We always thought of this guy as a last resort, but we’re ready to play that hand now-we could arrange a lineup-and we just might do that if you agree to share what you know about these missing women.” God how she hoped LaMoia was getting this.
“You’re going to suggest we meet, no doubt.”
“Yes, I was.”
“Are you lying to me again, Daphne? Would you risk something as stupid as that? Playing your little games. Teasing me, like walking around that houseboat in that tight T-shirt and underwear, but never getting naked? What’s with that, anyway?”
Her throat went dry. He could be making that up, she said, unable to recall walking around her place dressed like that. How could she turn this around back on to him? Why wouldn’t her mind get off that image of him looking in on her half-naked?
“Is that how it was with Mary-Ann, Ferrell? You’ve got us confused, don’t you? Was it out on the boat? Did you watch her? You’ve got us confused, don’t you? Did you watch your own sister? By herself? With Lanny Neal? What?”
“Shut … up.”
His tone told her she had scored a hit, and this actually surprised her, for she’d brought it up only as a distraction, something to fill his head with a different image. But that tone of his …
Children saw, or overheard, their parents making love and were never quite the same for the experience. With no parents left, had Ferrell Walker spied on his own sister, peeped his own sister? Even with someone else killing her, the guilt over having done that would torment him.
“Where was it, Ferrell?”
“You-”
“At Lanny’s apartment? You saw her, didn’t you? Saw them, however that happened. Accident or not. Saw what he was doing to her.”
He spoke, barely above a whisper, but just enough to be heard. “How could you know that?”
Her arms prickled in gooseflesh. She had him going now-her dentist’s pick probing the cavity and striking the nerve. She thought of LaMoia and how he unexpectedly put the accelerator down in the turns in order to avoid skidding. She, too, put down the accelerator. “He was getting things you never got from her and she liked him in a way that she didn’t like you, and that hurt, didn’t it?”
“You don’t know as much as you think.” Again, barely discernible, indicating she’d thrown him deep into thought or recollection. These were the moments she lived for-she’d cracked open his conscience and was climbing inside.
The process allowed her to intentionally refocus Walker onto Neal and off of her-also a deliberate act on her part. They had Neal under surveillance as it was. At the very least, this effort of hers might provide them the opportunity to apprehend Walker as he made another attempt on Neal. She asked, “Is that where that anger at the medical examiner’s came from? It wasn’t just her death, was it, Ferrell? It was more than that. It was that she liked him, loved him, even. And you were left out in the cold in the process. Isn’t that right?” She thought of LaMoia listening in. “Here I am on one corner of Marion, and there you are in that coffee shop-how much sense does this make, Ferrell? We can sit down-the two of us, together-and discuss this, our case against Neal, what you know about the two missing women. Mary-Ann’s gone, but I’m here for you, Ferrell.”
“Here for me? I don’t think so. Tell that to Dirty Harry. He’s bad for you, Daphne. I warned Anna, and she ignored me. Look where it got her.”
Her brain froze, and she saw the events of the past few days in a whole different light, immediately regretting where she’d just now, so carefully, led him. Walker, or Prair, or whoever had driven her out of her houseboat in a state of panic, had also pushed her into LaMoia’s care. Walker somehow knew this, resented it, and drew parallels to the loss of his own sister. The massive psychological knot this would cause-first the transference on his part, then her own mimicking of Mary-Ann’s shacking up with Neal-might never come untangled, even in the most cooperative patient. Walker found himself watching instant replay, and she now began to see the complications of events that had changed his tone with her, had pushed him across the fine line between adoration and hate.
“It’s complicated,” she said, suddenly bone-tired, twinges of fear creeping back up her spine.
“I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours,” he said, suddenly childish again.
His 180-degree reverse was both too quick and too convincing. He was suffering the psychological equivalent of the bends.
He’d surfaced too quickly.
“I won’t lie to you, Ferrell. I want whatever help you can give me with the missing women.” She imagined that by now at least one car was rolling toward their location. Perhaps, even, LaMoia had gotten the switchboard to forward the call to his cell phone, and he was currently listening in while on the way himself.
“Why don’t you get us a table?” she said. “I’ll come over to the Seattle’s Best with you and we’ll sit down and discuss this.”
How many more crumbs did she need to leave LaMoia? She’d both given him the address and named the establishment. At this point, she felt certain it was safe to leave the pay phone and approach Walker. “Ferrell?”
“Ten o’clock tonight. You be at the door to the Shelter. If I see you’re alone, we’ll talk. If not …” Again, she heard his shallow, rapid breathing. She could picture him sweating yet cold, excited yet scared. “Don’t be stupid, Daphne.”
She heard the steamer again, but a large truck rounded the corner and double-parked, and the sunshine bouncing off it blinded the coffee shop’s window.
“Ferrell?” she said, already dropping the pay phone and moving up the sidewalk toward the coffee shop. At first she walked, but then, as the hum of the room grew louder in her cell phone, she began to jog, and finally to run. The blind spot on the window shrank with her angle as she approached, from a blinding silver, to black, and finally to transparent again.
The pay phone’s receiver dangled on the end of its cord.
LaMoia’s Jetta turned and rounded the corner, swerving out of the way of the double-parked truck. He’d been careful not to show himself on foot-was trying to let her know that he was nearby and available as backup.
But it was too late. Ferrell Walker was gone.
Allie-Allie-in-Come-Free
At 9:48 P.M., a matter of hours after Matthews had spoken to Ferrell Walker, she calmly drove her repaired Honda south on First Avenue, the black leather wallet containing her lieutenant’s police shield sticking out of the top of her Coach purse. Boldt had obviously pressured Captain Sheila Hill into reinstating her, because there had been no review board or formal review. She’d gotten the call that the meet with Walker had been approved, and that meant reinstatement.
The last few hours at SPD and Public Safety had been the mobilization of a surveillance team that included several plainclothes detectives from Narco and CAP as well as a three-man, black-clad ERT unit from Special Ops and even a rooftop sharpshooter. Boldt had suspended the search of the Third Avenue Underground while SID combed the lair, and the surveillance of construction sites continued, meaning his manpower was stretched.
As she’d prepared for the meet, Matthews had asked LaMoia to wire her up, an invitation usually assigned a fellow member of the same sex. The idea was for him to clip and tape the transmitter to her pants to avoid ripping hairs off her skin.
Although not exactly an intimate moment, it felt that way to both of them, what with him running his fingers inside the waistband of her pants, brushing the elastic of her underwear.
True, she wore less clothing, showed far more skin, at a pool or the gym, but men didn’t run their hands down your pants at either. He couldn’t manage to get the tape to stick very well, so he ran his fingers even deeper. He stepped back suddenly, as if she’d bitten him.
“Listen, I’m not doing such a great job. Maybe we should get a skirt in here.”
