Ridley Pearson - The Art of Deception

She had something to say to him but kept it to herself, a coy grin taking the place of the words. He wanted to hear it but knew better than to ask. The secret to the success of their marriage these days was as much about knowing what not to say as it was knowing what to say. He admired her for her restraint.

They shared a kiss. She smelled softly of the lotion that he knew her to spread all over her body prior to bed.

This was a night of great sacrifice indeed.

“Where is she now?”

“Back at her place,” LaMoia answered, the two of them at a near run as they approached Homicide’s situation room. When Boldt shot him a disapproving look, LaMoia explained that they had a patrol guarding her dock.

“Everyone else is here?”

“Heiman, Gaynes, DeLuca, and Morse. Brandon’s home sick, Marsha’s still on pregnancy leave.”

“Listen up!” Boldt shouted, addressing the gathering, as he and LaMoia entered the bland conference room that served as a staging area for major investigations. The four detectives were strewn around the room, Heiman in a chair, Gaynes propped against a file cabinet, DeLuca towering over a stack of equipment trying to get the room’s video projector switched off before Boldt realized they’d been watching a movie on TBS. The room smelled of coffee and old socks. The video went to a solid blue panel, though the sound of the action flick lingered for another few seconds until DeLuca found the right switch.

“Research,” Morse said, winning a round of nervous laughter from his colleagues.

Boldt managed to suppress a smile-the trick to effective leadership was to keep people guessing.

“Here’s where we stand,” Boldt explained in a military-like tone. “Matthews had a call suggesting a possible lead in the disappearances. Name of the contact is Ferrell Walker, brother of the jumper-the case that LaMoia caught a little over a week ago. We have a sheet, including a Department of Licensing photo,” he said, indicating for LaMoia to pass out the flyers.

“Note that the photo is a couple years old now. He was just a kid at the time. This guy’s gone seriously downhill. He’s wearing the street, looking about twenty years older. Last seen in dirty jeans and a ratty sweatshirt that zips up the front. Navy blue, or black maybe. Works day labor cutting up fish down at the fishing docks on the canal. Might have friends around there.

Made a reference to Matthews that he was basically homeless, so that’s what we’re assuming. We’ve got to keep the patrol units on the construction sites and the hotels. We’ve got another on Matthews’s residence, so we’re a little short-handed in terms of uniforms available to us. You all clock out in an hour, but I want you to stay on this at least until two-until we find him, if we’re lucky. LaMoia has assigned each of you a section of the city. I want you to toss every homeless person you encounter until we find Walker, or where he might be holed up. Bring him in for loitering, vagrancy, public nuisance-I don’t give a damn, just get him in here.”

LaMoia added, “Consider him dangerous. He carries a blade-a serious knife-like a goddamned sword.” He indicated his right side. “Over here, in a scabbard.”

“Sounds like a fucking pirate,” DeLuca said. A couple of the others chuckled.

Boldt addressed DeLuca. “Brian, you’ll work the bars around the canal.” He and LaMoia had worked out the assignments that went with the sheets. “But listen, I want all of you to get the word out on the street that there’s a Hamilton for information that proves good.”

“Each of you grab a radio,” LaMoia said. “Along with cell phones, we’ve got no excuses for losing touch. No lost time: no doughnuts or burgers or fried chicken,” this to Morse, “no video games or talking up the waitresses a few minutes longer than necessary. Okay, guys?”

“This is Hebringer and Randolf Walker’s talking about,”

Boldt reminded. “Let’s not forget that.”

If anyone had been thinking of throwing a wisecrack into the mix, Boldt’s comment stole the oxygen from the room.

“Go,” LaMoia said, watching the four hurry and feeling a sense of power that his word counted for so much.

Gaynes paused by her bosses. “You need a woman to hang with Matthews, I’m good for that. Whatever the hour, I don’t care.” She moved on, knowing better than to wait for a reply.

“You?” Boldt asked his sergeant.

“Something you said just now …” LaMoia tapped his temple with his index finger, “… you got the juices going, Sarge.”

“Are you going to share this kernel of wisdom?”

“I’m gonna skate by Matthews’s crib and roast a few marsh-mallows with her. Anything comes of it, you’ll be the first to hear.”

“Why do I doubt that?” Boldt asked.

LaMoia flashed him the trademark smile, a Tony Randall smile complete with the animated sparkle coming off the front tooth.

“Get gone,” Boldt said.

“Hi, Mommy, I’m home,” LaMoia called loudly to the houseboat’s front door. He held up an Einstein’s Bagel bag, displaying it, knowing it was her favorite. “Trick or treat?” Matthews had yet to make a sound, but he knew she was in there, knew she wouldn’t want him waking the neighbors.

The front door opened slowly, the living room dark, Matthews looming as a gray figure in sweatpants and thin white Tshirt. She looked good despite herself-with no makeup and uncombed hair this was a Daphne Matthews he’d not seen before. But he liked it.

He attempted to pass the bagel bag through as an offering, saying, “You look like that kid in the Exorcist.” Standing at the door, he smelled the stale and closeted air from inside. But she wouldn’t accept the bag.

She said, “I’ve got all the Girl Scout cookies I need. How about a rain check, John?”

“I need your help,” he said. When a woman was locked up, he could nearly always find the key. He lived for such challenges.

He said, “I’ve got a riddle for you.”

“Pass.”

“Ah, come on.”

“I don’t want to play, Johnny.”

“Sure you do. And I’ll tell you why: Because you can’t stand anybody having the answers ahead of you, of being out of the loop, and I’ve got the answers, Matthews, answers you need. Believe it. You shut that door and I go to Boldt with what I’ve got.”

Sad eyes searched his face. The door opened a few more inches. LaMoia could taste victory. He said, “Little Joe knew you volunteer at the Shelter-do you remember that? Tonight he called your cell phone, a number he couldn’t possibly have turned up without a direct connection to you. Am I getting your attention?”

She swung open the door and LaMoia stepped inside.

“Love what you’ve done to the place. The Martha Stewart bomb shelter thing is fetching.”

“Fetching?” she said, as if he’d spoken a foreign language.

She locked the door’s dead bolt and latching hardware. LaMoia noticed the police bar to the left of the door, realizing she’d had it barricaded.

“Towels on the windows? Nice.”

“Lighten up.”

“Can I turn on a light?”

She said, “I like it this way.”

“That worries me.”

She snatched the paper sack and peered inside. “Sesame.”

“Toasted, with light cream cheese.”

“But how-?”

“Matthews, I know more about you than you even want to consider. Believe me.”

She looked askance at him. The bagel pleased her and he felt good about it. She lathered it up with cream cheese and took a ferocious bite. An appetite was a good sign. She spoke through a mouthful of food, uncharacteristic of her. “It’s a mandatory leave until they review it. I failed the Breathalyzer, did you know that?”