The Art of Deception

by Ridley Pearson

  “Stole it from where?” Boldt asked.

  Vanderhorst continued to sweat profusely. He viewed Boldt with suspicion but didn’t recoil into himself as Matthews feared.

  She repeated, “He’s claiming he’s the brain behind this.”

  A confused Vanderhorst pointed to the first three images on the table. “Then who did these? I suppose this guy did these as well? Millicent Etheredge. Tanya Wallace. Anita Baylock. He’s lying to you.”

  Their suspect had just stated the names of the other three victims, names that had not been mentioned in this room. There were explanations a good defense attorney could use, including the absurd amount of press most such cases received. But the context of his answer combined with the determination in his voice would go a long way toward convicting Per Vanderhorst.

  “You’re saying he wasn’t part of this,” Matthews suggested.

  “It’s bullshit,” Vanderhorst said.

  “He described them as strung up like fish. He’d been inside that room.”

  “He stole the key. My key.”

  She wanted so badly to look over at Lou and celebrate their victory with him, but she dared not send such a signal. They needed as much out of him as possible.

  Boldt said, “That key has been missing how long?”

  “A while now. I’m not all that great with time.”

  “How’d you get in there after that?”

  “I didn’t,” Vanderhorst said and coughed. “Not after I lost that key. Most of the locks down there . . . any skeleton key will work. But not that room. That’s why I used it.” He answered their puzzled expressions. “Listen, I hid the key so it couldn’t be found on me.”

  “Is that right?” Boldt said.

  “That was your idea,” Matthews said.

  “Hid it on a nail down the hall . . . this storage room. And then one day it vanishes—and that’s the last I gone down there.” He said to Boldt, “I’d been planning on leaving way before you ever showed up, believe me.”

  “But they owed you money,” he said.

  “Nearly six hundred bucks,” Vanderhorst said, as if a king’s ransom, as if it had been worth getting caught with that kind of money on the line. His desperate eyes tracked between his two interrogators. “Why are you both looking at me like that? What’d I say? Six hundred bucks is six hundred bucks. Who’s going to walk away from six hundred bucks?”

  “Makes sense to me,” Boldt said.

  Vanderhorst rolled the last photo over for himself. It was an ME’s head shot of Billy Chen. He stared at the photo for a long time in complete silence. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

  “Is that right?” Boldt said skeptically.

  “Ask him.”

  “You had him in that room. We can prove it.”

  Vanderhorst looked dazed to hear that. He shrugged his shoulders. “Some guy shows up uninvited, you show him the welcome mat.”

  “You knocked him out and then made it look like a drowning.”

  “So says you.”

  “Convince me I’m wrong.”

  Vanderhorst looked up at Boldt with bored, droopy eyes.

  A sharp knock on the door caused Matthews to jump. For a moment she’d been in the Underground with Vanderhorst. The knock was followed by a woman in police uniform. “ Lieutenant,” she said, addressing Boldt. “They’re here.”

  Anthony Shapiro pushed past her, all five foot three of him. He wore a dark blue silk suit worth a month of Boldt’s salary. He said to Vanderhorst, “We’re all done here, Mr. Vanderhorst. Don’t say another word.” He glanced at Boldt with fiery eyes. “Shame on you, Lieutenant. And on the weekend, no less!” He noticed the tape recorder then, the hubs still moving. He vaguely acknowledged Matthews. Two lieutenants in the same interrogation room—this particular team of Boldt and Matthews— seemed to finally register with him.

  “Tell me you kept your mouth shut, sir,” he said to his client.

  “Who the hell are you?” Vanderhorst said.

  Shapiro hung his head and sighed. “Okay,” he said to Boldt, “tell me how bad it is.”

  Boldt smiled his first smile in many long weeks. It was as much as he needed to say.

  50 Without a Prair

  As Boldt and Matthews had sat down with Vanderhorst, LaMoia hung up the phone, his hand trembling noticeably. A housefly landed on the fabric wall of his office cubicle, and he watched it lovingly clean itself, rubbing its arms together like a card dealer warming his hands before the big game. As a detective he chased facts, one to the next, the clichéd analogy of following crumbs so appropriate to him at a time like this.

  Nathan Prair’s long-awaited written report lay on his desk, a poorly crafted summary of the deputy sheriff having given Mary-Ann Walker a speeding ticket a week prior to her death, as well as his written alibi for the night Mary-Ann Walker had been killed—a night tour during which, by his own admission, he’d taken what cops called “lost time,” a break, during the critical hour of 11 P.M. to 12 A.M.

  LaMoia called upstairs to Matthews to share the vital information he’d just gotten from the manager of the airport McDonald’s. Hoping she might either make the interview with him or at least monitor his progress, he felt disappointment when her voice mail picked up. With time of the essence—Prair rotated off-duty soon—LaMoia made his journey without her.

  On his way across town, he called Janise Meyer, of SPD’s I.T. unit, and asked the impossible of her. Janise didn’t know the word. He was counting on that.

  He had GPS technology to thank for his ability to locate Prair. The King County Sheriff’s Office tracked every vehicle out on patrol. LaMoia requested the man’s physical location or assignment rather than asking KCSO dispatch to radio the deputy or send a text message over the patrol car’s Mobile Data Terminal. As an SPD officer, LaMoia lacked any authority whatsoever to order Prair in for review, but he saw nothing wrong with paying the deputy a visit with a tape recorder in his pocket. With the blessing of the PA’s office, and the knowledge that car 89 was currently between Madison and Marion, moving south on Broadway—doing bus route duty that was easy to predict—LaMoia parked the Jetta outside a frame shop on Broadway, walked over to the bus stop, and kept watch for the patrol car. He spotted it a few minutes later, started the tape recording, and stepped out into the street, sticking his thumb out like a hitchhiker. He wanted this encounter as casual and light as possible.

  Prair pulled the cruiser to the side of the road, unlocked the master lock, and LaMoia climbed in.

  “What the fuck?” the deputy said, rolling the car with a green light. LaMoia heard the master lock engage and experienced the first twinges of unease.

  “I don’t owe you this,” LaMoia began. “I’m not even sure why I’m bothering with it.”

  Prair glanced hotly at his passenger, straightened his head, and said nothing for several more blocks. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” LaMoia answered.

  “So I’ll say it again: What the fuck?”

  “The fuck is this: The Mickey D’s you used as your alibi the night Mary-Ann Walker went off the Aurora Bridge had a fire in the deep-fat fryer that night.” He watched the horror register on Prair’s face. “SFD logged the call as nine fifty-four P.M. Had responded by ten-oh-seven P.M. They closed the joint down for the rest of that night and part of the next morning. Meaning that when you went off the clock, the place wasn’t open.” The whish of wet tires on roadway. Broadway stayed pretty busy at all hours. “Shit, we’ve got to follow up anything like this: an alibi, a witness, whatever—and you know that, Prair—you dumb shit. The least you could have done is check out your own alibi.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Another five blocks ticked off, slipping by the windows in a blur of wet colors. College kids peopled this section of Broadway. LaMoia was amazed at how much younger they looked each year.

  Prair finally said softly, “There was no way I could make this thing right with any of you. And you know why? Because you come to the table
prejudiced against me.”

  “Oh, give it a rest.”

  “If I’d told you the way it was I could have lost my badge.”

  “A distinct possibility.”

  “You’re making jokes out of this?”

  “Me and Popeye: ‘I y’am what I y’am.’”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Why do you think I’m here, Nate? If I wanted to arrest you, I’d have turned it over to II, or the brass, or the PA’s office. Should I be wanting to arrest you for this murder, Nathan? Or should I be hearing your side of this first?” Never mind that he’d already spoken to Hill, that Hill would have already called the prosecuting attorney by now; never mind that if they’d hauled him into the Box, Prair would have invoked his right to a guild attorney and clammed up. LaMoia hoped like hell that by doing this in the comfort and safety of Prair’s patrol car, by offering him a preemptive second chance, the man might overlook the condition of the quicksand where they now treaded.

  So far, so good.

  Prair turned off his route, down the hill toward the city, and pulled over in front of the Egyptian’s marquee, engine running.

  He looked over at LaMoia, who could see the tension behind the man’s eyes belying his attempt at a cool demeanor. LaMoia found himself eyeing the passenger door handle. Prair said, “She and me . . . we got into it a little.”

  LaMoia felt restless all of a sudden. Who was the one cornered, and who was the one planning to surprise? Prair was a burly fuck. LaMoia didn’t want to find himself tangling with him.

  Prair continued, “She and me . . . well . . . let’s just say we’d had a cup of coffee together . . . and she was a pretty messed-up kid.”

  “Are you telling me you were jumping Mary-Ann Walker?” LaMoia asked, still trying to make it sound like a locker-room shower discussion.

  “No, no,” Prair said, his confidence allowing a smarmy grin to occupy his face. “A fucking cup of joe is all.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure,” Prair answered. “But I was interested, okay? And she was interested, I’m telling you. You, of all people, know what I’m talking about.”

  “Sure I do.” LaMoia felt a little sick of himself.

  “It happens to all of us on the job.”

  “It does,” LaMoia said, trying to force a fraternal grin onto a face that felt slightly frozen.

  “And all I’m saying . . . maybe I got a little carried away with this one. So sue me! She was a looker, sexy as all hell, and as vulnerable as they come, all this sobbing over this wife-beating bastard she was shacking up with. And me, I’m thinking I’ll come swinging on the vine through the window and catch her Dangerous Dan backhanding her, and I’m good for getting laid anytime I want it—am I right?”

  “Right as rain,” LaMoia said, feeling the acid in his stomach.

  “Exactly,” Prair said, finding a rhythm in the patter. “So what was I supposed to tell you guys—that I was using my lost time to loiter outside that turdball’s apartment that night, debating how to rescue a damsel in distress? How fucking sick does that make me look? But you see what I was thinking?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “My line of thought.”

  “Clear as a bell.”

  “She’s having problems with the guy; I take care of the guy.”

  “Simple as pie,” LaMoia said. “Might have thought of it myself.”

  “You pull these peaches over, and they spill their guts to you. I’m telling you. I mean, the honey pot is yours. One look in their eyes and you know the ones that are so high-strung they’re about to rip, the ones that like the uniform regardless who’s inside, the ones that are going to blow you off. You can tell, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “It’s like a fucking dating service.”

  “So you were there that night,” LaMoia pressed, wondering how far he could push this. The thought occurred to him to escape from the car while he still had both legs, both arms. Then he saw that bloated body floating facedown in the black water, and he stayed put.

  “I hung around out back, yeah. Fifteen, twenty minutes.”

  “This is gospel?”

  “Okay . .. truth told, I’d been there a couple nights before looking for an opening. I got a little hung up on this one.” Prair gripped the wheel tightly. The power steering mechanism under the hood cried out loudly if he moved the wheel even an inch. Prair didn’t seem to hear this.

  “If we’re gonna sort this out,” LaMoia said, “we gotta have all the cards.”

  Prair nodded. He’d started the process—he knew there was a logical conclusion to it. “Okay, so that particular night, that Saturday night, I’m doing a drive-by as they’re coming back to his place.”

  “What time is this?”

  “Little after ten. I’m thinking, I’ll let her see the cruiser, catch up alongside them at a light. Surprised the shit out of her, I want to tell you. But at least she knew I was there now. She knew there was help available if she needed it. I hang out in the cruiser, the back of his place. Ten forty-five, maybe eleven o’clock, she climbs out onto the fire escape and lights up a cancer stick. I’m thinking she’s signaling me, right? So I get out of the car. I got my juices going—I’m thinking it’s show time. But as I’m coming around the cruiser, all of a sudden she turns around up there, and I see she’s on the phone, the fucking phone! Then, like seconds later, I see this guy climbing the fire escape toward her, and now I got my piece out. Who the fuck is this? He’s got to have been hanging around just like I have. Fuck if the creep doesn’t wave to her on his way up, and she waves back. He sits down a couple steps below her—like at crotch level, right?—and the two of them start chatting it up, and I’m out of there.”

  “You saw this guy?”

  “Saw how? Not like that. No fucking way. He’s a phantom is all. But me, I’m gone. The rendezvous she’s having ain’t with me, so I’m the fuck out of there. Just wanna make sure they don’t make the cruiser on the way out. And they don’t, so I’m good.” He paused. “Good until she’s found fucking bobbing for apples Tuesday night, and me, I’m right in the middle of it.” He faced LaMoia. “Can I pick ’em or what?”

  LaMoia let some skepticism show. “That’s the way you want to call this?”

  “That’s the way it went down, LaMoia. Swear to God. But think about it. What was I supposed to do? There was no way . . . I mean, no way, I was going to detail any of this to you guys up there on that bridge. You fucking kidding me?” He mimicked himself. “ ‘Hey, by the way, LaMoia, I was scouting this peach the other night. Watching her smoke a cancer in her fucking panties on the fire escape.’ What the fuck is that about? Then, later, what was I supposed to say, ‘By the way, I may have forgotten to mention . . .’?”

  “Wouldn’t have been too cool.”

  “No shit. And these girls. I’m already down in the books on that. You know that. Something like this gets out . . .” He looked over at LaMoia, the pall of realization taking hold. “You understand, John,” use of the first name did not come easy for Prair, “this cannot get out.”

  As the extent of his confession began to sink in, for Prair, LaMoia calculated the time needed to escape the front seat—the doors were power locked, necessitating several steps.

  “I mean . . . in terms of helping you out . . . that’s been bugging me, sure it has. I’ve got a duty to help out, and I know my duty.” Prair was talking to himself now, and that bothered LaMoia all the more. “I should have said something early on, okay? I’m good with that. But you can see my side of it.”

  “Of course I can.” It didn’t sound convincing, even to him.

  “Something like this, and I’m done. I’m running a cash booth in a mall parking garage. Give me a fucking break.”

  “There’s definitely room to work this right,” LaMoia said.

  “You give anyone your source on this, and I’m fucked. You can see that, right?”

  “Oh, yeah,” LaMoia said, “we’re good o
n that.”

  “How good?”

  “Let me get something straight,” LaMoia said. “You saw this other guy, the one on the fire escape, but not any kind of good look.”

  “I got the hell out of there. I told you.” Prair paused, considering this. “You’re thinking it was the brother, this creep bothering Daphne.”

  LaMoia said nothing. He didn’t like hearing Prair calling Matthews by her first name. He felt incredibly protective at that moment.

  Prair said, “I’m good with saying I saw him, if that’s what you need, if that would help your present situation. If maybe you and I could do a little business here. Maybe you see clear to get around directly involving me in this.”

  Did this clown hear himself? LaMoia wondered. He was dealing with a pathological liar, a man who’d say anything to a woman to get himself laid, anything to a fellow cop to keep his record clean. LaMoia said, “My opinion, Nate: You’ve got some issues here need working out.”

  “Issues,” Prair agreed, nodding slightly. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “We’re gonna want to go over this again,” LaMoia said.

  “Not officially, we’re not. No fucking way. You can forget about it. You call me in, and I’m making like Sergeant Shultz. You’re gonna see my guild rep’s ugly ass. Me? I’ll be swigging tall boys over at the Cock and Bull.”

  LaMoia’s right hand found the door lock button—he kept the move as subtle as possible. For him the air heated up a few hundred degrees. He popped the button, the loud click like a muted gunshot. “You know, Nate, shit like this works out for the best.”

  “You bring me in, and I’ve got me a bad case of laryngitis.”

  “SPD and KCSO, we’re talking apples and oranges here,” LaMoia reminded. “One hand doesn’t always wash the other. We put you down as an informer, and we can block your identity.” It didn’t work like that, but a guy like Prair thought he knew more about detective work than he actually did.

  A cell phone rang. LaMoia reached for his, only to realize it was Prair’s ringing. The cop answered the phone. “The fuck you say!” His eyes tracked to LaMoia, and for a moment the detective believed he might be the topic of discussion. Had Sheila Hill jumped the gun with her phone calls? Had Prair just been alerted he was under investigation for something that showed in one of his ticket books nearly two years earlier? “Maybe you will, maybe you won’t,” he said. He ended the call, studied LaMoia out of the side of his eyes as if about to say something. He then looked out the windshield at the appealing skyline. LaMoia wished he could have enjoyed the moment. Prair said, “We’re all done here, Cool. I gotta roll.”