In Harm's Way by Ridley Pearson Page B

what . . . amnio fluid but not the girl’s DNA? How’s that happen?” He took a moment. “You have a witness. You possess the means to obtain a court order to collect the amnio fluid, but are less confident you can win the DNA of a minor.”
    “You don’t need to trouble yourself, counselor, with what I do or do not have. What I need is your client’s cooperation.”
    “And you’ll have it.”
    “I thought it might work out that way.”
    A knock on the door interrupted them.
    “Sorry to interrupt,” a female deputy said, leaning her head in the door. “We’ve got shots fired out Lake Creek.”
    Walt immediately stood, extending his hand to Hogue. “Do what you can,” he said.
    “You’ll be hearing from me,” Hogue answered.

9
    “S he’s not answering,” Deputy Linda Chalmers reported.
    “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