The Art of Deception b-8

by Ridley Pearson

  “Right.” He knew the case.

  “She has a younger brother that’s number one. There may be a little transference going on. He seems to think he’s Watson to my Holmes.”

  “Lovely.”

  “The other possibility is Nathan Prair.”

  “Again?”

  “He was on the bridge the night we investigated. Sheriff’s Office is involved-don’t ask me how. He’s his same old creepy self, and I think there’s a chance he was watching me, or at least keeping an eye out for me, over at the Shelter.”

  “You want me to talk to him? Bring him in?”

  “A personality like his? No. Thanks, but no thanks. Guys like Prair, they live with expectation. Bringing him in, we’d add fuel to the fire, and at that point he’d have to prove to himself, to me, to everyone involved how right he was about the perfect match he and I would make. I’ve been through this before with him. The best approach is to give it distance.”

  “And that’s it? A list of two? We can handle that.”

  “That’s the short list,” she said. “The long list includes every con I’ve ever helped put away who’s now out on parole. It might have to include Langford Neal as well-the boyfriend we’ve charged with running over Mary-Ann and then tossing her off that bridge. He’s a controlling personality, has a history of abuse. I’m a woman who’s making decisions about his future, and that’s bound to sit wrong. I can see him getting curious about me, and that can lead to some ugly behavior.”

  “I’m not liking where this is headed,” he said.

  “That makes two of us.”

  “So let’s do something about it.”

  “It’s a passive crime, Lou. That complicates matters. Walker leaves me phone messages that turn my stomach. Prair shows up in parking garages and then disappears. I’ve got some mud and dirt outside a window. What charges do we file? And how much do I want to discourage Walker, given that he just supplied us with evidence we otherwise might not have found?”

  “What evidence?”

  “Some of his sister’s personal effects, her wallet, a watch, and a pack of cigarettes. There’s some paperwork in the wallet, including what appears to be a traffic citation. We left it all off with Bernie before we dug into it. He’ll process it for latents and hairs and fibers, and then give us a look.”

  “If the brother is compromising evidence, then that’s obstruction. You want him locked up, we’ll lock him up.”

  “John wants to question him, sure. But I may have scared him off earlier. I was pretty tough on him. I had him roll some prints. My guess: He won’t be showing up at work for a couple days. The other thing is, we don’t know where he got this evidence. At first, John was furious, and rightly so. But then we thought it through: If Neal had this stuff hidden, if Walker found this stuff hidden rather than in plain sight-it actually could help us build a case.”

  “That’s playing with fire, and we both know it, Daffy. You don’t want to get in the middle of this.”

  “I’m already in the middle. What I’d like is to get to one side, to let John be the center of this guy’s attention. That takes a little manipulation with personalities like this. It can’t be done all at once.”

  Boldt put down the pen and removed his reading glasses. A depth to his eyes drew her in. So much going on in there. “So how can I help?” he asked.

  “Mersi-do and Mersi-don’t,” LaMoia said, entering Boldt’s office without knocking. He hooked a chair with his boot, spun it around to face them and plopped down into it.

  “We’re discussing Daphne’s being harassed, possibly stalked,” Boldt said.

  Hands in the air, LaMoia quipped, “It wasn’t me,” and flashed another trademark smile. “My recommendation is that Heiman and I kneecap Walker, and that’s the end of it. He slides around the sidewalks on one of those little dollies for the next ten years. Teach him to mess with our family.”

  Matthews chuckled nervously.

  “I’d prefer we play a little more in-bounds than that.”

  “Suit yourself. Save the taxpayers a wad.” Looking at Matthews he said, “And I gotta tell you, it’s one job I’d put my heart and soul into.” He was openly flirting with her, and she wondered why that surfaced in front of Boldt, of all people.

  She wasn’t sure if she should share this or not, but if Boldt found out later that she’d withheld it, there would be hell to pay.

  “He made an indirect reference to Hebringer and Randolf.”

  Boldt stiffened. “Such as?”

  “It was one of the phone messages. He said it was dangerous out there. That I didn’t have to worry about that with him.”

  “Then I want you out of your houseboat. You’ll take a hotel room courtesy of the department until we’ve had a chance to follow up.”

  “That’s unnecessary.” She had feared an overreaction.

  Boldt reminded, “You found boot prints outside your window. Whatever the situation, I want you off of that houseboat.”

  To LaMoia: “With Walker mentioning the disappearances, I want him brought in for questioning.”

  “You’re reaching, Lou, and we both know that. Listen, phon-ers rarely stalk; stalkers rarely phone. Two different patterns, two different personalities, and I’m thinking two different people.”

  “Walker and Prair,” Boldt repeated. “But you don’t know that!”

  “Whoa, there,” said LaMoia. “When did Prair get into this?”

  Matthews explained most of her encounter at the parking garage-that “a witness” had seen a man in a khaki or brown uniform. She added, “An infatuation like Prair’s is harmless, it’s just annoying. Honestly, I’m more concerned about Walker’s overeagerness to please. But connecting him to the disappearances? That’s unworthy of you.”

  “He made that connection for us,” Boldt said.

  “It’s a daily news item, Lou. The whole city’s talking about Hebringer and Randolf. Come on!”

  LaMoia attempted to break the tension between them. “Nathan Prair is not harmless,” he said. “Just ask that motorist he iced.”

  Boldt spoke up quickly. “He was acquitted of that, John. It was found to be a good shooting.”

  “It was never a good shooting and the three of us damn well know it,” LaMoia said.

  An uncomfortable silence overtook them. LaMoia moved restlessly in the chair. “I’m with Sarge,” he said. “The houseboat is too dangerous for you right now. I’ll clean out my guest room.

  You’ll stay with me until we make sense of this.”

  Matthews barked out her reaction, glancing at Boldt, who grinned.

  “Talk about the wolf in sheep’s clothing!”

  LaMoia was not beyond laughing at himself. “I’m not going to hit on you. You-both of you-did me a favor awhile back.

  I’m returning it, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, right,” Matthews said. Her beeper sounded from inside her purse, silencing all three. Hesitation and expectation hung in the air: If LaMoia’s or Boldt’s pager went off within the next few seconds, then typically it meant a major crime. All three held their breath as Matthews inspected the device, the possibility of another Hebringer or Randolf on everyone’s minds. Her shoulders relaxed. “The Shelter,” she said. “Don’t worry: I know what it’s about.”

  “Consider the offer,” LaMoia said.

  She looked up at Boldt, anticipating another moment of shared amusement. Instead, Boldt said in all seriousness, “Consider the offer, or pick a hotel. You are not going back to that houseboat.”

  Silhouettes

  A sense of relief washed through Matthews as she spotted Margaret across the cavernous basement room. The pregnant girl had returned to the same cot. These cots were as close as it got to something they could call home. She wanted to thank Sheila for paging her, but it would have to wait.

  Margaret’s eyes had sunk deeper into their sockets, as if the skin on her face were shrinking. Her hair was both tangled and flattened and oily. She caught Matthe
ws studying her.

  “Rough day at the office,” the girl said, reacting to that stare.

  “May I?” Matthews indicated the opposing bed.

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  “It’s mine to waste,” Matthews said.

  Closing her eyes appeared difficult for Margaret, as if she might be in pain.

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Have you ever been pregnant?”

  “No,” Matthews said. “But I’d like to be sometime.”

  “Don’t be so sure. It sucks. I feel sick most of the time.

  Unless I’m high. When I’m high, it’s not so bad.”

  “When you’re high,” Matthews said, “your baby’s high, too.”

  “Lucky her, him, whatever. You going to preach to me?

  ’Cause if you are, maybe we could do this another time.”

  Sobriety was a requirement at the Shelter, but its definition remained unclear. Most of the girls arrived high. Anyone caught using while in residence was first counseled and consulted-usually involving Matthews-but was kicked out on the second offense. Repeated violation of the rules won a girl a thirty-day ban from the premises. As a rule the staff tried to limit the proselytizing. Some of the Christian centers suffered for their evangelizing-the girls didn’t want to hear that Jesus or anything else could save them. Nothing had saved them so far.

  “No. Not going to preach,” Matthews said. She tried to sound relaxed as she thought about health problems for the mother and neurological and other damage to the fetus.

  “I didn’t ask for this baby.”

  “It’s beyond that now, like it or not.”

  “I knew you were the preachy type. You got that look, you know? Sister Teresa.” She rolled her head, facing away on the pillow. “Please go away. I got a headache.”

  “And I’ve got a hole in my stomach, Margaret. This isn’t about just you anymore. You can’t ignore that baby. What about your grandparents?”

  “Forget them, would you? There’s a place south of Safeco.

  Once I’ve got a place … it’s gonna work out.”

  “I’d think twice about staying here in the city. You’re un-derage. There are people who prey on girls like you, Margaret.

  They’ll have you dealing for them. You’ll get arrested. Call your grandparents-they’re your chance out of here.”

  “You know them real good, do you?”

  “The baby will be born addicted. How fair is that?”

  “Fair?” She placed a hand on her swollen belly.

  “Are you getting enough food? The baby needs nutrition.”

  “Pizza crust. You might say I’m eating Italian.”

  “What if we called them together? I’d be willing to do that.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “They’ll tell her-my mother. She’s their daughter, after all.

  They’re gonna tell her. And she’ll tell him because she’s a pathetic, weak woman, and that’s just what she does. And it’s his baby-you understand that, right? His baby, her boyfriend’s baby. And he’ll either kill me, or keep sleeping with me. Making me do things … you understand that, right? I am not going back there. Forget it.”

  “So, we’ll think of something else.”

  “Will we really?”

  Matthews saw a possible solution-jail time. A women’s ju-vie facility would offer health care for mother and baby. The irony didn’t escape her; as a cop she couldn’t recommend to Margaret that she get herself arrested. “You’re good here for another few nights. It gives us time to think about this.”

  “Just forget it, would you? I’m here for the food, the shower, and the bed. Not for you, not for counseling. I like it up there.

  I have friends up there. They’re like family.”

  “If you use, your baby ends up addicted.”

  “I got that the first time.”

  Matthews took the girl’s arm and turned it to make sure her own phone number was still inked there. She reminded the girl that cop or not, she would never be a cop if Margaret called.

  Margaret said, “Yeah, yeah.”

  Matthews crossed the room discouraged. She thanked Sheila for the heads-up, but didn’t get into particulars. For all her problems, Margaret was in relatively good shape by Shelter standards.

  She fixed a weak cup of tea and sat alone in the corner trying to sort out options. The tea bag leaked onto the table once she removed it. She drew patterns with the discharge, stretching it like a river across the plastic veneer. She finished the tea still stuck on talking Margaret into getting herself arrested.

  The rain had started and stopped again by the time she left.

  She crossed the church’s fairly well lit parking lot, arrived at the Honda, key in hand, and climbed in. She couldn’t help reminding herself of her most recent visit, and her spotting the man up in the parking garage, and though she fought the urge to do so, she took a moment to check the garage again.

  Seeing no one up there, she told herself to forget about it, but found it easier said than done. Rush-hour traffic jammed the downtown streets, and understanding that at best it was the lesser of two evils, she elected to try Aurora, willing to suffer the five o’clock creep for the lack of lights and the ability to circumvent downtown.

  She left the church parking lot. Traffic flow was indeed like blood in a clogged artery. It took her ten minutes to make three lights. When she finally managed a left, she checked her side mirror for any cyclists or other yahoos trying to cut the corner on her, and she spotted a light rack that was at once both familiar and unfamiliar. It wasn’t an SPD patrol car; she knew that much.

  It might have been SFD, except the fire guys used red, not blue, lights in their rooftop racks. The blue lights indicated police or Sheriff’s Office.

  She blamed her reaction on the fact that they’d just been talking about Prair, less than an hour earlier, putting the man solidly in her thoughts. Sight of that light rack spiked both fear and anger in her. Was Nathan Prair following her around town?

  Following her home? Watching her from parking garages? Had it been Prair outside of her mudroom window, and if so, how much of her had he seen?

  It added up, now that it seemed so obvious to her: As a law enforcement officer, her home phone and address went unpublished, but it was well within the pale that a King County deputy sheriff could obtain that information. Walker was unlikely to know the location of her houseboat; Prair could get it with a phone call.

  She waited at the intersection behind a flurry of angry horns and, as the light turned yellow, quickly took the left turn, trapping those behind her with the red light.

  Asking LaMoia to come out into this mess of traffic at first seemed unthinkable, yet that’s just what she did. She would execute some evasive tactics and eventually find her way home-hopefully with LaMoia close behind, looking for anyone following her.

  “Yo,” he answered.

  “It’s me.”

  “Hey, you.”

  “Listen, it may be nothing, and I’m keeping my eyes peeled, but I have half a notion that Prair is with me in traffic, and I wondered if you could use your connections over there to see if he happens to be on duty at the moment, and if so, if they know his ten-twenty. Traffic’s bad. And it’s getting dark. I’m heading down toward Safeco. I thought I’d loop it once-give it four right turns in a row. You know.”

  “Do it, and then put yourself in a holding pattern-make it a couple laps-I can be there in a matter of minutes.”

  “Sweet of you, but it’s a mess out here. I’m going to go get some of my things at my place and then take Lou up on the offer of a hotel. He suggested the Paramount. If you want to meet me there, I wouldn’t complain.”

  “I’d rather catch up to you now, catch Prair in the act.”

  “There’s no law about driving around the city.”

  “Listen, I can make these calls from the car. Keep orbiting Safeco. I’l
l be there in five minutes.” He hung up.

  She felt incredible relief. He’d done as she hoped, but not as she asked, proving that he was predictable in an unpredictable way.

  A half mile later, the relief gave way to panic as she reached Safeco Field and the Honda unexpectedly sputtered and died.

  Knock, Knock. Who’s There?

  As her car drifted to the side of the road, Matthews cursed herself for choosing such a remote part of town. In all of Seattle you couldn’t buy yourself an empty street at this time of day, except around a sports stadium that wasn’t in use.

  A curtain of rain fell all of a sudden, its impact deafening.

  She reached for the handle, but then locked her door, reminding herself to stay inside.

  “It’s me,” she said, when LaMoia answered her call less than a minute later.

  “What’s your ten-twenty? I’m jammed, traffic is a bitch, and just for your information, Mr. I-haven’t-got-a-Prair came on duty with the night shift. He’s believed to be on bus duty downtown.

  My guy’s checking all that. But here’s the humdinger-” He paused. “You ready for the humdinger?”

  She didn’t think she was. She wanted to explain her car had died and get some help on the way. But before she could tell him, he continued right on.

  “The citation, the speeding ticket Walker slipped you at the courthouse? His sister’s speeding ticket-Mary-Ann Walker?

  That citation was written up by none other than Deputy Sheriff Nathan Prair.”

  Her world folded in on her, like the legs of a card table collapsing. She felt trapped, pinned down. She blurted out, “The Honda died. I’m dead in the water over by Safeco Field.”

  “Died how?”

  “Sputtered and quit. I coasted to the side of the road.”

  “Gas,” he said. “I don’t like it.”

  “Well, it isn’t my dream vacation either,” she said, a little testy.

  “You could have been sandbagged, Matthews. You sit tight.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  The phone went silent and she dropped it into her lap. She had hoped he wouldn’t disconnect the call, the sound of his voice so reassuring, but she hadn’t been about to ask him to stay on the line. Prair had known Mary-Ann Walker ahead of her death. That made her feel terribly vulnerable.