. A salesman’s suit carefully arranged on a chair. The smell of pot and booze and familiarity. The uniform lingered a little too long at each door. Stevie moved faster and faster. Nine doors. No Melissa.

Her movements became frantic. She felt tears in her eyes and tension in every limb. An ache so deep inside her-an ache only a woman understood. Another flight of stairs. She ran now, out of breath, nearly out of life. The uniform lumbered up behind her, but she turned to see it was Boldt.

‘‘Easy,’’ he said. ‘‘We don’t want to scare her.’’

‘‘Scare her?’’ she barked back at him, incredulous.

‘‘Just go easy,’’ he repeated. He fired down to the uniform, ‘‘Where the hell are the EMTs? Get on the horn!’’

‘‘EMTs?’’ Stevie whined, now slowing as she reached the third floor.

Boldt handed her the gloves again, his arm outstretched. ‘‘Be smart,’’ he said.

She accepted them limply. ‘‘Oh, God. .’’

They both paused by the only door that was locked.

Boldt whispered, ‘‘She mustn’t see anything but joy in your face. You understand how important that is?’’

Tears spilled down from her swollen eye.

‘‘Freedom is a fragile thing,’’ he said.

She nodded faintly.

‘‘Are you ready?’’ he said, his shoulder against the door.

She struggled with the gloves, sniffled and drew in a deep breath. But the tears would not abate. Her shoulders shook. Her throat tightened. She nodded. ‘‘I’m ready,’’ she said.

Boldt broke open the door.

‘‘Thank God!’’ Stevie McNeal whimpered, running inside and falling to her knees.