Ridley Pearson - The Art of Deception

LaMoia said, “Sit down, Mr. Neal,” an order, not a request.

Neal displayed his disgust as he slouched into the grasp of the green monster, outwardly reluctant in this act of obedience.

Matthews purposefully stood over by the table, out of Neal’s peripheral vision but with a clear view of him, temporarily pushing away the continuing concern for Margaret’s whereabouts and the confusion over both Ferrell Walker and Nathan Prair that had robbed her of sleep. She focused on the suspect, alert for every twitch, every nuance as he reacted to LaMoia’s line of questioning.

With his detective’s notebook lying on his pressed blue jeans, LaMoia said, “You mentioned your car. What kind of a car is it, please?”

“Ninety-two Corolla.”

“Color?”

“Kind of gold.”

“Champagne?”

“Right, champagne.”

“You said the car was yours?”

“Yeah.”

“Only yours?”

“Yeah.”

“You have the only set of keys, or did Mary-Ann have a set?”

“Listen, we weren’t married.”

LaMoia said, “So she did not have a key.”

“People who spend a lot of time in boats, they don’t make the best drivers. Mary-Ann … she was a danger in that car.”

He repeated, “She did not have her own key.”

“You’re real quick, Sergeant.” Neal craned his neck then to locate Matthews. “I figured you were probably snooping around while the sergeant here held me riveted with his line of questioning.”

“You figured wrong,” she said. “We’re trying to show some respect by coming to your home, rather than dragging you downtown. We’re trying to get to the truth of what happened to Mary-Ann.”

LaMoia said, “I didn’t see a champagne Corolla out on the street on our way in.”

Neal shook his head and grinned at the same time. “So you knew about my car before you asked me. Is that supposed to scare me or something, Sergeant?”

LaMoia responded, “I know a lot of things before I ask you, Lanny. That’s why your answers count so much.”

“I know what you guys are thinking.” He wormed his hands together and wouldn’t look at LaMoia, interpreting the spill patterns in his worn brown rug instead. “But that’s bullshit, and we both know it.”

“What are we thinking?” LaMoia asked.

“Don’t hand me that. You know, and I know. So that’s that.”

“Yeah,” LaMoia agreed, “that’s pretty much that.”

“It doesn’t make me good for this.”

“A person’s history is an inescapable thing, Lanny. Think about it. We got it down in black and white that you like to backhand your women.”

“That stuff’s not admissible.”

“So you’re a lawyer now. What happened to travel agent?”

LaMoia’s comment won another spark of eye contact between the two, and Matthews saw a conflicted personality working hard to contain himself. Lanny Neal wanted to release some of the pent-up anger he was feeling but was smart enough to know that would work against him.

LaMoia said, “Let’s get back to the location of that Corolla.”

“Parked in a space out back.”

“Has it been to the shop recently?”

“No.”

“Been to the car wash?”

“Oh, yeah, I spend a lot of time at the car wash with the soccer moms in the minivans. You got me nailed, I can see that.

Reading me loud and clear.”

“I need a straight answer on this one, Langford. You have or have not cleaned the car in the past six days?”

The directness of LaMoia’s question sobered Neal. He sat up straight-the kid in the classroom caught doodling-suddenly understanding the severity of LaMoia’s questions.

“What’s with that?”

“An answer is all.”

“Have not. What? You think in killing her I drove her to the Ballard Bridge and tossed her? You want to search the car? Is that it?”

She’d gone off the Aurora Bridge. Matthews made mental note of the mistake.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” LaMoia glanced over at Matthews, “it might help to clear this up all the more quickly if I took a look at it, yes.”

“Have at it.”

Another look between Matthews and LaMoia. LaMoia said, “The lieutenant’ll stay here while I go down and check it out.”

Neal clearly didn’t like the idea. He appeared to weigh the value of dissenting but indicated a hook by the apartment door where a set of keys hung.

“I won’t be going into the vehicle,” LaMoia corrected. “I won’t even be touching it. A cursory, external examination is all.”

“Because you don’t have a warrant. Are you guys charging me with something?”

“Should we be?”

“Fuck no! I’m just asking what’s going on here.”

“What’s going on,” LaMoia replied flatly, “is that I’m going to go out and look at your car while Lieutenant Matthews asks you a few questions.” He added, “Do you have any problem with that?”

“No … problem,” he confirmed, reluctantly.

LaMoia left the apartment and Matthews moved around to the same chair in front of the green couch and faced Neal. The man’s demeanor changed noticeably, which came as no great surprise to her. Accustomed to controlling women, Neal would believe he could gain the upper hand over Matthews. It occurred to her that she couldn’t rule him out as the man watching her from the parking garage. If those kids had lied about the khaki clothing, then anyone could have been up there watching her.

“When was the last time Mary-Ann was in your car, Mr.

Neal?”

“What is all this with the car? Why do you have to hassle me? I didn’t do anything to Mary-Ann.”

“When you say you didn’t do anything, exactly what do you mean? Anything of a violent nature, is that it? Because we know you had sexual relations with Mary-Ann-you’ve already told us about that. You cohabitated here in this apartment,” she reminded. “You argued, at least you implied as much. I need to advise you, Mr. Neal, that we take your answers seriously.

They’re being written down, and we’re assuming you’re making every effort to aid us in our investigation. Are you going to tell me now that you never struck Mary-Ann, never threatened her, never abused her in any way or fashion-because when you make a sweeping statement like the one you just made, you force me to reconsider every other answer you’ve given us.”

“I didn’t kill her,” he said, though he sounded much less convinced, and Matthews made note of the last minute of their exchange. As she was writing he said, “She was in the car all the time. Okay? Maybe not every day, but all the time.”

“Did you ever strike her when she was in the car?”

“I’m not saying I ever hit her.”

“Do you need for me to repeat the question?” She found herself interested in his ability to pay attention to the questions and identify some of the traps she was trying to lay. Neal was no stranger to such interrogations, if she had to guess. Her colleagues in Special Assaults didn’t keep track of the number of times a person was brought in for questioning-but had they, she believed Neal’s jacket would be littered with such interviews.

“I never hit her when she was in the car. Never hit her, period.”

“Was Mary-Ann ever in an accident in the vehicle?”

“Damn near, the way she drives.”

Matthews noted the present-tense answer, wondering at the same time if Neal had yet to fully accept Mary-Ann’s death, or if it was merely a slip of the tongue. Guilt and remorse could play tricks on the brain. “Should I repeat the question?”

“No accidents, okay?”

She let the tension in the air settle, like waiting for smoke to clear. “Then you could see no reason, no explanation, for any of Mary-Ann’s spilled blood being found in or on your vehicle-this nineteen ninety-two champagne Corolla?”