"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."

The group enjoyed that. Boatwright had been drinking, as had Wynn. Walt caught a look that transpired between the two; it was a look of coconspirators, causing him to wonder how much he was reading into it, and how much was legitimate. For an instant he saw an Agatha Christie-like plot of the two of them teaming up against Martel Gale, and realized his regular reading consisted of too many of his daughters' mystery books.

Boatwright struggled to stand. Halifax jumped up to help him out of his chair, and Walt thought how well the action fit with what he knew of the man. Mandy Halifax went beyond legend to sports G.o.d. He wished he could think of a way to involve Halifax in the questioning just to spend more time with him.

With Halifax out of his chair, Walt made a point of retrieving the smoldering joint, snuffing it out, and placing it into a gla.s.sine evidence bag. He took out a pen and labeled it.

The joviality died around the table.

Boatwright grabbed one of the wine bottles and carried it with him, causing the others to bark with laughter.

"I'd look out for him," Macdonald shouted to Walt.

Wynn walked side by side with Boatwright and saw him inside to a sunroom off the kitchen. He grabbed a winegla.s.s and returned with it, and Boatwright poured himself a gla.s.s of red wine.

"I have a very good hand, Sheriff," Boatwright said. "First decent hand of the night. You screw up my luck and you'll be sorry."

"Marty!" Wynn chided. To Walt, Wynn said, "Marty's not feeling any pain tonight."

"Can't p.i.s.s but a thimble full," Boatwright said. "Can't get a hard-on without riding a G.o.dd.a.m.n paint shaker. Don't talk to me about feeling no pain."

Wynn rolled his eyes, trying to apologize for the man.

"Martel Gale came here to Sun Valley to make amends with you two," Walt said. "To make amends, not to threaten, not to make any financial claims. We're in the process of tracking down his communications, and we're going to find he contacted both of you, or at least your a.s.sistants or secretaries, and that could conceivably put you in a bind, so I'm here to let you get out ahead of it."

"Slow down, Sheriff," Wynn said, looking as blindsided as Walt had hoped.

Boatwright's face reddened. His watery eyes dancing, he reached for the wine, but Wynn touched his forearm and stopped him.

"Who wants to go first?" Walt asked.

"You know my situation," Wynn said.

"Mr. Evers? You want to go that route?"

"It's not a 'route,'" Wynn complained.

"Deny it," Walt said. "Deny that he contacted you." He looked between both men.

"Martel Gale was a human time bomb," Boatwright said.

"Shut up, Marty," Wynn said. "You don't need to say anything. You're drunk. You shouldn't say anything."

"Was," Walt said, "as in the past, or in the present?"

"What's the difference?" Boatwright said, slurring his words. "Trouble is trouble."

"And how did you react to that trouble?" Walt asked.

"Marty!" Wynn said.

"Yeah, yeah," Boatwright said to Wynn. "I know. I know."

"Speaking for myself, I was not contacted by Martel Gale," Wynn said. "The last time I spoke with him, I think I told you, was just after the sentencing. This is maybe two years ago. And Marty, I'm going to strongly urge you not to say anything. You'll thank me in the morning."

"Yeah, yeah," Boatwright said. He raised his rheumy eyes to Walt. "The h.e.l.l you looking at?"

"The list server notice was the first I'd heard about Gale in a long time," Wynn continued, carefully sticking to his original statement.

"Gale showed up here, didn't he, Mr. Boatwright?" Walt convinced himself he would never have Boatwright as vulnerable again.

"Marty, don't answer that."

"I'd like to speak with Mr. Boatwright alone, please, Mr. Wynn."

"No," Wynn said. "Not going to happen."

"Let me explain how this plays out," Walt said, patting his pocket that contained the joint. "Marijuana in plain view is enough to get drug charges on all of you, so you will be booked into jail. My booking reports are a matter of public record. They'll be sent to the press tomorrow morning and will be posted on our website. You'll spend the night at Public Safety, in jail. It's also likely to win me probable cause to search not only Mr. Boatwright's home, but yours as well, Mr. Wynn, as I have witnesses to repeated drug use at your residence. So there are a couple ways to play this. I admit it. But you may want to consider just how badly you p.i.s.s me off before withholding your cooperation." He looked between the two men, the fight in them gone. "You can stay if you want, but if you play lawyer, you're out of here. Understood?"

Wynn nodded reluctantly.

"Here's what we know," Walt said, controlling the anger he felt. "Martel gets a Get Out of Jail card, and the next week Caroline Vetta goes down hard. Ten days later, Gale himself is dead. It's either sweet justice or coincidence or incredibly convenient. I'm supposed to figure out which, and for whom. You boys hold some of the answers. And I'm going to have those answers."

Wynn was too professional to give anything back to Walt. He remained outwardly calm, showing what might have pa.s.sed for surprise. Boatwright swam in the wine. Walt wasn't sure he'd even heard him.

"Don't want to keep my guests waiting," Boatwright said.

"You did or did not hear from Martel Gale prior to the discovery of his body?" Walt asked.

Boatwright glared at Walt, checked over with a disapproving Wynn, and rolled his eyes back in his head. "Guy was a terror, Sheriff. Sorry he's dead, but I'm not sorry he's out of my life."

"I'd like an answer to the question," Walt said.

"I'm sure you would."

Walt heard the tinkle of metal coming from the direction of the patio, knew by the sound it was a dog approaching. He turned back expecting to see Boatwright's dog. But Boatwright didn't own a dog. It was Beatrice, nosing the carpet, working scents the way she'd been trained. Brandon must have left a car door open or put a window down. There wasn't much that could keep Bea from Walt, including, apparently, an open door on a patio.

A nosy dog at any time, Bea was locked on a scent. He knew that random-looking yet methodical movement of hers-she was working. He held back his temptation to stop her as her paws tapped out on the stone and she circled the poker table, then made a Bea-line straight for Walt.

But it wasn't to Walt. Nose to the ground, she sniffed her way directly to Wynn, then hurried to Walt and tapped his hand with her wet nose. She backed up, sat down, and looked up at her master, tail wagging.

For a moment, Walt stood there frozen, looking at his dog, then Wynn's shoes, then back at his dog. Bea had just spoken to him as surely as if she'd used English, but the code was lost on Boatwright and Wynn. Only Walt and Beatrice understood what had been said. Walt processed the message, his heart thumping in his chest, knowing better than to speak until he knew what to say.

Boatwright and Wynn picked up on the change in Walt. A silence hung among the three, broken only by Bea's rapid panting, and the sound of male voices coming from the patio.

"I don't like dogs," Boatwright finally said. "Get that thing out of my home."

"Mr. Wynn," Walt said, his voice eerily calm. "I wonder if I might have a look at your shoes?"

"What?" Wynn said, looking down at his hand-sewn Italian loafers.

"Your shoes."

"No," he said, taken aback. "What for?"

In his limited dealings with Wynn, Walt saw panic flash across the man's face for the first time. It didn't last long, but it had been there. "I'd like a look at your shoes, if I might."

"You might not," Wynn said, eyeing the dog. He gathered his wits. "You have a search warrant, Sheriff?"

"Based on the possession of marijuana, I can get one if I need one. It's your call. We went over that." He directed this to Boatwright, a.s.suming the man would find the idea of jail and a crime scene team in his home repugnant.

No one spoke.

Walt broke the silence. "I should be able to have them back to you in a day. No more."

"You want to take my shoes?" Wynn said, clarifying. "Are you out of your mind? I'm supposed to go home, what, barefoot? What the h.e.l.l, Sheriff?"

"Two days at most," Walt said.

He met eyes with Wynn, impressed with the man's ability to so quickly dismiss the panic. He saw now only contempt and irritability, the hallmarks of a professional negotiator.

"I don't think so. Thanks anyway."

Walt winced. "Have it your way." He reached for his radio's mike clip.

"Vince," Boatwright said, "I'm not leaving that hand on the table. And I'm not putting up with some G.o.dd.a.m.ned night in jail. Give the man your shoes."

"Can't do that, Marty," Wynn said.

"I'll loan you some slippers to get you home."

Wynn's pained expression told Walt plenty. Walt had jammed him up and both men knew it. Walt was going to have the man's shoes.

"I will keep everyone here," Walt explained, "and separated, until the warrant is issued and the crime scene unit is in place. The CS unit drives up from Meridian, just FYI. And they won't begin that drive until sometime after nine a.m."

Boatwright said sternly, "Give the man the shoes, Vince. Don't be an a.s.shole. That's Mandy Halifax out there. He's a guest in my home."

The two men locked into a staring contest, Wynn clearly considering his diminishing options. He could anger Boatwright and make Walt jump through the warrant hoop, and still end up surrendering the shoes, or he could give them up now.

"That dog had no business being in your house," Wynn explained to the drunken Boatwright.

Walt felt a shiver. How, exactly, had Beatrice escaped the Jeep? It crossed his mind that it might not have been accidental, in which case Bea sniffing out blood evidence could be questioned in a court of law. He kept his mouth shut.

"You're not thinking clearly," Boatwright told Wynn. "You're not listening to me. These men are my guests. This is my home. Give the man the G.o.dd.a.m.ned shoes."

The frustration and anger on Wynn's face gave way to resignation and he kicked off the loafers. But he was not a happy man.

Back in the Jeep, now driving through town, Walt finally dared to voice what had been bothering him. Beatrice stood partially between them, front paws on the cup holders.

"Tommy, you understand how I approach this work?"

"Sheriff?"

"We don't invent evidence. We don't spin the truth. Not in my office."

"Not sure what you mean."

"I never want one of my deputies lying for me, giving false testimony."

"Sheriff?"

"So I'm not going to ask you, because I don't want the answer." Walt reached over and rubbed Beatrice's head.

Brandon looked from the dog to the sheriff. "Okay. Got it."

"You should have checked with me before trying something like that, Tommy."

"Got it."

"It was brilliant, mind you," Walt said. "But the courts would take a dim view of it."

"Moon's coming up," Brandon said. "Gonna be full in a couple days."

"Nothing prettier," Walt said.

"She's a good dog."

"She is."

Beatrice's tail started thumping. She knew they were talking about her.

"But she doesn't open car doors," Walt said.

Nothing but the whine of the tire rubber.

"You want me to talk to Gail about how to handle things, I will."

"I shouldn't have dumped that on you."

"True story."

"I'll handle it," Walt said.