“Try again,” Walt said.

“I’ve already . . . Why do we need photography anyway? It’s a couple of shells in the grass.”

Walt answered that with a glare.

“Yes, sir.”

He was in a fix. He’d requested Fiona be called onto the scene, more out of a personal want, and now saw no way to back out of the request without making his original intentions obvious. He marched to the back of the Cherokee, as if put out to do this himself, took his camera from an emergency backpack he kept there, and walked back into the darkened lawn. He shot off a series of photos of the spent shell casings, adding his pen into the grass for scale.

Chalmers was first officer, having responded to a dispatch, the result of an Emergency Center’s receipt of a neighbor’s 911 call. Chalmers shadowed Walt to the Jeep and back to the lawn.

“Warning shots?” Walt said.

“No, sir. That’s the thing. He made no apologies. Said he was firing right at him.”

“Him?”

“The intruder. He said ‘him,’ yes, sir.”

“In the direction of the neighbor’s?”

“That’s correct.”

“Any reports of the shots landing?”

“No, sir. Judging by his breath, that doesn’t surprise me. There’s the suggestion of alcohol.”

“The name again?”

“Vincent Wynn,” Chalmers said.

Walt froze. Wynn was on Boldt’s short list of potential interviews.

“The Vince Wynn?”

“Some kind of big shot. Acts like it, at least. I think he thought I should know who he is, and honestly, sir, I don’t have a clue. Most of the celebrities up here, they don’t want you to know who they are. How’re you supposed to pretend you don’t know Tom Hanks? I love Tom Hanks! I would violate my marriage vows for Tom Hanks. But this nincompoop? I’m sorry, no clue.”

It was more words out of Deputy Chalmers than Walt had ever heard. She was clearly nervous, and concerned he might slight her for not knowing Wynn.

“He’s a sports agent. Big-time sports agent.”

“That would explain it.”

“In that world, his world, he’s Tom Hanks.”

“Not with that face he isn’t. You don’t mind me saying so.”

“I don’t mind,” Walt said.

“Can I stop calling Ms. Kenshaw, sir, now that you’ve taken the pictures yourself?”

“You may. Why don’t you get me everything you can on Mr. Wynn? Any past grievances filed by neighbors. Traffic violations. Parking tickets. Run him.”

“Done,” she said, hurrying off.

Walt knocked on the patio door frame, since the door was open to the night. No screen door. Mosquitoes lasted about ten days in late June; then the cold nights stopped their cycle. A moth or two might wander inside, but Vince Wynn didn’t seem too worried.

He was on his mobile phone, his hand wrapped around a heavy cocktail glass filled halfway with a dark liquid.

“Okay. Gotta go,” he said, pocketing the phone.

“Vince Wynn,” he introduced himself, switching the drink to his left hand and shaking hands with Walt.

“I’m a fan of some of your players,” Walt said, believing he could loosen up Wynn before the liquor. “Suganuma Sakatura to the Mariners. One of the all-time great trades.”

“Thank you.”

“And that four-way with the Braves and Phillies.”

“You follow baseball, I see.”

“Play a little. Softball. Leagues, you know?”

“Let me guess.” He sized up Walt. “Catcher or outfield? I’m going with catcher.”

Walt shook his head. “You are a pro.”

“It’s what I do.”

“And me,” Walt said, “I chase down complaints when neighbors hear a gun being shot in their backyard.”

“My own backyard, but point taken.”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” Walt said, still trying his best to sound awestruck. “You nearly talked Steinbrenner out of A-Rod. I’m supposed to argue with that?”

“I wasn’t close. That got all blown out of proportion.”

“And tonight,” Walt said. “How close were you tonight?”

“Excuse me?”

“There are laws about the discharge of firearms within a prescribed distance of a residence.”

“It was a prowler.”

“So you said.”

“The guy was on my property. Sneaking around out there.” He threw the drink forward to point and sloshed the contents of the glass onto his hand.

“Let me guess,” Walt said. “The call just now? Your lawyer?”

Wynn licked the booze off his wrist. “Yeah, my lawyer. But it’s not him I was shooting at. It was Martel Gale,” Wynn said. “You follow football?”

“Not so much. I’ve never heard of Martel Gale. Should I have? I’m a batboy through and through.”

“New Orleans Saints. Pro Bowl center linebacker. Phenomenal quickness. Great hands. And vision—it’s all about speed and vision for a linebacker. Gale had it.”

“Had,” Walt noted. “Retired?”

“Imprisoned. Recently paroled. I’m on a list server,” Wynn said. “It’s a state DOJ thing from Louisiana. Because I’m at risk—a possible target. Turns out Gale was paroled two weeks ago. When he was convicted, the court awarded performance bonuses he was owed—a lot of money—to be donated to worthy causes, a halfway house for battered women, a legal fund for victims of abuse. I oversaw the distribution of that money. Gale took issue with that. Blames me. Thinks I cheated him. He thought the bonuses should have been donated to his savings account. Hence the threats and me being on the list server. Hence the e-mail I got that he’d been paroled. Never mind that they sent it out two weeks late.”

“And you have reason to believe Martel Gale is here in Sun Valley?”

“Mark my words: it was Gale out there tonight. If I hit him, lock me up, Sheriff. If I killed him, throw a parade. Check him out. You can do that, right? Look up his victims—the conditions of his victims. Look up a girl named Caroline Vetta.”

“The homicide in Seattle,” Walt said, a spike of heat flooding him. He’d been looking for a way into a discussion of Boldt, and Wynn had just handed it to him.

“Impressive.”

“I’d wanted to talk to you about that.”

“Me? Why would you want to talk to me about Caroline?” Back on his heels.

“Was she on the list server?” Walt asked, beginning to draw tangents. “Did she have reason to fear Martel Gale?”

“Any woman alive has reason to fear Gale. He eats ’em for breakfast. Treats ’em like his personal punching bags. Did Gale know her? Wouldn’t surprise me. He attracted the lookers like flies to shit. But if she was on the server, it didn’t do her any good, did it? The alert came two weeks late. You believe that shit?”

“There’s a Seattle detective, a Sergeant Boldt, would like a word with you, in private, about Caroline Vetta. He’s suggesting you meet over here, not in Seattle, in order to avoid the press.”

Wynn coughed a laugh. “Shit, you guys are all a piece of work. You’re telling me I’ve got to get back on the horn with my lawyer?”

“If you want to involve your lawyer,” Walt said, “I think that might be agreeable. The idea is to keep it out of the press, not to pull an end run on you.”

“As if the cops care.”

“This one does, apparently. He can do it in front of all the cameras if you’d prefer.”

He looked up from the drink. “I don’t see why we can’t do something. Let me make a call and get back to you.”

“Works for me.” The man drank the liquor like it was water. “Do you have reason to believe Martel Gale is in Sun Valley?”

“You already asked me that.”

“And you said you shot at him, not that you knew he was here.”

“Listen, several women could have testified against him for all I know. Right? And why not Caroline? She could have been one of the girls. Maybe he paid her back.” The way he looked up over the rim of the glass sent a charge through Walt. He needed to make sure Boldt talked to this one.

“The sooner you can let me know about meeting with the detective, the better. He’s going to fly over specially for this.”

“Am I supposed to be honored? Let him do what he’s got to do.”

“I’d like to inspect your weapon,” Walt said.

“Pity, it’s in the bedroom safe, and hell if I didn’t forget the combination. That’s what I was on the phone to my lawyer about. I knew you fellas would probably want to see it, and I didn’t want to piss anyone off, but it’s in there locked up and I won’t have the combination until tomorrow sometime, when my office is open.”

“About the time your lawyer’s plane lands?” Walt asked.

“Cynicism from a county sheriff?”

“Why make it more difficult than it has to be?”

“So the lawyers earn their money, I guess.”

“You can’t go firing a gun in your backyard.”

“So you said. Gale was out there. I wasn’t taking any chances.”

Walt heard the man’s name and thought of his wife. It was Gail out there. He’d never be fully free of her, which was the hardest part to adjust to—like one of those stomach microbes from Mexico.

If he had a killer loose in the valley, he needed to know about it.

“Could have been a hiker,” Walt said. “Could have been a neighbor.”

“Gale did Caroline,” Wynn said. “I was next on the list. Trust me. A guy like that settles scores. Football players. Hell, they remember the smallest shit from the previous season, and they make the player pay the next time they face him across a scrimmage line. It’s the way the game’s played. It’s who they are.”

“In which case you’ve either wounded him or escalated the terms. And your gun’s locked in your safe,” Walt said. “And you forgot the combination.”

Wynn glanced into the house and back at Walt. “That is problematic,” he said. “Maybe you could leave that smokin’ hot deputy at my front door all night.”

“Deputy Chalmers is married with five kids. Her husband runs a martial arts school in Hailey. Her eldest is eighteen and has his black belt.”

Wynn didn’t seem to hear. Walt had lost part of him back at the mention of Boldt.

“A second weapons violation will result in felony charges. Neither of us wants or needs that. Forgetting the combination to the safe may be a good thing.”

“I see someone out there, and I’ll shoot first, ask questions later. Take my chances the judge is a sports fan.” He wasn’t threatening, just stating fact. “A guy like that comes after you, you don’t get a second chance. Ask Caroline. Ask the other women he sent to the emergency room. His nickname in the league was Gale Force. Guy handed out concussions like business cards. Ask Trent Green, Kurt Warner. We call those guys a snake bite: all it takes is one hit to kill you.”

Gail Force. Walt wiped the smirk off his face, wondering why he’d never thought of that one himself.

“No more guns.”

“How about a machete or a baseball bat?”

“Try the phone next time. That’s why we’re here.”

“To protect and serve. Right, Sheriff?”

“Right.”

“So protect me.”

“Try the yellow pages.”

“Find Gale, you’ll do us all a favor.”

“Let me know about setting up the thing with Boldt. The sooner the better.”

“Two-eighty?” Wynn said as Walt turned to leave.

The comment spun him around.

“Your batting average. You’re a switch hitter,” he said. “Calluses.” He indicated Walt’s hands.

Walt looked down at his palms. “Maybe I’m a gardener,” he said.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Wynn said sarcastically. “Two-eighty,” he repeated confidently.

“Two eighty-five,” Walt answered. Impressed, but trying not to show it.