Flemming’s toy was a stainless steel pen. He made notations in his leather Day Timer, unable to sit still. When he allowed his face to settle, it carried exhaustion, tension and impatience. He worked to keep those from showing. He checked his watch and grunted disapproval. His life ran according to those two hands.
LaMoia appeared, looking unusually tired. He was followed in lockstep by Sidney Weinstein and a gray suit named Caldwell.
LaMoia made a half-baked gesture of greeting to Flemming, offered Kalidja an annoyingly fawning smile and acquiesced to Daphne’s placement of the participants. Weinstein and his representative, Caldwell, sat across from the crime scene photos. Daphne focused on Weinstein, alert for changes in body language and expression.
Following introductions Caldwell spoke first, expounding his legal rhetoric. LaMoia reminded everyone that the interview was nothing more than an informal inquiry, a fact-finding mission. He said, “Mr. Weinstein, are you familiar with caller-ID, an electronic device that allows-”
“I know about it.”
“Over a two-week period, you or your wife made four calls to one Bernard Chalmers Anderson, known locally as Ricky Anderson, Richey Anderson and most recently, Andy Anderson.” Daphne logged the man’s pained expression. Weinstein was no innocent.
Caldwell, the man’s attorney, said, “Mr. Anderson was a private detective. As such-”
“Correction,” LaMoia said, interrupting. “Anderson installed home security devices. He also provided everything from Polaroids of the wife caught doing the dirty to a dislocated limb or two when the situation called for it.”
“Now wait just a minute!” the attorney protested.
“Easy,” Flemming said in his low, resonant voice, the sound of which melted Daphne. “The sergeant just told you: There are no charges stemming from this. Settle down, Caldwell.” The lawyer now focused on the SAC, knowing he was the one to watch.
LaMoia asked, “When did you last speak with Anderson, Mr. Weinstein?”
“Monday or Tuesday of this week,” came the nervous answer.
“And have you tried since?” He advised, “Think carefully.”
“Tuesday night.”
LaMoia nodded. “At 9:52, to be precise. Lucky for you, that was two hours after Mr. Anderson’s windpipe had been slightly rearranged, leaving him a little blue in the face, I’m afraid.” Looking right at Weinstein he said, “Tongue as black as tire rubber and about the size of a rat. Dead. A nasty fall in the tub. Serves as a keen reminder of the importance of those rubber mats with the suction cups. Know the ones I mean?”
Weinstein went the color of toilet porcelain. Caldwell, off-guard, recovered in time to issue a line of objections as if in a trial.
LaMoia continued calmly, “So, what we’re wondering about,” motioning to the others, “is the nature of your professional arrangement with a.k.a. Andy Anderson. And I should caution you, Mr. Weinstein, that we take no prisoners here at SPD, if you know what I mean. If we all do the dance, it’s a fun party. You sit in the corner like a wallflower with her finger up her nose and Agent Flemming, Lieutenant Matthews and I are gonna rain on your parade until you’re changing your shorts.” He cut off Caldwell with a raised hand. “And this Georgetown law professor can piss all over us as much as he likes and we won’t even feel it because we got nothing to do with him. Our business is with you, just like your business was with Andy Anderson. Know what I mean? So my advice … personally … what I’m trying to say here … is that you talk, you walk. You hold out on us and you’re holding out on little Hayes.”
Flemming viewed LaMoia with an open mouth. Caldwell coughed, got something stuck in his throat and gargled some phlegm to clear it.
Flemming said cautiously, “Now is the time for the truth, Mr. Weinstein. We don’t need any fabrications, embellishments or avoidances. Sergeant LaMoia is conducting a homicide investigation. That’s all you need to know. You are not a suspect at this time. We need a statement is all.”
LaMoia added, “If you needed some knees broken, we’re fine with that. Dirty pictures? Hell, that’s your business. A phone tapped? A house watched? It’s a free country.” He flashed another of those disturbing smiles.
Caldwell whispered into the man’s ear. Weinstein nodded. The attorney asked, “Given that there is no recording taking place and that this is an informal discussion-”
“Where have you been?” LaMoia asked, interrupting. “Why don’t we all just get out of Mr. Weinstein’s way for a minute and let him have some air.”
For Weinstein, there was no one else in the room but LaMoia. Daphne marveled at the detective’s ability to win control in interrogations. Nothing he did was orthodox. He violated every rule of questioning but one: He gained the subject’s attention. “You people wouldn’t help,” Weinstein complained. “I called. Told you someone was watching us.
“So I asked this friend if he knew someone who could help me. Not too expensive. He gives me Anderson’s name, says he caught this guy’s wife with a neighbor. Said Anderson had gotten photos for him. You guys didn’t believe me, so I’d find out for myself.” He stabbed a finger toward LaMoia. “So I hire Anderson to check it out. Am I being watched or not?”
“Had you heard about the kidnapped child at this point?” Flemming asked.
“Shotz?” Weinstein asked. “This was way before that,” he stated firmly. “LA, San Francisco and Portland. That was enough for me.”
Daphne spoke up. “You sensed you were being watched by someone before the Shotz abduction.” It supported her belief that the Pied Piper did his legwork in advance, reducing his profile once the kidnappings began.
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
Flemming said bluntly, “You hired Anderson in case it was the Pied Piper watching you.”
Silence fell. Weinstein whined, “You put it like that … I guess that’s right.” He hung his head. “It wasn’t exactly how I was thinking about it. No,” he corrected. “Anderson said it was probably a thief. That made sense: Burglars stake out houses all the time. So we put some stuff in the safe deposit.” His eyes clouded and Daphne knew he was thinking about his missing son. He cleared his eyes and said, “Hell, you know anyone in Seattle hasn’t had their car stolen, or their house broken into? Anderson said catching these guys isn’t so easy. They make you. They take off, stake out someplace else. I offered two hundred on the back side. That sealed the deal.”
Too much television, Daphne thought. Every John Doe a cop.
Weinstein didn’t strike Daphne as a target for a second-story man. Car theft maybe. She wondered if Anderson had simply strung the man along for the down payment.
“You called Anderson to check in. To see how he was doing,” LaMoia stated.
Flemming glared at LaMoia, unhappy with the leading statements. Unorthodox.
“Protect my investment. Of course I did,” Weinstein answered.
“And what did he tell you?”
“First time said he didn’t have anything. So call back. Next time, a day or two later-”
“Two,” LaMoia refreshed him.
“Said maybe some progress. He renegotiated. Said he could get pictures, but that expenses had gone up. Cleared it with me, I guess you could say. Expenses plus another fifty.”
“And so you continued your arrangement,” Daphne stated.
“Sure I did. He all but confirmed someone was watching the house. Actually all he said was that he was working on it. I didn’t like him stretching me out for more money. That bothered me. Plus, a couple times he tried to sell me a home security system, an alarm system.” He hesitated and asked, “Do you guys use them? At home, I mean?”
“Did you?” Flemming asked. “Buy one?”