Boldt stopped near the middle of the dirt track and spun slowly in a full circle. “Jeez,” he said. He drew in a deep breath, and took in so much air he coughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Walt took in the panorama of sage-covered hills, evergreens, and blue sky. “Forget to look sometimes,” he admitted.
“No property in sight with any kind of view.”
Walt realized Boldt had been assessing the likelihood of witnesses.
“I don’t often canvass,” he explained. “We’ll work the local media. Put the word out. My guys will go door-to-door in Golden Eagle, Rainbow Bend, and maybe some of Gimlet—all nearby subdivisions. There’re a couple private ranches tucked up behind the mountain on this side. That’s why there aren’t any trails up there—there’s a lot of deeded ground.” They reached the highway shoulder and turned north toward the cars scattered off the road. “A truck going off the highway at night,” Walt said. “This stretch is lousy with elk and deer. We see more than a fair share of accidents and rolls right here.”
“You think he may have been on foot?” Boldt asked. “Someone swerves away from a deer and hits this guy on the side of the road?”
“Maybe swipes him. Guy goes down headfirst,” Walt said. “It wouldn’t take much.”
“Then why wouldn’t Martha Stewart back there tell us what she saw?”
Walt bit back a smile.
“We’re going to get along okay,” Walt said.
“I’ll be out of your hair day after tomorrow,” Boldt reminded.
“What if I beg?” Walt said.
Boldt grinned. The two men walked north, cars slowing to rubberneck the cop cars. Walt needed to assemble a team to walk the field, alert for cigarette butts, beer cans, litter of any kind.
Then he remembered that the Boy Scouts had been collecting litter at the time of the discovery, and he took off running up the road, reaching for his radio and calling through to Brandon.
Boldt trailed behind, in no particular hurry, already scheming how he might extend his stay.
15
Along with three deputies, Walt moved carefully through the litter strewn across the plastic sheets taped to the motor pool’s garage floor. The four piles of trash were kept separate, in quadrants designated by blue painter’s tape. Piece by piece, the bits of highway-side litter—beer cans, cigarette butts and packs, newspaper, fast food, and even a withered condom or two—were carefully dragged and moved away from where the four bright orange bags had been dumped.
It did not escape Walt that these piles possibly represented his best and only chance at nailing a killer, that a bunch of well-meaning children had collected what might be his only hard evidence in the case.
It was seven p.m., well past Walt’s usual office hours, something not lost on his subordinates, and no doubt adding to their concerted efforts. The mood, originally lightened with trash jokes, had turned serious as time wore on. Walt kept his head down, using a wooden poker to separate the garbage into three different piles: useless; personal; possible DNA. Corn chip bags and fast food went into “useless”; anything with handwriting or printing into “personal”; empty beer and soda cans, cigarette butts, the condoms into “possible DNA.” The Boy Scouts had done a thorough job, and though Walt had assigned five of his deputies into the same field to collect evidence, he didn’t anticipate them finding much.
Nancy had stayed late as well, without any discussion. She arrived at Walt’s side carrying a piece of paper in her right hand, and Walt knew what it was without asking. On this day there was only one piece of paper, one piece of information, that would bring her out to the garage in person.
“ALPS?” he called across the garage, his voice reverberating off the corrugated steel roof. Automated Latent Print System.
She nodded. “It’s him,” she said.
Walt churned, an odd combination of dread and relief: pleased that he’d gotten it right, disturbed by the confirmation. Martel Gale.
“Notify Boldt,” he said. “See if he wants to grab dinner.”
Walt couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat down to dinner one-on-one with another guy, never mind that it was a business dinner. Somehow that didn’t matter. It wasn’t political. It wasn’t family. It wasn’t required. He’d chosen to be here.
Boldt was a commanding presence, whether standing over a dead body or sitting across the table at Zou 75, an upscale Asian restaurant on the north end of Hailey’s Main Street. His size accounted for much of it, as