“Pretty simple one. Some people collect electric guitars,” Walt said. “Wine. Demi Moore has a three-story Victorian house in Hailey filled with nothing but dolls. A couple hundred dolls. Has a house-sitter that lives there and takes care of her doll collection. I’m thinking a guy like you, in your position, you probably own more than your fair share of baseball bats. Am I wrong?”
Wynn checked with Evers, who nodded. “I have an autographed collection.”
“Would that be here, in Idaho? Or Los Angeles?”
“Both. It’s divided between my houses and my office.”
“Sheriff,” said Evers, “this is pertinent because . . . ? Are we talking murder weapon?”
Walt ignored him. “How many bats?”
“Maybe a dozen here.”
“And how about vehicles? How many registered or otherwise vehicles do you own here in Idaho?”
Wynn squinted. “Including motorcycles?”
“You have access to that information,” Evers said. “My client doesn’t have to answer that. Look it up.”
“Three,” Walt said, “not including the four motorcycles. A Porsche, a vintage Roadster, and a Ford F-one hundred.”
“So why ask?” Wynn said.
“Sheriff Fleming and I share interests in the Vetta case, which is open and ongoing,” Boldt said.
“When was the last time you or your employees drove the F-one hundred?” Boldt asked Wynn.
“My pickup? No clue. No idea. I don’t drive it all that much. Once a week, maybe. My employees have their own trucks. They don’t drive mine.”
“Vince,” Evers said. “You don’t answer unless I say so.” He understood the mistake Wynn had just made, whether his client did or not. By taking his employees out from behind the steering wheel, he’d just implicated himself if his truck offered any physical evidence. It was a major victory and Boldt shot Walt a satisfyingly congratulatory look.
“The last time you drove it?” Walt said.
“No, Vince. That’s enough about the truck,” Evers said.
“What?” Wynn snapped at his attorney. To Walt he said, “I drove the dirt bikes over to the Copper Basin. That was maybe ten days ago. Me and a friend. Left after lunch, were back around sunset. Came over Trail Creek at sunset. So that’s what: nine, nine-thirty? It was a Thursday. Two Thursdays ago.”
“Not since.”
“Not since.”
“Have you had any tire work done to the truck in the interim period?”
“Jesus!” Wynn said.
“You will not answer that!” Evers advised.
Wynn was starting to get the idea.
“We’re happy to cooperate, Sheriff,” the attorney said. “But if you seek specifics like this, I will advise Vince not to answer until he and I can study and discuss his alternatives.”
Walt noticed that Boldt sat back in his chair, and took it as a sign he was trying to look comfortable, trying to establish they would be there a while, though Walt now doubted it.
“You put the blame for Vetta onto Gale,” Boldt said.
“I think it makes sense, yes,” Wynn replied.
“So who killed Gale?” Boldt asked.
“How the fuck should I know?”
“After the incident the other night, your discharge of the handgun, did you have any contact with Martel Gale? And I should warn you, we have records of his communications.”
Wynn’s puzzled look turned toward his attorney.
“My client won’t answer that,” Evers said. “Gentlemen, I need time with my client. If you want to continue this—”
“I would suggest a trip down to my offices,” Walt said. “Should we say, one hour?”
Wynn’s agitation flared in his cheeks. “You want this to leak. You want this on television.”
“I want answers,” Walt said, correcting him.
“We should point out that our departments see a correlation between the two deaths,” Boldt added, “and will continue cooperating and sharing resources and evidence.”
“This is totally out of hand!” Wynn said. “You guys are way off base.”
“Coach us up, Mr. Wynn,” Boldt said. “By all means.”
“I threatened him. I was pissed off, okay? I was scared. The guy is—was, whatever—a fucking freak of nature. The last I saw him, he was jacked so high on steroids he was the fucking Incredible Hulk, and I mean after the guy turns green. Okay? Like that. But does that mean I did the guy? Gimme a fucking break!”
“To your knowledge,” Walt said calmly, “has your pickup truck had any tire work done in the past two weeks?”
“No, no, no,” Evers said, interrupting any chance that Wynn might answer. “We’re not getting into details like that.”
“Why? What do I care?” Wynn said. “No. Okay? No tire work that I know of.”
“Vince!” Evers chastised. “This is not how this is going to be done.”