Ridley Pearson - The Art of Deception

“Dana Eaton,” he said, his brain locked on the name.

On hearing the name, Janise spilled the coffee down her front and wiped it away quickly, cursing him. “The Dana Eaton?”

There wasn’t a cop on SPD that didn’t know that name-a name beaten into the entire population by a media feeding frenzy.

Janise yanked the pages out of LaMoia’s lap and flipped back and forth, checking the dates of the traffic citations immediately before and after the one that was missing. “Can’t be right,” she said. “This is like two months before the shooting.” It took a moment to sink in. “Are you telling me he knew that woman?”

LaMoia couldn’t get a word out. He’d sensed it all along; only now could he actually prove it hadn’t been a “good shooting” after all.

Nathan Prair was going to jail.

Mario-if there even was a Mario-had found some cheap real estate that still remained in striking distance for delivery downtown. The building looked older than God. The neighborhood, no stranger to police patrols, was a favorite for gang activity, a warehouse and light industrial region in decay over a decade, since software had overcome hardware in the bid for the local economy. Brick and broken asphalt played host to the rusted carcasses of stripped cars. Five minutes from prosperity.

Mario’s had a takeout counter, two cooks, four runners, a pair of enormous ovens, and alternative rock playing at dangerous decibels over shredded speakers. The Rastafarian currently engaged with a phone order lifted a finger indicating he’d be right with her. Hanging up, he barked across the small room to a skinny woman in her late teens. The girl wore too many earrings to count. The wanna-be-a-gangsta white boy next to her, his arms covered in the purple lace of spiderwebs and barbed-wire tattoos, his hands in disposable gloves-thank God! — seeded a pie with sliced mushrooms.

She let her shield wallet fall open, displaying her creds. “Is there a pregnant girl upstairs?”

“Could be,” the Rastafarian answered. He hadn’t had time to study her shield, so he impressed her when he said, “What’s a lieutenant doing on the street?”

“You the landlord?”

“Not hardly. Manager is all. You the Apartment Police?”

This was a game to him.

“Margaret.” Matthews said. “Her name is Margaret.”

“Is that right?”

“I’m here to give her a leg up.”

“I just bet you are.”

“When was the last time City Health stopped by for an inspection?”

“Room two,” he said. “It’s on the left.”

“What about the deputy sheriff?”

“Who?”

“His car’s around the block.”

“So he’s getting a hummer from one of the charmers in the hood. What’s new?”

She studied his face and found herself believing him. In her mind, Prair had to be hooked up with Margaret’s situation-either as a friend or the enemy. She wasn’t eager to run into him. He was good at staying hidden and out of the way, and she kept that in mind as well.

“Who’s in the other rooms up there?” she asked.

He eyed her suspiciously.

She said, “Who am I going to run into in the hall?”

“There’s no one going to throw shots at you, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean.”

She produced a twenty from her purse and placed it on the counter. She said, “Hold the anchovies,” and made the guy smile. Lousy teeth. She made it forty, total. “Anyone up there with Margaret?”

“I don’t even know that she’s up there, lady.”

“Within the realm of possibility,” she suggested.

“Listen, they think I don’t know, but there’re three of them sharing what’s barely big enough for one. Young girls.”

Matthews withdrew her gun from the purse and chambered a round. It all came down to a show of power on the streets.

You were either a player or not. She understood the psychology, though lacked some of the courage. She said, “I don’t need anyone crashing my party. Should I give you a minute to let anyone know, or what?”

“People are in and out of there all the time, Lieutenant.” The way he emphasized her rank, she knew he’d made her for the desk jockey she was. He said, “You do what you gotta do.”

The stairway entrance to the apartments was outside the takeout door and to the left. She glanced across the street to where Gaynes had parked the car. In theory, Gaynes was making every attempt to raise Prair. Matthews bootlegged her weapon on the way up the dingy and dirty stairwell, choking on the smell of urine. In situations like this-tenement busts-it was surprise that cost cops their lives. Reaction time proved longer than the thought process. Twelve-year-olds with water pistols took a bullet.

The upstairs hallway was empty and dimly lit. Either her man downstairs had cleared the area, or she’d gotten lucky. The gun felt an inappropriate way to greet Margaret, but it wouldn’t feel right in the handbag, either. She let it fall to her side and knocked. “Margaret, it’s me,” she announced. Either that registered or not, she wasn’t calling out any more details.

She heard footsteps approaching the door and found herself relieved that Margaret could walk, was not prone on the bed delivering the baby prematurely. For this had been her most recent thought: contractions. Margaret about to give birth.

“Just a minute.” The sound of the girl’s voice filled Matthews with gratitude. She resolved not to abandon her, to stay with her until whatever was the problem was fully resolved.

She heard a pair of locks come off the door. She felt herself grip the handgun more tightly and braced herself for bloodshot eyes, jaundiced skin, the girl’s water having broken-whatever terror she next confronted. The apartment door came open.

She’d been crying, her face blotchy, her nose running, her cheeks silver with tears. She wore torn leggings, a loose dress from Goodwill. She trembled head to toe with fever, her forehead beaded with perspiration. Or maybe it was toxic shock or a reaction to some drug she’d taken. The girl could not bring herself to look at Matthews, eyes downcast. Embarrassed, Matthews thought.

A combination of horror, sympathy, and righteous indigna-tion charged her system, and again she promised to see this through. Hebringer and Randolf were dead-they could wait awhile. This girl still had a chance.

“It’s okay,” Matthews said. The door fell fully open. She peeked through the crack before stepping inside. The room was empty. “You did the right thing in calling me.”

“I don’t know about that.”

The sad, cheerless room was barely bigger than a bathroom stall. Soiled sheets covered a thin mattress on a steel-framed bed.

If three women lived here, they shared that bed, nearly on top of each other. A corner sink housed a faucet that dripped, a teardrop of green patina below. The toilet had to be down the hall. A wooden closet bar sat across the corner diagonally holding a handful of empty wire hangers. The room’s only window looked barely big enough for egress. The room smelled of girls, of mildew, and of sweat, all overpowered by the nauseating aroma of tomato sauce and something burning.

Margaret sat down, paralyzed on the edge of the bed. She began crying again. “I’m so sorry,” she moaned, repeating it over and over.

Matthews secured the weapon and stored it in her purse. She eased down alongside of the girl. Matthews said, “Well … it’s good to see you’ve got a roof over your head.”

Matthews heard footsteps out in the hall draw closer. She experienced a jolt of heat like hormones gone bad. Margaret looked up, struggled to sober up, her eyes clearly fixing onto Matthews as she whispered hoarsely, “He said he’d kill the baby.”