In Harm's Way - By Ridley Pearson Page 0,18

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

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