Matthews told the woman, “You wear a scarf on your head, or a hat, when you go out.” She clarified, “A dark scarf.”
A sideways glance of disbelief. “Now just how the hell would you know that?”
“May I see you with it on?”
LaMoia gave Matthews this leeway, though he clearly didn’t understand the request.
Oblitz grunted a complaint, retrieved the scarf, and tied it over her head. “My hair doesn’t hold up under your constant rain,” she complained. “Not without spray, and I hate that look.”
“Do you see it?” Matthews asked LaMoia, who continued to look confused. “The resemblance,” she completed.
“Hebringer,” he whispered. More of a gasp. “How could we have missed that?”
“We didn’t miss it,” Matthews said. “It just took us awhile to see it.”
Oblitz looked on, her head tracking them comically like a spectator at a tennis match. She stood by the couch, cigarette flaring, focused on Matthews. “What do I do?” she asked. “To help?”
“Tell us about your day,” LaMoia said. “The run-up to your spotting the peeper.”
“It’s been awhile,” Oblitz said.
“Whatever you remember,” Matthews suggested, a newfound kindness in her voice.
Oblitz settled back into the couch, still wearing the scarf. “I had a few extra hours,” she recalled. “I hit the museum. The Annie Leibovitz show. Some of your tourist stuff.”
LaMoia shot a glance toward Matthews. His normally dull, chocolate eyes were alive with excitement.
They hurried down the dimly lit hotel corridor toward the elevators, when Matthews steered them to the fire door and the stairs. LaMoia had just been notified that the preliminary lab report on Lanny Neal’s car had come through, and both were eager to learn the results.
“It doesn’t make our job any easier, nor does it make me feel adequate in predicting him.” She held the door for LaMoia.
“Our job?” LaMoia said, stopping only inches from her. “I like the sound of that.”
“Don’t get all mushy about it.” She held her ground, not allowing him to intimidate her with this closeness, her back to the cold metal door, the two of them nearly chest to chest. She said, “Construction sites, tourist traps. I don’t see Hebringer and Randolf fitting into that, both being locals, both living downtown. But I suppose we start there, because it was handed to us.”
“We work well together,” he said.
“Leave it alone, would you?”
“No.”
He headed through the door then and down the first flight of stairs. Matthews hesitated for a second, regaining her composure, controlling herself.
His voice echoed up the concrete stairway. “Chocolate and whipped cream—ever tried it?”
“In your dreams.”
“You got that right,” he said, his shoes slapping faster and more loudly as he continued his hurried descent.
18 Chumming
Matthews stood in the parking lot by her Honda, awaiting Walker as he punched out at a small shack at the foot of one of the fishing docks. The air pungent with saltwater, the wind heavy with a cold mist, she squinted against the blow, taking in the damp and the beauty of the shipping canal and the greenish gray hill rising toward the blinking radio towers. American flags hung everywhere, even in the rain. A boy rode his bike, a mangy dog running to keep up. The sound of rubber tires running on wet roadway had become so familiar to her that the scenery did not exist without it, the same way downtown demanded the low cry of the ferry horns bellowing out into Elliott Bay. This great city was fungal smells and mystical sounds, dreary skies and paper cups of steaming coffee. It was rubber boots and rain slickers, a place pedestrians waited at cross lights. The trawlers had serviced these same docks for more than a hundred years. Matthews could hear the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on cobblestone. She could hear the fishmongers shouting out prices as little blond-haired boys carried fillets wrapped in newsprint over to well-dressed house servants and cooks.
“You need my help again, don’t you?” Walker called out to her across the blacktop.
“Some questions is all,” she said loudly, as he was still some distance away.
He wore an old pair of running shoes, not waffle-soled boots as she’d expected. This discovery bothered her, for it still left the person responsible for the prints outside her mudroom window in doubt.
“How ’bout that drink?” he said, catching up to her. He wore the same clothes she’d seen him in before. Wet at the knees, caked with mud on the lower leg, they did not appear to have been washed.
“I don’t want you calling me anymore, Mr. Walker.” She added, “Any further attempts to make contact on your part will be considered harassment. Do you understand?”
“That’s the thanks I get?” He cocked his head, “What? You’re teasing, right? You want more stuff, is that it? Something you need done?”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. She saw confusion register on his face. “If you find it difficult to get over the grief, there are programs, counselors I can—”
“What the fuck? Counselors? You want me off your case, then you—”
“We’re closer to an arrest in this case,” she said, cutting him off.
This hit him like a slap in the face. Some spittle bubbled at the corner of his lips. “You need me,” he whispered. “I can help you.”
“I need you . . . to stay out of this. Your involvement could compromise our efforts, Mr. Walker.”
“That sweatshirt? That compromised your efforts, I suppose?”
He’d caught her, and the slight hesitation on her part cost her, though she salvaged the moment by turning it to her advantage. “Okay, I’ll admit it, there is something you can do to help us out.”
“I knew it,” he said deliberately, a quiz show contestant confident his answer had been right all along.
“I need to see your driver’s license, and I need to confirm your residence. Next-of-kin paperwork,” she explained, although this wasn’t the real reason behind her query.
“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, L
ieutenant? 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.”
19 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 intuitively 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.
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