The Art of Deception

Alone Again

Nathan Prair invoked his right to a guild representative, a lawyer, ahead of his interview, effectively nullifying that any such interview would take place and, through the process, casting additional suspicion onto himself. He was released, pending a board hearing, though it seemed unclear any such hearing would ever take place, as SPD had little authority to remand a deputy sheriff. It would take the attorneys some time to sort this all out.

Boldt threw a fit in the Situation Room, angry at his team for the failed surveillance operation, the bungled intelligence, furious with Walker for having stung them. He ordered LaMoia to orchestrate a sweep of all known locations for Walker in a bid to bring him in for questioning. LaMoia broke a key off his key ring and handed it to Matthews, asking if she’d mind feeding Rehab when she returned to his loft.

“There’s no reason to go back to your loft, John, although I appreciate the offer.”

“The hell there isn’t.”

“We’ve had the houseboat under surveillance all night long.

Twice it has been searched and swept top to bottom. It’s probably the safest place in the city right now.”

“It’s on our hot-spot list, Matthews. Don’t give me shit about this. We’re going to roust every homeless haunt in this city in the next couple hours. I need all hands on deck for that. We will not be watching your crib. We will not be sweeping your crib.

You’ll stay at my place at least one more night, maybe longer.

It’s that or a hotel. You know the Sarge. You know the drill.

This is not me, darlin’. You want to complain, you go over my head.”

“I will.”

“Be my guest.”

Her bluff having failed, she winced and tried to charm her way out of this requirement. “How ’bout I feed Blue and then go over to my place?” She wasn’t sure why she’d attached so fiercely to the idea of independence-she didn’t actually relish the idea of being alone in the houseboat. Yet something com-pelled her not to accept his offer. She felt it showed weakness to accept. “Leave just one guy to watch my dock.”

“Walker’s a fisherman, Matthews. He’s probably just as likely to try a water approach. I don’t have the manpower. Even if I did, I couldn’t justify it to a lieutenant who doesn’t want you staying there. Do me a favor, don’t make me take another meeting with the Sarge. He’s in a stink. I don’t need it, not tonight. If we turn up Walker, I’ll promise to call and let you in on it, okay?” It hadn’t occurred to her that they might not include her in on this interrogation, but with her as the “victim,”

it suddenly made sense. “The number I’m going to call is my own loft, not your cell. You copy that?” He added, “In the meantime, I’m going to advise dispatch that you’ll continue to wear the wire, right up until you undress for bed. Okay?” She gave him a look. He said, “Don’t give me that. This is not kinky. It’s just on the off chance this guy’s holding another ace.” He wouldn’t let her get a word in edgewise. “Don’t forget, Matthews, it was you who put this notion into my head that this bozo might be cozying up to nabbing you, not the other way around. You got any peeves, you take it up with the lady in the mirror, not me, okay?”

She resolved herself to the notion that attending Walker’s interrogation was far more important to her than where she laid her head for a night. Besides, secretly, with all his gab, LaMoia had convinced her she didn’t want to spend the night alone anyway. Having a dog and a cop down the hall was just fine with her.

The wind gusted as if someone had switched on a fan. Elliott Bay whipped up into a white-capped froth that rocked the lumbering ferries side to side. Upon reaching LaMoia’s loft, Matthews had initially misunderstood Blue’s incessant whining, believing the dog missed its master, as did she, only to realize he needed a trip around the block to relieve himself. Donning one of LaMoia’s slickers and an old felt hat, Matthews set out for a quick trip around the block, bringing the Beretta along in the right-hand pocket as a security blanket. The formerly indus-trialized neighborhood was a hubbub of commerce by day-a coffee shop, a rug store, a gourmet market, a magazine and newspaper specialist, a smoke shop-but by night little more than a rolled-up sidewalk in a loft neighborhood, the curb lined with Range Rovers and Troopers, the black-leather-jacket set strolling in pairs during good weather, renting DVDs and staying home when it rained.

Blue left his mark on a few dozen vertical surfaces, from the corners of buildings to NO PARKING signposts. He staked his territory out like a surveyor, marking a street corner and actually waiting for her to lead him across the street.

When the slanting rain hit, she thought of her partially open bedroom window-of many of the loft’s windows-and picked up the pace of her return. A drizzle was one thing, but this kind of sideways storm could soak the place.

Perhaps it was nothing more than the anxiety of wanting to seal the loft from the storm and the accompanying adrenaline that pumped into her system, but a few minutes after she picked up her pace, a few minutes into realizing that she and Blue were inauspiciously alone out on this street-where had everyone gone? — an agitation overtook her, like the feeling when a limb aches and itches from the inside out. That awful feeling begged her to check ahead of her and behind, left to right, in an increasingly frantic effort to see if anyone was following her. Paranoia swept over her as quickly as had the wind.

When Blue’s pace quickened, the nails of his paws scratching the sidewalk’s concrete in a flurry of sharp strokes, it drove her heart rate faster, pushed her legs first into a jog and finally an outright run, the two of them in competition now, Blue heeling to her side, his wet tongue dangling, Matthews lifting her knees, rocking her ankles, controlling her breathing to where they closed the last two blocks back to the building in a full-on sprint.

Winded, and yet laughing as she told Blue what a good dog he was, she let them back into the building and took the stairs, eschewing the assistance of the elevator. It felt much warmer than when they’d left. She reached the apartment door, slipped the key into three of the five locks available, and unlocked it.

She unclipped the leash, patted Blue on the head, and was hanging the slicker back onto the coat tree when Blue’s slobbering turned her around.

The dog was licking the floor. He glanced up toward Matthews as he did so-as if he knew better-put his nose to the plank flooring, and then advanced several feet and licked again.

For a moment Matthews thought how cute a sight it was, but that moment passed quickly, followed by an inaudible sucking for air in a room that suddenly offered none: Blue was licking water off the floor-water, in the form of wet boot prints.