Ridley Pearson - The Art of Deception

“You don’t know as much as you think.” Again, barely discernible, indicating she’d thrown him deep into thought or recollection. These were the moments she lived for-she’d cracked open his conscience and was climbing inside.

The process allowed her to intentionally refocus Walker onto Neal and off of her-also a deliberate act on her part. They had Neal under surveillance as it was. At the very least, this effort of hers might provide them the opportunity to apprehend Walker as he made another attempt on Neal. She asked, “Is that where that anger at the medical examiner’s came from? It wasn’t just her death, was it, Ferrell? It was more than that. It was that she liked him, loved him, even. And you were left out in the cold in the process. Isn’t that right?” She thought of LaMoia listening in. “Here I am on one corner of Marion, and there you are in that coffee shop-how much sense does this make, Ferrell? We can sit down-the two of us, together-and discuss this, our case against Neal, what you know about the two missing women. Mary-Ann’s gone, but I’m here for you, Ferrell.”

“Here for me? I don’t think so. Tell that to Dirty Harry. He’s bad for you, Daphne. I warned Anna, and she ignored me. Look where it got her.”

Her brain froze, and she saw the events of the past few days in a whole different light, immediately regretting where she’d just now, so carefully, led him. Walker, or Prair, or whoever had driven her out of her houseboat in a state of panic, had also pushed her into LaMoia’s care. Walker somehow knew this, resented it, and drew parallels to the loss of his own sister. The massive psychological knot this would cause-first the transference on his part, then her own mimicking of Mary-Ann’s shacking up with Neal-might never come untangled, even in the most cooperative patient. Walker found himself watching instant replay, and she now began to see the complications of events that had changed his tone with her, had pushed him across the fine line between adoration and hate.

“It’s complicated,” she said, suddenly bone-tired, twinges of fear creeping back up her spine.

“I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours,” he said, suddenly childish again.

His 180-degree reverse was both too quick and too convincing. He was suffering the psychological equivalent of the bends.

He’d surfaced too quickly.

“I won’t lie to you, Ferrell. I want whatever help you can give me with the missing women.” She imagined that by now at least one car was rolling toward their location. Perhaps, even, LaMoia had gotten the switchboard to forward the call to his cell phone, and he was currently listening in while on the way himself.

“Why don’t you get us a table?” she said. “I’ll come over to the Seattle’s Best with you and we’ll sit down and discuss this.”

How many more crumbs did she need to leave LaMoia? She’d both given him the address and named the establishment. At this point, she felt certain it was safe to leave the pay phone and approach Walker. “Ferrell?”

“Ten o’clock tonight. You be at the door to the Shelter. If I see you’re alone, we’ll talk. If not …” Again, she heard his shallow, rapid breathing. She could picture him sweating yet cold, excited yet scared. “Don’t be stupid, Daphne.”

She heard the steamer again, but a large truck rounded the corner and double-parked, and the sunshine bouncing off it blinded the coffee shop’s window.

“Ferrell?” she said, already dropping the pay phone and moving up the sidewalk toward the coffee shop. At first she walked, but then, as the hum of the room grew louder in her cell phone, she began to jog, and finally to run. The blind spot on the window shrank with her angle as she approached, from a blinding silver, to black, and finally to transparent again.

The pay phone’s receiver dangled on the end of its cord.

LaMoia’s Jetta turned and rounded the corner, swerving out of the way of the double-parked truck. He’d been careful not to show himself on foot-was trying to let her know that he was nearby and available as backup.

But it was too late. Ferrell Walker was gone.

At 9:48 P.M., a matter of hours after Matthews had spoken to Ferrell Walker, she calmly drove her repaired Honda south on First Avenue, the black leather wallet containing her lieutenant’s police shield sticking out of the top of her Coach purse. Boldt had obviously pressured Captain Sheila Hill into reinstating her, because there had been no review board or formal review. She’d gotten the call that the meet with Walker had been approved, and that meant reinstatement.

The last few hours at SPD and Public Safety had been the mobilization of a surveillance team that included several plainclothes detectives from Narco and CAP as well as a three-man, black-clad ERT unit from Special Ops and even a rooftop sharpshooter. Boldt had suspended the search of the Third Avenue Underground while SID combed the lair, and the surveillance of construction sites continued, meaning his manpower was stretched.

As she’d prepared for the meet, Matthews had asked LaMoia to wire her up, an invitation usually assigned a fellow member of the same sex. The idea was for him to clip and tape the transmitter to her pants to avoid ripping hairs off her skin.

Although not exactly an intimate moment, it felt that way to both of them, what with him running his fingers inside the waistband of her pants, brushing the elastic of her underwear.

True, she wore less clothing, showed far more skin, at a pool or the gym, but men didn’t run their hands down your pants at either. He couldn’t manage to get the tape to stick very well, so he ran his fingers even deeper. He stepped back suddenly, as if she’d bitten him.

“Listen, I’m not doing such a great job. Maybe we should get a skirt in here.”

“Finish it,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse at the navel. She fished for the wire he was attempting to pass her.

She asked, “Would it help if I unbuttoned my pants?”

“Not unless you have twenty minutes to spare,” he teased.

“Ha, ha,” she said, trying to sound like that hadn’t fazed her.

He tested the tape, and it held. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine,” she said.

“Mind your own business.”

“When a man has his hand down my pants, it most certainly is my business.”

“You’re playing with me.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Absolutely. I love to see you squirm.”

“I’m not squirming.”

“Of course you are.”

He grunted.

Again she teased him. “Finish the job and get your hands out of my underwear.”

“You’re nervous. That’s what this is about, right? Your nerves?”

“You really know how to woo a girl.”

“Woo?”

The tape finally held. Her fingers caught the wire he passed and she drew the small mike up inside her blouse. She unbuttoned yet another button of her blouse and clipped the lavaliere to the elastic bridge connecting the cups, turning to face him as she buttoned herself. For a moment she allowed herself to believe he blushed with the sight of her.

“You have a real way with the women,” she said.

“That’s what they say.”

She brushed herself off, smoothing the blouse.

He looked a little too closely and pursed his lips, bunching his mustache. She’d never liked mustaches much.

“A cry for help,” he said, repeating a possible explanation of Walker’s behavior that she had raised at an earlier meeting.

“If I have it right-and remember, I may not-then there’s a psychological progression Walker’s going through, a decline that has everything to do with what is more than likely confusion over his relationship with his sister; Neal’s stealing Mary-Ann from him; Neal’s abuse of Mary-Ann; the subsequent murder; and then Walker’s transference of his need to protect Mary-Ann over to me. Transference comes in all flavors, John, from lite to extra-strength. He latches on to me. He follows me. For reasons known only to him, he has chosen me to represent Mary-Ann in his life. Maybe he’s just trying to gather the courage to tell me something. I don’t know. Maybe he saw more of the murder than he’s shared with us. That wouldn’t surprise me-his guilt over watching them in the first place preventing him from telling us exactly what went down. It would also explain his conviction to see Neal put away for this crime.”