Ridley Pearson - Beyond Recognition

“Vulnerable.”

“Exactly. Especially to an inside job.”

Boldt speculated, “Nicholas Hall was an MP at Chief Joseph.”

“That he was. Whether he figured it out himself or was paid off to do an inside job, who knows? But Mr. Paddle Paw in there skimmed off a little juice and cashed in his retirement plan.” Looking through the one-way glass at the suspect, LaMoia said, “I wonder if he’s considered a career in Ping-Pong.”

Boldt exhaled loudly said, “Good work, John.”

“Damn right. I’d say it earns me ten minutes with him, right, Sarge?”

Daphne stepped out of the Box at that moment and, overhearing the request, objected. “Let’s give him a rest. Please. Then the sergeant will go back at him.”

LaMoia had proved himself incredibly effective in past interrogations. Boldt thought of him as his wild card. He knew few boundaries. He could be a suspect’s instant friend, or worst enemy. Boldt told his detective, “Don’t touch him.”

Daphne, knowing Boldt’s mind was made up, advised LaMoia, “Don’t ask any questions. Just statements, John.”

“Matthews,” LaMoia said, “have I told you lately that I like you?”

She repeated, “No questions. Push him with statements.”

LaMoia moved to the Box, pulled up his pants at the waist, and opened the door. Facing Boldt, he whispered, “You might want to turn off the tape.”

He walked in with a swagger-in his trademark pressed jeans.

Boldt and Daphne watched and listened. Through the speaker mounted below the one-way glass they heard LaMoia say, “I bet you’re a killer at handball, Nicky.” He kicked the empty chair away from the desk and sat down in it, craned forward on the edge. “You could always get a job as an inspector at a mitten factory. You know: Inspected by number thirteen . That kinda shit.”

LaMoia stared for a moment.

“What was life like out at Chief Joseph once everybody left?”

The suspect paled noticeably.

He asked this, breaking Daphne’s request immediately. No answer from the suspect.

“What else?” he asked. “You could play bass drum in a marching band. Direct traffic! Hey, what about that? You could be a traffic cop, Nicky. Pay sucks, and the company you keep isn’t so great, but you always have the fact that you’re working for the betterment of society, you know?” Then he said, “You could drive a pickup truck, I bet. One-handed, but so what? You could sell out your country. You could probably shove that thing up your cell mate’s ass, with a little help.

“You know who I am, Nicky? I’m the one you’ve been worried about. I’m the one you’ve been thinking was going to come through that door. You met me in boot camp. You see me in some of your nightmares. I’m the one that those guys”-he said pointed to the glass-“can’t control. I’m the one who doesn’t give a shit. Boldt and Matthews, they’re on a break. But not me. I’m the one who does the dirty work around here. You know football at all? I’m the safety, the last guy on the field between you and the end zone. Safeties are always the crazy motherfuckers, you know? Stand in the way of a three-hundred-pound running back. You gotta be crazy, right? So what?” LaMoia slapped the table so loudly that the speaker went fuzzy. “You worked security at Chief Joseph. You decided to make a few bucks. Don’t shake your fucking head, pal, because I know what I know. And I know all about you. You know I do. You want to nod, that’s okay. But don’t lie to me. Don’t fuck with me. Matthews, she’s the exception to the rule around here. And that makes me the rule. You’re going to live with that, or you’re going to die with that-I don’t give a shit. But you’re not going to lie to me. Under no circumstances are you to lie to me.

“Maybe I need a little introduction,” LaMoia continued. “I’m the guy who knows everybody. Ask anyone. I’m the guy who tells the screw to put you with the soapies and he does it; I’m the guy who says to put the roaches in the soup, and the cook does it. I have friends. I make friends easily. Like with you, right, Nicky? Buddies, right? Let’s have a little nod, Nicky.”

If Boldt hadn’t seen it a dozen other times, he might have been shocked to see the suspect nod.

Daphne, clearly amazed, said, “I could study LaMoia for a decade and never write a comprehensible paper about how he does what he does. It’s not simply intimidation, it’s something beyond that.”

“It’s LaMoia,” Boldt said.

“That’s what I mean,” she agreed. “He’s despicable, and yet he’s lovable.”

“I’m just glad he’s on our side.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” she said.

“He called me,” Hall said, the first break in his silence.

Suddenly quiet and a fellow conspirator, LaMoia said, “Give us what we need, Nicky, and you just might walk out of here. No promises. But the flip side is that we can make life hell for you. It’s like a game show, Nicky. Choose the door. Go ahead and pick. But don’t waste any more of my time, and don’t make them send me on any more errands to clean up your shit for you. You got into this shit all by yourself. Now you need me to get out of it. The doors are right in front of you: Truth or Dare. Your choice. Pick one, Nicky, and pick fast, because I’m running out of time here. I’m going home at the end of the day, just remember that. You’re not. Not yet. I’m going home to my own bed, my TV, and a warm little friend from Puerto Rico with a pair of cheeks that just sit in the palms of your hands, you know? Sweet stuff. Truth or Dare, Nicky? Time’s up!” LaMoia was out of the chair, leaning across the table at the suspect. “Buzzer’s ringing. Nicky Hall: Come on down!”

Even without seeing the detective’s face, Boldt knew that the man looked insane and ready to crack. LaMoia lived on the edge, and at times like this it was impossible to tell how much was acting and how much was real.

Daphne said, “I can’t believe this. It’s going to work.”

“Yeah,” Boldt echoed. “I know.”

LaMoia pounded the table again. “Truth or Dare, Mr. Paddle Paw! You start talking or I start walking. Matthews can’t save you. Boldt can’t save you. Only I can save you. What’s it going to be?”

“He knew that both parts of the stuff were stored on the base,” Hall explained. “He had to have either been stationed there or worked there at some point. I figured that out right away.”

“Brilliant. Pray continue, my man.” LaMoia kicked his feet up onto the table, stretched his hands behind his head, leaned into the cradle, and said, “I’m listening, Nicky. I’m listening.” He glanced toward the glass and winked.

Boldt reached down and turned on the tape recorder.

As if cued to do so, LaMoia said, “My name is Detective LaMoia, Mr. Hall. Tell me what you know.” He did this for the sake of the tape, which he knew was running by then.

Hall picked up where he had left off. “I was working MP duty. I’d driven by those buildings for years and never did know what was inside.”

LaMoia glanced back at the window with a cocky, proud expression and grinned widely.

“Sometimes I hate LaMoia,” Daphne said.

“Yeah,” Boldt answered. “I know what you mean.”

On Saturday Daphne took Ben to the Seattle Aquarium. He’d never been, and it was a place she enjoyed so much that she often went there simply to relax, to stroll and think in what to her was another world. She never took notice of the tanks, rarely read the descriptive labels; it was the fish that captivated her attention, the unflinching eyes, the pulsing gills, the gentle-paced wandering through the kelp and imitation coral. Despite her frequent visits, she didn’t know one fish from another, couldn’t tell a dolphin from a porpoise, a pilot fish from a pike.