Ridley Pearson - Pied Piper

Weinstein went the color of toilet porcelain. Caldwell, off-guard, recovered in time to issue a line of objections as if in a trial.

LaMoia continued calmly, “So, what we’re wondering about,” motioning to the others, “is the nature of your professional arrangement with a.k.a. Andy Anderson. And I should caution you, Mr. Weinstein, that we take no prisoners here at SPD, if you know what I mean. If we all do the dance, it’s a fun party. You sit in the corner like a wallflower with her finger up her nose and Agent Flemming, Lieutenant Matthews and I are gonna rain on your parade until you’re changing your shorts.” He cut off Caldwell with a raised hand. “And this Georgetown law professor can piss all over us as much as he likes and we won’t even feel it because we got nothing to do with him. Our business is with you, just like your business was with Andy Anderson. Know what I mean? So my advice … personally … what I’m trying to say here … is that you talk, you walk. You hold out on us and you’re holding out on little Hayes.”

Flemming viewed LaMoia with an open mouth. Caldwell coughed, got something stuck in his throat and gargled some phlegm to clear it.

Flemming said cautiously, “Now is the time for the truth, Mr. Weinstein. We don’t need any fabrications, embellishments or avoidances. Sergeant LaMoia is conducting a homicide investigation. That’s all you need to know. You are not a suspect at this time. We need a statement is all.”

LaMoia added, “If you needed some knees broken, we’re fine with that. Dirty pictures? Hell, that’s your business. A phone tapped? A house watched? It’s a free country.” He flashed another of those disturbing smiles.

Caldwell whispered into the man’s ear. Weinstein nodded. The attorney asked, “Given that there is no recording taking place and that this is an informal discussion-”

“Where have you been?” LaMoia asked, interrupting. “Why don’t we all just get out of Mr. Weinstein’s way for a minute and let him have some air.”

For Weinstein, there was no one else in the room but LaMoia. Daphne marveled at the detective’s ability to win control in interrogations. Nothing he did was orthodox. He violated every rule of questioning but one: He gained the subject’s attention. “You people wouldn’t help,” Weinstein complained. “I called. Told you someone was watching us.

“So I asked this friend if he knew someone who could help me. Not too expensive. He gives me Anderson’s name, says he caught this guy’s wife with a neighbor. Said Anderson had gotten photos for him. You guys didn’t believe me, so I’d find out for myself.” He stabbed a finger toward LaMoia. “So I hire Anderson to check it out. Am I being watched or not?”

“Had you heard about the kidnapped child at this point?” Flemming asked.

“Shotz?” Weinstein asked. “This was way before that,” he stated firmly. “LA, San Francisco and Portland. That was enough for me.”

Daphne spoke up. “You sensed you were being watched by someone before the Shotz abduction.” It supported her belief that the Pied Piper did his legwork in advance, reducing his profile once the kidnappings began.

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

Flemming said bluntly, “You hired Anderson in case it was the Pied Piper watching you.”

Silence fell. Weinstein whined, “You put it like that … I guess that’s right.” He hung his head. “It wasn’t exactly how I was thinking about it. No,” he corrected. “Anderson said it was probably a thief. That made sense: Burglars stake out houses all the time. So we put some stuff in the safe deposit.” His eyes clouded and Daphne knew he was thinking about his missing son. He cleared his eyes and said, “Hell, you know anyone in Seattle hasn’t had their car stolen, or their house broken into? Anderson said catching these guys isn’t so easy. They make you. They take off, stake out someplace else. I offered two hundred on the back side. That sealed the deal.”

Too much television, Daphne thought. Every John Doe a cop.

Weinstein didn’t strike Daphne as a target for a second-story man. Car theft maybe. She wondered if Anderson had simply strung the man along for the down payment.

“You called Anderson to check in. To see how he was doing,” LaMoia stated.

Flemming glared at LaMoia, unhappy with the leading statements. Unorthodox.

“Protect my investment. Of course I did,” Weinstein answered.

“And what did he tell you?”

“First time said he didn’t have anything. So call back. Next time, a day or two later-”

“Two,” LaMoia refreshed him.

“Said maybe some progress. He renegotiated. Said he could get pictures, but that expenses had gone up. Cleared it with me, I guess you could say. Expenses plus another fifty.”

“And so you continued your arrangement,” Daphne stated.

“Sure I did. He all but confirmed someone was watching the house. Actually all he said was that he was working on it. I didn’t like him stretching me out for more money. That bothered me. Plus, a couple times he tried to sell me a home security system, an alarm system.” He hesitated and asked, “Do you guys use them? At home, I mean?”

“Did you?” Flemming asked. “Buy one?”

“No. I’m not sure why. I just didn’t feel like it, I guess. I will now. Hayes kidnapped. Anderson murdered.”

“Anderson’s death has been ruled an accident,” Flemming corrected.

LaMoia and Daphne exchanged glances but neither challenged Flemming.

The attorney barked, “An accident or a homicide?”

Weinstein interrupted, “Listen, if you people had responded to my calls I wouldn’t have hired him in the first place. Don’t dump this on me. Is that what this is about?” He sounded a little hysterical. His attorney placed his hand on the man’s arm to settle him, but Weinstein shook it off. “You guys got the pictures, didn’t you.” It was a statement. “You just don’t know who’s in them and you want me to tell you. But I didn’t see them either.”

There had been no mention of a camera in Anderson’s property inventory.

“He had pictures for you?” Flemming asked.

LaMoia reminded, “You said he renegotiated to include photographs.”

“That’s right. I agreed to the fifty.”

Flemming said heatedly, “Did he notify you about having these pictures?”

“No, he didn’t,” Weinstein answered. “Never. Listen! Screw the photos! What about my boy?”

Flemming ignored him, arguing to the group, “He would have wanted payment for any such photographs. I think it’s fairly safe to say he did not have any such photographs.”

Daphne said, “Everything we’re doing is in an attempt to get Hayes back as quickly as possible.”

LaMoia made notes. “What do you think about the photos?” he asked Weinstein.

“I think he had shot some and was going back for more.”

“And why is that?” Daphne inquired.

The attorney leaned over and whispered into his client’s ear. Weinstein shook his head. “No,” he answered audibly, and then to the others, “I never saw any photographs. I was never expressly told they existed.”

Daphne pressed, “But you believed they did exist. Why?”

Weinstein turned slightly to face her. He wore a boyish, surprised expression. “He said he had something going for him. I don’t remember the exact words.” Weinstein anticipated her next question and said, “This came after the call about the extra fifty bucks. See?” Then a spark filled his eyes and he said matter-of-factly, “You know what it was? He said that he’d get his money when he delivered Mr. Stranger Danger. That’s what it was.”