The boy nodded regretfully, without checking with Hogue. The father fidgeted in his chair.
“Sheriff,” Hogue said, “let’s be clear that acknowledging the young woman’s medical condition by no means implies my client’s role in that matter.”
“Which is why we’re here, Terry. Right?”
“We’re here as a result of your invitation,” Hogue clarified.
“Have you had sexual intercourse with Ms. Fancelli?” Walt asked the boy.
The boy looked to Hogue, who spoke for him. “My client will not comment on the physical nature of his and Ms. Fancelli’s friendship.”
“I assume we’re all aware that Ms. Fancelli is claiming the child is your client’s,” Walt said to the attorney, since Hogue was the one answering.
“We’re aware of the claim,” Hogue said, “but again, we are making no statement about the physical or sexual nature of their relationship.”
“We’re also all aware that Ms. Fancelli is fifteen.”
Silence.
“I will assume Mr. Hogue has briefed you on the quirky nature of Idaho law,” Walt said to the boy. “Idaho accepts sexual relationships between adolescents of similar ages. But you must be at least eighteen years old in Idaho to have consensual sex with an adult, that is a person eighteen or over. You are over eighteen, Brian. And therefore, if you have penetrated Ms. Fancelli, orally, vaginally, or anally, you are in violation of state law.”
Hogue seemed on the verge of stepping in, but resigned himself to allow Walt to continue, apparently wanting to see where this was going.
“With the girl’s claim of penetration, the state can therefore charge you in this matter, leaving it for the courts to decide. There is no physical proof required, although you may or may not be aware that Ms. Fancelli has retained electronic correspondence—e-mails and texts—in which she discusses your sexual relations with her, and your replies to those e-mails contain no denials. To the contrary, in fact.”
“Where are we going with this, Walt?”
“We’d like to take a swab.”
“Absolutely not,” Hogue said. “Show us a court order, and my client will oblige.”
Walt met eyes with Hogue. “I’m requesting your client provide a swab voluntarily and that he aids this office in obtaining a hair or some other sample from Ms. Fancelli that contains the young woman’s DNA. Perhaps he is already in possession of something along these lines.”
“This is ridiculous!” the father said, nearly coming out of his chair. “They haven’t got anything! No way this is happening.”
Hogue, without breaking eye contact with Walt, motioned for the man to remain in his chair, and implicitly, to remain quiet.
“I don’t get it,” Brian said.
The father couldn’t help himself. “He wants you to do his work for him. Let’s get out of here.”
Hogue turned on the father. “You may leave the room, or you can remain and be quiet, but that’s the last we’re going to hear from you right now.”
The father huffed, but stayed in his seat.
“Let me get this straight,” Hogue said. “You’re requesting my client’s participation and cooperation in certain aspects of your evidence collection and in keeping with the confidentiality of the current interview, you’re implying any evidence acquired as a result of this cooperation . . . ?”
“Is therefore off the books,” Walt said. “Not that we’re keeping any books. Not at the moment.”
A puzzled Hogue looked him over, still maintaining eye contact. “You’ll leave the room, please. Both of you.”
“Me?” said the father.
“Yes,” said Hogue.
The two got up and left the room.
Once the door was firmly shut, Hogue spoke. “You have another suspect.”
“I need the boy’s cooperation,” Walt said.
“You’re aware that if and when you come back for any physical evidence from my client, I will fight any reference to—”
“My case against your client, at that point, would be dicey at best. I would have prejudiced the evidence. I’d probably lose the possibility of a court case against him.”
“No probably about it.”
“What a pity,” Walt said.
Hogue sat back, rubbed his big hand against his maw and chuckled. “Never a dull moment with you, Walt.”
Walt showed no expression.
“The girl’s DNA,” Hogue said. He mulled it over. “You suspect the father.”
“Never a dull moment with you, Terry.”
“How certain are you?”
“Certain of what, counselor? I don’t believe we’ve discussed any other suspects.”
“If you want the girl’s DNA, and my client’s as well, then you must have, or have access to, the fetus’s DNA. How is it that you have the child’s DNA but not the mother’s?” Again, he was thinking aloud.
Walt’s lack of expression remained implacable.
“If you burn me on this, Walt . . . You’ve always played fair with me.”
“Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
“We’d be taking a big risk.”
“A risk that I would prejudice my evidence, that your client would skate. I need a hair from her. A cigarette butt. A love stain. He needs to volunteer it to me.”
“And I repeat: you’re implying you can get . . . what . . . amnio fluid but not the girl’s DNA? How’s that happen?” He took a moment. “You have a witness. You possess the means to obtain a court order to collect the amnio fluid, but are less confident you can win the DNA of a minor.”
“You don’t need to trouble yourself, counselor, with what I do or do not have. What I need is your client’s cooperation.”
“And you’ll have it.”
“I thought it might work out that way.”
A knock on the door interrupted them.
“Sorry to interrupt,” a female deputy said, leaning her head in the door. “We’ve got shots fired out Lake Creek.”
Walt immediately stood, extending his hand to Hogue. “Do what you can,” he said.
“You’ll be hearing from me,” Hogue answered.
9
“S
he’s not answering,” Deputy Linda Chalmers reported.
“Try again,” Walt said.
“I’ve already . . . Why do we need photography anyway? It’s a couple of shells in the grass.”
Walt answered that with a glare.
“Yes, sir.”
He was in a fix. He’d requested Fiona be called onto the scene, more out of a personal want, and now saw no way to back out of the request without making his original intentions obvious. He marched to the back of the Cherokee, as if put out to do this himself, took his camera from an emergency backpack he kept there, and walked back into the darkened lawn. He shot off a series of photos of the spent shell casings, adding his pen into the grass for scale.
Chalmers was first officer, having responded to a dispatch, the result of an Emergency Center’s receipt of a neighbor’s 911 call. Chalmers shadowed Walt to the Jeep and back to the lawn.
“Warning shots?” Walt said.
“No, sir. That’s the thing. He made no apologies. Said he was firing right at him.”
“Him?”
“The intruder. He said ‘him,’ yes, sir.”
“In the direction of the neighbor’s?”
“That’s correct.”
“Any reports of the shots landing?”
“No, sir. Judging by his breath, that doesn’t surprise me. There’s the suggestion of alcohol.”
“The name again?”
“Vincent Wynn,” Chalmers said.
Walt froze. Wynn was on Boldt’s short list of potential interviews.
“
The
Vince Wynn?”
“Some kind of big shot. Acts like it, at least. I think he thought I should know who he is, and honestly, sir, I don’t have a clue. Most of the celebrities up here, they don’t want you to know who they are. How’re you supposed to pretend you don’t know Tom Hanks? I love Tom Hanks! I would violate my marriage vows for Tom Hanks. But this nincompoop? I’m sorry, no clue.”
It was more words out of Deputy Chalmers than Walt had ever heard. She was clearly nervous, and concerned he might slight her for not knowing Wynn.
“He’s a sports agent. Big-time sports agent.”
“That would explain it.”
“In that world, his world, he’s Tom Hanks.”
“Not with that face he isn’t. You don’t mind me saying so.”
“I don’t mind,” Walt said.
“Can I stop calling Ms. Kenshaw, sir, now that you’ve taken the pictures yourself?”
“You may. Why don’t you get me everything you can on Mr. Wynn? Any past grievances filed by neighbors. Traffic violations. Parking tickets. Run him.”
“Done,” she said, hurrying off.
Walt knocked on the patio door frame, since the door was open to the night. No screen door. Mosquitoes lasted about ten days in late June; then the cold nights stopped their cycle. A moth or two might wander inside, but Vince Wynn didn’t seem too worried.
He was on his mobile phone, his hand wrapped around a heavy cocktail glass filled halfway with a dark liquid.
“Okay. Gotta go,” he said, pocketing the phone.
“Vince Wynn,” he introduced himself, switching the drink to his left hand and shaking hands with Walt.
“I’m a fan of some of your players,” Walt said, believing he could loosen up Wynn before the liquor. “Suganuma Sakatura to the Mariners. One of the all-time great trades.”
“Thank you.”
“And that four-way with the Braves and Phillies.”
“You follow baseball, I see.”
“Play a little. Softball. Leagues, you know?”
“Let me guess.” He sized up Walt. “Catcher or outfield? I’m going with catcher.”
Walt shook his head. “You are a pro.”
“It’s what I do.”
“And me,” Walt said, “I chase down complaints when neighbors hear a gun being shot in their backyard.”
“My own backyard, but point taken.”
“I’m not going to argue with you,” Walt said, still trying his best to sound awestruck. “You nearly talked Steinbrenner out of A-Rod. I’m supposed to argue with that?”
“I wasn’t close. That got all blown out of proportion.”
“And tonight,” Walt said. “How close were you tonight?”
“Excuse me?”
“There are laws about the discharge of firearms within a prescribed distance of a residence.”
“It was a prowler.”
“So you said.”
“The guy was on my property. Sneaking around out there.” He threw the drink forward to point and sloshed the contents of the glass onto his hand.
“Let me guess,” Walt said. “The call just now? Your lawyer?”
Wynn licked the booze off his wrist. “Yeah, my lawyer. But it’s not him I was shooting at. It was Martel Gale,” Wynn said. “You follow football?”
“Not so much. I’ve never heard of Martel Gale. Should I have? I’m a batboy through and through.”
“New Orleans Saints. Pro Bowl center linebacker. Phenomenal quickness. Great hands. And vision—it’s all about speed and vision for a linebacker. Gale had it.”
“Had,” Walt noted. “Retired?”
“Imprisoned. Recently paroled. I’m on a list server,” Wynn said. “It’s a state DOJ thing from Louisiana. Because I’m at risk—a possible target. Turns out Gale was paroled two weeks ago. When he was convicted, the court awarded performance bonuses he was owed—a lot of money—to be donated to worthy causes, a halfway house for battered women, a legal fund for victims of abuse. I oversaw the distribution of that money. Gale took issue with that. Blames me. Thinks I cheated him. He thought the bonuses should have been donated to his savings account. Hence the threats and me being on the list server. Hence the e-mail I got that he’d been paroled. Never mind that they sent it out two weeks late.”
“And you have reason to believe Martel Gale is here in Sun Valley?”
“Mark my words: it was Gale out there tonight. If I hit him, lock me up, Sheriff. If I killed him, throw a parade. Check him out. You can do that, right? Look up his victims—the conditions of his victims. Look up a girl named Caroline Vetta.”
“The homicide in Seattle,” Walt said, a spike of heat flooding him. He’d been looking for a way into a discussion of Boldt, and Wynn had just handed it to him.
“Impressive.”
“I’d wanted to talk to you about that.”
“Me? Why would you want to talk to me about Caroline?” Back on his heels.
“Was she on the list server?” Walt asked, beginning to draw tangents. “Did she have reason to fear Martel Gale?”
“Any woman alive has reason to fear Gale. He eats ’em for breakfast. Treats ’em like his personal punching bags. Did Gale know her? Wouldn’t surprise me. He attracted the lookers like flies to shit. But if she was on the server, it didn’t do her any good, did it? The alert came two weeks late. You believe that shit?”
“There’s a Seattle detective, a Sergeant Boldt, would like a word with you, in private, about Caroline Vetta. He’s suggesting you meet over here, not in Seattle, in order to avoid the press.”
Wynn coughed a laugh. “Shit, you guys are all a piece of work. You’re telling me I’ve got to get back on the horn with my lawyer?”
“If you want to involve your lawyer,” Walt said, “I think that might be agreeable. The idea is to keep it out of the press, not to pull an end run on you.”
“As if the cops care.”
“This one does, apparently. He can do it in front of all the cameras if you’d prefer.”
He looked up from the drink. “I don’t see why we can’t do something. Let me make a call and get back to you.”
“Works for me.” The man drank the liquor like it was water. “Do you have reason to believe Martel Gale is in Sun Valley?”
“You already asked me that.”
“And you said you shot at him, not that you knew he was here.”
“Listen, several women could have testified against him for all I know. Right? And why not Caroline? She could have been one of the girls. Maybe he paid her back.” The way he looked up over the rim of the glass sent a charge through Walt. He needed to make sure Boldt talked to this one.
“The sooner you can let me know about meeting with the detective, the better. He’s going to fly over specially for this.”