Free The Art of Deception by Ridley Pearson

put away her thoughts of Ferrell Walker. As she swung open the door that led out of the offices and into the small reception area littered with magazines, Matthews caught sight of a brown sheriff’s uniform. The medical examiner’s office was a county, not city, department, meaning KCSO had as much or more business here than SPD. Nonetheless, she knew in advance, knew instinctively, who this uniform belonged to.
    The wide shoulders turned, the blond head swiveled, and just before the door shut she caught a glimpse of the profile of Deputy Sheriff Nathan Prair.
    What business did Nathan Prair have here? Was it Mary-Ann Walker or was it Daphne Matthews? She turned around quickly, hoping he hadn’t seen her. She hurried toward the conference room, a part of her wanting escape; she knocked once, turned the handle, and stepped inside, her heart beating a little too quickly.

    “Why don’t you walk us through the events of the night MaryAnn went missing,” LaMoia said.
    Neal’s erratic eye movement, constant swallowing to fight dry mouth, and perspiring upper lip warned Matthews to pay strict attention to the lies she felt were certain to follow. Here was more what she’d been expecting of Walker when she’d put the question to him. By prior agreement, she’d let LaMoia kick things off. At an appropriate time, yet to be determined, she would take over and he would be the one to stay quiet. If they sensed they had a live suspect, they would finish up by double-teaming Neal, at which point Matthews would play the hard-ass, and LaMoia the more patient, reasonable cop, turning stereotypes on end and hoping to keep Neal guessing.
    “We’d been at my mom’s, the two of us. We’d had a couple drinks. Dinner at my mom’s. My mom likes rum. We’d had a few rums, I guess.”
    LaMoia clarified, “This is you, Mary-Ann Walker, and your mother?”
    “Right.”
    “State your mother’s name, please.”
    “Frances. Frances Kelly Neal.”
    “You had dinner, the three of you. Which night was that?”
    “Saturday.”
    LaMoia took a moment to make a point of counting backward. His favorite line of offense was to play the fool to begin with, slowly migrating to the hard-line cop any suspect learned to fear. “March twenty-second.”
    Neal said, “We come home after dinner … to my hang, you know? And went to bed. I watched the sports while she … you know, she was
busy.”
    “Busy, how?”
    “You know?”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    “Busy.” He pumped his cupped hand up and down. “Beneath the sheets.”
    “Ms. Walker was performing oral sex on you while you watched the sports news.”
    Neal grinned proudly, but he couldn’t keep his eyes still. “That’s it.”
    Lies, she thought, as LaMoia caught her attention and rolled his eyes.
    “What time would that have been?” LaMoia asked.
    “After dinner, like I said.”
    “That would be the local news?”
    “Q-13.”
    “That would be Fox.”
    “That would be correct.” He mimicked LaMoia, and the sergeant impressed Matthews with his ability to remain calm and not rise to the bait.
    Neal liked to hear himself talk. That played in their favor. “She wanted some of that action for herself—if you know what I’m saying—and I wasn’t exactly complaining, but—”
    LaMoia interrupted. “We’ll skip the play-by-play, if you don’t mind. You did, or did not have intercourse with MaryAnn Walker on Saturday, March twenty-second?”
    “That’s a ‘did.’ For sure.”
    Matthews asked, “Using a condom, or without?”
    “That would be without.” Neal gave her a tennis pro smile.
    LaMoia said, “Following the intercourse, you watched more television, or read, or went to sleep, or what?”
    “Slept. At least I did. Mary-Ann might have gone out the window.”
    “You want to explain that?”
    “For a smoke,” Neal clarified. “Can’t stand that shit. She used the fire escape. Used it all the time. I saw her out there on the fire escape. It was later, a lot