“Or a nursery,” Boldt added.
“The lab work should help you there,” McClure said. “I’ll pack it up and get it off.”
“I’ll have one of my guys drive it down there this afternoon,” Walt said, a video of the struggle playing out in his mind’s eye, and the disturbing realization that Vince Wynn had showed no signs of having been in such a struggle.
“If there was a struggle,” McClure said, artfully awaiting the attention of the two, “a guy this size might have gotten in some serious blows. It might be worth checking the emergency room.”
“Or twenty-four-hour convenience stores,” Boldt said, eyeing Walt. “Have you got any of those here?”
“Good suggestions,” Walt said.
As he and Boldt were approaching the Jeep, Boldt stopped and waited for Walt to turn. “The woman at the nursery—”
“Maggie Sharp.”
“—was wearing a lot of makeup. You notice that?”
“I did.”
“Struck me funny at the time, an outdoor person like that bothering with cosmetics. But if she was covering something?”
“And while you were thinking that, I was thinking about Boatwright. The caretaker was tearing up a perfectly good garden and replanting it, supposedly at Boatwright’s request.”
“That certainly plays a little differently now.”
“Blunt trauma,” Walt said. “I keep coming back to a baseball bat. Marty Boatwright’s a football guy, and he’s old. I don’t see him clubbing Gale from behind.”
“His gardener maybe? An ax handle.”
“What if Wynn was right? What if Gale was here poking around old wounds? Wynn scares him off so he moves on to Boatwright. Caretaker sees a trespasser and takes a club to the back of the guy’s head without introductions. Boatwright realizes who it is, and for whatever reasons of his own, doesn’t want anything to do with this and tells him to dump the body and remake the garden, because in the struggle the garden got trashed.”
“There’d be an evidence trail a mile long,” Boldt said. “If Boatwright or his man owns a pickup truck, I’d start there. His man’s clothes and house would be next.”
“Be interesting if Boatwright’s name turned up on the same list server as Wynn: people considered at risk from Gale. That list would help us out.”
“I had a case down there that involved a home for boys. I had contact with some people. I could make a few calls.”
“It’s not your case,” Walt said. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t. Not that I heard. And as far as that goes, Gale’s death could easily tie to Caroline Vetta, and that means I’m interested.”
“Boatwright is not going to open his doors for us,” Walt said. “And replanting a garden hardly gives me probable cause.”
“The lab identifies what kind of plant made that pollen and we’ve got front-row seats either at the nursery or Boatwright’s.”
“I can nudge them to hurry it up. But they won’t get started until Monday at the earliest. And only then if I twist a few arms.”
“Looks like you and I are entering a long-distance relationship, Sheriff. And you know how those turn out.”
“In all honesty, it’s been a pleasure.”
“Back at you.”
Walt moved for the car door. Boldt stayed where he was.
“It’s none of my business,” Boldt said. “How do I say this? Your father . . . when we talked . . .”
“My father can be a real asshole.”
“He took a kind of holier-than-thou attitude, not with me, but about you. Like I could teach you something by coming over here. As I said, it’s none of my business.”
“I apologize.”
“My point being, he was wrong. Dead wrong. I could give him a call, as a follow-up, let him know how it went over here. Wouldn’t want to do that without your permission. Wouldn’t want to tread where I shouldn’t.”
The pit in Walt’s stomach told him more about himself than he wanted to acknowledge.
“Tread wherever you’d like,” he said, feeling the warmth of sweet satisfaction flooding him. “Kind of wish I had a wire in place for that phone call.”
Boldt barked out a laugh. When he climbed into the Jeep, the vehicle sagged to his side and then leveled. Boldt clipped into the seat belt, let out a sigh, and said, “I’m going to miss this place.”
24
“
T
his is a pleasant surprise,” Walt told Fiona as he entered his office to find her waiting for him.
“I told Nancy it had to do with photographs,” she said, hoisting her camera case. “I lied.”
“A social visit?” He kissed her on the cheek. The return kiss was tepid at best. He moved around to behind his desk, thinking of little else.
“I wish. No. It’s . . . I need a favor, and I’m not sure it’s fair to ask. I don’t want to take advantage of our . . . you know . . . the other night, but at the same time, I need something.”
He stood and eased his office door shut and returned to the chair next to her, forgoing the seat behind the desk.
“Talk to me,” he said.
“I . . . the thing is . . .” She met his eyes and then looked quickly away.
“We’re both adults here.”
“It isn’t that,” she said. “It’s . . . We don’t really know each other,” she said. “Not all that well.”
He felt it in the center of his chest, not like a knife but more like a medical procedure where all the blood, all the life, was being drawn out of him into a syringe, while he sat there watching it.
“That’s what we do. Right? From here on out. Get to know each other better. Share the stuff you never share. It’s what makes the bond unique. Worth so much. I want to know you. I want to know all about you.”
Her eyes welled. “You might be surprised.”
“Try me. I like surprise.”
For an instant he saw in her a hope or dream, but something passed like a shadow between them and then that look was gone, replaced by something more protective and even suspicious. He’d had similar moments in interrogations when the suspect seemed ready to download, only to clamp down and turn inward. He’d lost her. Rather than push, or fish, which was his nature, he sat back and tried to appear the model of patience.
“I called the company. The one that can trace the pickup. Michael and Leslie’s pickup.”
He kept his mouth shut, measuring her fragility in her sideways looks and the whispering quality of her voice.
“They said I have to file a police report. Report it as a stolen vehicle. Without that they won’t trace it.”
“Pretty common with these companies,” he said. “They want it to be for real. It’s not a service to track down your missing teenager.”
“But that’s just it: that’s what I need. To track down Kira.”
“Meaning?”
“I haven’t seen her in a couple of days, Walt. That happens sometimes. We can go most of a week without overlapping. But the pickup truck being gone. That’s not good. She knows the rules. The last thing I want is for her to get into trouble with Michael and Leslie and maybe lose the house-sitting thing. But if I want to track her down, I have to report it as stolen, and if I report it as stolen—”
“The Engletons find out about it.”
“
Exactly
.”
“But if I were to make the call . . . ?”
“Something like that. Yes.”
“No problem.”
“What? Really?” He watched the load come off her: her head raised, her shoulders seemed higher, straighter.
“Not a big deal,” he said. “I can have Nancy make the call.”
“But does it . . . I don’t know. Could you get into trouble?”
“I can’t imagine how. We make these kinds of calls often enough. It’s really not a big deal.”
“It is to me.”
“Well then, consider it done.”
Her eyes softened.
“Have you tried something old-fashioned, like calling her?”
“Voice mail.”
“I don’t love the idea of her going missing at a time we’re searching the woods in your area.”
“I know.”
“Do you think there’s any chance . . . any possibility that her departure is related to—?”
“No!” she said sharply, cutting him off. “I think she just took off in the truck. She’s still just a kid. There was already stuff brewing between us. She was mad that I left the Advocates dinner when I did.”
“That surprised me as well.”
“And she apparently had a flashback in the middle of her talk—”
“Yes, she told me.”
“And that freaked her out, and I think she was counting on me being there for her. And I wasn’t. And I feel bad about that, but it is what it is.”
He hoped she might explain her sudden departure that night, but she chose not to—and that was how he thought of it: that she made a decision not to share with him, and he took that as a bad omen. He nearly said so. Might have, had she not cut into his thoughts.
“I just want to find her and get that truck back before it blows up on her.”
“Did you try her parents?”
“That relationship . . . it’s complicated.”
He thought she sounded more like a psychologist than herself. “So I’ll make the call. We should hear something by the end of the day. It doesn’t take them long.”
“Should I wait?”
“No. It’ll be a few hours at the least. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll call you.”
“It’s really nice of you,” she said, her eyes softening.
“Happy to do it.”
“I could repay you with a dinner.”
“I’m with the girls the next few nights. With Boldt here, I’ve been distracted. First job, and all that.”
“Is he gone?”
“Leaving in the morning.”
“How’s that been?”
“Interesting. We’re kind of working together at the moment.”
“On the Gale thing?”
He eyed her. “Good memory.”
“Easy name to remember.”
“Tell me about it,” he said. Every time he spoke of the dead man he thought of his ex-wife. “Boldt was a big help to me. We’ve got some solid leads.”
“From canvassing my place, no doubt,” she said, forcing a smile behind it. A smile that didn’t come easily.
“Exactly. I’ve suspected you for some time.” He lowered his voice playfully. “I might need another one-on-one just to clear you.”
“Talk to my attorney,” she said, biting back a grin. She pulled herself out of the chair, leaned forward, and kissed him.
“Thank you,” she repeated. She pulled his head to her lips and whispered. “I like your interrogation techniques. Like them
a lot
.”
She left him there, firmly rooted in the chair, his neck still tingling from the sensation of her lips across his ear.
T
hat afternoon the courts dealt Walt a crushing defeat by refusing him access to Dionne Fancelli’s medical information and therefore preventing him from obtaining a DNA sample of the child she was carrying. He had her underwear, possibly carrying her DNA; he had a swab from the accused teen, but he lacked the DNA of the child in question. The state, increasingly aggressive in possible abuse and paternity cases, was nonetheless inconsistent. He was debating strategy when Nancy’s voice came over the intercom.
“I have a reporter from
The Statesman
, Pam from the
Express
, and a couple of the TV stations all on hold. Hit us all at once.”
“Concerning?”
“Martel Gale.”
Walt swallowed. Gale’s identity had not been released. He had expected the information might leak but not so quickly, and he had to wonder if this was somehow Harris Evers’s doing, Vince Wynn’s attorney. He couldn’t imagine Wynn wanting the news public, but it seemed too coincidental.
“Issue a no comment.”
“Got it.”
His mind reeled. A sports celebrity death would bring the national news next. That, in turn, would bring pressure from the Hailey mayor, state congressman Clint Stennett, and soon, the governor. The cushion he’d hoped for was now gone. The longer the case dragged out, the worse it would get, the more demands he’d receive for an arrest. A good reporter would soon make the connection between Gale and Wynn and Boatwright, and possibly to Caroline Vetta, making his investigation all the more difficult. A good investigative reporter was a real pain in the ass because he or she could beat you to the information, had none of the legal restrictions imposed on law enforcement, and often had more resources at his disposal. One call from Nancy, and it sounded in Walt’s ears like a starting pistol. He abhorred the idea that the investigation had just become a race, but there was no denying it.
He shot off an e-mail to Boldt, hoping to give him a heads-up. His office would be the next to be contacted. He called his PIO into his office.
As the office’s public information officer, Deputy “Even” Eve Sanchez had the looks and the brains to be a crowd-pleaser. She was bilingual, beautiful, and young. The cameras liked her and so did Walt.
He briefed her on Gale and detailed the “potential land mines.” They’d spoken about the case periodically over the past few days, but not with the specifics of his suspicions and the Boldt interviews with Boatwright and Wynn—all information she needed. They would take a public position of “ongoing investigation” and therefore “no comment.” But McClure’s office needed to be warned, and Tommy Brandon and Fiona both needed debriefings with Eve. They scheduled to meet twice daily and he promised updates as he had them. For the time being he would not take any questions or interviews, but when pressed by her, agreed to join her at a press conference the following morning at ten a.m. She would meet him at his house later in the evening to prep him.
With Sanchez gone, he called Royal McClure to warn him and asked Nancy to bring Fiona and Brandon in as soon as possible.
He searched e-mails and his own notes about the case, mentally reviewed discussions he’d had with Boldt, and tried to see loose ends that needed tying off.
One that came to mind was the emergency room admissions for the night of Gale’s death. If they offered anything promising, he’d want to lock them down. The Louisiana list server for anyone affected by the Gale prosecution loomed large. It was just the kind of thing a reporter would scoop him on. He fired off a second e-mail to Boldt asking if he could pull strings as he’d offered.