Ridley Pearson - In Harm's Way

“It’s a regular Monday game. Wynn’s in the group. Two birds, and all that. We’ve got the NA member’s statement and maybe the pollen. It feels like it’s coming together.”

“Are you going to bust the game?”

“No, although it would give me a reason to get them down to the office and interrogate them formally. I wouldn’t mind that. But no one would back up the charges. I’d look like a moron.” He barely hesitated. “Are you going to marry her?”

“What? Aren’t you asking the wrong person?”

“Gail doesn’t always put the girls first, Tommy. You know that. I may need your help here. I think it’s something we have to think about.”

“We?”

“It has to be figured out, Tommy. Eleven-year-olds know perfectly well what you and their mother are doing in that trailer, and that I don’t appreciate it.”

“And do they know what you and your photographer are doing?”

The Jeep swerved. Walt flashed a punishing look over at Brandon. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Okay. Then I take it back.”

“I’m perfectly capable of maintaining a private life without exposing my daughters to every aspect of it.”

“If you say so.”

“Dangerous ground, Tommy.”

“Wasn’t me who brought it up. Wasn’t me who made the call to LoJack without a stolen vehicle report.”

Walt had left the company his direct number but somehow they’d reported back to the main office and Brandon had taken the call.

“If you two are serious, then fine, help me out. If not… It’s too much for them to handle right now.”

“Listen, I know this is… I know it’s not easy on any of us. I hear you. Okay?”

For all his bravado, Brandon suddenly seemed more like a kid. A good, solid deputy. Trustworthy. Brave to the point of stupidity. But young. Walt respected him, even enjoyed his company, but now, thanks in part to Fiona, he thought he saw him more clearly and he nearly laughed. Gail had ridden the first horse out of the barn, and at some point she was going to realize it wasn’t yet broke. Tommy needed some miles.

Walt pulled the Jeep up to Boatwright’s ostentatious gate and was about to buzz the box when the garden worker-the caretaker-Walt had spoken to before approached from the other side of the wrought iron, wearing a plastic spray tank on his back, goggles, and a face mask. He pulled down the mask.

“I’ll tell him you’re here,” he said.

“Rather you didn’t do that.”

“He’s got guests, Sheriff.”

“He’s hosting the Monday night poker game. That gives me enough to come onto the property. I only want to talk to him. This becomes a hassle, it will only get more complicated.”

“I’m supposed to just let you in? I’ll be looking for a job in the morning.”

“You don’t let us in, you’ll be looking for a lawyer. Don’t worry, he won’t fire you.”

“You don’t know Marty Boatwright.”

“I can be pretty persuasive.”

The man tripped the gate and it swung open and Walt drove through.

“Those are BFGoodrich on that pickup,” Brandon said. “Same as the lab report just came back.”

Walt caught sight of the pickup, pulled off onto the grass alongside a flower bed. He wondered if he would have caught the make of the tires the way a gear head like Brandon had.

“Nice catch,” he said.

Brandon, still steaming over their earlier discussion, didn’t respond immediately. Finally he said, “You want me to do anything about it?”

Walt felt a pressure at his temples, and found himself wondering what Boldt would have done, a needless distraction. He had testimony that at least circumstantially connected Martel Gale to Boatwright and Wynn; he had the pollen and the flower bed being dug up on the property; and now he had a pickup truck with the same brand of tires that had left impressions by Gale’s body.

“It’s not like we can lift impressions without a warrant,” Walt said, remaining behind the wheel as the caretaker stood impatiently alongside the vehicle. He looked to be straining to hear what was being said, a losing proposition. “Not if we want to beat Boatwright’s attorneys. Guys like this… we have to tread so carefully, Tommy.”

“They’re Goodrich, Sheriff. I can read them from here.”

“We don’t want them knowing we know that. We don’t need them changing the tires on us. Destroying possible evidence. I think we leave it for now.”

“We could call in for a warrant.”

“Judge Alban plays volleyball Monday nights, and Sitter has his own poker game. Neither is going to appreciate my interrupting them. We’d have to drive back down valley to get 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.”