Ridley Pearson - In Harm's Way

“Wasn’t my truck,” she said, as Boldt walked over to the vehicle.

“No,” Walt said. “Wider tires than your Chevy.” Boldt looked over, silently impressed Walt had already scouted the truck. “There’s no law against driving off the road,” Walt said, forcing a smile.

“Wasn’t me,” she said, her tone unnecessarily defensive.

“I think we’ve already established that.”

“So?”

“You’re the closest to the area. Maybe you saw some people up there? Something-anything-going on.”

“At night perhaps,” Boldt said, having joined them.

“I don’t work nights here. Who said I work nights?”

Boldt and Walt met eyes.

Boldt said, “A neighbor of yours, someone in… Golden Eagle… thought they saw a pickup on the left side of the road, but seeing how this road of yours leads in here, we’re thinking they might have seen your truck and confused it with the truck we’re interested in.”

Walt shot Boldt a quizzical look: where had he come up with that piece of fiction?

“Is that right?” Her eyes told them both she was buying herself time.

“Lights on vehicles can play tricks with the eye at night,” Walt said. “Depth perception. If it was your truck and not the truck we’re interested in, that helps.”

“Why would I be here at night?” Maggie Sharp asked. “It’s not like anyone’s paying overtime around here. I work a ten-hour shift, five days a week. Six o’clock comes around, I’m gone. I appreciate the job and all, don’t get me wrong. Not a lot of jobs going around right now. I’m not complaining. I’m just saying if it was after six, it wasn’t me.”

“Okay,” Boldt said. “That makes sense enough. How ’bout your boss? One of your coworkers?”

“At night? Listen, if there was a freeze warning or something, maybe. And the sheriff can tell you, we get hard freezes every month of the year. But a lot fewer since global warming. Right? And none in the past month or so. It’s a hot summer. Hot and even drier than usual.”

“These things hold up in the thunderstorms?” Walt asked, looking out across the hothouses.

“They do okay,” she said.

“We had a pretty decent storm a couple nights back,” he recalled. “Hailed, didn’t it?”

Her eyes narrowed; she sensed a trap but couldn’t see it clearly. “I can’t speak for the owner,” she said. “All I can tell you is if someone saw a pickup after six it wasn’t me. Wasn’t mine. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“So we should talk to the owner,” Boldt said. “About a truck being seen here at night.”

“No. I mean, sure. That’s up to you, right? What do I care?”

And yet she did seem to care. Both men sensed her misgivings.

“If you remember anything,” Walt said, “we’re in the book.”

“Yeah, I think I can find you.” The smile didn’t work on her face, as out of place as the attempted confidence in her voice.

The men thanked her. Walt and Boldt walked back up the road toward the highway.

“How’d you know it wasn’t her truck?” Boldt asked.

“You’re walking on it,” Walt said. “Noticed on the way in that there were only two trucks using this very much. A pickup with narrower rubber-hers-and a dually, probably a delivery truck. There are some other tracks mixed in, but they’re older for the most part and they’re all passenger cars, not pickups.”

“More to this country sheriff thing than I might have thought,” Boldt said.

“I take a lot of heat from my father. He’s ex-Bureau, as you maybe already know. He thinks I’m wasting my time here. A big day for us is a bar brawl.”

“To each their own. You have kids?”

“Two girls. Twins. Eleven going on fifteen.”

“Good place for them, I imagine.”

“Why I’m here.”

“Not everybody gets that,” Boldt said.

“You?”

“Boy and girl about the same age. If I could figure out how to live in a place like this?” he said, looking into the sky. “Yeah. No-brainer. So I get it.”

“If you ever feel like retiring,” Walt said. He meant it more as a joke but he thought how valuable a person like Boldt would be on a contractual basis, and it gave him some new ideas. He’d taken to the guy immediately. He’d prepared himself for some holier-than-thou city detective; was stunned to find the man so approachable.

“What’d you think of her?” Boldt asked.

“Not much. Afraid of something. The badge, I suppose. Get a lot of that up here. You?”

“Same. Wasn’t buying her.”

“So adamant about not working nights.”

“Yeah. So we know two things,” Boldt said.

“She saw something, and she saw it at night,” Walt said. “And that’s a problem for her.”

“And us.”

“And us,” Walt agreed.

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.

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.