The thing was, Walt liked Arian. Thought if he’d been a lawyer instead of a lawman, that he might have come out much the same way. He’d occasionally teased the young lawyer about switching sides and joining the prosecutor, but all he’d ever won was a laugh.
The bare hills outside Walt’s office were electric with the morning sun. He wished he were hiking.
“I want to see the evidence involved.”
“I respect your situation, Peter. You’re good at what you do and we both know it. But you do not want to go the evidence route. This is one time where, in the best interest of your client, you should just walk out the door and leave this to me. I like Kira.”
“That’s not happening.”
“Let me talk to her again this morning for an hour or so. Alone. Everyone’s a winner.”
“Walk me through the evidence first.” Arian issued a penetrating look meant to intimidate, but it fell short. “Make a believer out of me.”
“Don’t do this. You know that’s not going to happen.”
Walt’s intercom sounded.
“Sheriff, when you have a minute.”
Walt wasn’t superstitious by nature. There were cops who were: guys who turned their wallets a certain way in a back pocket, wore their shield upside down or carried a talisman. There were guys who checked the calendar in the morning and determined their activities on the whims of numerology. He wasn’t one of them, but the interruption served the same purpose. Something about the timing, something about that look on Arian’s face, something indiscernible, impossible to put a finger on, that weird kind of something that made him act in a way that he felt was inconsistent with his own actions. Nonetheless, he did it. He held out his hand, waited for Peter to shake it, and motioned him toward his office door.
“The evidence,” Arian said, “or no interview.”
His mind made up, his hand forced and his plan with it, Walt said, “I’m going to brief Doug.” The county’s prosecutor, Doug Aanestead.
“We’ll take it from there.”
Arian looked wounded. He forced a grin-more of a snarl-and made for the door.
“That’s a bad call, Sheriff.”
“The bad call was the one Ms. Kenshaw made to you, counselor.”
A knot formed in his stomach. It was one thing to find yourself out on a limb, another thing entirely to crawl out there willingly. He blamed Fiona; he blamed himself for seeing everything through the distorted lens of emotion. He felt foolish and vulnerable and knew perfectly well it was the small decisions that determine success or failure, more so than the bigger ones. He was typically rooted in procedure, so this feeling of flying by the seat of his pants left him queasy. A feeling of regret overcame him. Regret for digging so deeply in the first place.
He returned calmly to the other side of his desk, picked up the phone, and followed up on the intercom interruption.
“Wood River Glass,” he was told, “replaced a cracked windshield in a Ford F-one-fifty on the afternoon of the thirteenth. Truck has a light rack on the cab.”
He did not want to deal with the missing pickup truck right now, but he also did not want to overlook any chance at new evidence. He intended to find Doug Aanestead and make his case.
“Do we have a name?” he asked.
“Dominique Fancelli. Of eighteen-”
“Alturas Drive,” Walt said, supplying the address.
“Well… yeah,” spoken with a mixture of disappointment and astonishment. “But if you knew that-”
“Lucky guess,” Walt said.
“Yeah, right.”
“Issue a BOLO for the F-one-fifty,” Walt instructed. “And have a patrol do a drive-by, real quiet-like, of the Fancelli residence. If that pickup’s in the drive, I want to be notified immediately.”
“Got it.”
He allowed himself a faint smile, the satisfaction of a small victory. He didn’t want to misstep. He’d have to check with the prosecutor about how to approach this as well. Ironically, the law was the reason he most often lost a case.
He called Tommy Brandon because it was only fair: Brandon had made the connection to the red-tailed hawk-a bow hunter-in the first place. It felt good to possibly deliver on a favor, and for Lisa of all people.
Brandon answered on the first ring as if just sitting by the phone waiting for his call.
“Do you feel strong enough to drive about a mile south?” Walt asked.
“What do you think?”
“I think you just got out of the hospital.”
“I told you: the soaps don’t cut it for me.”
“Be ready to move. I’ll call as soon as I know anything.”
“The pickup truck?”
“Yeah. Did you ever see Little Big Man? The movie with Dustin Hoffman?”
“It’s one of Gail’s favorites,” Brandon said.
No, it’s one of my favorites, Walt felt like correcting. She just happened to have been in the room at the time. But he let it go.
“The Indian scene,” Walt said. “The one where he’s dying. Or trying to?”
“What a great scene.”
“‘Sometimes, the magic works,’ ” Walt quoted.
“Yeah, I remember.”
Walt blocked from his mind the second half of the couplet: “Sometimes, it doesn’t.”
45
Doug Aanestead reviewed the evidence from behind the twelfth hole on the Valley Club’s upper eighteen. He and his golf partner allowed three other groups to play through, each one increasing the man’s impatience. A light breeze curled the edges of the papers in the open folder, causing Aanestead to wrestle with its contents. His putter was gripped between his knees, the handle sticking out somewhat phallically.
“Honestly, Walt, I don’t love it.”
“Is that right?” Walt understood the risk of his current, and only, plan. The plan he’d wanted to play out on his time frame, not Arian’s. But here he was.
The law could be your friend or enemy, and for the past several days Walt had been working up a way to convince Aanestead he had a pretty good case against Kira. Like Walt’s, Aanestead’s was an elected office. Walt was counting on that.
“It’ll be damn unpopular, indicting this girl. Hell’s bells, she addressed the Advocates this year. We were both there.”
“We were.”
“She’s something of a local hero.”
“We have the bat,” Walt reminded.
“A bat that’s carrying three sets of prints. She’s already admitted to handling the thing. And taking a drive to Yellowstone? That’s not in the code that I know of.”
“No.”
“What about Fiona?” Aanestead asked. “She see Gale around the place? She confirm any of this?”
Walt couldn’t afford to lie. Aanestead had a competent staff. The man was ambitious, was said to have his eye on the state attorney general’s race. He would vet this thoroughly.
“Ms. Kenshaw showed up at the emergency room early the next day. A blow to the back of the head. She’s a little fuzzy about the details. Says she fell over a footstool.”
Aanestead looked at him askance. “Have you questioned her? Formally questioned her?”
“I wouldn’t if I could. She’s not of sound mind. Anything she says, anything we get from her would be tossed out because of the existing medical condition. When the effects of that blow wear off… But who knows when that might happen?”
“She’s saying she doesn’t remember? That’s certainly convenient.”
“Her prints are not the ones we found on the bat. She didn’t take off unannounced and return to hide in the basement.”
“The Tulivich girl’s had a tough time of it, for Christ’s sake, Walt. She’s scared of her own shadow. We go after her, we’d better be damned sure we know what we’re doing, and I don’t see it in here.”
Walt kept a straight face. “There’s the forensic evidence,” he reminded. “The pollen. He was on the Engleton property.”
“We all know juries love this shit. But judges take more convincing. And I don’t see anywhere in here a lab comparison of the flowers up at the Engletons’ to what was found on Gale. Do I?”
“That kind of lab work can take weeks.” In fact, Walt had been refused the collection of evidence by the Engletons.
“Not my problem.” Aanestead handed the folder back to Walt and eyed the thirteenth tee. “You play, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“We ought to knock it around together sometime.”
“I’d like that.”
Aanestead glanced at the thirteenth for a second time. His partner looked ready to explode as yet another party reached the twelfth green.
“What about Fancelli?” Walt asked. “I followed a pickup truck thinking it important to the Gale killing, only to have a deputy figure it differently. But I can use it. We can use this to our advantage.”
“You’d be going out on a limb. I would doubt that federal law’s been tested for some time.”
“There was that class-action suit against Northwest Generation in Wyoming.”
“That was birds frying on high-tension lines, not some bow hunter plucking roadkill. It’s federal law, not state.”
“But it’s on the books.”
“Yes, it is. But untested.”
“You see where I’m going with it.”
“I do. It’s creative, and I think important. A scumbag like that, you take him down however you can.”
“That’s the point.” Translation: the voters would approve.
“I’ll not only back you on this Fancelli thing,” Aanestead said, “I’ll hold a press conference and lay it out there and hope that helps us get a foot across the finish line.”
Surprise.
“I’ll want you by my side,” he said.
“Not a problem,” Walt said.
“You want my guys to leak it?”
If the press were notified, it might mean Fiona was sent to photograph the arrest. Walt shuddered at the thought.
“Probably better off not.”
“You sure? Hell of a card to play, a front-page piece showing a guy in cuffs. Talk about prejudicing the jury pool.” He punched Walt lightly in the shoulder. Things were getting too friendly for Walt.
“I’ll notify your office when we have him in custody. How’s that?”
“How soon are we talking about?” He didn’t want to be caught on the back nine by reporters. Wouldn’t look right.
“I can hold off for about an hour,” Walt said.
“You’re a good man, Walt,” Aanestead said, grinning widely. He leaned in close. “Twenty bucks a hole, and with Tim it’s like taking candy from a baby. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
“My guys’ll call your office once we’ve got him,” Walt repeated.
“I’ll want you by my side.”
“Understood.”
“You’re going to need a hell of a lot more before you’ll have me signing off on Tulivich. She’s a dead end, Walt. Nothing but trouble.”
“Okay.” He tried to sound disappointed, while inside he was celebrating the man’s predictability. It wouldn’t be the first time the evidence came up short despite having a suspect in the sights.
“I wouldn’t go there unless you have the dead guy sitting up and pointing a finger at her.” He smiled. Perfect teeth standing out against the wicked tan. Walt was looking at the next attorney general, and both men knew it.
“It may go unsolved,” Walt warned, again keeping the celebration out of his voice.
“Hell of a game,” Aanestead said, holding his club, but looking Walt in the eye somewhat suspiciously. He’d picked up on Walt’s relief.
“Hell of a game,” Walt echoed.
46
Walt focused intently on the small log cabin in front of him.
One of twelve homes in a subdivision dating from the 1980s, it was log with forest green trim and asphalt shingles. Two mountain bikes sagged next to the front door, along with a pair of work boots and a dog bowl. The F-150 was parked in the driveway. Lisa’s house was one to the left, a charming home with wooden flowers painted primary colors in a line across the lawn. Strung between two of the flowers was a small sailcloth banner reading Alturas Day Care. When she wasn’t taking care of his kids, she was running the day care.
Walt didn’t see Lisa’s house. He barely saw the Fancelli place. Instead, as Brandon sat quietly in the seat beside him, his arm in a sling, Walt saw only the horror of what Lisa had witnessed; he heard the slapping of the bed frame against the wall as she had heard it; he felt sick, as she had felt.
“It’s not like he’s going to give us a hard time, you think?” Brandon ventured.
“We need him.”
“How’s that?”
“Our witness, Maggie Sharp, puts his truck there that night.”
“So this is or is not a take-down?”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“What the hell, Sheriff?”
“We need to work it.”
“And I’m here because…?”
“You love this stuff.”
“True.”
“And I have a warrant, a search warrant to execute. But for now we have to execute it without his knowing what’s going on. Keep him thinking it’s about bird feathers.”
“So plain sight for now.”
“Exactly.”
“Which is where I come in.”
“Now you’ve got it,” Walt said.
“And you sweet-talk him.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“And if it doesn’t get that far? If he bolts on us?”
“We can’t afford that,” Walt said. “That’s why we’re here. That’s why it’s you and me instead of anyone else. We can’t scare him. We can’t let him know the real reason we’re here, or the card we can play. It’s not an arrest. We’re lucky to have found him. You’re the only one I trust to understand how to play that. The other guys, knowing the crime, might allow that knowledge to get the best of them.”
“I understand.”
“So be cool in there.”
“Despite the fact this guy’s a bastard of the first order and I’d like nothing more than to make his arrest as uncomfortable as possible. Maybe dislocate a shoulder or two.”
Walt’s guys occasionally played the resisting arrest card, the same as in any other cop shop, took their frustrations with the system out on the suspect, made sure the arrest was as painful as possible, since the system tended to coddle suspects: jails with television and fresh food; an hour a day outside; gym equipment. A few of the suspects deserved the black hole and everyone knew it. Arresting deputies felt it their responsibility to punish the person right to the edge of what was tolerated, and sometimes a touch beyond.
“Not this time, Tommy.”
“Understood.”
“You’re the one guy I trust.”
“Got it.”
Brandon took the back side of the home, going around the far side, looking for windows without screens on his way to cover the back door. He stood at the corner with a view of a potential escape window, but within a few steps of the back door. He clicked his radio once.
Walt, waiting at the front door, heard the radio click and knocked and rang the bell within a second of each other. The Wood River Valley was not a place residents checked outside before opening their doors. A beautiful girl opened the door. She wore a loose shirt which obscured her figure.
“Your father here? Dominique Fancelli?”
Maybe it was Walt’s use of his formal name. She stood staring, clearly unable to speak. She nodded. “Stepfather,” she finally managed.
“Would you tell him the sheriff’s here, please? Sheriff Walt Fleming.”
“’Kay.” She filled her lungs. “D… a… d!!!” She then hesitated, swallowed, and added, “Sheriff ’s here to see you!”
Walt thought her face grew more ashen as the clomp of footfalls approached. More sullen. He unde
rstood the risks involved by his coming here. If there was any suggestion, any indication she had spoken to the police about her situation, it could mean a beating or even death. Walt’s mission was to get as much as he could from the man, and then to separate the two and make sure things remained that way. As Fancelli arrived at the other side of the screen door, Walt reached up and pushed the button on his radio mike twice. Brandon now knew Walt had made contact. Even so, his deputy would not leave his post until and unless a second signal was sent.
“Dominique Fancelli?”
“Yeah?”
Walt did not need to introduce himself. “I have a few questions concerning your Ford F-one-fifty.”
Dionne’s face relaxed considerably. The furrow left Dominique’s brow. “Is that right?”
“You mind if I come in?”
Fancelli pushed open the screen door, but he stepped outside instead of allowing Walt in. Walt thought the move shrewd and an important indicator of who he was dealing with.
“Shut the door,” Fancelli told his daughter.
The girl did so, but her expression, behind her stepfather’s back, was one of intense curiosity and no small degree of fear.
Walt elected to play his Brandon card. He clicked his handset three times, and Brandon rounded the far corner of the house and approached them. Brandon slowed at each window, looking inside. Even wearing the sling, Brandon’s size and demeanor were intimidating. He was a person you paid attention to, kept one eye on, in any given situation. The big dog, poised in the corner, his eyes taking in everyone in the room. He approached the front of the F-150 slowly and, when he had Walt’s attention, nodded slightly. That motion affirmed he’d seen evidence of the bird strike and filled Walt with additional confidence.
Fancelli was appropriately distracted. “What’s up, Sheriff?”
“Deputy Tommy Brandon,” Walt said, introducing the two.
Tommy nodded at the man, but kept six feet away. If a stare could burn, Walt thought.
“What’s going on?” Fancelli greeted Brandon.
Brandon said nothing in return.
“Mr. Fancelli-”
“Don.”
“We’re occasionally put in the position of seeking a statement from a civilian, a citizen, on a voluntary basis. We’re not asking that you get involved, but to be forthright, it’s not out of the question that at some future date you might be deposed or even asked to give testimony at a trial. If you were opposed to that, we would do everything in our power to protect you and prevent that from happening.”
In Harm's Way Page 30
