In Harm's Way

by Ridley Pearson

  She sat down well away from him in the small waiting area. He gave her five minutes. It took her less than three to stand up and move closer to him, sitting just one seat away.

  “Was he wearing his vest?” She looked straight ahead, as did he.

  “No.”

  “I told him to wear his vest.”

  “And you were right to do so. He should have been. It was in his truck.”

  “Did you catch the guy?”

  “No. Working on it.”

  “Working real hard, I can see.”

  That didn’t take long, he thought. “It collapsed his left lung. Missed the major arteries and blood vessels. They’ll hold him a few days.”

  “As if you care.”

  “Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. I know you’re upset. You want to take it out on me, that’s okay.”

  Her eyes flashed. He wasn’t sure she’d heard him. “You’re only here because it would cost you votes if you didn’t look concerned about your deputies.”

  “But only you and I know that,” he said, sarcastically.

  The comment won a tick from her-she glanced hotly in his direction and then back to face the receptionist.

  “Screw you,” she said.

  He had a half-dozen retorts on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed them away. How do you comfort someone you’re still uncomfortable around? he wondered.

  “He’s going to come through okay,” he said. “That’s what counts.”

  “How could you send him into something like that without proper backup? What kind of half-assed office are you running? What kind of superior would let his subordinates do something like that?”

  “A lousy one,” he said. “Might be as few as three days if his lung holds. He’s in good shape, good condition. That’s in his favor.”

  “Bet you were hoping it killed him.”

  Walt jerked in her direction and she flinched, tilting away from him, but at the last moment he controlled himself and kept himself in check.

  “You think?” he said, between clenched teeth. He stood, turned and faced her. She looked afraid of him. “I know you probably won’t, but I’d like it very much if you would let him know that I was out here when you got here. That I’m thinking of him.”

  She hung her head. After a long moment she whispered, “I told him to wear the vest.”

  He thought she might be crying. “If Tommy started listening to someone else, that would be a first.”

  She cracked a smile and looked up at him through welling tears. “No kidding.”

  “He got lucky. We all got lucky. Believe it or not, this is one of the good days.”

  She nodded self-consciously. “How weird is that?”

  “Tell him hello. I’ll drop by later. I’ve got some stuff to do.”

  He walked toward the doors. They slid open automatically.

  “I’ll tell him,” she called after him.

  It caused him to catch a step. He stood there for a moment, his back to her. Then he continued on through the double set of automatic doors and into the chorus of frogs and night insects, switching on his BlackBerry, turning on his radio, and walking stiff-legged to the Jeep as incoming messages and e-mails began to light up his phone.

  “My name is Michael.” It was the third of seven voice mails Walt was set to retrieve. “I understand you want to talk to me. I am-was, whatever-Martel’s sponsor. His NA sponsor, down here in New Orleans. Gimme a shout, you want to talk to me.” The man recited a number that Walt scribbled into his notebook. Bea nudged him from behind, wanting Walt to drive. But the Jeep idled in the hospital parking spot. He faced four large framed photographs of happy, healthy people mounted to the hospital’s brick wall. They were an illusion and he resented their presence.

  “Back!” he commanded. Bea retreated, whining in protest.

  He slogged through the remaining voice mails, making notes, his patience wearing thin by the time he returned the call.

  “Sheriff Walt Fleming,” he informed the man who answered.

  “Michael. We go by first names only.” He had a pronounced Louisiana drawl.

  “I respect that,” Walt said.

  “I understand you were asking after me, Sheriff.”

  “I have some questions pertaining to Mr. Gale’s visit to Idaho. Was hoping you might… illuminate some of this for me.”

  “What’s shared in the program is of a confidential nature. That is never more true than between sponsor and sponsee.”

  “I have nothing but respect for twelve-step programs. But in this case, given Mr. Gale is dead, and that you may possess information vital to the investigation, I have to ask you to drop the confidentiality.”

  “I’ll tell you what I can tell you. I am not going to harm others, or put them at risk. That goes against the steps.”

  “If there’s a killer loose, we’re all at risk.”

  “Your point is taken, Sheriff.”

  “One of your members up here believed Martel,” he switched to his first name to try to make Michael more comfortable, “was ninth-stepping.”

  “I have no reason to contradict that.”

  Walt then understood: Michael would rather deny or confirm something Walt said than offer information directly himself.

  “There are two individuals in the Sun Valley area who are part of professional football and we believe may have been the intended recipients of Martel’s goodwill.”

  “Is that so?”

  “A team owner, and an agent. Martel’s former agent.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Were you given any reason to believe one or both of these men might have been who Martel intended to visit?”

  “He may have.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “You have a good ear,” Michael said.

  “Somebody else then?”

  “Could be.”

  “A teammate?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Not a football teammate.”

  “Very good.”

  “A different team: someone in the program.”

  “You’re colder.”

  “You could just tell me,” Walt suggested.

  “We, those of us in the program, do not break the law, Sheriff. But nearly all of us have had contact with law enforcement. I’m not exactly a fan, if you’ll pardon me. We cooperate with law enforcement when required. When asked. Volunteering is another matter, at least for me.”

  “So it’s twenty questions.” Walt hadn’t meant to say that. It came out viciously.

  “Something like that. Ball’s in your court, if you want to look at it that way.”

  “Coming up here. That was about his atoning, his working the ninth step.”

  “That was my understanding. Yes.”

  “A different kind of team,” Walt said, thinking aloud. “A relationship. Women, not men. Caroline Vetta.”

  “You see? You’re good at this.”

  “Can you confirm Caroline Vetta?”

  “I can confirm it was women, not men. I don’t have names for you.”

  Plural, Walt thought. Caroline Vetta and at least one other.

  “He mentioned Seattle and Sun Valley,” Walt stated.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Seattle and Idaho.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing to do with football.”

  “Everything in his life had to do with football.”

  “Did he see Caroline Vetta? Did he contact you?”

  “He contacted me. We spoke every day. This was a big deal for him. An important trip. It’s one of the hardest things we do. Also one of the most rewarding.”

  “And he told you how it went with Caroline,” Walt stated.

  “He never saw his Seattle friend. Nor did he mention a name. It was my impression he may have spoken with her, presumably by phone, but that their face-to-face meeting never took place.” The man’s drawl put emphasis on his verbs, making his speech sound foreign to
Walt.

  “Because she was killed.”

  “I can’t confirm that.”

  “He called you after she was killed.”

  “When he called me the second time, he was in a panic. What you’re saying would make sense, wouldn’t it?”

  “He panicked. He knew he’d be implicated.”

  “Once you’ve been part of it, you understand the mechanics of the legal system.”

  “That he’d be a suspect. That it was weighted against him.”

  “He never said that exactly, but that was my impression, yes.”

  “Michael, did he commit that crime? Did he do harm to Caroline Vetta?”

  “They never met face-to-face. He wouldn’t have lied to me. Especially about that.”

  “He was afraid.”

  “I believe he understood it was bad timing.”

  “You advised him to get out of there.”

  “I did.”

  “To move on.”

  “Correct.”

  “Did he suggest to you who might have done Caroline Vetta?” He heard the man’s steady breathing over the sound of the idling car and Bea’s raspy panting from the backseat.

  “Not… directly, no.”

  Walt considered the careful nature of the man’s answer.

  “He wasn’t scared,” Walt said, guessing, “he was angry. He thought he knew who killed her.”

  “He was emotional. It’s true.”

  “He did suspect someone?”

  “That would be speculation on my part. I can’t do that.”

  “Sure you can. I’m asking you to speculate. Believe me, I filter all of this.”

  “I believe his anger was directed at someone, at a particular person, yes. But I caution you, I do not know the identity of that person, nor did he give me any indication of who it might be.”

  “The trip to Sun Valley, a woman or this person?”

  “Or both? I’m not sure I can answer that accurately.”

  “A woman,” Walt said. “Like Seattle. He was ninth-stepping a woman, a former lover or at least someone he’d harmed in some way, something that required atonement.”

  “Idaho was mentioned in his original plans. So, yes, I’m sure you’re right.”

  One of the four photographs on the side of the hospital showed a Hispanic child, several of her teeth still coming in, wide-eyed and smiling. For an instant that photograph bled into another: a black kid on a porch with nearly the same smile. The two photos were surprisingly similar. Then he recalled where he’d seen the photo of the black kid, and his hand holding the phone went out to the wheel and he pushed himself back against the headrest. “Oh, hell,” he gasped aloud.

  Michael’s voice came thinly from the BlackBerry and Walt returned it to his ear.

  “… there? Sheriff?”

  “Sorry about that,” Walt said. “Dropped the phone.”

  “I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

  “You’ll be at this number?”

  “I will.”

  “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “You don’t sound too pleased.”

  “I’ll be in touch.” Walt ended the call and holstered the BlackBerry.

  The photo mounted to the hospital wall was itself again, showing the cheerful Hispanic girl. But the other child’s face-the one in Fiona’s photo-lingered beneath the surface, poisoning him.

  38

  At eight p.m., Walt was watching the Disney Channel with his daughters, the smell of burgers and home fries lingering in the air. Nikki lay on the floor playing Animal Crossing on her DS while simultaneously watching the show, something Walt disapproved of but tonight wasn’t going to make a big deal about. But it reminded him that as he made the transition back, away from depending so much on Lisa, that he had a responsibility to be consistent. The girls had learned to slip through the cracks, sometimes more like fissures, that existed between his way of parenting, Lisa’s discipline, and their mother’s basic fear of how to handle them. The girls had brokered these differences to their benefit, playing one against the other, citing established rules from another camp that likely didn’t exist, and effectively playing Walt’s guilt against him. There were at least two downsides to this: first, they got away with everything; second, they learned how to manipulate rather than face the music. He could cut them a certain amount of slack for the difficulty of their situation-the Taffy Twins, pulled and stretched in several directions at once-but for their sakes, it was time to lay down the law and see to it that, as much as humanly possible, Gail kept with the same program.

  “Nikki, the TV or the DS, but not both,” he said.

  “Mom lets me.”

  “You want me to call her? If she says otherwise, it’ll cost you the DS for the week.”

  She flipped the machine shut, stuck her lower lip out as she did so, and huffed as she pushed it aside.

  “This show is boring,” Nikki said.

  “No it isn’t,” Emily complained. “I like it.”

  “Why don’t you read, Nikki? After this show, we’re going to read together. The three of us.”

  “Oh, Dad…” Emily complained. To her sister she said, “See what you did?”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too!”

  “Girls!” Walt said, raising his voice. “This show, then reading.” He looked over at them thinking that these two children defined him more than his job, more than any of his accomplishments. At school events he introduced himself with “I’m Nikki and Emily’s father.” He thought that summed it up.

  His computer chirped from the living room.

  “Skype,” the girls both said, nearly in unison.

  “I’ll get it,” Walt announced. “But when this show’s over,” he said, already moving toward the dining table, “don’t start another one.”

  “Yeah, yeah…” Nikki said, sounding entirely insincere.

  He was going to have to work on that attitude of hers as well. “Have you got a pen?” Boldt asked once Walt had logged on.

  “I do.”

  “There can’t be a paper trail right now, although that’s being worked on.”

  “Did you get my e-mail with Wynn’s shoe information?”

  “I did. Thanks for that. More to come. Stay tuned.”

  “Ready when you are.”

  “These are the e-mail addresses on the list server: all people who requested to be notified of Gale’s parole. Some, I’m told, had restraining orders in place. Others were his victims. He had a pile of assault charges by the time they put him away. There are twenty-two on here. I’ll read them slowly. Here goes.”

  Boldt, head down in the video, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, out of scale on his huge head and looking toylike, read the e-mail addresses carefully, calling out capitalization, underscores, and “dots,” working patiently through the list.

  Walt read each back. Some were easy to identify the sender by the name, others wouldn’t be difficult to follow up on because of the host server-the name of a football team or a recognizable company. Five were generic and therefore obscure.

  “They’re going to be tricky,” Walt said.

  “I could ask Buddy Cornell to chase down the real names. There’s probably an e-mail trail in their system from these people, and I imagine at least some sign their names when sending a message. All he’s got to do is chase down those e-mails and read them. As long as we keep this by phone, and off any kind of paper trail, I think Buddy will help us.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “Let me check it out for you.”

  “I can Google the e-mail addresses as well. Sometimes that works. And I can cold-call the hosts. We’ve had to do that before and some of them are pretty cooperative.”

  “And we have CIs here,” Boldt said, meaning criminal informants, “that are magicians when it comes to this stuff.”

  “Anagrams,” Nikki’s girlish voice said from over Walt’s shoulder.

  “Hello, you
ng lady,” Boldt said from the screen.

  Walt didn’t have to look over his shoulder because the camera view that showed his face in a small window also showed Nikki standing to his left.

  “My friends’ parents…” she said, “they make anagrams out of my friends’ names so you can’t tell who they are. ’Cause of all the creepy stuff you talk about at school, Dad. Maybe they’re anagrams.”

  Boldt bit back a smile on the screen.

  “Worth a try,” he said.

  “Looks like my daughters are going to help me,” Walt said.

  “Can’t argue with that. I’ll give Buddy a call as backup.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  “And thanks again for the shoe stats. I think we may be able to pull this off by tomorrow sometime, if you’re available.”

  “I’m here,” Walt confirmed.

  They ended the call. Walt wrapped his arm around Nikki. “Okay, girl… looks like you just earned yourself a job. Double your allowance if you unscramble these names.”

  “What about me?” Emily complained.

  “You take half the names. Nikki takes half. Nikki goes first. You both get the extra allowance, and reading time is delayed by half an hour.”

  “Hooray!” Nikki shouted, too close to her father’s ear.

  The girls took to the work enthusiastically, thrilled to be needed, he realized. It alerted him to a glaring omission in his fathering: he took care of his girls, but he rarely asked them to take care of him. As the computer printer whined from the other room, Walt realized it wasn’t just the girls. He felt uncomfortable when others offered him their help-he looked at generosity as a debt, rather than as a gift. Even in the workplace, he had trouble delegating, pleased to have a deputy sheriff to handle that for him. He was sitting there contemplating the mistakes he’d made with Gail and was still making with the girls when Nikki delivered several pages of printout to him.

  “We crossed out the ones that didn’t make any sense,” Emily explained.

  “And we put arrows by the ones that sounded like names,” Nikki said.

  He looked at his watch: they’d been at it for just over an hour, content to eat up reading time. He’d been occupied with Larry King and stewing over his personality shortcomings.

  He praised their effort, placed the pages down onto the coffee table, and headed into their room; the three of them spent forty-five minutes reading about five kids inside Disney World after dark. The girls went to bed reluctantly, which was typical for any night, especially in summer when the sun didn’t set until nine-thirty and the sky glowed faintly well past ten p.m.