In Harm's Way Part 3

"Let me be the judge of that," he said.

"My neighbor's daughter. She's fifteen. Eight weeks pregnant. She's blaming it, or attributing it, or whatever, to her boyfriend. I don't know the boy, but I've seen him and he looks like a decent kid."

"It happens. Do you want to make sure he steps up?" Walt offered.

He wasn't familiar with the look on her face. She'd been helping with the girls since just after their birth, well before the separation. She'd learned to read his moods, knew when to keep her distance, when to try to get him talking; he'd learned that nothing ruffled Lisa, that she was one of those people who moved from good to better and back to good. She didn't complain. She didn't back down. But somehow she kept herself and everyone around her on an even keel. Her current expression of perplexity, concern, and fear was something new to him.

"Or maybe not," he said, when she failed to speak.

"I think it's the stepfather's." She wouldn't meet his eyes, her vision locked onto his neck.

"Oh . . . d.a.m.n."

Lisa nodded gravely. "We have cats," she said, as if that explained something. "One of them . . . this is a long time ago . . . last summer sometime . . . wouldn't come in one night, and I spotted her next door and went over to get her. It was very late. Well past midnight. I heard the girl . . . her voice for sure, not her mother's . . . engaged engaged? Is that how you put it? In the act, and not happy about it. My kitty was under that window, as if she . . . as if that voice, that girl's voice wouldn't let her leave. I didn't mean to stay. I wanted 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 gla.s.s. A big hand. A man's hand. A hand wearing a wedding ring. It was not the hand of an eighteen-year-old boy." sobs-a hand smacked up onto the gla.s.s. 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 pa.s.sion. 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 complicated. It's not normal, even in these circles. As to what the nature of this call is," Boldt said, "I'm thinking . . . my bra.s.s is thinking . . . that we could do this . . . I could do this . . . a lot quieter if it was done over there. It being your jurisdiction, I didn't want to wander in uninvited. And they don't want me making the first contact because we've got a leak here in my department we can't seem to find, much less plug."

"So I make the contact and set up an interview and you do it over here," Walt said.

"Over a weekend, maybe. Downtime. We have three TV news crews on us, basically twenty-four/seven, and a half dozen from radio, and both papers. Last I knew, all you had over there was a weekly. I could pretty much come and go as I please, which is not the case here."

"Works for me," Walt said.

"I don't want to make trouble for you."

"Open invitation," Walt said. "I can make the inquiries."

"The point being that these individuals would want this done as quietly as we do. It wouldn't even be low profile, it's no profile no profile if they're willing." if they're willing."

"They should be all over that."

"That's what we're thinking."

"Consider it done."

"I owe you one."

"Not yet you don't."

"Thanks just the same."

"Leave this thing on in the evenings. When I know something, I'll ring you back."

"Freaking amazing technology, you ask me," Boldt said. "I thought slide rules were impressive." He moved even closer to the webcam, distorting his face while trying to work the keyboard. "Thanks again."

"No problem."

The window went black.

Walt tipped back in the chair. His father had condemned him for years for accepting the sheriff's office of a small Idaho county, had teased him unmercifully that his cases were about bears tipping over garbage cans while real law enforcement solved real crimes. And here he was, one week past what had the appearance of a bear raiding a kitchen, and a few minutes past a phone call with a legendary homicide cop dealing with a major crime. He hadn't realized how sweet vindication could taste.

5.

Fiona picked a piece of popcorn off the leg of her pajamas and popped it into her mouth. Her feet tucked to the side, she occupied the right side of the couch next to Kira, who wore an afghan over her shoulders. The Engletons' high-definition projector threw a six-by-six-foot image onto a screen that came down from the ceiling, making Meryl Streep's head about four feet tall.

"I've seen this at least three times," Fiona said, between bites.

"I love the last scene, when she's in the car and her eyes and her smile tell you everything that's going on and then she tells the driver to go."

"The best."

"And Anne Hathaway's outfits."

"Absolutely. And Stanley Tucci at the luncheon."

"Makes me want to cry," Kira said. "We should do this more often."

"No argument from me."

Fiona awaited the scene where Meryl Streep dumps jacket after jacket onto Anne Hathaway's desk, knowing there was no dialogue.

"I thought we should get away," she said.

"That sounds interesting. A weekend trip? Where to?"

"Maybe a week or two. Yellowstone, Glacier and back. Or maybe backpacking in the Sawtooths."

"I thought this is like the peak of the fly fis.h.i.+ng season. Isn't this when you rake in the bucks?"

"I'm tired of fis.h.i.+ng."

"Since when?" Kira took her eyes off the movie for the first time.

Fiona reached down and paused the film on a freeze frame of Anne Hathaway looking befuddled.

"And we need to bear-proof this place before we go. Michael and Leslie would want me to do everything possible."

"You're sick of fis.h.i.+ng? Then why were you out until eleven o'clock last night? And the night before? Why did you tell me how incredible it was? Whoever you are, what have you done with Fiona? Give her back, please."

"Summer lasts, what, eight weeks?"

"Max."

"And I haven't taken five minutes for myself for the past two summers."

"And you're using me as an excuse?"

"Yes. I'm using you as an excuse."

"In which case you'll hate me in September when you realize how broke you are. In eight weeks you make about eight months months of income. If you want to go, you should go without me." of income. If you want to go, you should go without me."

"Without you? No. Not going to happen."

"I don't need a babysitter." She placed the bowl onto the coffee table in front of them. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"I can take it."

"I appreciate everything you've done, everything you're doing for me."

"But you feel I'm overprotecting you."