Ridley Pearson - The Art of Deception

“It’s not okay. You do not owe me, you owe it to Mary-Ann to let us do our jobs. You owe Lanny Neal the right for us to bring evidence against him or not. He is not guilty simply because he was her boyfr-”

“He hit her. Did things to her.”

“And we’ll look into all that. But in point of fact, Mr. Walker, a homicide investigation typically looks at the immediate family first, relationship partners second, and close friends last.

You are the immediate family, the one we should be looking at first, not Mr. Neal.”

“So look at me,” he said, opening his arms to her.

“Did you kill your sister, Mr. Walker?” For Matthews it was a question that begged to be asked. She studied his body language carefully.

He stared at her, dumbfounded, cocked his head and said, “Who are you people? He beat her. He said he’d do this, and now he’s done it.”

He displayed none of the reactions she might have expected from a guilty party-a pregnant pause, rapid eye movement or breaking eye contact, adjusting himself in the chair. Even so, the idea would not leave her entirely and lingered in the back of her mind. Neal had the more likely motive, Neal the opportunity. And, if what they knew about Neal was true, he had the sordid history as well. Walker’s rage, his vengeance, was so prevalent that it filled the room. Assigning guilt was an easy jump for her.

He said, “From what I’m hearing I owe you a favor for helping me out. Stopping me like that. I’m good with that. I didn’t want him seeing Anna before I did. I was … upset. Okay? I can’t thank you enough for what you did.”

“It can’t happen again,” she said.

“I realize that. I’m sorry.” The student cowering to the teacher; the little boy who knows better.

She cautioned him, “We will instruct Mr. Neal to file a restraining order against you. It’ll be his choice to do that or not.

That doesn’t bring charges against you, but it serves to put you on notice. It draws a line in the sand that you’d better not cross.”

“Anna and I, we repay our debts,” he said.

“There is no debt. Are you hearing anything I’m saying?”

“I’ll be a good boy.”

“Don’t push me, Mr. Walker.”

“Lanny Neal is the one who needs restraining. You see to that, Lieutenant Matthews, and you’ll have no problem from me.”

“It’s not how it works,” she said. “You’re damned close to threatening a police officer.”

“She was murdered. You said so yourself. You have her killer in custody. So do something about it. You need help, I’ll help. You helped me out. I won’t forget that.”

“You’d better forget it. That is not the point!” She’d lost her patience and her composure. Walker seemed to take this as a victory.

“He broke her legs, didn’t he?”

Matthews felt a stab of surprise in her chest.

“You see? I can help you, if you’ll let me. He said he’d do that … said he’d break both her legs if she ever tried to leave him.” He watched her reaction, confirmation, and his eyes welled with tears. “He broke her legs, didn’t he? Oh, God, poor Anna.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss the particulars.”

He sat back. “Look at it this way: I didn’t want your help either. Just now, I didn’t want you getting in my face, in my head like that. But you did and it worked out for the better.

Right? See? All I’m saying is … sometimes we get help when we don’t see it coming. It’s a good thing. I can help you like that.”

“We’re done here,” she announced. “We’ll want to speak with you again, and when we do we’ll find you at your work-place.”

“Unless I find you first,” he said childishly, meeting eyes with her and straining to communicate something more.

She winced. “Go back to work. Go back to your life. If anything comes up regarding the investigation I’ll make sure you’re informed.”

“You see? Another favor.”

“That’s standard procedure, Mr. Walker. That is not a favor.

None of my actions should be construed as personal favors. Any such misinterpretation-”

“Save it,” he said, rising quickly to close the gap between them. She could smell the overpowering fish odors and his sour perspiration. She nearly retched. “The only question I have is whether or not you give me back my fish knife.”

Matthews glanced down at Dixon’s desk where the gun-smoke gray blade rested by Dixon’s pen stand.

“That knife has history,” Walker said. “Family history.”

It felt wrong returning that knife to him, but it felt equally wrong to confiscate the one item that was probably all he had left of his family. “Against my better judgment,” she said, holding it by the blade and offering the knife back.

“I won’t forget this,” he said.

She closed her eyes as he left the office, torn between reversing her decision and watching him go. But then he was gone, the decision made for her.

Crossing the ME’s to a conference room where LaMoia held Neal, she put away her thoughts of Ferrell Walker. As she swung open the door that led out of the offices and into the small reception area littered with magazines, Matthews caught sight of a brown sheriff’s uniform. The medical examiner’s office was a county, not city, department, meaning KCSO had as much or more business here than SPD. Nonetheless, she knew in advance, knew instinctively, who this uniform belonged to.

The wide shoulders turned, the blond head swiveled, and just before the door shut she caught a glimpse of the profile of Deputy Sheriff Nathan Prair.

What business did Nathan Prair have here? Was it Mary-Ann Walker or was it Daphne Matthews? She turned around quickly, hoping he hadn’t seen her. She hurried toward the conference room, a part of her wanting escape; she knocked once, turned the handle, and stepped inside, her heart beating a little too quickly.

“Why don’t you walk us through the events of the night Mary-Ann went missing,” LaMoia said.

Neal’s erratic eye movement, constant swallowing to fight dry mouth, and perspiring upper lip warned Matthews to pay strict attention to the lies she felt were certain to follow. Here was more what she’d been expecting of Walker when she’d put the question to him. By prior agreement, she’d let LaMoia kick things off. At an appropriate time, yet to be determined, she would take over and he would be the one to stay quiet. If they sensed they had a live suspect, they would finish up by double-teaming Neal, at which point Matthews would play the hard-ass, and LaMoia the more patient, reasonable cop, turning ste-reotypes on end and hoping to keep Neal guessing.

“We’d been at my mom’s, the two of us. We’d had a couple drinks. Dinner at my mom’s. My mom likes rum. We’d had a few rums, I guess.”

LaMoia clarified, “This is you, Mary-Ann Walker, and your mother?”

“Right.”

“State your mother’s name, please.”

“Frances. Frances Kelly Neal.”

“You had dinner, the three of you. Which night was that?”

“Saturday.”

LaMoia took a moment to make a point of counting backward. His favorite line of offense was to play the fool to begin with, slowly migrating to the hard-line cop any suspect learned to fear. “March twenty-second.”

Neal said, “We come home after dinner … to my hang, you know? And went to bed. I watched the sports while she … you know, she was busy.”

“Busy, how?”

“You know?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Busy.” He pumped his cupped hand up and down. “Beneath the sheets.”

“Ms. Walker was performing oral sex on you while you watched the sports news.”

Neal grinned proudly, but he couldn’t keep his eyes still.