“Did you take the Ford into Wood River Glass for a windshield replacement on the afternoon of the thirteenth?”
Fancelli’s veneer cracked. His brow tightened, his eyes narrowed, and he dismissed Brandon as if he wasn’t there. His full attention was now fixed on Walt. He’d identified the enemy and he tracked it with a hunter’s eye.
“What’s going on here?”
“Do you remember what you told the mechanic? The worker at Wood River Glass? What you told him had caused the damage to your windshield?”
“I ate a rock.”
“Are you aware that shops like Wood River Glass take pictures of damage for insurance purposes?”
“No.”
“Some do,” Walt said. “The ones that want to get paid.”
“So?”
“Have you ever heard the expression, ‘Why do it the hard way when there’s an easy way’?”
“What’s your point, Sheriff? I gotta get back inside.”
“You sure it was a fox, Mr. Fancelli?”
“Maybe I’m mixing it up with another time I was run off the road. I think that’s right. Did I say fox? It was a bird. A bird hit my windshield.”
“What kind of bird?”
“How would I know?”
“Maybe it landed somewhere behind your truck?”
“Maybe you saw it,” Brandon said, “when you were taking that piss.”
“There was a dead hawk there,” Fancelli said. “You think it was the same bird? What does any of this matter anyway?”
“We’d like to see your arrows, Don,” Walt said. “You hand-make them, don’t you?”
“How the—? What do you care about my arrows? Someone shoot someone or something? It wasn’t me.”
Walt withdrew the search warrant and handed it to Fancelli. “We have a warrant to search the premises.” He nodded to Brandon, who pushed past Fancelli and entered the home.
Walt caught a glimpse of Dionne. She’d been standing right by the door, listening to everything said.
“There was a body!” Fancelli blurted out.
Walt tensed. “Excuse me?”
“There was a body in the bushes. A guy. Big son of a bitch.”
Brandon stopped and turned, now inside the house.
“Where are we talking about?” Walt asked.
“In front of my pickup. That night.”
“You saw a body?”
“I did.”
“And did you call it in?”
“I didn’t. No.”
“Because?”
He looked confused. “We could cut a little deal, right?” Fancelli proposed. “I saw the body. I’ve got what you want, so maybe you cut me some slack.”
“Regarding?”
“You know damn well.”
“I need to hear it from you.”
“The feathers. I took some hawk feathers. Okay? Thing was dead. It’s a stupid law anyway, you ask me. I took a couple flight feathers. Your warrant. That’s what you’re looking for, right? My arrows. You won’t find them in there. I’ve got a workshop in the garage. My gear’s in the garage. I tell you about the body, you cut me some slack on the feathers. Deal?”
“We’d have to see the feathers first,” Walt said.
“Sure, no problem.”
Fancelli led Walt and Tommy Brandon to the small garage in back, and inside to a corner workbench where an array of material was collected. The air was stale. Some moths worked frantically against the glass, trying to escape.
“So let me get this straight,” Walt said, inspecting a piece of one of the hawk feathers not yet used, “you didn’t call in the body because you’d taken the hawk’s feathers and didn’t want to get involved.”
“Listen, I thought about calling it in to nine-one-one or something. But you guys trace all those calls, right? Am I right? I just didn’t want to be involved.”
“The hawk feathers were more important to you than the dead man.” Walt made it a statement.
“I know that sounds stupid.”
Walt waited for Brandon to be in position behind Fancelli with his one good hand.
“Dominique Fancelli,” Walt said formally. “You’re under arrest for violation of the Fish and Wildlife Act.”
Before Fancelli could think, Brandon had a strong hold of one arm. He turned the man effortlessly toward Walt, who cuffed him.
“What the hell is going on here? I thought we had a deal!”
Walt spoke over the noise. “Call in the team. I want them to take this house apart, nail by nail.”
Fancelli suddenly looked terrified.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“My job,” Walt said, catching sight through the garage door’s rain-gray windows of the forlorn face of Dionne Fancelli, who looked as if she wanted to disappear.
47
The two women faced each other in sumptuous opulence in the first of three living rooms in the Engleton house. Peter Arian sat to the side in a padded needlepoint chair that creaked when he moved. He’d called Fiona over to the house, requesting her help in “reaching” his new client, who had so far refused