In Harm's Way (22 page)

“Sheriff?” A husky, smoker’s voice.

“Yes. May I help you?”

“I need to speak with you.”

“I keep office hours. If you don’t mind—”

“Away from the office,” the woman said, interrupting. “A friend knew where you lived. I’m sorry about this.”

He motioned her inside, and then to the couch. He offered her something to drink, hoping she wouldn’t accept and she asked for coffee—“Any kind of coffee. Instant’s all right.”

He used his coffee press to make two cups and served her in a Simpsons mug. His was a State Farm.

Beatrice combat-crawled across the floor to the woman’s feet and sighed to make sure to be noticed. The woman bent down and petted her and Bea set up camp, climbing to a sitting position and placing just her jaw onto the edge of the couch for convenience.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said, “but it’s wrong of me to come here. But I can’t be seen at your office, or at least I don’t want to be seen at your office.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“It’s about the man. The dead man.”

Walt kept his outward appearance calm, though his insides were anything but.

“Martel Gale.”

“Martel, yes. I didn’t know his last name at the time.”

“You knew him,” Walt said. He sipped the hot coffee in part to maintain the image of nonchalance.

“Sheriff, I’m a member of NA—Narcotics Anonymous. The whole idea is anonymity, so my being here is radically wrong. But when I saw the story in the paper. When they ran the photograph of him—that football one—I felt an obligation to come forward.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“He visited our group last Tuesday night. It was a speaker night so there wasn’t a lot of sharing, but he stuck around for coffee at the end and I talked to him. We get a lot of guests and like them to feel welcome.”

Walt wondered if Martel Gale’s good looks had had anything to do with her welcome.

“He stuck around awhile,” she continued, “and we got to talking and though he didn’t come right out and say it, I think he was here in Sun Valley for the ninth step.”

“You know, I’m familiar with twelve-step programs—AA most of all—and believe me, we appreciate their success, but I’m not familiar with the particular steps.”

“You might call it atonement,” she said. “ ‘We make direct amends to such people wherever possible except when to do so would injure them or others.’ Basically, it’s our chance to remove excess baggage and clear the way for our full recovery.”

“I realize there is the assumption of anonymity,” Walt said, choosing his words carefully, “but with Mr. Gale dead I’m hoping we can look beyond that and you can tell me as much as you know.”

“And I would, except the last part of the step kind of prevents that. I mean, I have no way of knowing who such information might injure, and it’s wrong for me to come here and talk about this in the first place, much less accidentally harm or injure someone by doing so. That’s for the addict to decide. I’m not about to play Higher Power.”

“Let’s back up a moment,” Walt said. He kept all urgency out of his voice, found his professional self, no matter how odd it felt to engage inside his own house. “He came to your meeting. You two met after the meeting. Did you happen to go somewhere? Did this all take place at the meeting itself?”

“We might have gone for a cup of coffee. At Tully’s.”

“And from what he told you, you came to believe he was here in town for the ninth step.”

“Yes.”

“So he would have been meeting with someone,” Walt said.

“More than one,” she blurted out before squinting at him accusingly.

“The point is,” Walt said, “we don’t harm or injure people . . .”

“Ellen.”

“Ellen. We . . . the sheriff’s office . . . our job is just the opposite. We protect people. In this case it’s too late to protect Mr. Gale. Our job—my job—becomes explaining his death. And as you can imagine, that can often be a tall order, as it is in this case, given Mr. Gale’s status as a visitor to our valley and something of an unknown. Add to that his celebrity status as a sports figure, and it gets more complicated.”

“Which is one of the reasons I couldn’t come to your office. I
do not
want my name or face on the news. No one knows I used, Sheriff. Not my boss, not my family. NA saved my life, but if I’m outed—”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“You’d be surprised how easily it does happen.”

“You are safe here.”

“Until I find some reporter was camped in the bushes.”

She was right. Reporters occasionally hounded his home. Her anonymity wasn’t perfectly safe anywhere.

“I thought about calling,” she said. “But it seemed like the cowardly thing to do. Not that I expect that to make any sense to anyone but me. The point being: I’m here, but I don’t think I can help all that much.”

“What gave you the impression he was here for the ninth step?” Walt asked, afraid he was already losing her.

“I’ve said too much.”

“Did he mention names?”

“No! Of course not.”

“But he did say something.”

“He said he was here to fix things, and we talked about a couple of the other steps and I pretty much could figure he was here for the ninth.”

“Did he ask your help in finding someone?”

“How could you possibly know that?” she asked.

“Most everyone has post office boxes. Getting a real address can be tricky.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “I’m saying a lot more than I intended to.” She placed the coffee down and gave Bea another pat on the head. “I should probably go.”

He had nothing to go on. A first name. Might not even be her real name. He couldn’t let her go.

“Was his mood angry or vengeful?”

“Him? No. Just the opposite. Are you kidding? He was contrite. We’re all contrite by the ninth. When you’re using, you walk all over the people you care about the most. Steal from them. Lie to them. Cheat on them. Do whatever it takes to stay high. Use getting high as an excuse to do whatever you feel like. Drugs are incredibly convenient in that way, Sheriff. You can do basically whatever you want and it’s always the drug’s fault, never yours. And doing all that makes you feel shitty—pardon my French—so you get high to forget about it, and around and around we go.”

“But I imagine some grudges build up along the way. Jealousies, or anger at those who stop helping or call you out.”

“You’ve been around it,” she said. “I can tell.”

“We see just a little bit of substance abuse in my line of work.” She laughed and rubbed Bea out of nervousness. “I guess that’s right,” she said uncomfortably.

“But not Martel Gale,” he said.

“He was a recovering addict. He had his proverbial shit together as far as I could tell. Long way to come to make amends. Most people write a letter. Some dare to make a phone call—and believe me, that’s not easy. Traveling halfway across the country to do it in person? That’s someone you care about. Trust me. Or
someones
I guess, in his case. He was all fucked up when he was using: steroids and HGH and any kind of performance enhancer out there. Massive quantities, to hear him tell it. Totally raged. Poisoned by it. A maniac. Testosterone overdose. Put his fist through car windows. Shit like that. Incredible Hulk stuff. A real terror.”

“You’d think that might carry some anger with it,” he said, thinking of Vince Wynn firing blindly into the dark hoping to hit Martel Gale. “Some rage.”

“He wouldn’t have come here if that was still lingering. Doesn’t make sense. Just the opposite. He didn’t come here to blame, believe me. He came here to take the heat, even if it should be shared. He came here to make it right.”

“And someone didn’t want to hear him?”

“How should I know?”

“Did he express any concern, any reservations?”

“We all have reservations, Sheriff. It’s terrifying to expose yourself like that, to go up to another human being and admit your shortcomings and take responsibility for the wrongs you’ve committed.”

“And if you surprise them?” he asked.

“What’s that?”

“What happens when you’re clearing your shelf and the other person didn’t know, wasn’t aware of half the stuff you did?”

“It happens, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I can’t imagine that goes down terribly well.”

“It can be awkward. To say the least.”

“Dangerous?”

“I suppose.”

Walt considered all he’d heard.

“I’m not saying that’s what happened here,” she said quickly.

“But if Martel Gale arrived unexpectedly to someone who didn’t know he’d been harmed by the guy during his addiction, that could be embarrassing or even difficult for the person on the receiving end.”

“Which is why the step is very clear about that. You don’t ninth-step someone if it’s going to injure or harm them or if there’s any threat of that.”

“But if you didn’t know.”

“You know,” she said confidently. “Some of us have short lists, some incredibly long. But you give every person a lot of thought. You share with your sponsor. You work out who needs to be stepped and who doesn’t.”

“Your sponsor.”

“Sure. At least I did.”

“How would I find Martel Gale’s sponsor?”

“You wouldn’t. You won’t. That’s what the A is about in the name.”

“But how could I?”

“You can’t.”

“A man died here. May have been killed.”

“I’m aware of that. Why do you think I’m here?”

“They could contact me,” Walt said. “If the sponsor wanted to. If someone told him or her that I needed to talk to them.”

“Probably wouldn’t.”

“But might.”

“Might, I suppose.”

Walt waited for the offer. It didn’t come. The two stared at each other across the coffee table. Bea’s tail thumped against the leg of the table.

“Please,” Walt said. “I know that if it’s anything like AA, it’s a small world. People know people, anonymous or not. And Gale. His sponsor knows what happened to him by this point. All I need is someone to make an introduction.”

“His home group is New Orleans. A prison group at that.”

Walt lodged the information.
A prison group
. He could research this without her.

“You could maybe make a call,” he pleaded, wanting to attack it from as many sides as possible.

“It’s true, we all know someone who knows someone.”

“It’s a man’s life. Or the loss of one.”

“I know that, Sheriff.” She placed down the mug. “That’s really good coffee,” she said.

“A
re you sure about this?” Brandon asked from the passenger seat of the Jeep.

“It’s a regular Monday game. Wynn’s in the group. Two birds, and all that. We’ve got the NA member’s statement and maybe the pollen. It feels like it’s coming together.”

“Are you going to bust the game?”

“No, although it would give me a reason to get them down to the office and interrogate them formally. I wouldn’t mind that. But no one would back up the charges. I’d look like a moron.” He barely hesitated. “Are you going to marry her?”

“What? Aren’t you asking the wrong person?”

“Gail doesn’t always put the girls first, Tommy. You know that. I may need your help here. I think it’s something we have to think about.”

“We?”

“It has to be figured out, Tommy. Eleven-year-olds know perfectly well what you and their mother are doing in that trailer, and that I don’t appreciate it.”

“And do they know what you and your photographer are doing?”

The Jeep swerved. Walt flashed a punishing look over at Brandon. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Okay. Then I take it back.”

“I’m perfectly capable of maintaining a private life without exposing my daughters to every aspect of it.”

“If you say so.”

“Dangerous ground, Tommy.”

“Wasn’t me who brought it up. Wasn’t me who made the call to LoJack without a stolen vehicle report.”

Walt had left the company his direct number but somehow they’d reported back to the main office and Brandon had taken the call.

“If you two are serious, then fine, help me out. If not . . . It’s too much for them to handle right now.”

“Listen, I know this is . . . I know it’s not easy on any of us. I hear you. Okay?”

For all his bravado, Brandon suddenly seemed more like a kid. A good, solid deputy. Trustworthy. Brave to the point of stupidity. But young. Walt respected him, even enjoyed his company, but now, thanks in part to Fiona, he thought he saw him more clearly and he nearly laughed. Gail had ridden the first horse out of the barn, and at some point she was going to realize it wasn’t yet broke. Tommy needed some miles.

Walt pulled the Jeep up to Boatwright’s ostentatious gate and was about to buzz the box when the garden worker—the caretaker—Walt had spoken to before approached from the other side of the wrought iron, wearing a plastic spray tank on his back, goggles, and a face mask. He pulled down the mask.

“I’ll tell him you’re here,” he said.

“Rather you didn’t do that.”

“He’s got guests, Sheriff.”

“He’s hosting the Monday night poker game. That gives me enough to come onto the property. I only want to talk to him. This becomes a hassle, it will only get more complicated.”

“I’m supposed to just let you in? I’ll be looking for a job in the morning.”

“You don’t let us in, you’ll be looking for a lawyer. Don’t worry, he won’t fire you.”

“You don’t know Marty Boatwright.”

“I can be pretty persuasive.”

The man tripped the gate and it swung open and Walt drove through.

“Those are BFGoodrich on that pickup,” Brandon said. “Same as the lab report just came back.”