Ridley Pearson - The Art of Deception

“Sure, I can see that,” he said, still with an almost whimsical, beguiling expression. “But I’m not lying, am I, Lieutenant? I did see him. He did hit her that night. Knocked her around.”

“You risk invalidating everything we’ve ever gotten or will get from you if you’re caught in a lie. You understand that, Mr.

Walker? That includes the sweatshirt.”

“What do you want from me, Daphne? Am I allowed to call you that?”

This was a device she used on suspects-establishing rapport through use of a given name. Having this reversed on her ran chills up her arms-the sleight-of-hand magician who’s caught in the act.

“I want the truth. I want some answers. That’s all.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want me to tell you. You’ve just got to let me know.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Lanny Neal’s still walking the streets, so don’t tell me about it working. It’s not working. I can help with that, Daphne. Me and you … we can team up here … we can get stuff done. You know what I’m saying.”

“It does not work like that.”

“It works however we make it work.”

“I have a kit in my car,” she announced. “It’s a fingerprint kit. Real simple. Takes about five minutes. You don’t even have to clean up. There are forms to fill out-consent forms.”

“What’s this about?”

“It takes us another step closer to Neal. That’s what you want, right?” she asked.

“Of course that’s what I want.”

“So we’ll roll out some prints and help move this forward, if it’s all right with you.” She hadn’t wanted LaMoia along for this reason-two cops wanting prints would have put even an eager beaver like Walker on notice.

He stared at her until she finally met eyes with him-a concession of sorts. “There’s so much I can do for you.”

She struggled with a response. “We’ll start with the prints and take it from there, if that’s okay with you.”

Five minutes later Walker was rolling his right index finger into a box on a WSDOJ card. He sat in the front seat of her car, out of the mist and the rain, her cell phone and Starbucks tea between them. NPR played from the radio. She turned it down and then cracked a window to vent the smell coming off him.

“How’d you know he locked himself out of the car?” Walker asked. “He tell you he was that stupid? He tell you I could’a had him in that car and the engine running in about three minutes flat? Let me tell you something-you work on boats long enough, you can do anything, any kind of mechanical, electrical repair, whatever kind of problem there is. Numb nuts didn’t have a clue. All stressed out over losing his keys. Fuck me. Guys like that ought to be taken out back and shot.”

She set him up to roll prints from his left hand. The ink pad was colorless, though he left a fingerprint on the card.

“This is all about the car, isn’t it?” Walker asked, fidgeting.

“You started by asking about the car. Mary-Ann drove his car.

I can help you with this stuff. We’re solid on this, right, you and me?”

“There is no you and me,” Matthews said. “I meant what I said about no more contact.”

“Sure you did.”

“No drink, no coffee, no contact.”

“Right.”

“Mr. Walker?”

He directed himself to Matthews then, turning to face her in a deliberate, overly dramatic way. “I … can … help … you,”

he declared, popping open the door and slipping outside. A chill, damp wind took his place beside her. As he leaned back inside the car, a darkness overcame his face and she thought that this was a side of the man she had not yet seen. “Do your job,” he said, “or I’ll do it for you.”

Matthews attempted to keep up with John LaMoia, whose long strides carried him quickly across the sky bridge leading from the King County Corrections Facility, where Lanny Neal had been held for the weekend. Traffic ran some fifty feet below them, the vibrations of the sky bridge reminding her why she never liked taking this route. She preferred a good old sidewalk.

“I’m just saying there may be inconsistencies worth taking a look at,” she told him.

“It’s an arraignment, that’s all. We’re up against the time limit. It has to be now. He pleads not guilty. On with the show.

The inconsistencies can wait until the probable cause hearing.”

“I don’t think they can.”

“Well, keep that thought to yourself, if you don’t mind.”

“I’d like to review it all with Lou.”

“He’s not interested.”

“I think he will be.”

“Riddle me this,” LaMoia said. “If not the boyfriend, then who, the brother?” He didn’t allow her to answer, cutting her off. “You’re the one saying the brother failed to give you the signals you’d expect. You’re the one saying Neal had motive, opportunity, and a predisposition toward abuse. Pardon me if I’m stepping on your psychological toes here, but we saw the brother bust his bubble and vent his steam: The guy went after Neal with a knife. A knife is a weapon of passion. A brother doing a sister is most likely a crime of passion, so why didn’t he fillet her if he blew his stack? Why’d he toss her off Lanny Neal’s fire escape and run her over using Lanny Neal’s car and leave her sweatshirt behind Lanny Neal’s garbage bin? Does that kind of planning fit with what we know about Ferrell Walker’s personality?”

“I’m not against the idea of Neal,” she said calmly and yet determined to have her point heard. “I would just like to see the proper paperwork, the proper order to things. This is rushed.”

“It’s an arraignment. We’re fine. Trust me.”

They dodged a couple of young lawyers who worked for the state. LaMoia took Matthews by the elbow and guided her to the wall. “Don’t do this, okay? Don’t muddy the water. You want to turn in your psych evaluation? Fine. Evaluate and write it up. You and I are on to better things with Oblitz. Her and Hebringer looking alike. I can taste it.” He leaned into her now, so closely that she couldn’t hold focus on his face. “I’ve got guys watching construction sites, guys patrolling the tourist traps. We’re running backgrounds on all hotel employees, from maintenance to the bellhops. Something, somewhere, is going to break. The Sarge is all over this water main break and some Chinaman who cashed it in down there, but I’m thinking we beat him to it and deliver him the prize, and I don’t need fucking Lanny Neal on my plate right now. Okay? The shit heap backed his car over his girlfriend. He stuffed her into the backseat and then launched her from the Aurora Bridge. SID can prove most of that. Does it bother me that SID didn’t do as well in his apartment? There’s nothing that can hurt us. Were either of us expecting a smoking gun? Not me. Maybe I was holding out a little hope for blood evidence, but that’s all right. He’s our guy,”

LaMoia held up a manila envelope, “and I have it on the authority of the UW’s Oceanography Department that he’s a lying sack of shit when it comes to seeing her out on that fire escape with two twenty-two flashing on his clock. According to this, Mary-Ann did her swan dive before midnight, otherwise the tide carries her toward the locks. They back it up with tidal charts, computer printouts-the works. He’s caught in a lie, and that makes him good for it as far as I’m concerned.”

This latest information was news to Matthews. Her impression had come from the gut-from watching Neal’s reactions as they had questioned him. He wasn’t what she expected of a guilty party, and though she knew she couldn’t take that to the bank, arraignment would start a countdown to a probable cause hearing. They’d have anywhere from one to ten days to make their case-and for her sake as well as LaMoia’s, she wanted to be sure that case stuck. If Neal skipped on a technicality, she worried where that would send Ferrell Walker.