Art of the Con: Carter Peterson Mystery Series Book 6

by Al Boudreau

“Want me to wait until you get there before questioning her.”

  “Would you?”

  “Absolutely,” James replied. “See you in a few.”

  As soon as James walked out the door, Reynolds said, “I’d like to be present for the questioning, as well.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” I said.

  “Will she be punished?”

  “If she pleads guilty, or is found guilty in court, then yes.”

  “What if I decide not to press charges?” he asked.

  The question was surprising enough that I caught myself doing a double-take. “Of course you’re going to press charges. This woman tried to swindle you out of a fortune. She stole your car. She assaulted you.”

  “I feel bad about it. The thought of it makes me sick to my stomach.”

  I was about to give the professor a piece of my mind and suggest his discomfort was due to the shot he’d taken to the groin, but I stopped myself. “Sit tight for a few. I’ve got to go get dressed.”

  I wasted no time in getting ready, genuinely concerned about Reynolds present state of mind. Within the span of two minutes I was all set to leave, notebook in my pocket, case file in hand. “All right, Professor. What do you say we get going? I’ll drop you off wherever you’d like. Home? University?”

  “Very well,” he replied. “Home would be best.”

  * * *

  I pulled into the Bridgeport Police Department visitor parking lot just in time to see Renee LeBlanc roll past in the back of the squad car.

  I’d called Sarah, after dropping Reynolds off, to give her an updated status report. She’d be here within the next five minutes.

  I noticed James’s unmarked cruiser parked in its designated spot as I made my way toward the building, file in hand. With James on point for the interrogation, there’d likely be an opportunity to throw some specific questions of my choosing at LeBlanc.

  Getting answers to those questions, however, was less of a sure bet. This woman had proven clever at every turn---she’d likely play it smart and lawyer-up.

  I walked inside and asked the desk sergeant to let James know I’d arrived.

  “Good timing,” James said as he swung the security door open, not thirty seconds later. “They just brought your suspect in.”

  “Yep. Saw them drive past while I was parking.”

  “I’m willing to bet you’ve got a list of questions all set to go,” he said.

  “I do. Just got to write them down.”

  “Better get cracking. She’s probably taking advantage of her one phone call as we speak.”

  “Mind if I use your desk?”

  “Go for it. I’m going to head back and make sure our interrogation setup is ready.”

  “I also sent digital copies of two photos to you,” I said as he was walking away. “Might want to print those out and take them in with you.”

  I pulled a blank sheet of paper out of the case file, drew a line straight down the center, and jotted down two separate headings, one for each column; Lawyer at the top of the left column, and No Lawyer at the top of the right.

  I had to be careful, not only to protect the cooperative spirit of my relationship with the department, but also to protect both them and me, legally.

  The information I’d acquired from Stoney the Hacker wasn’t exactly above board. Hitting a suspect with information they’d never see coming---because you came by it through questionable means---was one thing if they were sitting there, without representation, inside an interrogation room. Stick a lawyer in there next to them, and it becomes an entirely different matter.

  Fortunately, I had run this play with James enough times that it was second nature for both of us.

  I flipped through the pages of my notebook, briefly reviewed the contents of the case file, and thought about all I’d seen and heard over the past week. Within five minutes I had a list of four questions under the Lawyer heading, and six under No Lawyer. I took a few seconds to review them then put away all my reference material.

  I was ready.

  I headed back toward interrogation just as James was coming out.

  “Sarah’s here,” he said. “Be right back.”

  I continued down the short hallway and into the private viewing room, which sat adjacent to the interrogation room. The two spaces were separated by thick, one-way glass, allowing occupants of the viewing room to see and hear everything that went on in the interrogation room without being seen or heard.

  I stared through the glass at the rectangular, stainless steel table that was bolted to the floor, and the four steel chairs---arranged with two on each side of the table. I’d witnessed enough interrogations to be thankful I was sitting on the viewing room side of the action.

  The viewing room was small---roughly ten by ten---with a table and four chairs all facing the space beyond the glass. I took a seat and got my notebook ready.

  “All set with those questions?” James asked as he opened the door and followed Sarah into the room.

  I smiled at Sarah and handed the sheet of paper over to James. “LeBlanc go the lawyer route?”

  He threw his hands out to the side. “I was standing right there when she made the call. I don’t know who she was talking to, but it didn’t sound like a conversation you’d be having with your lawyer. Sounded more like she was talking to a relative, rather than legal counsel.”

  Sarah smiled. “Works for us.”

  James nodded as he reviewed my list of questions. “If you two are ready, I’m going to have LeBlanc brought in.”

  “All set.”

  “Well, this morning’s plans sure went sideways in a hurry,” Sarah said as soon as the door clicked shut.

  “I’ll say. Murphy’s Law strikes again.”

  “How’s the professor?”

  I shook my head. “Get this. After being on the brink of having millions of dollars swindled from him, getting kicked in the nuts, and having his car stolen, Reynolds said he’s thinking about not pressing charges. Said he feels bad. Makes him sick to his stomach.”

  Sarah covered her face with her hands and shook her head. “Hopeless.”

  “Love. Conquers all, they say.”

  She looked at me, let her tongue hang out, and stuck her finger inside her mouth. “Please stop, or you’re going to give me a sick stomach.”

  My laughter was cut short by the sight of Renee LeBlanc, AKA Janet Broe, in handcuffs, being led into the interrogation room by a Bridgeport police officer.

  “That’s her, huh?” Sarah asked.

  “In all her manipulative glory.”

  “Well … she is a pretty girl, I’ll give her that.”

  I reached forward and turned the volume up as I watched the officer pull out a chair for LeBlanc, instruct her to sit, then cuff her wrists to the steel eyelet protruding from the table’s surface.

  “Detective James will be right in,” the officer said to LeBlanc. “Sit tight.”

  “Oh, funny one,” she said and began laughing.

  Sarah and I looked at one another. “Sure seems carefree for someone who’s sitting in cuffs,” I said.

  “No kidding,” Sarah responded. “What’s up with that?”

  “Here we go,” I said as I watched James walk into the interrogation room.

  “Ms. Broe,” we heard him say via the speakers mounted above us. “Got you a beverage. I assume you drink water.”

  “Kinda hard to drink anything with my wrists shackled to this stupid table,” she responded.

  James didn’t take the bait, choosing instead to simply put the bottle down in front of her. He stood silently beside her for a moment then walked around to the other side, tossed his file folder onto the table, and took a seat directly across from her.

  I searched her face and her movements for a read on what she might be thinking and feeling as James plied his craft.

  It was unsettling how comfortable she looked---as if this were just some silly game she’d been forced t
o participate in---versus being caught in a situation that would likely result in dire consequences.

  James flipped the file open and took out what appeared to be her driver’s license. He held it straight out in front of him, alternating his attention between the document and her face. “Bright, shiny, new driver’s license. Connecticut, huh? Beautiful state, Connecticut. Says here the license was issued recently.”

  LeBlanc said nothing, choosing instead to stare James down, her face devoid of emotion, save a subtle smirk.

  I knew his methods well enough to feel confident this was just the wind-up. He was about to hit her with a statement designed to ruffle her feathers.

  James tossed the license down in front of her. “Says Janet Broe on this license. Here I was, thinking this whole time, that your name was Renee LeBlanc.”

  There it was.

  And … there it went. It was as if she was made of wax; no change in expression; no fidgeting in her seat; no sudden blinking of the eyes. Nothing.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I get so many criminals like yourself coming through this place, on their way to prison, I sometimes get confused. It’s … Melody Savin, right?”

  This time he got a response from her.

  Unbridled laughter. “This is dumb,” she said once she’d pulled herself together.

  James didn’t miss a beat. “Dumb. Yeah. Totally. A young woman, whole life ahead of her, scams a hard-working man who’s respected in the local community. You try to take his money. You assault him. Steal his car. I’d say you nailed it. It’s dumb, all right.”

  I saw James pull my list of questions out of his file.

  “What was your reason for the trip to Johannesburg, South Africa, this past week?”

  She smiled. “You’d really like to know, wouldn’t you?”

  He pulled out the copies of LeBlanc’s before and after spa photos and placed them on the table. “Have a little work done to fool the facial recognition cameras at the airport?”

  LeBlanc settled right back into her wax figurine impersonation, giving James nothing.

  “Pretty cool customer,” Sarah said.

  “No worries. James hasn’t hit her with my best questions, yet.”

  “So, Janet, Melody, Renee, whatever. I see you were born in Australia. Lived there for a while. Moved to New Zealand. Moved to South Africa. You trying to hide from someone? Evade authorities? What?”

  “You gonna unchain me so I can try some of your lousy water, or what?”

  “Nope. Not until I get some cooperation from you. Give me what I want, maybe I give you what you want.”

  She remained silent.

  “I’ve got your parent’s names, here,” James said. “Hamish and Brianna Thompson, of Brisbane, Queensland, Australia. Different last name. Not that I’m surprised. You seem to collect names like they were charms on a bracelet. You must have been adopted.”

  LeBlanc responded with a yawn.

  “Who is Dominic Boulland?” James asked. “Looks like someone who has been in your life for a long time. Probably knows all of your names. Broe. Savin. LeBlanc. I’ve got a fairly full waiting room. Folks to interview, pertaining to the charges filed against you. I think I’ll get him in here, next. You don’t seem to want to talk. My gut is telling me he will.

  She smiled. “I like gum. You like gum?”

  “I don’t get it,” Sarah said. “I’d be quaking in my boots right now, if I were her.”

  Sarah was right.

  I sat there and thought about it for a beat. “We’ve missed something. I have no clue what it is, but she’s obviously got some kind of out we don’t know about.”

  I watched James pick up the paperwork he’d scattered all around the stainless steel tabletop. He’d already run through my best questions, with no results.

  He slid his chair back and stood up. He was done.

  I kept my eyes glued on LeBlanc as James grabbed his file and made his way out of the interrogation room.

  She didn’t watch him walk away. Her expression didn’t change. She did nothing but sit there, patiently waiting for whatever it was she seemed to know would happen next.

  “Well, that went well,” James said as he came into the viewing room. “Girl’s sitting on some kind of stone-cold, confidence bomb. I don’t know when it’s going to go off, but we ain’t getting squat out of her until it does.”

  Chapter 26

  “Where are you parked?” I asked Sarah as we finished up with James inside the station.

  “There wasn’t a single parking space available in the visitor lot when I got here, so I had to park on the street, out in front of the station.”

  “C’mon,” I said. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “What’s our next move?” Sarah asked as we stepped outside.

  I tossed a hand in the air. “We’ve got LeBlanc dead to rights on the car theft. It’s all going to depend on what Professor Reynolds wants to do, going forward. If he ends up dropping the charges, it’s over.”

  I heard Sarah respond to what I’d said.

  But, I wasn’t really hearing her.

  There before us, rolling to a stop at the curb, was a stretch Mercedes.

  Vittoria Arnahj’s stretch Mercedes.

  Her uniform-clad driver emerged, walked around the front end of the vehicle, and opened the rear door for his employer.

  “Mr. Peterson, Ms. Woods. I wish I could say I’m surprised to see you here,” Arnahj said as she approached us.

  Sarah looked at me as if she were searching my face for the answer to some unspoken question.

  I had a feeling I knew what the question was, so I asked it. “Ms. Arnahj. What brings you over to this area of our city?”

  Arnahj reached out and grasped my elbow with her glove-clad hand. “As much as I hate to say so, Mr. Peterson, it would seem my lovely daughter has fallen victim to some attempt by the Bridgeport Police Department to sully her name and reputation. She rang me up a short while ago, and, of course, I’m here at her behest to save the day. Toodle-oo.”

  Arnahj walked off, leaving us stunned, her driver still standing before us on the sidewalk. He took a few steps toward the Mercedes then spun around and leaned back against the pricey coach.

  I looked into his eyes and a strange feeling radiated through me.

  An ear-to-ear grin formed on his face as he brought his arms up and crossed them over his chest.

  “C’mon,” Sarah said, unaware of the odd energy between me and this mysterious individual. She grabbed my arm and added, “We need to have a discussion, right away.”

  I reluctantly shifted my attention from the driver to Sarah, and her insistence on dragging me across the street to her car.

  Sarah made a beeline for her vehicle once she seemed confident I’d follow, climbing inside before I’d even finished crossing the busy street.

  “What on earth, Carter,” she said before I’d even gotten myself into the front seat. “Is it possible?”

  “That LeBlanc is Arnahj’s daughter? Yep. It’s possible.”

  “But, Reynolds told us they didn’t have any children.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I asked. “Arnahj may have had an affair. I think it’s a foregone conclusion to say Reynolds doesn’t know about any of it.”

  I watched Sarah’s expression change, likely thinking the same thing I was.

  “Eww,” Sarah said. “That would mean Professor Reynolds slept with his wife’s---”

  “Look,” I said as I pointed across the street. Sure enough, out of the police station came Vittoria Arnahj, Renee LeBlanc close behind.

  We sat there in silence as the pair approached the Mercedes, climbed in, and were whisked away.

  “I am in a total state of shock,” Sarah said, left trying to make sense of it all.

  “Never saw that one coming,” I said. “But, no sense sitting here on the street, trying to figure it out. I’ll get my car and see you at home.”

  Chapter 27


  My mind was still spinning as I started my car and pulled away from Bridgeport Police Department. The knowledge that Renee LeBlanc was Vittoria Arnahj’s daughter left me with so many questions, I didn’t know which ones to try and find answers for first.

  It had been a long while since I’d dealt with a case as riddled with controversy as this one seemed to be. I thought back on the moment Arnahj said she was there to pick up her daughter, gleaming Mercedes idling on the street, driver by her side.

  It was in that moment a small piece of the nagging puzzle fit into place---nearly causing me to rear-end the vehicle slowing for a turn in front of me. There was a good reason Arnahj’s driver’s face had thrown me for a loop.

  He was the guy at the coffee shop. The pickpocket. The man who’d stolen my wallet and ripped off our savings. I was sure of it.

  * * *

  I pulled in the driveway, parked behind Sarah’s car, and sprinted into the house. “Where are you at?” I called out.

  “Up in the bedroom.”

  “Found my pickpocket,” I said as I climbed the stairs.

  Sarah came running out into the hall. “What? How?”

  “Arnahj’s driver. He’s the guy who stole my wallet.”

  Sarah looked at me as if I’d just smoked an entire joint. “Are you kidding me, right now?”

  “Absolutely not. I had this nagging feeling about the guy as we walked away from the Mercedes. The realization hit me on the way home.”

  “How can you be sure he’s the same guy?”

  “Are you really asking me that?”

  “Sorry. It’s just---”

  “Guess you were right,” I said. “Arnahj must be the one who paid for our stay up in York.”

  Sarah let her body fall back against the hallway wall, mouth agape. “This is crazy.”

  My cell phone began ringing inside my jacket pocket. I pulled it out and checked the number. Local, but unfamiliar. “Hello?”

  The voice of Vittoria Arnahj filled my ear, her tone both defiant and sorrowful. I had no chance to say anything but, "OK," before she ended the call.

  “Who the heck was that?” Sarah asked.