Ridley Pearson - The Art of Deception

“Not if I’m in touch first,” he said, voicing the same childish sentiment he had earlier in the day. He stopped at Pete and took his knife back, though Pete required him to reach the other side of the security gear first. Pete said, “It’s illegal to conceal that weapon.”

“I’m a snitch,” Walker said proudly.

With that announcement, Pete spun around to check with Matthews, who just shook her head in disgust. When she looked again, Walker was nowhere to be seen.

It went against all her training, her substantial education, and certainly the rules set forth for volunteer workers, but upon hearing from an SPD narcotics officer that a street kid-a girl-had invoked her name during a sidewalk shakedown from which the girl had been released, Daphne Matthews found herself personally involved. Her first stop was the Shelter, where she learned that Margaret had been kicked loose after the maximum stay allowed. Where to look next?

A late March storm swept angrily over the city, driving frigid rain behind a nasty wintry wind that made it feel more like December. She pulled up her collar and ran for the Honda. This wasn’t a night for a pregnant girl to be out in the elements, and Matthews didn’t want Margaret having to negotiate street favors for the bare necessities of warmth and a place to sleep. She knew what these girls did in order to survive. With Margaret putting her name out to an officer-an obvious cry for help-how was Matthews supposed to return for the evening to her houseboat and a glass of wine? She decided to make one loop of downtown looking for the girl. Forty-five minutes, max. It wasn’t as if she had a hot date waiting.

Once into the driver’s seat she brushed the rain off her and turned toward the backseat in search of her umbrella. Looking out the car’s rain-blurred rear window, she thought she saw a figure-a man, for sure-standing behind the railing of the wedge-shaped concrete parking garage. Standing there, and looking across at her.

Turning around in the seat, adjusting her rearview mirrors-both outside and in-she picked him up again: a black silhouette like a cardboard cutout, standing absolutely still on the second level of the triangular parking garage.

After the first spurt of panic iced through her, she thought it was probably Walker, and though disturbed he might be following her, she’d done nothing yet to shatter his regard for her, nothing to turn a fan into a foe, though she knew how fine a line she walked.

As she calmed ever so slightly, not one to shrink and wither, she decided to face up to him. She threw the Honda in gear, bumped it out of the Shelter’s parking lot, and drove quickly around the block and into the garage entrance. She resented taking the parking stub, realizing it would cost her a couple bucks to get her message across to Walker, but peace of mind was cheap at twice the price.

She drove up the ramp to level two and parked in the first open space she encountered. She grabbed her purse, locked the car with the remote, and walked quickly toward the area of the garage where she’d just seen the silhouette. No one.

She called out, “Mr. Walker?”

She took hold of the railing and eased her head out for a more panoramic view. The new football stadium loomed to her left, dominating the skyline and obscuring a good deal of “The Safe,” as residents called baseball’s Safeco Field. To the right, skyscrapers competed for a view of Puget Sound. She looked above her and below her in the same general location, wondering if she’d gotten the level wrong. When she looked straight down at the sidewalk, she took into account all the pedestrians, alert for anyone hurrying, anyone fitting Walker’s general build, his sweatshirt and jeans, anyone looking back up at her.

It was during this surveillance that she spotted the rooftop light rack and bold lettering of KCSO patrol car #89. It appeared on the street to her right, immediately adjacent to the parking garage’s exit. Prair? she wondered.

A daily runner, Matthews ran, and ran hard. She flew past the rows of parked cars, circled down the oily car ramp she’d driven up, all in an effort to keep her eye on that moving patrol car as it cornered the parking facility. She wanted desperately to get a look at its driver. She wasn’t merely running, but sprint-ing down the echoing confines of the garage, the myriad of colorful lights-neon, traffic lights, headlights, and taillights-spinning like a kaleidoscope.

Focused as she was, she didn’t see the group of four street punks until she was nearly upon them. Huddled together under the overhang of the garage’s next level, they looked over at her with hollow eyes-hollow heads, was more like it-the pungent odor of pot hanging in the air.

The patrol car sped by on her right. She looked out, but too late.

One of the bigger boys in the group came out toward her from between the parked cars. “What are you looking at?”

She debated displaying her shield but decided against it. Kids like this held a particular dislike for authority. In doing so she experienced what must have been a defenseless civilian’s panic.

But if high on pot, they didn’t represent much threat of violence, no matter what the posturing. It didn’t fit the model. If the pot were an attempt at a comedown from an amphetamine high, though, she had problems. Her volunteer work at the Shelter had not gone for naught.

Another of the young toughs, this one with peroxide hair and a face that held enough piercings to set off an airport security check, followed on the heels of his friend. “She’s fine-looking, eh, Manny?” The kid coughed and spat, the phlegm attaching to the car he passed.

Matthews stood her ground. “There was a man up here. Up there,” she said, pointing to level two. “Just now. Maybe six feet tall, looking west. Maybe in a sweatshirt and jeans, maybe a uniform.”

“Take it somewhere else,” the bigger one said, but his eyes had locked onto her purse.

“She is damn fine,” the kid with the dye job whispered to his buddy, encouraging him forward, defining his own interest in Matthews.

“Did you see a patrol car? King County Sheriff’s?”

“Yeah, right,” replied the leader sarcastically.

“Up there on level two,” she said.

“There’s four of us, lady.” He stepped out from between the cars, now only a few feet from her.

Where was that sheriff’s car now that she needed it? This south end of town was rough at night-the very reason the Shelter was no more than a block away. Some of these hotheads carried weapons; she didn’t want that in the equation. Bribery, on the other hand, had its place. “Twenty bucks answers my question.” She tried to put his attention on her purse out of her mind, not wanting to see him as a criminal but instead as a source of information. If the blond kid wanted to try his doped-up luck at groping her, the purse carried a Beretta, a can of Mace, a single pair of handcuffs, a mobile phone, and a Palm Pilot. Connecting that purse to the side of his face would put the kid in the next county. Reaching into the purse, grabbing hold of the weapon, chambering a round-all that would probably take ten seconds that she wouldn’t have.

“Didn’t see no cruiser,” the leader said, “but maybe the uniform, yeah. How ’bout that twenty?”

The option presented itself for her to grab the gun while pretending to retrieve the twenty, though it upped the stakes considerably. She had no intention of shooting some stoned kid, nor of provoking the remaining three to fire on her.

She asked, “What color uniform?” This question would separate fact from fiction. Blue for SPD. Dark brown khaki for KCSO.

“Army maybe.” The kid took another step closer.