In Harm's Way (4 page)

Walt fought up-current against the departing guests and reentered the half-empty conference hall. He located his host and thanked him. He made his way toward the stage and awaited his turn with Kira.

“You seen Fiona?” Kira asked him immediately. Guests broke in, congratulating her. She shook hands with several of them. Walt wanted a private moment with her but wasn’t going to get it.

“Restroom,” he said. It was the only explanation that made any sense; Fiona wasn’t leaving Kira in the lurch. “You paused,” he said. “You were looking toward the doors.”

She shook her head as if by doing so she might convince him it hadn’t happened.

“Please,” he said.

“Roy Coats,” she said, lowering her voice and naming the man who had raped her, a man Walt had watched die. “Just a flashback. They still happen. Why it had to be right then . . . but I suppose it was because I was talking about it. I don’t talk about it much.”

“Did he look like Coats?” Walt asked.

“No,” Kira answered. “It
was
him.”

“Ms. Tulivich . . . Kira?” A woman wearing too much perfume pushed in front of Walt and he lost his moment.

He turned and looked back toward the center doors, imagining how it must have felt for her to see an image of Roy Coats listening in on her recovery speech. He lived with his own demons: memories of bloody murder scenes he couldn’t shake, traffic accidents, his killing a man in the backcountry, an incident with his father when he’d been nine years old. Things he didn’t talk about. He envied her ability to talk to counselors, to free the demons, to break the silence of those terrors.

People milled around him and for a moment it was almost as if he wasn’t there. He might have been a table or chair they were dodging. He’d internalized, he’d sunk beneath the surface and was kicking like mad to reach the air above.

Fiona wasn’t returning; he knew it without checking for her. He couldn’t imagine what would have taken her out of the room at that, of all moments. She had practically adopted Kira, had installed her into the Engletons’ main house as her associate caretaker. Abandoning her in the last few lines of her talk seemed impossible. Unthinkable.

Or, he wondered, had Fiona also seen whoever had been at the back of the room?

He reached for his phone and called her. It jumped straight to voice mail—the phone was turned off.

He had a vision of her reacting to whatever message she’d read on her phone. Had the message—some kind of personal emergency—caused her to leave? Should he stop by her place on his way home? Or was that overstepping his bounds, given that she’d shut off her phone?

He slowed the Jeep at the highway entrance to the private road leading to the Engleton and Berkholder properties. He didn’t need an excuse to check up on her, but she was also a woman who appreciated her space, and in the end he gave it to her, reluctantly.

Tie loosened, his suit coat slung over the back of a dining-room chair, Walt enabled the Skype software as he had for each of the past eight evenings and then checked on the girls.

He found Lisa asleep atop Nikki’s bed covers, a book in her lap. In her late thirties, Lisa still had the look of a woman much younger, and the energy to go with it. Catching her in a catnap was a rarity. He gently shook her awake, the intimacy of the moment not escaping him. He hadn’t felt the warmth of a sleeping woman in a very long time.

Walt nearly gave Nikki a goodnight kiss, but decided against it as she was such a light sleeper. He turned around and instead planted a kiss onto Emily’s cheek. She could sleep through an earthquake. Lisa hopped up and adjusted the blinds and shut the door as they left together.

“Any problems?” Walt asked.

“Smooth as silk.”

“Did Nikki say anything about Gail?”

“Didn’t mention her. Not to me.”

That was a first. Nikki was obsessed with using their marriage separation as an excuse. “Then you should be around more often,” he said, realizing too late a man didn’t say that to a happily married woman.

“It takes time.”

“They’ll never get over it. Nikki, she may not even get
past
it.”

“Sure she will.”

“Maybe Em’s hiding it all, but she doesn’t seem affected. She’s moved on, I think.”

“Nikki’s the one to watch, for sure. What’s the schedule this week?”

“There’s a city council thing on Wednesday,” he said, “and a Search and Rescue exercise on Thursday. A Chamber event on Friday night that I’m hoping to duck.”

“Wednesday and Thursday are no problem and I’ll keep Friday open just in case.” She paused. “Listen, Walt, I have a favor to ask.”

“Name it,” he said.

“It’s a big favor,” she cautioned.

“Let me be the judge of that,” he said.

“My neighbor’s daughter. She’s fifteen. Eight weeks pregnant. She’s blaming it, or attributing it, or whatever, to her boyfriend. I don’t know the boy, but I’ve seen him and he looks like a decent kid.”

“It happens. Do you want to make sure he steps up?” Walt offered.

He wasn’t familiar with the look on her face. She’d been helping with the girls since just after their birth, well before the separation. She’d learned to read his moods, knew when to keep her distance, when to try to get him talking; he’d learned that nothing ruffled Lisa, that she was one of those people who moved from good to better and back to good. She didn’t complain. She didn’t back down. But somehow she kept herself and everyone around her on an even keel. Her current expression of perplexity, concern, and fear was something new to him.

“Or maybe not,” he said, when she failed to speak.

“I think it’s the stepfather’s.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes, her vision locked onto his neck.

“Oh . . . damn.”

Lisa nodded gravely. “We have cats,” she said, as if that explained something. “One of them . . . this is a long time ago . . . last summer sometime . . . wouldn’t come in one night, and I spotted her next door and went over to get her. It was very late. Well past midnight. I heard the girl . . . her voice for sure, not her mother’s . . .
engaged
? Is that how you put it? In the act, and not happy about it. My kitty was under that window, as if she . . . as if that voice, that girl’s voice wouldn’t let her leave. I didn’t mean to stay. I wanted to pick up Clawsy and get out of there, but something wouldn’t let me leave. Not voyeuristic! I don’t mean that. But a need to help. He covered her cries. Tried to keep her voice down. Don’t look at me like that: a woman knows the difference, believe me. I couldn’t see in the window, and the curtain was pulled. But in between her sobs—
rhythmic
sobs—a hand smacked up onto the glass. A big hand. A man’s hand. A hand wearing a wedding ring. It was not the hand of an eighteen-year-old boy.”

The look had not left her face, but her eyes had teared up and presently she pursed her lips and dried her eyes on her shoulders.

“And she’s blaming the boyfriend,” he said.

“So two lives go down the drain, and the one that should, walks away. There’s a nine-year-old sister. And a five-year-old after her. He’s got them lined up, Walt. He’s got himself taken care of for a long time.”

“A paternity test would do it,” he said.

“As if he’d ever allow that to happen.”

“There are ways,” Walt said.

“I haven’t wanted to ask you, but there’s a point where—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It would be criminal not to act.”

“That’s eventually what I came around to.”

“Write down the names for me. I’ll see what I can do.”

He led her toward the dining room from where an unfamiliar chirping noise was coming.

“You’re getting a call,” Lisa said. “Skype. We have an account, too.” She hurried to the room and pointed out a window on his computer screen. “You want to answer it?”

“Please,” he said.

She clicked the mouse, scribbled down two names, and waved good-bye as she let herself out the back door.

The window on the computer’s screen showed a big face, severe and intense with wide eyes and a 1950s flattop haircut going gray. The face reminded Walt of a home plate umpire.

“Lou Boldt.” The voice was not as gruff as Walt expected from such a face. Low, but soft-spoken.

“Walt Fleming. Good to meet you.”

“Thanks for letting me give you a shout.”

“No problem.”

“I have a situation here.”

“My father gave me the Cliffs Notes.”

“The deceased’s name is Caroline Vetta. Twenty-nine.” Boldt ran through what he knew of the homicide and the deceased’s connection to prominent Seattle sports figures.

“How can I help?”

“This girl was beat up badly. A person can make the case that it’s a crime of passion. That’s why the lid is on it, because she was friendly with some very high rollers, and no one wants any false accusations made.”

“Tricky for you.”

“Yes, it is. Hard to get an interview with these guys without nine lawyers involved. The media gets hold of it and it’s going to look like we’ve got a suspect. And we don’t need that.”

“Would you like me to interview someone? Is that it? Someone over here?” Walt sensed Boldt wasn’t going to ask him outright; Walt was going to have to offer. “Is there a connection to my county?”

“Two connections,” Boldt said. “And, to answer your question, no, I wouldn’t dump that on you. The first guy is Marty Boatwright.”

Walt took a deep breath. “Oh,” he said.

“Owned the Seahawks until the sale eight years ago. Met Caroline when she was twenty-two. Some say that acquaintance continued until a few months ago.”

“Don’t know him personally. Have worked with his people some. He’s generous in the community over here. Throws the kind of parties that sheiks and kings attend.”

“Can you get to him?”

“Maybe. I know his head of security.”

“The second is Vince Wynn.”

“The sports agent? He has a place here?”

“I thought everyone had a place there,” Boldt said. When he laughed, it was a big laugh, and the webcam shook. His image danced on the screen. “What is that nickname for Sun Valley?”

“Glitter Gulch,” Walt said.

“That’s the one.”

“Wynn can’t spend much time here. Didn’t he just sign that pitcher to the Mets?”

“Four years, a hundred mil. And Wynn gets a pile of that for a few phone calls and dinners? I’d take it.”

“And he got a piece of Caroline?” Walt asked.

“He was here in Seattle the night it went down. He entertained some clients at a club. She dated one—maybe more than one—of his football clients. Supposedly that’s how they met, and maybe she worked her way up the food chain. This woman . . . my guess is we’re going to find out there was commerce involved. A courier? A call girl? I don’t know yet, but the way she moved around between these people . . . It’s complicated. It’s not normal, even in these circles. As to what the nature of this call is,” Boldt said, “I’m thinking . . . my brass is thinking . . . that we could do this . . . I could do this . . . a lot quieter if it was done over there. It being your jurisdiction, I didn’t want to wander in uninvited. And they don’t want me making the first contact because we’ve got a leak here in my department we can’t seem to find, much less plug.”

“So I make the contact and set up an interview and you do it over here,” Walt said.

“Over a weekend, maybe. Downtime. We have three TV news crews on us, basically twenty-four/seven, and a half dozen from radio, and both papers. Last I knew, all you had over there was a weekly. I could pretty much come and go as I please, which is not the case here.”

“Works for me,” Walt said.

“I don’t want to make trouble for you.”

“Open invitation,” Walt said. “I can make the inquiries.”

“The point being that these individuals would want this done as quietly as we do. It wouldn’t even be low profile, it’s
no profile
if they’re willing.”

“They should be all over that.”

“That’s what we’re thinking.”

“Consider it done.”

“I owe you one.”

“Not yet you don’t.”

“Thanks just the same.”

“Leave this thing on in the evenings. When I know something, I’ll ring you back.”

“Freaking amazing technology, you ask me,” Boldt said. “I thought slide rules were impressive.” He moved even closer to the webcam, distorting his face while trying to work the keyboard. “Thanks again.”

“No problem.”

The window went black.

Walt tipped back in the chair. His father had condemned him for years for accepting the sheriff’s office of a small Idaho county, had teased him unmercifully that his cases were about bears tipping over garbage cans while real law enforcement solved real crimes. And here he was, one week past what had the appearance of a bear raiding a kitchen, and a few minutes past a phone call with a legendary homicide cop dealing with a major crime. He hadn’t realized how sweet vindication could taste.

F
iona picked a piece of popcorn off the leg of her pajamas and popped it into her mouth. Her feet tucked to the side, she occupied the right side of the couch next to Kira, who wore an afghan over her shoulders. The Engletons’ high-definition projector threw a six-by-six-foot image onto a screen that came down from the ceiling, making Meryl Streep’s head about four feet tall.

“I’ve seen this at least three times,” Fiona said, between bites.

“I love the last scene, when she’s in the car and her eyes and her smile tell you everything that’s going on and then she tells the driver to go.”

“The best.”

“And Anne Hathaway’s outfits.”

“Absolutely. And Stanley Tucci at the luncheon.”

“Makes me want to cry,” Kira said. “We should do this more often.”

“No argument from me.”

Fiona awaited the scene where Meryl Streep dumps jacket after jacket onto Anne Hathaway’s desk, knowing there was no dialogue.