the warrant, providing either would issue it, and we’d need more than a tire brand that’s on a few million vehicles for one of them to sign off on a guy like Boatwright. And in the meantime, if Boatwright gets word of what we’re up to, then we’d likely lose the evidence anyway.”
“So? Then what are we doing here?”
“Gale’s fellow NA-er mentioned he was here to ninth-step—to make amends. I called Wynn’s neighbor back and pressed her about the drug situation at Wynn’s, something she’d given me on my first interview. She gave up how her husband has been in this Monday night game often enough and that there is always pot.”
“Pot? Who cares about pot, Sheriff?”
“Listen, I know it’s not the perfect situation, but guys like Boatwright and Wynn . . . they protect their privacy. You find Mr. Green Jeans and chat him up. Let him sweat a little.”
“Got it.”
“We’ll compare notes.”
Brandon climbed out of the Jeep. “Can I talk to you a minute?” he called out to the caretaker.
“Front door?” Walt asked the man, who suddenly looked a little frantic.
“Back patio,” the caretaker said.
That made things easier for Walt—he wouldn’t need an invitation inside.
Walt let himself through a split-rail fence gate and circled behind the house. The back patio was the size of a tennis court and included a hot tub. He was spotted by Boatwright, who made a hand gesture, but it was too late. Walt arrived beneath a twelve-foot green umbrella where the eight men sat around a teak table cluttered with glasses of beer and wine and ashtrays cradling Cuban cigars. Walt spotted the smoking joint as it was whisked from an ashtray and vanished into a hand before being tossed into the grass.
“Gentlemen,” he said.
“Don’t you knock, Sheriff?” asked Marty Boatwright.
“Your caretaker told me where to find you.” Technically, Walt could spin this into an invitation if pressed to do so.
Walt recognized Alex Macdonald, Richie Fabiano, and Vince Wynn, but it was the two-time Cy Young Award winner next to Alex who caused Walt’s throat to tighten. He’d watched him pitch for the Red Sox all through his childhood, and the fact that he was now standing five feet away from him, that the man was looking at him, smiling at him, nearly stopped Walt’s heart. The Sun Valley celebrities—politicians, film stars, pop stars—never affected him in the least. But a two-time Cy Young winner? He nearly had a coronary.
“You know Mandy Halifax, Sheriff?” Wynn asked, having caught the look of astonishment on the sheriff’s face.
To Halifax, Wynn explained, “Our sheriff is a catcher, and captain of a league-winning team. Bats two-eighty-five.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Halifax said.
Walt came around the table and shook the man’s hand, briefly feeling like an eight-year-old, only to realize this hand had been the one that had grabbed the joint off the table.
“Mr. Boatwright, Mr. Wynn, a word in private?” Walt said.
“It’s Marty, Sheriff. These guys call me a lot worse than that, but Marty will do.”
The group enjoyed that. Boatwright had been drinking, as had Wynn. Walt caught a look that transpired between the two; it was a look of coconspirators, causing him to wonder how much he was reading into it, and how much was legitimate. For an instant he saw an Agatha Christie-like plot of the two of them teaming up against Martel Gale, and realized his regular reading consisted of too many of his daughters’ mystery books.
Boatwright struggled to stand. Halifax jumped up to help him out of his chair, and Walt thought how well the action fit with what he knew of the man. Mandy Halifax went beyond legend to sports god. He wished he could think of a way to involve Halifax in the questioning just to spend more time with him.
With Halifax out of his chair, Walt made a point of retrieving the smoldering joint, snuffing it out, and placing it into a glassine evidence bag. He took out a pen and labeled it.
The joviality died around the table.
Boatwright grabbed one of the wine bottles and carried it with him, causing the others to bark with laughter.
“I’d look out for him,” Macdonald shouted to Walt.
Wynn walked side by side with Boatwright and saw him inside to a sunroom off the kitchen. He grabbed a wineglass and returned with it, and Boatwright poured himself a glass of red wine.
“I have a very good hand, Sheriff,” Boatwright said. “First decent hand of the night. You screw up my luck and you’ll be sorry.”