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 clichés 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.
20 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.”
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?”
“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, phoners 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.”
21 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 Matthews 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 underage. There are people who prey on girls like you, Margaret. They’ll have you dealing for them. You’ll get arrested. Call y
our 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 juvie 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.
The Art of Deception Page 14