The Art of Deception (35 page)

“You motherfucker!” she shouted up toward the sky, not knowing who had said that, nor where it had come from. Her arms shook. The flashlight dimmed, smothered by the curtain of water. She’d been dragged out here against her better judgment, against her true will, manipulated in a way that felt both invasive and repugnant. In an effort to end it she’d resorted to his rules, his game, and this proved the most offensive of all.

Far away, she heard Blue’s hysterical barking. Beyond that, the dull grind of a jet’s turbines and the low grumble of a ship’s engine or thunder.

Again, she debated calling for backup, but she knew damn well that those who cried wolf quickly found themselves out of the pack.

She reentered the apartment building lacking confidence. One circling of the building carried with it a lingering doubt about who she was and what she was after.

She retrieved Blue from the stairwell and climbed the stairs, a sodden, dispirited shell of her former self. Whoever had entered the apartment had beaten her, and she resented the hell out of it. If they’d taken anything, they’d stolen a part of her as well.

•  •  •

The lights in LaMoia’s apartment flickered, and she cursed under her breath. She didn’t need any more drama at the moment; she wanted nothing more than to be locked up nice and tight, warm, dry, safe and sound.

Soaking wet, she patrolled the loft yet another time, inspecting every corner, every closet. Resolved that she was indeed alone and protected behind a series of deadbolt locks, she double-checked the window in her guest room, worked a chain to lower a bamboo shade, closed the door, placing a ladder-back chair against the knob, and undressed quickly, getting out of the wet clothes. She pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of underwear and the familiar sweatpants and ran a brush through her hair before crossing the kitchen and boiling water for tea.

Reinforced with the hot chamomile, she talked to Blue about nothing at all, found him a dog biscuit, and fed it to him from a stool at the kitchen bar. After that, he sat at attention by that stool unflinchingly devoted to her. She hated herself for wishing LaMoia would return home sooner than later. She didn’t want to go to bed without him being in the apartment, without relating her harrowing story of finding wet shoe prints down the center of his living room, without garnering some tiny amount of sympathy for what she’d been through, never mind that it was her fault in the first place.

Staring over the brim of her teacup at the apartment and its appointments, she immediately saw what was wrong then: nothing. Nothing was out of place.
Not one thing,
at least that she could see. If a common thief, one would expect a drawer or two left hanging open, a TV or DVD player gone missing.

Her hand hovered over the phone. She could call LaMoia and ask how long he thought he’d be. Better yet, she could find some clever way to determine his schedule
and
let him know someone had prowled his apartment—that was certain to bring
him home in a matter of minutes. But if Lou Boldt had put him on an assignment and she subsequently pulled him off that assignment, there would be hell to pay. Lou was clearly jealous of their closeness as it was—misplaced jealousy as far as she was concerned. Aggravating that wound hardly made sense. Furthermore, Boldt’s efforts were aimed at bringing Walker in for questioning. She had no desire to hinder those efforts.

She glanced toward the guest bedroom and thought better of it. She didn’t want to fall asleep. There was a TV in LaMoia’s bedroom the size of Texas. She thought she might invite herself to surf for a movie—anything to fill the time. Anything but sleep.

LaMoia got himself into more jams than a jar of peanut butter. He had a penchant for it, and why they always,
always,
seemed to involve women—
attractive women
—was beyond him, except to say that some guys were just lucky.

Cindy Martin would have immediately won LaMoia’s attention even if she hadn’t been identified in phone company Local Usage Details, or LUDs, as the person Mary-Ann Walker had called at 11:03
P.M.
on the night of her death, the last call placed that day from Lanny Neal’s apartment. LaMoia had read and reread the interview sheet on her. A CAP detective name Louis Gilgau had spent nearly an hour interviewing her, one of about ten such interviews. LaMoia now had the job to reinterview because Boldt had ordered him to do so—still convinced that Walker’s offer to “help” with Hebringer and Randolf made him of prime importance to that investigation as well as to his sister’s murder.

LaMoia would have noticed her not because of her chest, a substantial example of high breasts on a long waist, not because of the farm-girl innocence of her face, nor the faraway stare across the relatively empty barroom, but instead because of her fashion sense. Martin was one of those women who continues to dress the same and wear her hair the same as she had in high school. She still looked the same age as a result. If LaMoia were
to pick a pinup girl from a catalog, he’d be hard pressed to do better than Cindy Martin—a buxom farm-girl blonde, with hands like a man and eyes with the intensity of an assassin.

“Hey there,” LaMoia said, pulling himself up onto a bar stool and checking out the deerskin jacket in the bar’s mirror to make sure it hung right.

“Hi.”

“You’re Cindy?”

“You’re the cop that called,” she said.

“About Ferrell Walker,” he reminded.

“Like I told the other guy, I only dated him a couple of times.”

“Dated?” LaMoia asked. He didn’t remember reading a thing about that. How could Gilgau leave that out? “I thought the connection was Mary-Ann.”

“Was, yeah, sure.”

“But you dated Ferrell.”

“Not for long. Nothing serious.”

“I’m trying to find him.”

“So you said.” She met eyes with him, hers a cool gray-blue that he was sure could look frightening if she were mad at you. They could make you feel other things, too.

“You dated him recently?”

“Two years ago.”

He understood then why Gilgau would have discounted the importance. That was Ferrell Walker the fisherman, the Ferrell Walker before the fall brought on by his father’s death and his sister’s deserting the family business. He asked, “A week, a month, a couple months, or what?” He couldn’t see this girl with someone so unworthy. Sympathy fucks were one thing—he’d had a few himself—but sympathy relationships?

“Or what,” she answered.

“Cute,” he said, not meaning it.

She left him, tending to a bearded customer in need of another pilsner.

LaMoia thought about a drink, but it was seriously off-limits. So were pills, though he’d transferred the two he’d stolen from Matthews into his clean pair of jeans, and there they remained, in a coin pocket, only the thickness of denim from his enjoyment.

When she returned, she said, “Off and on. He was fishing then, so it wasn’t exactly steady between us. It was fun because we did things with Mary-Ann, that’s all. But it kind of lacked chemistry, you know?” She leaned into him with that twin pair of headlights—her eyes and the ones in the sweater—and induced enough electricity to fry a pacemaker. He understood the sign behind the bar then that warned of the health risks associated with the use of microwaves. Probably guys dropping like flies around there before the sign went up.

“Well, if it was a lack of chemistry,” he heard himself say, “it wasn’t any fault of yours.” Mikey liked it. He wasn’t sure what drove him to say such things, but there you are. He wasn’t sure about a lot of things. He didn’t lose any sleep over it.

“That other cop called. You guys are better in person.”

“Off-duty we get even better.” Where the hell had
that
come from?

“Don’t doubt it for a minute.” She glanced over at the clock. “I’m off at twelve.” Less than twenty minutes.

“I was on night duty for all of March. These past few days it has been pretty much twenty-four/seven. It’s hell on your social life.”

“I doubt you suffer too much,” she said, turning to the bottles after a signal for a vodka on the rocks and overexaggerating the effort as she stretched to reach it. She caught him looking at her assets in the bar’s mirror.

“Write me a ticket,” he called out to her, not missing a beat. “You busted me on that one.”

She grinned. Bit her bottom lip. “Free country,” she said.

“And me,” he said, “I’m supposed to keep it that way.”

She poured the vodka, returned the bottle with a lot less effort, and delivered the drink. Looked like maybe a two-dollar tip for a four-dollar drink—maybe the gymnastics hadn’t been for his sake after all. Woman knew her trade.

“Walker claimed to a colleague that Lanny Neal had gotten Mary-Ann jammed up with drugs. That he did stuff to her a guy shouldn’t do. Not the good stuff,” he added.

“Sounds like Ferrell. Listen, Mary-Ann was a big girl. With Lanny Neal—you got the reputation, if you know what I’m saying. He could be hell on a woman, sure. But he was hell
with
the women, too.”

“Got it.”

“She knew what to expect. She could have walked.”

“You think?”

“‘Course she could have. Except he got under her skin, I suppose.” She leaned forward on the bar again. “Some guys do that.”

“Women don’t tolerate abuse because they’re addicted to the sex,” he said. “It’s because they fear where it’ll go if they ditch out.”

“You believe that shit?”

“It’s in the manual that way,” he said, trying to win back some lost ground. He didn’t know if he wanted that ground for himself, or so he could continue to work her. That confusion disturbed him. Uncharted territory this, since his recovery. Dangerous ground even. Part of his distraction were the two pills in the coin pocket. The other part was looking him in the eye.

She laughed a good laugh, from the gut with her shoulders raked forward. “You’re a piece of work.”

“That’s what they say.”

She could hardly believe he’d said that. Neither could he.

Ten minutes to twelve. He had some decisions to make.

He said, “Bad luck, what happened to her.”

“Is it true Lanny did it?”

“We’re still working that out. What do you think?”

“Me?” That seemed to floor her. “Under different circumstances, no. From what I’ve read about it … if she’d been wearing more clothes … something like this … I’d say it was just plain bad luck. Wrong place, wrong time. It’s a different town than it was ten years ago, right? You’ve got to see more of that than the rest of us. Whole different place. But I don’t know—underwear and a T-shirt. That makes sense for her going to bed like that, and if she was going to bed, that’s Lanny, so I’d say you’ve got the right guy.”

“We don’t have him,” LaMoia said.

This confused her. “But I thought there was just a hearing.”

“There was.” He realized that people close to Mary-Ann like Cindy Martin had stayed up on events, once again amazed at the connection the media supplied.

“So? There’s gonna be another one, the paper said.”

“Maybe not.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” he said. “Depends on what we turn up.”

“Where’s Ferrell fit in?”

“Top secret,” he teased, making light of it. He lied: “Walker’s a character witness in all this. We’ve got to make sure we got someone we can trust.”

“Ferrell’s okay.”

“Just okay? Maybe that’s not good enough.”

“In ballet… you ever been to ballet? … they say you’ve lost your point. The arch of the foot just can’t take it anymore and you lose your point, and you’re basically finished dancing.
After the accident… Mary-Ann’s dad, I’m talking about, not her … Ferrell lost his point. Lost me, too. Lost Mary-Ann to Neal. Within a year he’d lost everything else. Their daddy held those kids together. Fucked up the boat most all the time … the fishing … pissed them both off. Drank too much, sure. But he held them together. Him drowning like that. Probably should have seen it coming, but it fucked Ferrell up worse than MaryAnn. Father, son, I suppose. Go figure.”

“Never heard that ‘point’ expression.” He hadn’t heard a great deal of this, but he didn’t want her necessarily knowing that.

“Yeah, you don’t strike me as the ballet type.”

“I’m adaptable,” he said, winning another smile from her.

“Why do I doubt that?”

“He says … Ferrell, this is … that Neal was pretty brutal on Mary-Ann. Put her in the emergency room a couple times.”

“I don’t know about that. The way she told it, that stuff happened out on the boat. Her and Ferrell out there trying to keep it going without their dad. I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“It wouldn’t be the first we’ve heard about Lanny Neal and his women,” he said.

“Listen, he’s no prince. Lanny has a wicked temper, no question about it. If Lanny was on meth … no, thank you. Makes him goddamn crazy, that stuff. He and Mary-Ann were practically married. Did I notice when she walked funny, or couldn’t use a bum arm? Sure I did. But I’m telling you, she said it happened out fishing, and I believed her. Not many girls work those boats, and those that do don’t do it for very long.”

“I’d take a Sam Adams if you had one.” He thought about those pills again, how easily they’d go down.

She drew him a draught beer. He paid with a five and left a couple bucks on the bar. He nursed the beer, not really in the
mood to drink but wanting to be a paying customer. She said, “Let me get Stan to fill in behind the bar. I’ll catch up with you over in one of the booths.” The look she offered him took the darkness out of the dim room.

Ten minutes passed before she joined him. She brought him a fish and chips, telling him he looked like he could use it. She suggested vinegar on the fish, ketchup on the fries.

“Tell me about this accident,” LaMoia said.

“What’s to tell? Mr. Walker was a drunk. In this business,” she said, glancing around the dark barroom, “you get so you can spot them, believe me. Growing up, I didn’t know it, but trust me, the guy was a fool for peppermint schnapps.” She shook like a wet dog to show her disdain. “The stuff makes me want to puke.”