Ridley Pearson - The Art of Deception

“Sweet dreams,” she answered.

He mumbled something to himself. She was glad she didn’t hear it.

Ten minutes later she prepared for bed by shutting the office door and slipping off the sweatpants. She climbed under the duvet, the comfort of that bed about as welcome as anything she’d ever experienced. Blue scratched at the door, and she got up to crack it open so he could come and go. A moment later she was back under the covers thinking that life’s little pleasures were also often the biggest.

Maybe he’d bought Pollock because of the theme of alcoholism and depression-a part of his rehabilitation. Maybe just because of the performances. She wasn’t sure why this was where her mind focused on its way down toward sleep. She rolled over, slid her arm under the pillow, and she gasped, jumped away, and rolled out of bed in the process.

“John!” she called out without thinking.

He was there in about five steps. Shirtless, in a pair of gray athletic briefs, the legs of the underwear longer than tighty-whities. She remained on the floor, her T hiked up above her navel, her bikini-cut panties showing a lot more than she’d ever want seen. But neither of them was checking the other out, their attention was fixed instead on the guest bed. Her overreaction had tossed the pillow to the side. Lying on the bedsheet was the cause of all this.

A key. A skeleton key. The sheet remained slightly damp where a hand had touched it.

“What the hell?” LaMoia came closer.

Matthews sat up, tugging the T lower, but it wouldn’t go low enough. “Looks like Walker kept his promise,” she said, her voice catching.

“Hebringer and Randolf? You think?”

“We’d better call Lou.”

“I can’t tell you absolutely it was him, no.” Matthews wore a blue fleece jacket of LaMoia’s zipped up tightly and the same pair of gray sweatpants. Her hair was back in a clip.

“We’ve upgraded the BOL to an All Points,” Boldt said, watching Bernie Lofgrin’s SID team process LaMoia’s loft.

LaMoia huffed at that. Boldt glared at him. “Sergeant, you have something to contribute?”

“No, sir.”

She’d never felt this kind of tension between the two. “Gen-tlemen,” she said, letting them both know how stupid they were being.

LaMoia said, “Give me an ERT unit and the rest of the night, and I’ll have him in the Box by your second cup of tea, Sarge.”

“It’s not how we play this,” she said, turning them both to face her. “He kept his end of the bargain.” She indicated the key, now labeled in a plastic evidence bag. “So we keep ours by putting Neal into a lineup.”

“The truck driver?” LaMoia said. “You think? He’s worthless, Matthews.”

“But we keep our end of it. If we treat him like an informant-”

“Then we don’t lie to him,” Boldt completed for her, nodding.

“But he’s not an informant,” LaMoia protested. “He’s a goddamned screwball with a bunch of nuts loose.”

Matthews did not care for that evaluation and let him know with a harsh look.

Boldt said, “We chase down this key; we set up the lineup; we keep you under close watch,” he told Matthews.

“It’s not about me,” she said. “I’m the messenger, that’s all.

Maybe an ear; maybe he thinks he can talk to me.”

LaMoia snapped at her. “And maybe he thinks you’re the second coming of Mary-Ann, and he wants to ride off into the sunset with you … or on you, for that matter.”

“That’s uncalled for,” she said.

“How do we know he wasn’t giving the sister a hump out on the boat after dear old dad croaked, and along comes Neal stealing all the fun?”

“We don’t,” she answered honestly.

“What’s with the father?” Boldt asked, effectively ignored by the pair.

“How do we know those fishing ‘accidents’ weren’t the younger brother playing a little rough with sis?”

“We don’t.” She felt right on the edge of yelling at him.

“I rest my case,” LaMoia said.

Boldt repeated, “We work the key. We run the lineup tomorrow, and we keep a tight leash on you. Anyone have a problem with that?”

“He’ll be watching Public Safety,” she announced, “to see if we bring Neal in for the lineup. To see if I keep my end of this.

It’s a means to an end, okay? If we bring Neal in for this lineup, and we play the surveillance right, Walker will come to us. We won’t have to go looking for him.” She added, “We chum the waters, and the fish will come to us.”

LaMoia settled himself with a deep breath.

“Okay with you?” Boldt asked his sergeant.

“Whatever.”

“Is that a yes or a no?” Boldt asked.

LaMoia nodded and met eyes with Matthews in something of a staring contest.

Boldt asked her, “Are you okay here, or would you like to transfer to a hotel?” His tone of voice leaned heavily on the second option.

She raised her eyebrows, passing the question along to LaMoia, who said, “I’ll hold off on the ERT until we see if this lineup baits him. When Bernie’s guys are out of here, she’ll get some sleep. We’re cool here.”

She exchanged glances with Boldt. His eyes were distant and cold, and she felt she’d betrayed him in some unspoken way.

He went home to a wife and kids, but if she wanted to sleep down the hall from a fellow police officer, that was somehow out of bounds. Resentment built up behind her eyes, and she stopped herself from saying anything.

“Okay,” Boldt said, somewhat awkwardly. “She’s staying.”

He took the key and paused at the apartment door. “Get a fresh battery in that wire pack, and make sure you’re wearing it in the morning.”

She nodded, feeling oddly on the edge of tears that he’d think to make sure she was constantly being looked after. “Thanks, Lou,” she called after him.

Either Boldt didn’t hear her or didn’t choose to answer. The difference between the two kept her up most of the rest of the night.

“You look awful,” Boldt said the next day.

“And just think,” Matthews replied, saying sarcastically, “I’ve had such a stress-free night.”

Neal’s public defender had agreed to, and arranged for, his client’s appearance in the lineup. The man looked properly surprised to see two police lieutenants awaiting them out on the Third Avenue sidewalk. It had been Matthews’s idea to intercept attorney and client outside the front door to Public Safety, buying time for Walker-if he was out there-to register that Matthews had followed through with her promise of the lineup. It also bought Special Ops the opportunity to locate Walker during his surveillance of the building. The radio clipped to Boldt’s belt was supposed to keep them informed of any progress in this endeavor.

Instead it was Boldt’s cell phone that rang. As he answered it, Matthews attempted both to keep them all outside and to buy Boldt some privacy by asking Neal what he knew about Mary-Ann’s relationship with her brother following the father’s drowning.

“You don’t have to answer that,” the attorney advised his client.

Neal told her, “The old man was a bastard to both of them.

The kid fell apart, granted. Fucked up everything. Lost everything. But hell if it made any sense. He should’a been out partying.”

“He leaned on Mary-Ann,” she suggested.

“Fucker fell apart, I’m telling you.”

“You supported her helping out her brother, or you got in the way of that?”

The attorney repeated his caution, this time more sternly, and Neal took his advice, electing to zip it.

Boldt ended the call, saying to Matthews, “Lab’s got that thing for me.” The way he cocked his head, she knew he meant the report on the lair in the Underground-after years of their working together she could read him this way-but he’d said it so that Neal might think he meant the report on Neal’s car, a report they already had and weren’t terribly thrilled with. He said, “I’ll walk you up, then I’ve got to handle this other thing.”