Pete, a burly patrolman in his early fifties who'd worked the front entrance for years, indicated a somewhat soggy brown corrugated cardboard box that waited on a folding table. The noise generated at the entrance by all the security questioning and the signing in and the beeping of the metal detectors and the grinding of the X-ray machine's conveyor belt created a jagged tension in the air that Matthews always felt in the center of her chest as a threat of violence. She used the garage entrance on most days, appreciating the calmer approach taken there as a result of an officers-only policy. But here, in the coffee-scented foyer with its high ceiling, standing under the faint light of overhead fixtures with dull bulbs chosen for their low consumption of energy, she felt more like a tourist at the security check of an airport in a foreign country.
The cardboard box seemed to grow in size and significance. She lost sight of Walker, due to the security installation, but could feel him standing over there staring at her.
"Bring him through, please, Pete."
The officer on duty signaled for Walker to step through the metal detector, but Walker refused.
Matthews stepped around to where she could see the kid and said to him, "You can leave it with him. In the plastic tray. They'll give it back to you when you leave."
Walker looked skeptical.
"They'll give it back to you," she repeated.
Walker removed the long fishing knife from a hand-sewn leather sheath tucked inside the waist of his pants and hidden by his sweatshirt. He seemed impressed that she should have anticipated this. He placed it in the dirty plastic tray, and Pete, making a face of open curiosity, moved it aside and out of reach. Walker passed through the metal detector and Pete fanned his hand in front of his face, making light of the man's fish odors.
Matthews and Walker stood in front of the cardboard box and she asked that he open it. Pete drew closer, protective of his lieutenant.
"You open it," Walker said somewhat childishly. But there was a menace to his voice as well.
"It's policy that as long as you're here, you open it yourself, Mr. Walker. I gave you the chance to drop it off." She checked her watch, merely to drive home her next point. "We either do this now, or not, but I haven't the time to stand here discussing it." She wanted to show him a firm hand, dispel any notions that he might have that they had formed a personal friendship. She knew all too well that if she didn't watch it, Walker could attach to her, letting her fill the void left by his dead sister. She didn't want any part of that.
"It was behind the Dumpster, in the alley behind his place," Walker said, digging into the box. He pulled out a navy blue Michigan sweatshirt, with yellow block letters. Matthews tried her best not to react. Neal had mentioned the possible existence of a sweatshirt. This fit with that part of his statement, and she felt elated with the discovery. He tried to pass it to her, but Matthews refused and then called to the security officers, "Gloves!" She directed Walker to hold it at the shoulders, pinched between his fingers, attempting to initiate as little contact with him as possible. She fired off questions at him: "How much contact have you had with this?" "Can you identify it as your sister's?" "Exactly where and when did you find this garment?"
He answered her crisply that he'd boxed it for her, that it was his sister's, and that he'd found it behind the Dumpster in a search he'd done that same morning following their encounter at the ME's. Once protected by the gloves, Matthews took possession of the sweatshirt, turning it around to inspect the random pattern of dark brown orbs that speckled its fabric and a similar, but larger stain on the neck of the sweatshirt. Dried blood.
"I'm going to need an evidence bag here," Matthews instructed one of the gate personnel. This person took off at a jog toward the bank of elevators.
"I done good, right?" Ferrell Walker asked, testing her.
"You may have contaminated a vital piece of evidence." Matthews would not acknowledge that Walker had accomplished what she had not, could not, without a court order to search Neal's residence. Without probable cause-hard evidence against Neal-they still lacked that court order. Ironically, the sweatshirt, if found in a public area as Walker claimed, might present the necessary probable cause.
"I'm telling you: He did this."
"You have to leave this to me. Your participation has to stop here. Are we clear on that?"
"You helped me, I helped you," he said, looking a little wounded. "We're helping each other." Only his tentative tone of voice gave away that he was testing the situation, the relationship.
"I help you just like you help those girls."
Her breath caught: He knew about her volunteer work at the Shelter. Had he followed her? "We'll take it from here," she said strongly. "I'll be in touch."
"Not if I'm in touch first," he said, voicing the same childish sentiment he had earlier in the day. He stopped at Pete and took his knife back, though Pete required him to reach the other side of the security gear first. Pete said, "It's illegal to conceal that weapon."
"I'm a snitch," Walker said proudly.
With that announcement, Pete spun around to check with Matthews, who just shook her head in disgust. When she looked again, Walker was nowhere to be seen.
Now You See Him, Now You Don't
It went against all her training, her substantial education, and certainly the rules set forth for volunteer workers, but upon hearing from an SPD narcotics officer that a street kid-a girl-had invoked her name during a sidewalk shakedown from which the girl had been released, Daphne Matthews found herself personally involved. Her first stop was the Shelter, where she learned that Margaret had been kicked loose after the maximum stay allowed. Where to look next?
A late March storm swept angrily over the city, driving frigid rain behind a nasty wintry wind that made it feel more like December. She pulled up her collar and ran for the Honda. This wasn't a night for a pregnant girl to be out in the elements, and Matthews didn't want Margaret having to negotiate street favors for the bare necessities of warmth and a place to sleep. She knew what these girls did in order to survive. With Margaret putting her name out to an officer-an obvious cry for help-how was Matthews supposed to return for the evening to her houseboat and a glass of wine? She decided to make one loop of downtown looking for the girl. Forty-five minutes, max. It wasn't as if she had a hot date waiting.
Once into the driver's seat she brushed the rain off her and turned toward the backseat in search of her umbrella. Looking out the car's rain-blurred rear window, she thought she saw a figure-a man, for sure-standing behind the railing of the wedge-shaped concrete parking garage. Standing there, and looking across at her.
Turning around in the seat, adjusting her rearview mirrors both outside and in-she picked him up again: a black silhouette like a cardboard cutout, standing absolutely still on the second level of the triangular parking garage.
After the first spurt of panic iced through her, she thought it was probably Walker, and though disturbed he might be following her, she'd done nothing yet to shatter his regard for her, nothing to turn a fan into a foe, though she knew how fine a line she walked.
As she calmed ever so slightly, not one to shrink and wither, she decided to face up to him. She threw the Honda in gear, bumped it out of the Shelter's parking lot, and drove quickly around the block and into the garage entrance. She resented taking the parking stub, realizing it would cost her a couple bucks to get her message across to Walker, but peace of mind was cheap at twice the price.