The Art of Deception

If the Shoe Fits

“Is this waiting really necessary?” an uncharacteristically impatient Daphne Matthews asked LaMoia, the two of them watching the detainee through the interrogation room’s one-way glass.

LaMoia said, “You know the drill.”

Yes she did: The waiting allowed the suspect time to com-prehend the severity of the situation, and police the time to collect as much information on the individual as possible, but she’d never waited out that time as a victim before, and the resulting anxiety owned her.

“What about Prair?” she asked.

“What about him?”

“You let him go.”

“Let him go?” LaMoia asked. “He’s a cop who responded to a situation. Under normal circumstances, he’d be considered something of a hero for helping you.”

“Hardly. Are we going to talk to him?”

“Not formally,” he answered.

“But the ticket … his having known Mary-Ann …” She felt exasperated, everything turned on its head.

“We don’t show that card until we can back it up with something. It’ll send him so deeply underground we’ll need to dig through five layers of lawyers to know what clothes he’s wearing.”

“He lied to us.”

“Not on the record, he didn’t. He’s a cop, Matthews. However he’s involved in this, he knows exactly how we’re going to play it. We do the dance or we lose him-it’s as simple as that.”

“I want to pressure him,” she said. “Tonight, tomorrow, as soon as we can. I know the way this one thinks, John. If we squeeze him we stand the most to gain.”

“You going to pull rank on me?”

“Is it going to come to that?” she asked.

The two studied each other.

LaMoia said, “Okay … But he’ll talk his way out of it, and we won’t have squat.”

“I’m being impetuous?”

“You’re reacting to a tough situation … that wasn’t easy out there. You’re lashing out at all available parties.”

“Who’s the psychologist and who’s the detective?” she asked.

He nodded okay. “You want the detective? Your fuel line was crimped, probably with a pair of pliers.”

“And maybe it was a rock that one of the tires kicked up.”

She’d overheard this preliminary report from the police garage; she didn’t want LaMoia making it worse than it was.

His annoyance manifested itself as flaring nostrils and a worried brow. LaMoia’s level temper was one of his most valuable qualities-she’d heard that when he lost that temper things could “get a little wild,” as a patrolman had once put it. She had no desire to be the object of that display.

“The guy we arrested wears clodhoppers with monster soles.

It’s entirely within the realm of possibility that this asshole fre-quents empty construction sites. I can detain him on harassment charges at least until the T1 is back on-line and we know for sure whether he has a record or not.”

“Where are we?” Boldt asked from behind them. She could read Boldt by his tone of voice; she heard concern. They met eyes, tenderly and with feeling. She wanted to hug him. Studying her face he said, “Knowing you, you already think we’re wasting our time.”

LaMoia quipped, “Andy Sipowicz’s got nothing on you, Sarge.”

“He was offering help,” she said. “Now he’s cooling off in the Box like a street thug. I wonder if that’s the right way to handle it.”

LaMoia told Boldt about the gas line.

Boldt said to Matthews, “Well, there you go.” Adding, “Listen, you’re not the first stalking victim to think we’ve got the wrong guy. That’s victim response one-oh-one.” He asked LaMoia, “What’s his pedigree?”

“Gary Hollie. West Seattle. An accountant with something called Cross Ship LLC.” LaMoia held himself back a moment before saying, “I hate accountants.”

A young patrolwoman approached at a brisk walk and delivered a coy grin to LaMoia as well as the awaited computer printout. Matthews tried to ignore the woman’s open flirting.

“Never met her.” LaMoia defended himself without looking up from the printout. It was his prescience that disturbed her the most. She didn’t want him reading her thoughts.

LaMoia said, “Seems our Mr. Hollie went down for illegal trespass in Maryland less than two years ago.”

“That could be anything,” Matthews said.

“Including a peeping charge dealt down,” LaMoia said.

“He’s yours,” Boldt told LaMoia, strategizing a game plan.

“I’m a presence, that’s all. You take the chair. I want to pace.”

“Got it,” LaMoia said. Already at the interrogation room door, he looked back at Matthews. “You see something you don’t like, give us a knock or a buzz.” A gracious offer, but also a little patronizing.

“What if I don’t like any of it?” she called out.

LaMoia motioned Boldt through first. “Age before beauty,” he said.

Gary Hollie’s oversized head was reminiscent of a jack-o’- lantern, and had nearly as much hair. He wore a neatly trimmed black mustache above pursed lips that struggled to contain a simmering anger. Forest green chinos, a white button-down shirt, and the thick-soled office shoes completed the look. If they ended up pressing charges they would have a good look at the waffle pattern of those shoes.

LaMoia introduced Boldt as “the guy who runs the show around here.” He then took a seat in an uncomfortable chair across the war-pocked table from the suspect. Everything about the Box was austere and drab, from the vinyl flooring to the acoustic-tiled ceiling punctuated with randomly lanced pencil holes. Boldt wandered the perimeter, studying the familiar walls like a building inspector. A mirror of one-way glass occupied most of the west wall, a window through which Daphne Matthews would observe the interview.

Hollie complained in a tight nasal whine of a man held hostage by stress and tension. “This is what I get for trying to help the lady? Who are you people?”

LaMoia played the game, allowing a drawn-out silence to settle into the room beneath the steady presence of forced air.

“We appreciate your taking a few minutes to help us sort this out.”

“I have a right to an attorney.”

“Yes, you do, and you may exercise that right at any time.

No one here has denied you that right. You’ll recall that I offered you the chance to place that call if you so desired.”

“You also threatened to charge me.”

“I informed you that the involvement of attorneys would necessitate I book you. Those are the facts, Mr. Hollie. Currently, I can still change my mind. Right now, we’re just two guys talking about an incident that’s as likely to go away as it is to stick. If you want to walk out of here, then I’ve got to make your arrest go away. That’s what we’re doing here, me and you: We’re making like magicians. We’re working out the disappearing act.”

“So what’s he doing?” Hollie indicated Boldt.

Distracting you. Worrying you. “The boss is here to make sure I don’t knock you sideways and use you to mop the floor, because I’m known to have a little bit of a temper when it comes to defending my family. The woman you threatened is a police officer I work with-we work with. Highly respected and loved by all. You picked a hell of a target, Hollie.”

“I did not target her.”

“She asked you to back off, several times. Her phone was on. I heard it.”

“Her car was blocking two lanes.”

“She told you to go away. You chose to ignore her request.”

“She was being unreasonable.”

“Whereas banging on a window, wrestling with a door handle, and shouting at a driver is the epitome of reasonable behavior.”

“The … car … was … blocking … the road,” Hollie said, his attention alternating between Boldt and LaMoia. “I was trying to help. The car was stalled in traffic. Would you have just driven by? The headlights were on. It was raining. A woman inside. Alone.”

“You see? Now we’re getting somewhere,” LaMoia said.

“Like, for instance, how did you know there was a woman inside that car? How did you know she was alone?”

He stammered, looked a little dazed, and then recovered.

“Because I went up to the window and looked inside.”

“You get off on looking in windows, do you?” LaMoia asked, turning to make eye contact with Boldt.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Maryland, two years ago. You want to tell us about the trespass charge?”

Hollie blanched, chewing nervously on his lower lip like something was stuck in his teeth. His fingers drummed rapidly on the edge of the table as a sheen appeared below his eyes and above his thin eyebrows. A criminal record was like a pole marker on a racetrack-no matter how fast you ran, it kept reappearing in front of you.

“We’re calling Maryland right now,” LaMoia informed him.

“You don’t want to work a story on me because I do not like stories. I respect a man who owns up to what he did. The past is the past, eh, Mr. Hollie?”

“You’re single, or you wouldn’t say that,” Hollie said with authority. “There’s no such thing as the past when you’re di-vorced. It stays right there with you every day: the alimony, the anger, the memories. You never get past it. Not completely.”

“So enlighten me about these charges.”

“My ex got it in her head I was going to steal our son from her. I’m talking kidnap. She made up a bunch of crap about me harassing her-none of it true-and got a restraining order in place. The woman is psycho. And of course they believe the woman, not the guy, right? You show me one time they believe the guy. The restraining order wouldn’t let me within a hundred feet of a house that I was paying the mortgage on. Try that out.”

“So you ignored the order.” LaMoia realized he sounded less confident, and regretted the letdown.

“I entered the house-my house, and when no one was home I might add-and got a bunch of my clothes, a couple CDs, and a picture of my son. For that I got arrested, and charged, and convicted.” He huffed and shook his head. “I’ll tell you something: I drew a line on a map as far away from Maryland as I could get-excluding southern California, because that place makes me sick-and I ended up here in Seattle. Away from her and, I might add, away from my son, which is killing me. If you were a father, you’d understand that.” Gesturing to take in Boldt and the room, he said, “But take a look around. I’m still not far enough away from her.”

Boldt spoke for the first time, asking calmly, “Mr. Hollie, would you have any objection to our lab guys making a quick impression of your shoe soles, maybe looking over your car?”

“What are you talking about?” Hollie seemed caught between a laugh and a cry.

“Agreeing to the search will expedite the process,” Boldt advised, “however you’re under no obligation to cooperate, and there are no guarantees of the outcome.”

Hollie squinted his eyes shut like a man kneeling before the altar asking for forgiveness. “All I wanted to do was help the woman out.”

“Out of the car, or out of the road?” LaMoia questioned, turning his words.

“The opportunity still exists to help,” Boldt advised. “By clearing you, our lab guys can move on.” It was a bit of a stretch, but sounded convincing enough.

LaMoia and Boldt awaited his answer expectantly, a pair of gamblers waiting for the roulette ball to drop.

“I’ve got to call a lawyer first.”

LaMoia’s head bounced in defeat. “We brought you in for answers. Now we get lawyers?”

“If the lawyer says it’s okay, I’ve got no problem with you looking at anything of mine. Shoes, car, what do I care?”

Hollie made it sound as if he were cooperating, or intended to cooperate, but it was all a ruse: Not even the stupidest PD

would advise him to submit to such a search without evidence and charges in place.

The suspect reminded them, “I’m starting all over out here.

Though I’ve got to tell you I’m reconsidering that decision as well.” He met eyes with Boldt, who wore his disappointment openly. “Is there any place left in this world where anyone-and I mean anyone at all-is still sane?”

Boldt signaled LaMoia. He wanted a chat in the hallway.

They had the wrong guy, and both cops knew it.