Despite hundreds of court appearances, LaMoia had rarely been inside a deliberation room. It smelled of pine disinfectant. The long oval table’s edge had been victim to jurors nervously doodling. He could almost hear the deliberations—angry voices ringing off the walls. Among the ballpoint graffiti he noticed a hangman’s noose. He sat down into one of the chairs and ran his fingernail around the cartoon character’s neck. He said, ‘‘Do we know this information is good?’’
‘‘The station engraves its initials on its gear. The caller described that correctly.’’
‘‘The ransom?’’
‘‘He started at three thousand. The station settled at one—the amount of the deductible on their policy.’’
‘‘And he went for it?’’
‘‘Apparently.’’
‘‘That’s not a junkie, that’s a businessman.’’
‘‘A junkie would have hocked it,’’ she said.
‘‘Which may be what happened,’’ LaMoia concurred. ‘‘Who knows where this bozo got it from?’’
‘‘He demanded that anchor, Stevie McNeal, take the drop.’’
‘‘No way!’’
‘‘Wants a face he can recognize.’’
‘‘Can’t do it.’’
‘‘Nonnegotiable. The station already accepted the condition. That’s why they came to us. Their security firm wanted us aware of it, and you on board.’’
‘‘Prime Time Live? I don’t think so!’’
‘‘It’s nonnegotiable,’’ she repeated. ‘‘You’re there to protect and serve.’’ She continued, ‘‘It gets worse.’’
‘‘Not possible,’’ he said.
‘‘They claim anything recovered is theirs.’’
‘‘You’ve got to be kidding! They ask for our help retrieving stolen property and then make demands on us if we agree?’’
‘‘I don’t think that’s exactly how they would put it,’’ she said.
‘‘This is
not
an episode of
Cops
!’’
‘‘They haven’t shared the time and place of the drop. We could, if and when they move without us, file obstruction of justice, but to be honest with you, it would never reach court and we’d lose. The press is one slippery eel. You would never see that tape.’’
‘‘If there is a tape,’’ he muttered. Lives were decided in this room by grocery clerks, housewives and CEOs. He rarely struggled over his career choice, but that hangman’s noose carved into the table twisted his gut.
‘‘There are still some unanswered questions,’’ she agreed. ‘‘How much do you want to be involved?’’
‘‘If there’s something useful to us on that tape—if there even is a tape—I can’t have it broadcast to the world. There’s a woman missing. I have a life to protect—maybe hundreds of lives.’’
‘‘If there’s a tape in the camera, we can certainly take physical possession until trial. If they press for possession, they’re likely to win. It’s going to come down to timing. But the gloves-off attitude is you’ll get a look at anything that’s there.’’
‘‘Set up the drop,’’ he ordered.
‘‘It’s the right call,’’ she encouraged.
‘‘Then why don’t I feel better about it?’’
She walked out, seams and folds of fabric and skin in a shifting blur of whistling fabric. She stopped at the door. ‘‘I’m different when the lawyer hat comes off.’’ She spared him any reply by hurrying out the door. Her quickened footsteps reminded him of horses’ hooves.
LaMoia’s eye fell back to that hangman’s noose. The lines of the noose had been gone over repeatedly, the ink dark and saturated and leaving little doubt in his mind how the artist had voted.
CHAPTER 31
he man offering to sell the camera back to KSTV chose the Wednesday lunch hour and a granite bench alongside the water shower at the old Nordstrom’s terrace for the drop. It was a sunny day, the last week of August, that brought out joggers and tourists, panhandlers and skateboarders. Office workers sought out sun-worshipping perches for a peaceful sandwich and a twenty-minute tan. Women hiked their skirts up over their knees. Men loosened their ties and rolled up their sleeves. Summertime in the Emerald City. At the other end of town a group of three hundred Asians were gathered to march on City Hall. Fifty off-duty officers had been called up.
Mixed into the crowd by the water fountain, eleven undercover cops kept their eyes on Stevie McNeal, who carried a thousand dollars cash, a KSTV tote bag, and a severe expression that contradicted the TV personality. McNeal wore a lavaliere microphone clipped to her bra, its wire taped down her back. LaMoia, as the Command Officer— the CO—wore a headset in a refitted steam cleaning van, forfeited years earlier in a drug conviction, and currently used as Mobile Communications Dispatch—or MoCom for short. He had an unobstructed view of the water shower fountain and bench out a mirrored side window of one-way glass. The loud noise of the fountain’s falling water bothered the audio technician, a diminutive man with a silver stud in his left ear who by job definition could remain level and calm through the bloodiest of firestorms.
‘‘That fountain is loud. She’s wearing a condenser, which is a problem. We’re not going to hear her so good.’’
‘‘Well at least there’s some justice,’’ LaMoia said. ‘‘Maybe it won’t make such good TV.’’ The KSTV crew occupied an unmarked blue step van in front of GapKids. They too were monitoring Stevie’s wireless.
‘‘Stand by,’’ the tech said, addressing all the undercover officers. ‘‘It’s show time.’’
As Stevie sat down onto the stone bench she exhaled calmly in an attempt to settle herself. The water shower sculpture was a fifteen-foot L that a person could walk through without getting wet, curtains of water falling on both sides of its narrow aisle. Kids loved it, squealing with delight as they hurried through. Downwind of the sculpture, a cooling mist prevailed.
She missed the man’s approach. He sat down next to her, a Seattle Seahawks bag held by the straps. He said, ‘‘You look different on TV.’’
‘‘So they say.’’
He was mid-forties, balding, wearing clothes that had been popular a decade earlier and with a nose that begged for rhinoplasty. His oily hair shined wetly in the sunlight. He smoked a filter cigarette that attached itself to his lower lip wet with spit. He engaged in a perpetual squint to avoid the stinging spiral of smoke and the bright sunshine.
He did not look at her, his head up, eyes alert. A careful man. A planner. The cops had warned her that any man willing to take such a risk was either dumb, greedy, or both. Violent, maybe. Not to be trusted, for certain. She kept close tabs on him.
‘‘How do you want to do this?’’ she asked.
‘‘You hand me the envelope,’’ he said looking straight ahead, ‘‘and I leave the bag behind.’’
‘‘I have to see it first,’’ she corrected.
‘‘We can do that,’’ he agreed, shoving the bag toward her. ‘‘Go ahead.’’
Stevie dragged the bag over to her. She carefully unzipped it and peered inside. Brushed aluminum casing, the brand name, SONY. She felt choked. She had handed this camera to Melissa. She hated herself for it. Worse, the camera’s tape indicator was blank. No tape inside. Stung with disappointment, she reached inside. ‘‘I have to see that it’s our call letters on it.’’