In Harm's Way (28 page)

She held out her hand, wanting the phone back from him.

“Meet me in my office,” Walt told Brandon, surrendering the phone to her.

Brandon tried to fit himself into one of the two chairs facing Walt’s desk. He looked like Walt felt when volunteering to read to kids in kindergarten.

Walt passed him the inventory sheet, where a yellow highlighted line now jumped off the page.

“Son of a butte,” Brandon said.

“Banks don’t issue two cards with the same name on the same account.”

“All I can tell you is that Blompier, I think it was, was the one in touch with them, and it was this card on this bank. Maximum cash advances a couple days in a row.”

“And he was dead.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“And the card is now somehow back in his wallet.”

“I’m not saying I understand it.”

“Blompier handed it right to me, and I missed it,” Walt said, thinking aloud.

“Sheriff?”

“We were talking about cameras on the ATMs, how convenient it was that the ATM used didn’t happen to have a working camera as part of its security.”

“Okay,” Brandon said.

“We were made aware of this during that poacher case. You remember?”

“Sure.”

“So did Deputy Blompier. He mentioned it to me. Reminded me.”

“You lost me, I think.”

“All those trees, the forest as thick as it is where we found the rental—it occurred to me at the time that it was a miracle it threw off any kind of heat signature.”

“Now I know you lost me.”

“Gilly Menquez told me he found the truck because of its heat signature. The poacher case? Menquez handled that for the Forest Service. He knew that ATM didn’t have a camera.”

“Menquez?” Brandon couldn’t believe it.

“We need a way to prove it. What about traffic cams?” Walt asked.

“What traffic cams? We don’t have any traffic cams.”

“You and I know that, but is that common knowledge?”

“If I knew where you were going with this, Sheriff, maybe I could help.” Brandon stood out of the chair, making it look normal-sized again.

“Nancy!” Walt shouted, forgoing the intercom. “Get me Kenshaw.”

“I’m on it!” she shouted back.

Brandon, his face a mass of confusion, pointed out the office door, miming his request to leave. Walt assented.

“Sometime today would be good!” Walt called out to Nancy.

“I said:
I’m on it
.”

Walt addressed Brandon saying, “Find Gilly. Get him down here for a chat.”

“Menquez? How am I supposed to do that?”

“I’m not asking, I’m ordering,” Walt said.

His phone rang. She’d put him through.

Shaking his head, Brandon took off.

Walt answered the phone. “Sheriff?” Fiona said, sounding ever so professional.

“I need you,” Walt said.

 

 

F
or the sake of security and secrecy, there was no window in the door of the office’s Incident Command Center. But Walt felt as if he could see inside to where Fiona was working at his request. He stood outside the door as agitated as an expectant father, the prosecuting attorney’s voice ringing in his ears. Finally, he summoned the courage to knock and let himself in.

“Why?” he asked her. She sat all alone in the room, dwarfed in what could pass as a lecture hall, her laptop connected to a large hi-def television screen.

“Why what?” she said, breaking her attention away from the screen.

“The Engletons turned down my request to search the property.” He felt confused by the look of surprise on her face.

“I didn’t know,” she said.

“Why? Why would they do that?”

“I warned you: they’re private.”

“It’s a murder investigation.”

“It’s their home. Their sanctuary. Leslie is . . . I tried to warn you. She’s all about energy centers. Chakras. She would see this as a violation of everything she’s built up there. The peace and tranquility. A bunch of men she doesn’t know going through her things. It’s just who she is. It’s nothing personal or intentional.”

“You actually believe that?”

“You think I asked her to refuse you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Your face just did.”

“I need this search,” he said, his frustration vented. “Kira needs for me to do this search.”

“You’re welcome onto the property. You know that.”

“It needs to be a legal, authorized search.”

“I contacted them. That’s about all I can do.”

“You could do more,” he blurted out.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

He took a few steps closer, half the room still separating them.

“You know how this is going to look, don’t you?”

“How’s it going to look?”

“Are you protecting her?”

“Do you really have to ask that?”

“Is that your answer?”

“If you’re asking would I go to great lengths to protect an innocent girl who’s seen more than her fair share of things, then I would answer yes. After what she’s been through, she certainly doesn’t deserve to be dragged through something like this when her only crime is embarrassment. But if you’re asking if I’ve actually done anything like that, the answer is no. But don’t count me out, Sheriff. I will not allow anyone, not even you, to mess her up at a time she is finally getting her act together. Leave her out of this, please.”

“I know this is difficult.”

“You seem to be blaming me for the Engletons’ decision when all I do is live there. You wanted to reach them and I reached them. Damn quickly, I might add. And this is the thanks I get!”

“Thank you,” he said.

“That’s better. Is there anything else? Because I was actually busy volunteering my time to help you with these images.”

“I’m not the enemy,” he said, speaking in a whisper.

“I’ve never seen you as such.”

“If I can get ahead of the curve . . . Don’t you get it?”

“Maybe not.”

“Trust me.”

“If you’re suggesting I separate you from the badge when you’re standing there wearing the badge, that’s asking too much. I can’t do that.”

He reached for the badge pinned to his shirt. As he did so, a knock came on the door and he left the badge in place and turned to answer the door.

“A call from Seattle for you.” Nancy looked beyond him to Fiona and then between the two of them. “I can tell them you’ll return,” she said.

“No,” Walt said. “I’ll take it.” To Fiona he said, “It’s good work. Stay with it.”

Her flushed, angry face remained fixed on him, his back now turned toward her. “Yes, Sheriff,” she said through clenched teeth.

Nancy held the door for him but knew better than to venture another look inside.

“Everything okay?” she asked, as they crossed the hall into Walt’s office. “That looked a little . . . heated.”

“Is it Boldt?” he asked, not answering.

“A woman named Matthews. She asked if we had Skype or video conferencing, and I told her I could set it up for you.”

“Can you?”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“Impressed is more like it. Kevin does that stuff for me at home. Lisa, sometimes.”

“She does too much for you,” Nancy said.

They’d reached his office. Nancy came around his desk and took control of his keyboard, avoiding having to look at him, knowing she’d overstepped. The tapping of the keys sounded louder than normal.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” she said.

“You’re entitled to your opinion.”

“Am I?” She marched past him to his office door and shut it. “Okay then.”

He wished he could take it back.

“Under the heading of none-of-my-business: you’ve become way too dependent on Lisa. I guarantee you she only charges you for about a third of her billable hours, because if she didn’t, you’d be homeless by now, the amount of time she spends there. The girls have it bad enough being yanked back and forth. When they land on your side of the net, you should be there, not some paid-by-the-hour quasi-governess, aunt, babysitter. And she will never tell you that. She will never tell you how her own family needs her and how much you take advantage of her. You got the short end of the stick, Walt. No one’s denying that. You needed Lisa to fill in while you got it together, and she did, and you did. But you spend too much time here. Much more than you used to, and I don’t think you even see that. The job can fill some of the heartache, and no one begrudges you that, but you and me, we’ve been at this a long time together. All I’m saying is: it’s time to move on.” She drew in a deep breath and then exhaled. When he failed to respond, she said, “Click the green telephone in the open window. She should answer.” She stood there for a second too long, huffed audibly, and let herself out.

Walt hadn’t moved. He made an effort to breathe, shook his head, and moved toward his desk.

D
aphne Matthews was a looker, given that computer video was anything but flattering. A dark beauty that carried an intensity in her eyes and an implied invitation in her somewhat husky voice, she piqued Walt’s intellectual curiosity; he wanted to step through the screen and spend a couple of hours with her. He thought of her as Cleopatra—mysterious, seductive, fiercely intelligent—and she had yet to say anything more than “hello” and “good to meet you.”

“The sergeant suggested I get in touch.”

“Much appreciated.”

“Anything new to add to the case?”

Walt walked her through some but not all of it, sensing she somehow knew he was withholding from her. Maybe she expected that from any cop.

He watched her arm move as she took notes about Bea’s discovery of the blood evidence. Watched her reread and study those notes. Her eyes flicked up at him and back down. He could hear her faint breathing over the computer’s thin speaker.

“Nothing worse than unsolicited advice,” she said.

“Consider it solicited,” he said.

“The sergeant’s seriously interested in your case and believes there’s both a possibility and probability that it may overlap with the Caroline Vetta investigation, which is why he asked for this meeting.”

“I’m okay with it. Really. Sergeant Boldt and I . . . He was a welcome presence here. We worked well together, I think. He speaks highly of you.”

“And you.”

“That’s nice to hear.”

“He asked that I walk you through my sense of the victim and some of the things I’ve taken away from reviewing the case.”

“By all means. I’m all ears.”

“Okay. First, you’re looking for a male between—”

“Because?” Walt said, cutting her off.

“Male? Because it was a single blow to the head that killed him.”

Walt was suddenly aware of his own pounding heart and the sound of the forced air coming from the wall vent. Something so simple. Something he’d not considered. “A single blow,” he repeated.

“Yes. The blow was high on the back of the victim’s head. A single, fatal blow, requiring, I would think, a substantial amount of strength. The medical examiner could help you there. You’ve cracked a few skulls in your time, I would imagine, Sheriff, haven’t you?” “I have.”

“Then you know.”

“I do,” Walt said. “Honestly, I hadn’t given it much thought.”

“It’s what I do,” she said, trying to let him off the hook. “It’s not inconceivable, I suppose, that a woman could deliver such a blow, but I play percentages. Statistics. And statistically we would put this into the male column. Another thing: a woman would likely deliver a blow to the side of the head, not the top down. Most women have not swung a bat or an ax as often as men, and they learn to swing a bat right to left. If they picked one up in self-defense, they would swing the bat right to left. Gale was struck high on the skull, straight down, like the person doing it was chopping wood. Listen, this is all speculation, I can easily be wrong and often am, believe me.”

“No. It’s good stuff. I’m with you.”

“He’d be between . . . let’s say early twenties and late thirties—again, in part due to the considerable strength it would take to dispatch a man of Gale’s size with a single blow. He’s strong, and he’s fit. Gale is carrying a few wounds on his hands and forearms—possibly defensive. But I’m guessing those came after the blow. I’m thinking his killer sneaked up on him. Surprised him from behind. That carries its own implications: a hunter, a stalker. And the blow to the head was meant to kill, not wound. It was lights out, game over, from the start of that swing.

“As to Gale,” she continued, “from what we can gather . . . from your contact with the Narcotics Anonymous member, his purpose for being in your area is, at the very least, unusual. Contrary to the image of vengeful paroled felon, in light of what we now know, I would suggest he was a remorseful, recovering addict. Typically such people working through the twelve steps are upbeat, even optimistic, remorseful, forgiving and in need of forgiveness. Can they turn violent? Of course. I’m not saying I can predict that one way or the other, but statistically I would not put Gale very high up the list of Caroline Vetta’s likely killers, and I’ve told the sergeant as much. If he was there on a ninth-step call, then I think we need to see him more in the light of a reconciler. He would have come to apologize, to make amends, to atone. And the thing is, he’s already internalized this. Already accepted his failures, which is central to his state of mind. He’s turned control of his life over to another, and has likely distanced himself from that other man, the Gale of the past. No matter if a person like Caroline Vetta ranted and vented, blamed him, screamed, threw a tantrum, he would likely have two reactions: stand there and take it, accept it; or turn and leave. I just don’t see him beating her to death, especially not in the capacity this crime was carried out.