The Art of Deception b-8

by Ridley Pearson

“I don’t own a car, and I don’t have a license because I let it expire. But you probably know that already, right? I mean, what’s the point?” He indicated the docks behind him. “I bus up here. I bus back into the city. Home’s a hole in the ground, a place out of the rain. I’ve got a tarp, a box of some stuff.

  That’s home. That’s what fucking Lanny Neal left me with when he took Mary-Ann off the boat.” He stepped toward her, another wave of anger gripping his eyes, another pulse of nausea seeping into her. “Why ask questions you already know the answer to?

  Are you toying with me?”

  “I was under the impression you’d driven Lanny Neal’s Toyota Corolla,” she lied. She went fishing with the fisherman. It wasn’t an impression, but a suspicion that resulted from the lab work on the car. “Your sister’s birthday dinner a couple months back.”

  “That’s bullshit. Neal drove.” This was her first confirmation that Neal had been telling the truth about that particular night.

  It was also the first she’d learned that Walker had been along for the celebration-his sister’s idea, no doubt. She couldn’t see Neal inviting him.

  “He got locked out of the car. Is that correct?”

  “The guy’s a numb nuts. I’ve been telling you that.”

  “Did Mary-Ann hurt herself that night?”

  “Hurt herself how?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “He beat on her all the time, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I’m asking if you witnessed any violence between the two in Neal’s car that night.”

  Again, Walker cocked his head. “I get it,” he said, nodding slowly. “Sure he did. Damn right he did.”

  “Mr. Walker, it does no one any good-least of all Mary-Ann-if you fabricate your responses. If you lie to me.”

  “Sure, I can see that,” he said, still with an almost whimsical, beguiling expression. “But I’m not lying, am I, Lieutenant? I did see him. He did hit her that night. Knocked her around.”

  “You risk invalidating everything we’ve ever gotten or will get from you if you’re caught in a lie. You understand that, Mr.

  Walker? That includes the sweatshirt.”

  “What do you want from me, Daphne? Am I allowed to call you that?”

  This was a device she used on suspects-establishing rapport through use of a given name. Having this reversed on her ran chills up her arms-the sleight-of-hand magician who’s caught in the act.

  “I want the truth. I want some answers. That’s all.”

  “I’ll tell you anything you want me to tell you. You’ve just got to let me know.”

  “It doesn’t work like that.”

  “Lanny Neal’s still walking the streets, so don’t tell me about it working. It’s not working. I can help with that, Daphne. Me and you … we can team up here … we can get stuff done. You know what I’m saying.”

  “It does not work like that.”

  “It works however we make it work.”

  “I have a kit in my car,” she announced. “It’s a fingerprint kit. Real simple. Takes about five minutes. You don’t even have to clean up. There are forms to fill out-consent forms.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “It takes us another step closer to Neal. That’s what you want, right?” she asked.

  “Of course that’s what I want.”

  “So we’ll roll out some prints and help move this forward, if it’s all right with you.” She hadn’t wanted LaMoia along for this reason-two cops wanting prints would have put even an eager beaver like Walker on notice.

  He stared at her until she finally met eyes with him-a concession of sorts. “There’s so much I can do for you.”

  She struggled with a response. “We’ll start with the prints and take it from there, if that’s okay with you.”

  Five minutes later Walker was rolling his right index finger into a box on a WSDOJ card. He sat in the front seat of her car, out of the mist and the rain, her cell phone and Starbucks tea between them. NPR played from the radio. She turned it down and then cracked a window to vent the smell coming off him.

  “How’d you know he locked himself out of the car?” Walker asked. “He tell you he was that stupid? He tell you I could’a had him in that car and the engine running in about three minutes flat? Let me tell you something-you work on boats long enough, you can do anything, any kind of mechanical, electrical repair, whatever kind of problem there is. Numb nuts didn’t have a clue. All stressed out over losing his keys. Fuck me. Guys like that ought to be taken out back and shot.”

  She set him up to roll prints from his left hand. The ink pad was colorless, though he left a fingerprint on the card.

  “This is all about the car, isn’t it?” Walker asked, fidgeting.

  “You started by asking about the car. Mary-Ann drove his car.

  I can help you with this stuff. We’re solid on this, right, you and me?”

  “There is no you and me,” Matthews said. “I meant what I said about no more contact.”

  “Sure you did.”

  “No drink, no coffee, no contact.”

  “Right.”

  “Mr. Walker?”

  He directed himself to Matthews then, turning to face her in a deliberate, overly dramatic way. “I … can … help … you,”

  he declared, popping open the door and slipping outside. A chill, damp wind took his place beside her. As he leaned back inside the car, a darkness overcame his face and she thought that this was a side of the man she had not yet seen. “Do your job,” he said, “or I’ll do it for you.”

  Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained

  Matthews attempted to keep up with John LaMoia, whose long strides carried him quickly across the sky bridge leading from the King County Corrections Facility, where Lanny Neal had been held for the weekend. Traffic ran some fifty feet below them, the vibrations of the sky bridge reminding her why she never liked taking this route. She preferred a good old sidewalk.

  “I’m just saying there may be inconsistencies worth taking a look at,” she told him.

  “It’s an arraignment, that’s all. We’re up against the time limit. It has to be now. He pleads not guilty. On with the show.

  The inconsistencies can wait until the probable cause hearing.”

  “I don’t think they can.”

  “Well, keep that thought to yourself, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’d like to review it all with Lou.”

  “He’s not interested.”

  “I think he will be.”

  “Riddle me this,” LaMoia said. “If not the boyfriend, then who, the brother?” He didn’t allow her to answer, cutting her off. “You’re the one saying the brother failed to give you the signals you’d expect. You’re the one saying Neal had motive, opportunity, and a predisposition toward abuse. Pardon me if I’m stepping on your psychological toes here, but we saw the brother bust his bubble and vent his steam: The guy went after Neal with a knife. A knife is a weapon of passion. A brother doing a sister is most likely a crime of passion, so why didn’t he fillet her if he blew his stack? Why’d he toss her off Lanny Neal’s fire escape and run her over using Lanny Neal’s car and leave her sweatshirt behind Lanny Neal’s garbage bin? Does that kind of planning fit with what we know about Ferrell Walker’s personality?”

  “I’m not against the idea of Neal,” she said calmly and yet determined to have her point heard. “I would just like to see the proper paperwork, the proper order to things. This is rushed.”

  “It’s an arraignment. We’re fine. Trust me.”

  They dodged a couple of young lawyers who worked for the state. LaMoia took Matthews by the elbow and guided her to the wall. “Don’t do this, okay? Don’t muddy the water. You want to turn in your psych evaluation? Fine. Evaluate and write it up. You and I are on to better things with Oblitz. Her and Hebringer looking alike. I can taste it.” He leaned into her now, so closely that she couldn’t hold focus on his face.
“I’ve got guys watching construction sites, guys patrolling the tourist traps. We’re running backgrounds on all hotel employees, from maintenance to the bellhops. Something, somewhere, is going to break. The Sarge is all over this water main break and some Chinaman who cashed it in down there, but I’m thinking we beat him to it and deliver him the prize, and I don’t need fucking Lanny Neal on my plate right now. Okay? The shit heap backed his car over his girlfriend. He stuffed her into the backseat and then launched her from the Aurora Bridge. SID can prove most of that. Does it bother me that SID didn’t do as well in his apartment? There’s nothing that can hurt us. Were either of us expecting a smoking gun? Not me. Maybe I was holding out a little hope for blood evidence, but that’s all right. He’s our guy,”

  LaMoia held up a manila envelope, “and I have it on the authority of the UW’s Oceanography Department that he’s a lying sack of shit when it comes to seeing her out on that fire escape with two twenty-two flashing on his clock. According to this, Mary-Ann did her swan dive before midnight, otherwise the tide carries her toward the locks. They back it up with tidal charts, computer printouts-the works. He’s caught in a lie, and that makes him good for it as far as I’m concerned.”

  This latest information was news to Matthews. Her impression had come from the gut-from watching Neal’s reactions as they had questioned him. He wasn’t what she expected of a guilty party, and though she knew she couldn’t take that to the bank, arraignment would start a countdown to a probable cause hearing. They’d have anywhere from one to ten days to make their case-and for her sake as well as LaMoia’s, she wanted to be sure that case stuck. If Neal skipped on a technicality, she worried where that would send Ferrell Walker.

  In the courtroom thirty minutes later, Matthews and LaMoia sat among the pimps, prostitutes, and drug addicts awaiting Neal’s three-minute arraignment. Spanish and Asian translators stood just behind the appointed public defenders doing their best to keep the suspect apprised of the rapid exchange and instant negotiations between the bench and the bar. After a half hour of this, it seemed more like assembly-line justice than the real thing. As an expert in her field, Matthews had spent a good deal of time in the witness chair, but attending a district court arraignment soured her mood.

  Just prior to Neal’s entrance into the courtroom, Matthews felt the hair on the nape of her neck stand rigid, and she intui-tively turned around to examine the myriad faces in the crowded courtroom. LaMoia turned as well and, so typically of him, spotted Walker first. “There,” he said, without pointing. “Back row.

  Far left.”

  As Matthews met eyes with the forlorn brother, he hoisted a brown paper sack into view and gestured that he’d brought it for her.

  “This is not good,” she said to LaMoia.

  “You want me to handle it for you? Happy to do it.”

  “He has every right to be here. I warned him I wanted no more contact with him. If you don’t mind, I think you’re handling it might make it seem more official to him.”

  “What are you not telling me?” he asked, perceptive as always.

  “I held off because I didn’t know the best way to handle it.

  At this point, I’d like to talk to you and Lou about it. What I should do.”

  “The late-night call?” LaMoia asked.

  She answered him with a saddened expression.

  “You’re shitting me!”

  “Some phone calls. He may have followed me to my place, I don’t know.” She explained finding the boot prints outside her window.

  “Matthews!”

  “Don’t, okay?”

  “I’ll rip him up and use him for chum.”

  LaMoia stood. But at this same instant, Neal’s name was announced by the bailiff, and the man was led into the courtroom by a uniformed officer. Matthews tugged LaMoia back down into his seat.

  Lanny Neal pleaded not guilty, expressed remorse for the loss of Mary-Ann, and was offered bail of fifty thousand dollars, an astonishingly low amount, given the charges. With a bail bondsman, he’d walk for five thousand, putting his car up for collateral. The wheels of justice rotated, and less than five minutes after he first appeared in the courtroom, Lanny Neal left under escort, essentially a free man. There would be a probable cause hearing set, and much later, a court date. All the while, Lanny Neal was likely to remain free on bail.

  Matthews knew the importance of cooling down Ferrell Walker in order to avoid a Jack Ruby moment.

  Touching LaMoia’s arm, she said, “Let’s talk to him together.”

  LaMoia glanced down at her fingers resting on his forearm, and she jerked them quickly away.

  They pushed past the waiting suspects and the exhausted defenders, finally reaching the aisle.

  LaMoia called out to Walker and stopped him at the door to the courtroom. The three moved as a group out and into the wide hallway outside the courtroom where wooden benches offered family and friends rest for weary legs. Heads hung.

  Desperate voices exchanged overworked cliches in worried whispers-“it isn’t fair,” “he didn’t do it.” The uniformed guards, bored with hearing such claims, looked straight ahead in a stony silence. LaMoia moved them over to the water fountain, where a noisy compressor would help cover their conversation.

  “He walked,” Ferrell Walker said with some heat in his voice.

  “It’s only an arraignment.”

  “They let him go.”

  LaMoia said, “They let him make bail. That surprised us, too, but it’s not unheard of. Believe me, Neal is going away for your sister.”

  Walker made no indication he’d heard LaMoia, his full concentration was on Matthews. She experienced his attention as nothing short of worship, an intense adoration that felt invasive and a little sickening.

  “I told you we’d handle it from here,” she said.

  “I told you you needed my help,” he contradicted, holding up the same paper sack he had indicated earlier.

  “Lunch?” LaMoia said.

  Matthews and Walker locked into a stare that excluded all else. She understood then that this was the moment Walker would cross the line from love to hate, and that she would be the one who pushed him over that line, and that she had no choice in the matter. This inevitability frustrated her, tightened her voice, and shortened her breath. Walker was, in fact, doing this to himself; she was nothing but a proxy, required to deliver the crushing blow to separate them.

  She said, “I don’t want or need your help. Not now. Not in the future. We’re all done here.”

  His dark eyes flared behind his resentment. He dropped the sack at her feet, though it seemed to float in its descent. “We’ll see about that,” Walker said.

  He glanced up at LaMoia, for the first time acknowledging him, though in a roundabout way. “You should have stayed out of this.”

  He turned and walked away, quickly lost in the crush of the county’s judicial process.

  “Shit,” LaMoia said.

  Matthews picked up the paper sack. She opened it, looked in, and asked for a pen from LaMoia. She then stirred through the contents: a wristwatch, a pack of cigarettes, a butane lighter, a woman’s wallet with what appeared to be a speeding ticket clapped in its leather jaws.

  “What do you want to bet he broke into Neal’s apartment and confiscated this stuff?” she said.

  “If he did, he just screwed us.”

  “He thought he was helping. That’s the sad part.”

  “If it’s from Neal’s apartment, it’ll invalidate it as evidence.”

  “If it’s evidence. I’m aware of that, John.”

  “This shit won’t do. We gotta do something.”

  “I think I just did it,” she said, regretting the tone she’d taken with Walker, and wondering at the consequences.

  A Wallet and a Watch

  “Knock, knock.”

  “Come in,” Boldt said. When he saw it was Matthews, he said, “Hello there. It’s been awhile. Have a seat.”

&nb
sp; Matthews wondered where his compliments had gone. Boldt had always had something nice to say to her, little observations that had always made her day. They weren’t there anymore, and she missed them.

  He said, “John told me about the guy outside your window.”

  “He shouldn’t have. It was shoe prints is all.”

  “I’ve asked SID to take a look. Better late than never.” Before she could protest, he explained, “On the off chance it’s related to our hotel peeper.”

  “It’s not.”

  “They’re over there now.”

  “Does anyone ever ask around here?”

  “We have a photo of a waffle pattern from the construction site-the voyeur watching the hotel. Maybe we can match them.”

  “You won’t. I have two candidates of my own,” she said.

  “Suspects?”

  She shook her head. “Listen, it could have been a handyman.

  I had my screens put on a couple weeks ago.”

  “That was optimistic of you. Still feels like winter to me.”

  “The prints are not connected to Hebringer and Randolf, Lou.”

  “I’d rather an educated decision on that be made, a group decision. Okay with you?”

  “You’re not yourself.”

  He pushed back the office chair and studied her. “You know, after about a hundred people telling me that, I’m tired of hearing it. Yes, even from you.”

  “I’d suggest you hand off Hebringer, but I know you better.”

  “Yes, you do. So drop it.” He apologized, “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. Something else is bugging me.”

  “The city worker drowning?”

  “The EMTs tell me there’s a section of the Underground there, still intact. The city won’t let me down the sinkhole because it’s too dangerous. Can you believe that? Someone tell that to Susan Hebringer. So I’m exploring the possibility of an alternate access. There’s a woman at the U, a Dr. Babcock, looking into it.” He added, “So are you going to tell me who your suspects are, or is your plan to try to distract me?”

  She never got much past him. She wasn’t even sure why she tried. “The floater, Mary-Ann Walker?”