The Art of Deception

Boxed In

“She betrayed me,” Walker said to LaMoia across the interrogation table in the Box.

“Where have you been?” LaMoia asked flippantly. “She’s a woman, Walker. Get used to it.”

The edge of the table carried the regimented brown larvae of cigarette burns despite the NO SMOKING sign on the wall. A cassette machine ran two tapes recording simultaneously. Two yellow pads. Two pencils.

Dressed in an orange county jail jumpsuit, Walker looked older and in a bad way. She and Boldt observed this initial exchange from the other side of the one-way glass in the narrow, dark closet that served as the observation booth. Boldt explained apologetically how he had to take the meeting with Lofgrin.

“That skeleton key came back clean,” he told her, “but he’s got the prelim on the Underground for me-I was due down there a half hour ago-and he’s got this set of high-level meetings later on that he can’t beg out of.”

“John can handle it, Lou. He’s one of the best. We’re fine.”

She didn’t take her eyes off Walker.

“We’re the best-you and I,” he said. But it sounded to her more like he was testing her, even fishing for a compliment.

“Interrogations, I’m talking about.”

She knew perfectly well what he was talking about. Jealousy belied his intentions. She broke her attention off the Box for the first time, met eyes with Boldt, and said again, “We’re fine here.”

Boldt nodded, though in such a reserved fashion he might as well have shook his head no instead.

“We’re running both audio and video, Lou. You won’t miss a thing.” He would miss it, of course, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

“We’re holding him overnight,” Boldt said.

“I think it could be a mistake,” she said.

“He threatened you.”

“Yes, but listen, a teakettle is one kind of threat, Lou. All that boiling water inside … but you spill it out, and that’s a different kind of hot. We tip this guy over … we don’t know what’s going to happen.” Again, she wondered who was doing the talking. Her eyes left Walker and settled on the other guy across from him. It was time she took a hotel room. She felt discouraged, even sad. Walker consumed by grief, Boldt by jealousy, she with her fear-and LaMoia with his resolute calm.

She envied him that, and hoped her face didn’t reveal her thoughts.

“It’s harassment. We can make that stick for twenty-four hours, which gives us time to pursue a court order to get his clothes down to SID.”

“You don’t really think he’s the one living in the lair, do you? You honestly think the hairs and fibers on his clothes are going to come back for that? For Chen?”

They entered into a staring contest, neither about to back down.

She said softly, “I know you think you’re helping, Lou, and I love you for it. But not this guy. Not this way.”

He never broke the eye contact. “Well,” he said hesitantly, “I guess I’m out of here, then.”

“Bye,” she said, lifting her hand in a half wave, her full attention back on that room. She heard him leave and felt relief and wondered what was going on between them. Was she using him, thriving on his confusion over her and LaMoia? If so, to what end?

“Let’s get down to brass tacks,” she heard LaMoia say, his voice made nasal by the small speaker.

She thought it impossible, but Walker looked another ten years older all of a sudden, probably the result of the tube lighting-inkwells beneath both eyes, a pasty bluish tone to facial skin stretched by a self-imposed starvation. He hardly moved in the chair, and when he spoke it was with a controlled calm that troubled her, leaving her wondering what they’d gotten themselves into. Who was running whom?

“My father used to say that,” Walker said. He directed himself to the pane of glass that inside the Box was a large mirror.

“Is she listening? Are you there, Daphne?”

“Hey!” LaMoia fired off, trying to win Walker’s attention but failing.

“I’m so disappointed in you,” Walker said.

She felt her stomach turn. He seemed to know exactly where she was standing. She moved to her left, his eyes seemed to follow. It was an uncanny display of empathetic behavior.

“Tell me about the skeleton key,” LaMoia said.

Walker continued to stare at the mirror-at her.

“Hey!” LaMoia reprimanded for a second time, “I’m talking to you.” He stood and came around the table.

Walker’s head jerked up to intercept the man. “You lay a finger on me, and this is in the hands of the lawyers.”

It stopped LaMoia like he’d hit an invisible shield. “You’ve been watching too much Court TV.”

“Uh-huh,” Walker said, fixated on the mirror again, “in all my free time at the country club.”

“A comedian?” LaMoia asked.

“That’s me,” Walker answered. He spoke more loudly, “Tell him, Daphne.”

“Her part of the deal was putting Neal into that lineup. Your part was the key … but a key needs a door.”

“I don’t know anything about any key,” Walker said-deliberately unconvincingly? — bending to look past LaMoia, who attempted to block the man’s view of the mirror, “but I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” He looked up into LaMoia’s eyes. “You don’t need my help with everything, do you?”

“I don’t need your help with anything,” LaMoia snapped.

“You’ve got that turned around, friend.”

“The deal was to put Neal away. He gets put away, maybe you find that door.”

“It could work the other way,” LaMoia proposed.

“Could it, you think?” Walker asked.

“It’s a two-way street.”

“Is it?” Walker let the animal loose then. He bared his teeth, his eyes rolling white into the back of his head, his neck a fan of tight wires from jaw to collarbone. “We … had … a … deal!” he screamed, actually driving LaMoia back a step.

His raw voice distorted the observation booth’s small speaker.

Spittle dripped down his chin. He wiped it off on his shirt-sleeve. He had never taken his eyes off Matthews, reconnected now by LaMoia’s movement.

LaMoia said, “We get this thing right without you, and you’re buried.”

“Nice choice of words, Detective. Tell him, Daphne.”

“You’re a fucking freak show,” LaMoia said, approaching Walker once again. He leaned in closely and said, “You leave her out of this, Walker. It’s me you’ve got to worry about.”

Keeping his eyes directly on her, not on LaMoia, Walker said, “She wants out of this, she’s out of this. Simple as pie.

Mary-Ann wanted out, and look what happened to her.” He found LaMoia again, back on track, a sail filling with wind.

“Look what Neal did to her.”

LaMoia said, “The church has doors that take skeleton keys.

The church at the Shelter. We’re checking that entire section of Underground as we speak.” He repeated, “We solve it without you-”

Walker interrupted, “And I’m buried. Yeah, I got that the first time.” He threw open his arms. “Bury me, Detective. At least charge me. Do something other than just harassing me, would you please? Ask her what she wants. Ask her what comes next. She knows, Detective. Do you? I don’t think you have a clue.” He stood out of his chair and pointed, “But she does! Is it over, Daphne? Is it?” To LaMoia: “She’s living with you now.

You ask her.”

LaMoia shoved the man down hard, returning him to his chair. He leaned into the man’s ear and whispered softly enough to avoid the recorder. “You ever set foot in my place again, Einstein, and I’ll rip you a new asshole and make you eat your own shit.”

He stepped back. Walker blanched, his lips wet with saliva, his eyes watery and hard. “We’ll see,” he said.

“Yes, we will,” LaMoia said.

“You ask her,” Walker said. “She knows what comes next.”