Ridley Pearson - The Art of Deception

Prair rolled down the window. The tears disappeared. “I was trying to help,” he called out.

She nodded. Some rain came off her hair, sparkling in the glare of LaMoia’s headlights. She said back to him, “I’ve been getting a lot of that lately.”

“Is this waiting really necessary?” an uncharacteristically impatient Daphne Matthews asked LaMoia, the two of them watching the detainee through the interrogation room’s one-way glass.

LaMoia said, “You know the drill.”

Yes she did: The waiting allowed the suspect time to com-prehend the severity of the situation, and police the time to collect as much information on the individual as possible, but she’d never waited out that time as a victim before, and the resulting anxiety owned her.

“What about Prair?” she asked.

“What about him?”

“You let him go.”

“Let him go?” LaMoia asked. “He’s a cop who responded to a situation. Under normal circumstances, he’d be considered something of a hero for helping you.”

“Hardly. Are we going to talk to him?”

“Not formally,” he answered.

“But the ticket … his having known Mary-Ann …” She felt exasperated, everything turned on its head.

“We don’t show that card until we can back it up with something. It’ll send him so deeply underground we’ll need to dig through five layers of lawyers to know what clothes he’s wearing.”

“He lied to us.”

“Not on the record, he didn’t. He’s a cop, Matthews. However he’s involved in this, he knows exactly how we’re going to play it. We do the dance or we lose him-it’s as simple as that.”

“I want to pressure him,” she said. “Tonight, tomorrow, as soon as we can. I know the way this one thinks, John. If we squeeze him we stand the most to gain.”

“You going to pull rank on me?”

“Is it going to come to that?” she asked.

The two studied each other.

LaMoia said, “Okay … But he’ll talk his way out of it, and we won’t have squat.”

“I’m being impetuous?”

“You’re reacting to a tough situation … that wasn’t easy out there. You’re lashing out at all available parties.”

“Who’s the psychologist and who’s the detective?” she asked.

He nodded okay. “You want the detective? Your fuel line was crimped, probably with a pair of pliers.”

“And maybe it was a rock that one of the tires kicked up.”

She’d overheard this preliminary report from the police garage; she didn’t want LaMoia making it worse than it was.

His annoyance manifested itself as flaring nostrils and a worried brow. LaMoia’s level temper was one of his most valuable qualities-she’d heard that when he lost that temper things could “get a little wild,” as a patrolman had once put it. She had no desire to be the object of that display.

“The guy we arrested wears clodhoppers with monster soles.

It’s entirely within the realm of possibility that this asshole fre-quents empty construction sites. I can detain him on harassment charges at least until the T1 is back on-line and we know for sure whether he has a record or not.”

“Where are we?” Boldt asked from behind them. She could read Boldt by his tone of voice; she heard concern. They met eyes, tenderly and with feeling. She wanted to hug him. Studying her face he said, “Knowing you, you already think we’re wasting our time.”

LaMoia quipped, “Andy Sipowicz’s got nothing on you, Sarge.”

“He was offering help,” she said. “Now he’s cooling off in the Box like a street thug. I wonder if that’s the right way to handle it.”

LaMoia told Boldt about the gas line.

Boldt said to Matthews, “Well, there you go.” Adding, “Listen, you’re not the first stalking victim to think we’ve got the wrong guy. That’s victim response one-oh-one.” He asked LaMoia, “What’s his pedigree?”

“Gary Hollie. West Seattle. An accountant with something called Cross Ship LLC.” LaMoia held himself back a moment before saying, “I hate accountants.”

A young patrolwoman approached at a brisk walk and delivered a coy grin to LaMoia as well as the awaited computer printout. Matthews tried to ignore the woman’s open flirting.

“Never met her.” LaMoia defended himself without looking up from the printout. It was his prescience that disturbed her the most. She didn’t want him reading her thoughts.

LaMoia said, “Seems our Mr. Hollie went down for illegal trespass in Maryland less than two years ago.”

“That could be anything,” Matthews said.

“Including a peeping charge dealt down,” LaMoia said.

“He’s yours,” Boldt told LaMoia, strategizing a game plan.

“I’m a presence, that’s all. You take the chair. I want to pace.”

“Got it,” LaMoia said. Already at the interrogation room door, he looked back at Matthews. “You see something you don’t like, give us a knock or a buzz.” A gracious offer, but also a little patronizing.

“What if I don’t like any of it?” she called out.

LaMoia motioned Boldt through first. “Age before beauty,” he said.

Gary Hollie’s oversized head was reminiscent of a jack-o’- lantern, and had nearly as much hair. He wore a neatly trimmed black mustache above pursed lips that struggled to contain a simmering anger. Forest green chinos, a white button-down shirt, and the thick-soled office shoes completed the look. If they ended up pressing charges they would have a good look at the waffle pattern of those shoes.

LaMoia introduced Boldt as “the guy who runs the show around here.” He then took a seat in an uncomfortable chair across the war-pocked table from the suspect. Everything about the Box was austere and drab, from the vinyl flooring to the acoustic-tiled ceiling punctuated with randomly lanced pencil holes. Boldt wandered the perimeter, studying the familiar walls like a building inspector. A mirror of one-way glass occupied most of the west wall, a window through which Daphne Matthews would observe the interview.

Hollie complained in a tight nasal whine of a man held hostage by stress and tension. “This is what I get for trying to help the lady? Who are you people?”

LaMoia played the game, allowing a drawn-out silence to settle into the room beneath the steady presence of forced air.

“We appreciate your taking a few minutes to help us sort this out.”

“I have a right to an attorney.”

“Yes, you do, and you may exercise that right at any time.

No one here has denied you that right. You’ll recall that I offered you the chance to place that call if you so desired.”

“You also threatened to charge me.”

“I informed you that the involvement of attorneys would necessitate I book you. Those are the facts, Mr. Hollie. Currently, I can still change my mind. Right now, we’re just two guys talking about an incident that’s as likely to go away as it is to stick. If you want to walk out of here, then I’ve got to make your arrest go away. That’s what we’re doing here, me and you: We’re making like magicians. We’re working out the disappearing act.”

“So what’s he doing?” Hollie indicated Boldt.

Distracting you. Worrying you. “The boss is here to make sure I don’t knock you sideways and use you to mop the floor, because I’m known to have a little bit of a temper when it comes to defending my family. The woman you threatened is a police officer I work with-we work with. Highly respected and loved by all. You picked a hell of a target, Hollie.”

“I did not target her.”

“She asked you to back off, several times. Her phone was on. I heard it.”

“Her car was blocking two lanes.”