The Art of Deception

Hatred of the Father

Matthews came awake to the sound of the door’s dead bolts turning. She’d fallen asleep for a few minutes on LaMoia’s king bed, the wide-screen TV halfway through Pollock, a movie she’d been stunned to find in LaMoia’s DVD collection. To rent it was one thing. To own it?

She hit the wrong button on the remote, sending the volume higher instead of turning off the TV. At least she was sitting up by the time LaMoia appeared in the doorway.

“You didn’t happen to walk Rehab?” he asked.

“How’d it go?” she asked. LaMoia shook his head, discouraged. She wanted to explain herself-her being found on his bed-felt she needed to explain, even though he’d invited her to treat the place as her own. “I thought a movie might help with sleep.” She stood up, tugged at her T-shirt self-consciously.

Crossed her arms because she wasn’t wearing a bra and felt awkward about it. “And yes … to Blue. The walk.”

“You all right?”

“No,” she said, shaking her hair and hanging her head. She felt so weak for having reacted the way she had. “I think someone got into the apartment, John.”

“What?”

“I left a window open, I think.”

His face tightened, but he managed to say, “Okay.”

“It’s not okay. It’s my fault, and I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t mean-”

“The floor was wet,” she said, stopping him.

“Because the window was open,” he suggested.

“No. Out here.” She pointed. “Prints. Maybe mine, maybe not. If not, they got there while I was out with Blue, I think.”

She felt awful, in spite of his attempts to smooth this over. “I think you should check whatever valuables you have. I haven’t touched anything and the place wasn’t tossed. Nothing like that.”

“Not much to take,” he said. But she could see him struggling with his frustration. He made light of checking a couple drawers. His underwear was there, he said. His socks. She wanted to hug him.

“See why you want me back at my place?”

“Not true.” He made a point of looking into the living space.

“Walker?”

“Would Nathan Prair know where you live?”

The question rattled LaMoia. “You think?”

“Could Neal or Walker know where you live?”

“If either of them had followed us, sure, they could.”

“But Prair. Your and my addresses are accessible to our fellow brothers in blue. Not to the public.”

“And what’s his motive?” LaMoia asked. “He’s looking for your laundry or something?”

“Cute,” she said.

“Special Ops tied Prair up for a while after he blew the surveillance. The timing’s off. I don’t see him good for this.”

“And what about Neal?” she asked. “It makes a little more sense in some ways. He might think we have files on the case.

Might have seen me enter alone and wanted to teach me a lesson. Never underestimate the power of guilt, John.”

He grimaced. “My using taught me all I need to know. Still working on it, for that matter. I don’t need the one-oh-one.”

“It gets big enough, you lash out. Neal could be there about now.”

“Wants to put this back onto us.”

“Something like that, yeah. I’m fishing, John.”

“Are you a mind reader, too?” he asked. He sat her down and together they shared toast and cream cheese while LaMoia explained most of his interview with Cindy Martin. He stuck to the highlights.

She said, “So the kids shared a hatred of the father, and when the father died there wasn’t as much to share. Mary-Ann gets her act together, probably feeling free for the first time in her life. Little brother Ferrell doesn’t fare as well. Feels abandoned.

Mary-Ann’s been mother and sister all in one. Pretty big void to fill, if that goes away all of a sudden.”

“And he’s chosen you to fill it.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he said.

They ate another piece of toast each. She took hers with honey and a second cup of tea, after which she said, “Second night in a row. I’m whipped.” He wouldn’t let her clean up. She returned a moment later with the drop gun and Taser, returning them.

“You can keep them,” he said.

She left them on the counter. “It was incredibly good of you to do that for me, John.”

“I’d do anything for you, Matthews. You know that.”

The seriousness of his statement hung between them. She knew if she simply walked away to her room it would put him in a bad place, so instead she crossed, closing to within inches of him. She took another step, and reached around him and they hugged. His body was all lean muscle. Besides the physical warmth between them, there was a current that hummed. Her chest tingled, as did her pubis. Stepping away, she turned quickly and said good night, hoping he wouldn’t see that her nipples had gone rigid beneath the T. There were too many lines that could be crossed here. She needed to get back to the houseboat, despite her having no desire to do so.

She asked, “What about IDing the latents from that lair Lou found? What about searching every known part of the Underground there is? Walker has to be hiding down there, right?”

“Tomorrow’s another day,” he said. “If there was anything to know, we’d know it.” He smiled, “Good night.”

“Sweet dreams,” she answered.

He mumbled something to himself. She was glad she didn’t hear it.

Ten minutes later she prepared for bed by shutting the office door and slipping off the sweatpants. She climbed under the duvet, the comfort of that bed about as welcome as anything she’d ever experienced. Blue scratched at the door, and she got up to crack it open so he could come and go. A moment later she was back under the covers thinking that life’s little pleasures were also often the biggest.

Maybe he’d bought Pollock because of the theme of alcoholism and depression-a part of his rehabilitation. Maybe just because of the performances. She wasn’t sure why this was where her mind focused on its way down toward sleep. She rolled over, slid her arm under the pillow, and she gasped, jumped away, and rolled out of bed in the process.

“John!” she called out without thinking.

He was there in about five steps. Shirtless, in a pair of gray athletic briefs, the legs of the underwear longer than tighty-whities. She remained on the floor, her T hiked up above her navel, her bikini-cut panties showing a lot more than she’d ever want seen. But neither of them was checking the other out, their attention was fixed instead on the guest bed. Her overreaction had tossed the pillow to the side. Lying on the bedsheet was the cause of all this.

A key. A skeleton key. The sheet remained slightly damp where a hand had touched it.

“What the hell?” LaMoia came closer.

Matthews sat up, tugging the T lower, but it wouldn’t go low enough. “Looks like Walker kept his promise,” she said, her voice catching.

“Hebringer and Randolf? You think?”

“We’d better call Lou.”