Walt thought he heard Fiona gasp as she took several more shots of the overturned body. Drawn by the sound, Walt looked over at her, but she wouldn’t come out from behind the camera. Her hands were shaking too much for the shots to be any good. He shouldn’t have asked her for the close-ups. He’d been thoughtless and cruel, and he wished it was just the two of them so he could apologize.

“That’s enough pictures,” he said-too little, too late. He wanted her out of here. “You can wrap it up. If you can, have them to me sometime tomorrow morning.”

“No problem, Sheriff.”

If Brandon caught her use of his title instead of his Christian name, he did a good job of hiding it, though Walt heard how wrong it sounded coming from her mouth. Walt didn’t want Brandon having anything on him and wondered if he’d already fallen behind in the count.

Fiona replaced the lens cap and negotiated her way back toward her car, going the long way around to avoid the cordoned-off area.

“That sure looks like a prison tat,” Boldt said. “Suggests his prints will ID him.”

“I know who it is,” Walt declared as it added up for him.

“He looks familiar to me, too,” Brandon said, believing Walt meant to name a local man. “But I can’t place him.”

“New Orleans Saints,” Walt said. He knew Brandon was a football fan.

“Goddamn, you’re right! The Gale Force. Marvin Gale. Linebacker.”

“Martel,” Walt said, “not Marvin.”

He and Boldt had previously discussed Vincent Wynn’s accusations surrounding the paroled linebacker.

“That’s him?” Boldt said, sounding gravely disappointed. He nodded, assessing the size of the man and adding in the crudely drawn tattoos. “Of course.”

“I think we can rule out a carjacking,” Walt said.

He felt her before he took her in. Fiona, standing on the shoulder of the highway by her Subaru, the wind tossing her hair, arms at her sides, shoulders sagged in resignation. Overcome by the sight of death, no doubt. Saddened. But she also seemed to be waiting. For him? he wondered. He hoped. He ached to go to her, to leave this, to say something.

She climbed into the car and drove away.

14

Walt and Boldt approached the nursery on foot, down a dirt track a quarter mile south of the body. The sun shone brightly, sparking off the plastic tarps of the six 50-foot-long hothouses, curved over the garden beds like small Quonset huts. A beat-up green pickup truck was parked at the end where the track widened into a bulb. A miniature backhoe sat outside a barn shed big enough for two vehicles. Next to the shed stood an old, half-sized Airstream trailer with dirty windows and an open padlock hanging from a rusted hasp.

Walt pounded on the door, as Boldt wandered over and looked inside the nearest hothouse.

“Heck of an operation,” Boldt said.

“Nothing much grows here without a lot of help and a little luck,” Walt said. “Twenty below in the winter. High nineties in the summer. Dry as a bone.”

The door was answered by a sleepy-eyed woman in her mid-thirties who’d seen too much sun and too little of the hairdresser. Her forest green golf shirt carried a logo of a tree beneath which was stitched: GOLDEN EAGLE NURSERY.

“Help you, Sheriff?”

“Hope so,” Walt said.

She descended the rough wooden steps, shorter than Walt, sinewy and lean.

“Maggie Sharp,” she said, shaking his hand.

Walt introduced Boldt as a colleague from Seattle.

“Just visiting,” Boldt said.

“What’s up? What’s with all the cars up there?”

“We’re wondering if any time in the past couple of days you saw a pickup truck go off the west shoulder of the highway?”

“Up there? I don’t know… No.”

“Anything you can tell us would help,” Walt said, sensing the woman’s hesitation. “You won’t be involved personally.”

“Wasn’t my truck,” she said, as Boldt walked over to the vehicle.

“No,” Walt said. “Wider tires than your Chevy.” Boldt looked over, silently impressed Walt had already scouted the truck. “There’s no law against driving off the road,” Walt said, forcing a smile.

“Wasn’t me,” she said, her tone unnecessarily defensive.

“I think we’ve already established that.”

“So?”

“You’re the closest to the area. Maybe you saw some people up there? Something-anything-going on.”

“At night perhaps,” Boldt said, having joined them.

“I don’t work nights here. Who said I work nights?”

Boldt and Walt met eyes.

Boldt said, “A neighbor of yours, someone in… Golden Eagle… thought they saw a pickup on the left side of the road, but seeing how this road of yours leads in here, we’re thinking they might have seen your truck and confused it with the truck we’re interested in.”

Walt shot Boldt a quizzical look: where had he come up with that piece of fiction?

“Is that right?” Her eyes told them both she was buying herself time.

“Lights on vehicles can play tricks with the eye at night,” Walt said. “Depth perception. If it was your truck and not the truck we’re interested in, that helps.”

“Why would I be here at night?” Maggie Sharp asked. “It’s not like anyone’s paying overtime around here. I work a ten-hour shift, five days a week. Six o’clock comes around, I’m gone. I appreciate the job and all, don’t get me wrong. Not a lot of jobs going around right now. I’m not complaining. I’m just saying if it was after six, it wasn’t me.”

“Okay,” Boldt said. “That makes sense enough. How ’bout your boss? One of your coworkers?”

“At night? Listen, if there was a freeze warning or something, maybe. And the sheriff can tell you, we get hard freezes every month of the year. But a lot fewer since global warming. Right? And none in the past month or so. It’s a hot summer. Hot and even drier than usual.”

“These things hold up in the thunderstorms?” Walt asked, looking out across the hothouses.

“They do okay,” she said.

“We had a pretty decent storm a couple nights back,” he recalled. “Hailed, didn’t it?”

Her eyes narrowed; she sensed a trap but couldn’t see it clearly. “I can’t speak for the owner,” she said. “All I can tell you is if someone saw a pickup after six it wasn’t me. Wasn’t mine. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“So we should talk to the owner,” Boldt said. “About a truck being seen here at night.”

“No. I mean, sure. That’s up to you, right? What do I care?”

And yet she did seem to care. Both men sensed her misgivings.

“If you remember anything,” Walt said, “we’re in the book.”

“Yeah, I think I can find you.” The smile didn’t work on her face, as out of place as the attempted confidence in her voice.

The men thanked her. Walt and Boldt walked back up the road toward the highway.

“How’d you know it wasn’t her truck?” Boldt asked.

“You’re walking on it,” Walt said. “Noticed on the way in that there were only two trucks using this very much. A pickup with narrower rubber-hers-and a dually, probably a delivery truck. There are some other tracks mixed in, but they’re older for the most part and they’re all passenger cars, not pickups.”

“More to this country sheriff thing than I might have thought,” Boldt said.

“I take a lot of heat from my father. He’s ex-Bureau, as you maybe already know. He thinks I’m wasting my time here. A big day for us is a bar brawl.”

“To each their own. You have kids?”

“Two girls. Twins. Eleven going on fifteen.”

“Good place for them, I imagine.”

“Why I’m here.”

“Not everybody gets that,” Boldt said.

“You?”

“Boy and girl about the same age. If I could figure out how to live in a place like this?” he said, looking into the sky. “Yeah. No-brainer. So I get it.”

“If you ever feel like retiring,” Walt said. He meant it more as a joke but he thought how valuable a person like Boldt would be on a contractual basis, and it gave him some new ideas. He’d taken to the guy immediately. He’d prepared himself for some holier-than-thou city detective; was stunned to find the man so approachable.