“that you came straight here from Seattle, correct?”
“Yeah? So?”
“Upon your arrival to your home here, were you then, or are you now, aware of any of your possessions having gone missing?” Boldt inquired.
Wynn checked with Evers.
Walt reminded, “It’s here or in Hailey.”
Evers nodded to his client.
“No,” Wynn said.
Boldt scribbled down a note.
“Okay,” Evers said, “we are done here. We will comply with any warrants or written requests as you present them.”
“Harris, we are not making a circus out of this,” Wynn said. He addressed both Walt and Boldt. “I have not seen or spoken to Gale in over a year. Beginning and end of statement. I don’t know squat about his death or his even being here.”
“Yet you shot at him the other night,” Walt said.
“I shot at someone.”
“You told me it was Gale.”
“I told you I thought it was Gale,” said the negotiator.
“And now he’s dead.”
“Good riddance.”
“Vince, please!”
“You believed Gale was in the area?” Boldt asked.
“I got that list server notice,” Wynn said. “That was enough for me. I figured Caroline was probably on that list, and I knew what had happened to her. I wasn’t taking any chances.”
Walt thought obtaining the names on the list server would prove difficult if not impossible, but it seemed worth the effort. If Gale had indeed been seeking revenge, then his likely victims would be on that list.
“We’ll ask that you not leave the county without checking with my office,” Walt said.
“That’s bullshit!” Wynn said. “I’ve got a dozen deals going. I’m due in L.A. on a moment’s notice.”
“Check with my office before leaving,” Walt said, addressing the attorney.
“I did not do Gale!” Wynn said, exasperated.
Boldt leaned forward. “Tell us everything you know about your relationships with Caroline Vetta and Martel Gale right here, right now, and you have a chance to make this go away. But my sense of things is this is probably your last chance to do this quietly.”
“You’re threatening my client?” Evers said. “Am I hearing this right?”
“I’m trying to save you a trip to Seattle,” Boldt said. “But I think I’m about done doing you any favors.” He stood.
Walt rose from the couch, wondering how he might pull off obtaining a search warrant before Wynn thought to bleach every baseball bat in his collection, wondering what his father would think about his working hand in hand with a cop like Lou Boldt. And then wondering why that mattered to him in the first place.
20
An image rose within the dreamlike swirl of color and the echo of a distant voice. Ethereal, foreboding, it felt more ghost than angel, and she turned away from it.
“I’m sorry.” A man’s deep voice that she experienced as penetrating, cold, sexual, and dangerous. She clawed away from him, dragging herself on hands and knees, sensing the retreat was more memory than experience. She caught a glimpse of herself, naked but for a cotton thong, rushing to escape. Then felt him catch hold of her ankle and drag her back. She reached out, grabbing the leg of a chair, only to bring it down on top of herself.
“Take me back to that moment.” A woman’s voice as gentle and forgiving as silence. Where it came from, she had no idea. Was God a woman with a voice like a summer breeze? Why did she feel so compelled to comply, to do whatever this voice asked of her?
“Is there someone in the room with you?” The woman again.
“I owe you that. Much more than that.” The man’s voice now, his silhouette blocking the glow from a window. She knew that window—it existed in her present memory.
“I see a window,” she heard herself say. “He’s standing in front of a window.”
“Tell me about him.”
But as she looked again, she flinched and ran from what she saw, what she heard. She stepped back, arms out behind her like angel wings.
“He says he’s sorry.” She identified this as her own voice. But she couldn’t be sure if anyone heard or who it was intended for.
“Sorry for . . . ?” The woman again, gently pressing. Always pressing.
“He’s lying. He always lies.”
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
“Not a stranger?”
“No way.”
“He’s in the room with you?”
“Yes. I . . .” The silhouette distended and broke into two black blobs. The ephemeral quality suddenly made her doubt its authenticity.
“Do you recognize him?”
“Recognize? Him? Oh, yeah.”
“Is he saying anything else?”
“He’s . . . coming toward me. Coming for me. No! No! Not again! Not that! He’ll kill me! He’ll kill me this time. I’ve got