In Harm's Way (17 page)

“And then maybe I’ll interrupt and revisit Vetta. A guy like this, he’s a multi-tasker and his work is a constant pressure cooker. We’re never going to win anything close to a confession, but maybe he shows us a few cracks we can exploit later.”

“He agreed to meet you in the first place because he doesn’t want the publicity. That’s in our favor. I take it we have hairs and fibers from the Vetta scene?”

“I like the way you think,” Boldt said. “Feel free to play that if you need it.” Boldt slapped him on the back.

Wynn appeared surprised as he opened the door revealing the two. “Harris?” he called into the house.

Harris Evers was balding and was one of those city people who didn’t look comfortable when dressing down for the role of country folk. His jeans carried creases, his bare ankles were the color of copy paper, and his black leather belt with its industrial clasp was intended for a pair of fancy trousers.

“Sheriff?” Evers said.

“Wondered if I might have a few words with your client.”

“Concerning?”

“You might call it a follow-up on the shots fired the other night.”

“I think not,” Evers said.

“You are aware your client, Mr. Wynn, threatened an individual to my face, said he’d kill the man and take his chances with the courts.” Evers shot a furtive glance in Wynn’s direction, his disappointment impossible to disguise.

Walt continued. “That individual is dead. Yesterday, Martel Gale was discovered on the side of Highway Seventy-five.”

“Now wait a goddamned minute!” Wynn said, practically levitating off the floor. “You’re telling me Gale is dead?”

“And you threatened to kill him.”

“I . . . oh, damn . . . That was just bull. That was just me being me.”

“You said it to my face,” Walt reminded.

Evers tensed, eyes darting. “How about we all sit down a minute?”

“How about our friends here go back to wherever they came from?” Wynn said, his temperature rising.

“We can go the formal route,” Walt said, “but I can’t promise that
Sports Center
and
Pardon the Interruption
won’t hear a certain agent is under investigation.”

Wynn muttered, “You piece of—”

“Vince!” Evers waved everyone into the living room. They sat down around an elephant saddle coffee table beneath a Dale Chihuly chandelier in a living room with a full view of the ski mountain a mile away.

Walt could think of a dozen ways to begin the questioning, but he heeded Boldt’s advice about working the evidence, wandering into territory that wasn’t entirely familiar to him and hoping Boldt would come to his rescue if necessary.

“How many baseball bats do you own, Mr. Wynn?”

“What?”

“Baseball bats.”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“Pretty simple one. Some people collect electric guitars,” Walt said. “Wine. Demi Moore has a three-story Victorian house in Hailey filled with nothing but dolls. A couple hundred dolls. Has a house-sitter that lives there and takes care of her doll collection. I’m thinking a guy like you, in your position, you probably own more than your fair share of baseball bats. Am I wrong?”

Wynn checked with Evers, who nodded. “I have an autographed collection.”

“Would that be here, in Idaho? Or Los Angeles?”

“Both. It’s divided between my houses and my office.”

“Sheriff,” said Evers, “this is pertinent because . . . ? Are we talking murder weapon?”

Walt ignored him. “How many bats?”

“Maybe a dozen here.”

“And how about vehicles? How many registered or otherwise vehicles do you own here in Idaho?”

Wynn squinted. “Including motorcycles?”

“You have access to that information,” Evers said. “My client doesn’t have to answer that. Look it up.”

“Three,” Walt said, “not including the four motorcycles. A Porsche, a vintage Roadster, and a Ford F-one hundred.”

“So why ask?” Wynn said.

“Sheriff Fleming and I share interests in the Vetta case, which is open and ongoing,” Boldt said.

“When was the last time you or your employees drove the F-one hundred?” Boldt asked Wynn.

“My pickup? No clue. No idea. I don’t drive it all that much. Once a week, maybe. My employees have their own trucks. They don’t drive mine.”

“Vince,” Evers said. “You don’t answer unless I say so.” He understood the mistake Wynn had just made, whether his client did or not. By taking his employees out from behind the steering wheel, he’d just implicated himself if his truck offered any physical evidence. It was a major victory and Boldt shot Walt a satisfyingly congratulatory look.

“The last time you drove it?” Walt said.

“No, Vince. That’s enough about the truck,” Evers said.

“What?” Wynn snapped at his attorney. To Walt he said, “I drove the dirt bikes over to the Copper Basin. That was maybe ten days ago. Me and a friend. Left after lunch, were back around sunset. Came over Trail Creek at sunset. So that’s what: nine, nine-thirty? It was a Thursday. Two Thursdays ago.”

“Not since.”

“Not since.”

“Have you had any tire work done to the truck in the interim period?”

“Jesus!” Wynn said.

“You will
not
answer that!” Evers advised.

Wynn was starting to get the idea.

“We’re happy to cooperate, Sheriff,” the attorney said. “But if you seek specifics like this, I will advise Vince not to answer until he and I can study and discuss his alternatives.”

Walt noticed that Boldt sat back in his chair, and took it as a sign he was trying to look comfortable, trying to establish they would be there a while, though Walt now doubted it.

“You put the blame for Vetta onto Gale,” Boldt said.

“I think it makes sense, yes,” Wynn replied.

“So who killed Gale?” Boldt asked.

“How the fuck should I know?”

“After the incident the other night, your discharge of the handgun, did you have any contact with Martel Gale? And I should warn you, we have records of his communications.”

Wynn’s puzzled look turned toward his attorney.

“My client won’t answer that,” Evers said. “Gentlemen, I need time with my client. If you want to continue this—”

“I would suggest a trip down to my offices,” Walt said. “Should we say, one hour?”

Wynn’s agitation flared in his cheeks. “You
want
this to leak. You want this on television.”

“I want answers,” Walt said, correcting him.

“We should point out that our departments see a correlation between the two deaths,” Boldt added, “and will continue cooperating and sharing resources and evidence.”

“This is totally out of hand!” Wynn said. “You guys are way off base.”

“Coach us up, Mr. Wynn,” Boldt said. “By all means.”

“I threatened him. I was pissed off, okay? I was
scared
. The guy is—was, whatever—a fucking freak of nature. The last I saw him, he was jacked so high on steroids he was the fucking Incredible Hulk, and I mean
after
the guy turns green. Okay? Like that. But does that mean I did the guy? Gimme a fucking break!”

“To your knowledge,” Walt said calmly, “has your pickup truck had any tire work done in the past two weeks?”

“No, no, no,” Evers said, interrupting any chance that Wynn might answer. “We’re not getting into details like that.”

“Why? What do I care?” Wynn said. “No. Okay? No tire work that I know of.”

“Vince!” Evers chastised. “This is not how this is going to be done.”

“You stated earlier,” Boldt said, “that you came straight here from Seattle, correct?”

“Yeah? So?”

“Upon your arrival to your home here, were you then, or are you now, aware of any of your possessions having gone missing?” Boldt inquired.

Wynn checked with Evers.

Walt reminded, “It’s here or in Hailey.”

Evers nodded to his client.

“No,” Wynn said.

Boldt scribbled down a note.

“Okay,” Evers said, “we are done here. We will comply with any warrants or written requests as you present them.”

“Harris, we are
not
making a circus out of this,” Wynn said. He addressed both Walt and Boldt. “I have not seen or spoken to Gale in over a year. Beginning and end of statement. I don’t know squat about his death or his even being here.”

“Yet you shot at him the other night,” Walt said.

“I shot at
someone
.”

“You told me it was Gale.”

“I told you I thought it was Gale,” said the negotiator.

“And now he’s dead.”

“Good riddance.”

“Vince, please!”

“You believed Gale was in the area?” Boldt asked.

“I got that list server notice,” Wynn said. “That was enough for me. I figured Caroline was probably on that list, and I knew what had happened to her. I wasn’t taking any chances.”

Walt thought obtaining the names on the list server would prove difficult if not impossible, but it seemed worth the effort. If Gale had indeed been seeking revenge, then his likely victims would be on that list.

“We’ll ask that you not leave the county without checking with my office,” Walt said.

“That’s bullshit!” Wynn said. “I’ve got a dozen deals going. I’m due in L.A. on a moment’s notice.”

“Check with my office before leaving,” Walt said, addressing the attorney.

“I did not do Gale!” Wynn said, exasperated.

Boldt leaned forward. “Tell us everything you know about your relationships with Caroline Vetta and Martel Gale right here, right now, and you have a chance to make this go away. But my sense of things is this is probably your last chance to do this quietly.”

“You’re threatening my client?” Evers said. “Am I hearing this right?”

“I’m trying to save you a trip to Seattle,” Boldt said. “But I think I’m about done doing you any favors.” He stood.

Walt rose from the couch, wondering how he might pull off obtaining a search warrant before Wynn thought to bleach every baseball bat in his collection, wondering what his father would think about his working hand in hand with a cop like Lou Boldt. And then wondering why that mattered to him in the first place.

A
n image rose within the dreamlike swirl of color and the echo of a distant voice. Ethereal, foreboding, it felt more ghost than angel, and she turned away from it.

“I’m sorry.” A man’s deep voice that she experienced as penetrating, cold, sexual, and dangerous. She clawed away from him, dragging herself on hands and knees, sensing the retreat was more memory than experience. She caught a glimpse of herself, naked but for a cotton thong, rushing to escape. Then felt him catch hold of her ankle and drag her back. She reached out, grabbing the leg of a chair, only to bring it down on top of herself.

“Take me back to that moment.” A woman’s voice as gentle and forgiving as silence. Where it came from, she had no idea. Was God a woman with a voice like a summer breeze? Why did she feel so compelled to comply, to do whatever this voice asked of her?

“Is there someone in the room with you?” The woman again.

“I owe you that. Much more than that.” The man’s voice now, his silhouette blocking the glow from a window. She knew that window—it existed in her present memory.

“I see a window,” she heard herself say. “He’s standing in front of a window.”

“Tell me about him.”

But as she looked again, she flinched and ran from what she saw, what she heard. She stepped back, arms out behind her like angel wings.

“He says he’s sorry.” She identified this as her own voice. But she couldn’t be sure if anyone heard or who it was intended for.

“Sorry for . . . ?” The woman again, gently pressing. Always pressing.

“He’s lying. He always lies.”

“You know him?”

“Yes.”

“Not a stranger?”

“No way.”

“He’s in the room with you?”

“Yes. I . . .” The silhouette distended and broke into two black blobs. The ephemeral quality suddenly made her doubt its authenticity.

“Do you recognize him?”

“Recognize? Him? Oh, yeah.”

“Is he saying anything else?”

“He’s . . . coming toward me. Coming for me. No! No! Not again! Not that! He’ll kill me! He’ll kill me this time. I’ve got to—”

A bell rang. A small bell. The kind her grandmother kept on the fireplace mantel and told stories about, tall tales of India and elephants, and she could practically smell the incense burning. Her eyes came open to soft lighting and the barely discernible image of a thin woman with graying hair sitting stiffly in a chair opposite her. Her grandmother? But no; she was long dead.

Her scalp itched. She felt pearls of sweat on her upper lip that tasted of salt as she licked them off. And then she identified the source of the incense: a small ceramic dish to the left of the thin woman.

“Whoa,” she said. “Did I go under?”

“I believe so. Yes, Fiona.”

“Did I say anything?”

“We’ll get to that,” Katherine said. Fiona took in the surroundings of the office and for a moment didn’t recall coming here to this session. “Whoa,” she said again.

“It can be a little surprising the first time,” Katherine said.

“I’m totally disoriented.”

“Understandable. You were somewhere else just now.”

“I don’t remember a thing.”

“As it should be. We can work on that.”

“Did I remember anything? Do you know how I hit my head? Do you know what happened?”

“The important thing is that
you know
what happened.”

“I do? I remembered?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“And did I tell you anything useful?”

“It’s all useful. We don’t want to get ahead of ourselves.”