to pick up Clawsy and get out of there, but something wouldn’t let me leave. Not voyeuristic! I don’t mean that. But a need to help. He covered her cries. Tried to keep her voice down. Don’t look at me like that: a woman knows the difference, believe me. I couldn’t see in the window, and the curtain was pulled. But in between her sobs—rhythmic sobs—a hand smacked up onto the glass. A big hand. A man’s hand. A hand wearing a wedding ring. It was not the hand of an eighteen-year-old boy.”
The look had not left her face, but her eyes had teared up and presently she pursed her lips and dried her eyes on her shoulders.
“And she’s blaming the boyfriend,” he said.
“So two lives go down the drain, and the one that should, walks away. There’s a nine-year-old sister. And a five-year-old after her. He’s got them lined up, Walt. He’s got himself taken care of for a long time.”
“A paternity test would do it,” he said.
“As if he’d ever allow that to happen.”
“There are ways,” Walt said.
“I haven’t wanted to ask you, but there’s a point where—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It would be criminal not to act.”
“That’s eventually what I came around to.”
“Write down the names for me. I’ll see what I can do.”
He led her toward the dining room from where an unfamiliar chirping noise was coming.
“You’re getting a call,” Lisa said. “Skype. We have an account, too.” She hurried to the room and pointed out a window on his computer screen. “You want to answer it?”
“Please,” he said.
She clicked the mouse, scribbled down two names, and waved good-bye as she let herself out the back door.
The window on the computer’s screen showed a big face, severe and intense with wide eyes and a 1950s flattop haircut going gray. The face reminded Walt of a home plate umpire.
“Lou Boldt.” The voice was not as gruff as Walt expected from such a face. Low, but soft-spoken.
“Walt Fleming. Good to meet you.”
“Thanks for letting me give you a shout.”
“No problem.”
“I have a situation here.”
“My father gave me the Cliffs Notes.”
“The deceased’s name is Caroline Vetta. Twenty-nine.” Boldt ran through what he knew of the homicide and the deceased’s connection to prominent Seattle sports figures.
“How can I help?”
“This girl was beat up badly. A person can make the case that it’s a crime of passion. That’s why the lid is on it, because she was friendly with some very high rollers, and no one wants any false accusations made.”
“Tricky for you.”
“Yes, it is. Hard to get an interview with these guys without nine lawyers involved. The media gets hold of it and it’s going to look like we’ve got a suspect. And we don’t need that.”
“Would you like me to interview someone? Is that it? Someone over here?” Walt sensed Boldt wasn’t going to ask him outright; Walt was going to have to offer. “Is there a connection to my county?”
“Two connections,” Boldt said. “And, to answer your question, no, I wouldn’t dump that on you. The first guy is Marty Boatwright.”
Walt took a deep breath. “Oh,” he said.
“Owned the Seahawks until the sale eight years ago. Met Caroline when she was twenty-two. Some say that acquaintance continued until a few months ago.”
“Don’t know him personally. Have worked with his people some. He’s generous in the community over here. Throws the kind of parties that sheiks and kings attend.”
“Can you get to him?”
“Maybe. I know his head of security.”
“The second is Vince Wynn.”
“The sports agent? He has a place here?”
“I thought everyone had a place there,” Boldt said. When he laughed, it was a big laugh, and the webcam shook. His image danced on the screen. “What is that nickname for Sun Valley?”
“Glitter Gulch,” Walt said.
“That’s the one.”
“Wynn can’t spend much time here. Didn’t he just sign that pitcher to the Mets?”
“Four years, a hundred mil. And Wynn gets a pile of that for a few phone calls and dinners? I’d take it.”
“And he got a piece of Caroline?” Walt asked.
“He was here in Seattle the night it went down. He entertained some clients at a club. She dated one—maybe more than one—of his football clients. Supposedly that’s how they met, and maybe she worked her way up the food chain. This woman . . . my guess is we’re going to find out there was commerce involved. A courier? A call girl? I don’t know yet, but the way she moved around between these people . . . It’s