The Cold Moon (10 page)

Ari Cobb, though, was a classic extrovert and an arrogant one at that — no kid gloves were needed. This was Kathryn Dance's favorite kind of subject. She got to kick serious butt when interviewing them.

Cobb cut off a question. "You've held me way too long. I have to get to work. What happened to that man isn't my fault."

Respectful but firm, Dance said, "Oh, it's not a question of fault... Now, Ari, let's talk about last night."

"You don't believe me. You're calling me a liar. I wasn't
there
when the crime happened."

"I'm not suggesting you're lying. But there still might've been something you saw that could help us. Something you think isn't important. See, part of my job is helping people remember things. I'll walk you through the events of last night and maybe something'll occur to you."

"Well, there's nothing I saw. I just dropped some money. That's all. I handled the whole thing badly. And now it's a federal case. This is such bullshit."

"Let's just go back to yesterday. One step at a time. You were working in your office. Stenfeld Brothers Investments. In the Hartsfield Building."

"Yeah."

"All day?"

"Right."

"You got off work at what time?"

"Seven thirty, a little before."

"And what did you do after that?"

"I went to Hanover's for drinks."

"That's on Water Street," she said. Always keep your subjects guessing exactly how much you know.

"Yeah. It was a martini and Karaoke thing. They call it Martuney Night. Like 'tunes.'"

"Clever."

"I've got a group I meet there. We go a lot. Some friends. Close friends."

She noticed that his body language meant he was about to add something — probably he was anticipating her asking for their names. Being too ready with an alibi is an indicator of deception — the subject tends to think that offering it is good enough and the police won't bother to check it out, or won't be smart enough to figure out that having a drink at 8
P.M.
doesn't exculpate you from a robbery that happened at seven thirty.

"You left when?"

"At nine or so."

"And went home?"

"Yes."

"To the Upper East Side."

A nod.

"Did you take a limo?"

"Limo, right," he said sarcastically. "No, the subway."

"From which station?"

"Wall Street."

"Did you walk?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Carefully," he said, grinning. "It was icy."

Dance smiled. "The route?"

"I walked down Water Street, cut over on Cedar to Broadway then south."

"And that's where you lost your money clip. On Cedar. How did that happen?" Her tone and the questions were completely nonthreatening. He was relaxing now. His attitude was less aggressive. Her smiles and low, calm voice were putting him at ease.

"As near as I can figure, it fell out when I was getting my subway pass."

"How much money was it again?"

"Over three hundred."

"Ouch..."

"Yeah, ouch."

She nodded at the plastic bag containing the money and clip. "Looks like you just hit the ATM too. Worst time to lose money, right? After a withdrawal."

"Yep." He offered a grimacing smile.

"When did you get to the subway?"

"Nine-thirty."

"It wasn't later, you sure?"

"I'm positive. I checked my watch when I was on the platform. It was nine thirty-five, to be exact." He glanced down at his big gold Rolex. Meaning, she supposed, that a watch this expensive was sure to tell accurate time.

"And then?"

"I went back home and had dinner in a bar near my building. My wife was out of town. She's a lawyer. Does corporate financing work. She's a partner."

"Let's go back to Cedar Street. Were there any lights on? People home in their apartments?"

"No, it's all offices and stores there. Not residential."

"No restaurants?"

"A few but they're only open for lunch."

"Any construction?"

"They're renovating a building on the south side of the street."

"Was anybody on the sidewalks?"

"No."

"Cars driving slowly, suspiciously?"

"No," Cobb said.

Dance was vaguely aware of the other officers watching her and Cobb. They were undoubtedly impatient, waiting, like most people, for the big Confession Moment. She ignored them. Nobody really existed except the agent and her subject. Kathryn Dance was in her own world — a "zone," her son, Wes, would say (he was the athlete of the family).

She looked over the notes she'd taken. Then she closed the notebook and replaced one pair of glasses with another, as if she were exchanging reading for distance glasses. The prescriptions were the same, but instead of the larger round lenses and pastel frames these were small and rectangular, with black metal frames, making her look predatory. She called them her "Terminator specs." Dance eased closer to Cobb. He crossed his legs.

In a voice much edgier, she asked, "Ari, where did that money really come from?"

"The —"

"Money? You didn't get it at an ATM." It was during his comments about the cash that she noticed an increased stress level — his eyes stayed locked on to hers, but the lids lowered slightly and his breathing altered, both major deviations from his nondeceptive baseline.

"Yes, I did," he countered.

"What bank?"

A pause. "You can't make me tell you that."

"But we can subpoena your bank records. And we'll detain you until we get them. Which could take a day or two."

"I went to the fucking ATM!"

"That's not what I asked. I asked where the cash in your money clip came from."

He looked down.

"You haven't been honest with me, Ari. Which means you're in serious trouble. Now, the money?"

"I don't know. Probably some of it was from petty cash at my firm."

"Which you got yesterday?"

"I guess."

"How much?"

"I —"

"We'll subpoena your employer's books too."

He looked shocked at this. He said quickly, "A thousand dollars."

"Where's the rest of it? Three hundred forty in the money clip. Where's the rest?"

"I spent some at Hanover's. It's a business expense. It's legitimate. As part of my job —"

"I was asking where the rest of it is."

A pause. "I left some at home."

"At home? Is your wife back now? Could she confirm that?"

"She's still away."

"Then we'll send an officer to look for the money. Where is it, exactly?"

"I don't remember."

"Over six hundred dollars? How could you forget where six hundred dollars is?"

"I don't know. You're confusing me."

She leaned closer still, into a more threatening proxemic zone. "What were you really doing on Cedar Street?"

"Walking to the fucking subway."

Dance grabbed the map of Manhattan. "Hanover's is
here.
The subway's
here.
" Her finger made a loud sound with every tap on the heavy paper. "It makes no sense to walk down Cedar to get from Hanover's to the Wall Street subway station. Why would you walk that way?"

"I wanted some exercise. Walk off the Cosmopolitans and chicken wings."

"With ice on the sidewalks and the temperature in the teens? You do that often?"

"No. I just happened to last night."

"If you don't walk it often then how do you know so much about Cedar Street? The fact there're no residences, the closing time of the restaurants and the construction work?"

"I just do. What the hell's this all about?" Sweat was dotting his forehead.

"When you dropped the money, did you take your gloves off to get your subway pass out of your pocket?"

"I don't know."

"I assume you did. You can't reach into a pocket with winter gloves on."

"Okay," he snapped. "You know so much, then I did."

"With the temperature as cold as it was, why would you do that ten minutes before you got to the subway station?"

"You can't talk to me this way."

She said in a firm, low voice, "And you didn't check the time on the subway platform, did you?"

"Yes, I did. It was nine thirty-five."

"No, you didn't. You're not going to be flashing a five-thousand-dollar watch on the subway platform at night."

"Okay, that's it. I'm not saying anything else."

When an interrogator confronts a deceptive subject, that person experiences intense stress and responds in various ways to try to escape from that stress — barriers to the truth, Dance called them. The most destructive and difficult response state to break through is anger, followed by depression, then denial, and finally bargaining. The interrogator's role is to decide what stress state the suspect is in and neutralize it — and any subsequent ones — until finally the subject reaches the acceptance state, that is, confession, in which he finally will be honest.

Dance had assessed that though Cobb displayed some anger he was primarily in the denial state — such subjects are very quick to plead memory problems and to blame the interrogator for misunderstandings. The best way to break down a subject in denial is to do what Dance had just done — it's known as "attacking on the facts." With an extrovert you slam home weaknesses and contradictions in their stories one after another until their defenses are shattered.

"Ari, you got off work at seven-thirty and went to Hanover's. We know that. You were there for about an hour and a half. After that you walked two blocks out of your way to Cedar Street. You know Cedar real well because you go there to pick up hookers. Last night between nine and nine thirty, one of them stopped her car near the alley. You negotiated a price and paid her. You got into the car with her. You got out of the car around ten fifteen or so. That's when you dropped the money by the curb, probably checking your cell phone to see if your wife had called or getting a little extra cash for a tip. Meanwhile, the killer had pulled into the alley and you noticed it and saw something. What? What did you see?"

"No..."

"Yes," Dance said evenly. She stared at him and said nothing more.

Finally his head lowered and his legs uncrossed. His lip was trembling. He wasn't confessing but she'd moved him up a step in the chain of stress response states — from denial to bargaining. Now Dance had to change tack. She had both to offer sympathy and to give him a way to save face. Even the most cooperative subjects in the bargaining state will continue to lie or stonewall if you don't leave them some dignity and a way to escape the worst consequences of what they've done.

She pulled her glasses off and sat back. "Look, Ari, we don't want to ruin your life. You got scared. It's understandable. But this is a very dangerous man we're trying to stop. He's killed two people and he may be going to kill some more. If you can help us find him, what we've learned about you here today doesn't have to come out in public. No subpoenas, no calls to your wife or boss."

Dance glanced at Detective Baker, who said, "That's absolutely right."

Cobb sighed. Eyes on the floor, he muttered, "Fuck. It was three hundred goddamn dollars. Why the hell did I go back there this morning?"

Greed and stupidity, though Kathryn Dance. But she said kindly, "We all make mistakes."

A hesitation. Then he sighed again. "See, this's the crazy thing. It wasn't much — what I saw, I mean. You're probably not going to believe me. I hardly saw anything. I didn't even see a person."

"If you're honest with us we'll believe you. Go on."

"It was about ten-thirty, a little after. After I got out of the... girl's car I started to walk to the subway. You're right. I stopped and pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. I turned it on to check messages. That's when the money fell out, I guess. It
was
at the alley. I glanced down it and saw some taillights at the end."

"What kind of car?" Sachs asked.

"I didn't see the car, just taillights. I swear."

Dance believed this. She nodded to Sachs.

"Wait," Rhyme said abruptly. "The
end
of the alley?"

So the criminalist had been listening after all.

"Right. All the way at the end. Then the reverse lights came on and it started backing toward me. The driver was moving pretty fast so I kept walking. Then I heard the squeal of brakes and he stopped and shut the engine off. He was still in the alley. I kept on walking. I heard the door slam and this noise. Like a big piece of metal falling to the ground. That was it. I didn't see anybody. I was past the alley at that point. Really."

Rhyme glanced at Dance, who nodded that he was telling the truth.

"Describe the girl you were with," Dennis Baker said. "I want to talk to her too."

Cobb said quickly, "Thirties, African-American, short curly hair. Her car was a Honda, I think. I didn't see the license plate. She was pretty." He added this as some pathetic justification.

"Name?"

Cobb sighed. "Tiffanee. With two
e
's. Not a
y.
"

Rhyme gave a faint laugh. "Call Vice, ask about girls working regularly on Cedar," he ordered his slim, balding assistant.

Dance asked a few more questions, then nodded, glanced at Lon Sellitto and said, "I think Mr. Cobb here has told us as much as he knows." She looked at the businessman and said sincerely, "Thanks for your cooperation."

He blinked, unsure what to make of her comment. But Kathryn Dance wasn't being sarcastic. She never took personally the words or glares (occasionally even spittle or flung objects) from the subjects. A kinesic interviewer has to remember that the enemy is never the subject himself but simply the barriers to truth that he raises, sometimes not even intentionally.

Sellitto, Baker and Sachs debated for a few minutes and decided to release the businessman without charging him. The skittish man left, with a look at Dance that she was very familiar with: part awe, part disgust, part pure hatred.

After he'd left, Rhyme, who was looking at a diagram of the scene of the killing in the alley, said, "This's curious. For some reason the perp decided he didn't want the vic at the end of the alley, so he backed up and picked the spot about fifteen feet from the sidewalk... Interesting fact. But is it
useful
?"