Holms endeavored to stay calm, but it was a battle he was quickly losing.
Three
E mil Guyot, in his Tommy Bahama Hawaiian shirt and what had once been cream-colored trousers, looked like he belonged on South Beach. Walt perused a copy of the man’s California handgun registration, learning what little he could from it.
“So, Emil, you understand that possession of an automatic weapon carries a minimum sentence. Idaho has very liberal gun laws, but on that one we’re kinda strict.” He added, “Be advised that I’m running a recording device”-pointing to his iPod-“just so we don’t get into who said what.”
Emil mugged for Walt but didn’t speak. He was, no doubt, on orders to wait for Holms’s attorneys.
“The only hope for you on the gun charge is to have it dropped altogether. There’s no such thing as a lesser charge when it comes to customizing a weapon. Not in this state.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you. I’m waiting for my attorney.”
“We’re all waiting for something,” Walt said, pleased that the man had started talking. “For one thing, I can’t drop the charges without an attorney present.”
“You’re not dropping any charges.”
“No, you’re right. I’m adding to them,” Walt said. “How’s capital murder suit you?” He had to give it to the guy: He wouldn’t want to play poker against Emil Guyot. “A guy like Stuart Holms? Amazing businessman. A legend, I hear. Probably a pretty lousy husband. His love is for money and power, and since women love both of those, too, it comes down to control, and that can get nasty. I’m recently divorced-or about to be. Something of an expert. He’s probably a good guy to work for though, right? You must make five, six times what I do-”
“Ten.”
“Ouch,” Walt said. He leaned down and set the plaster cast on the table with a thump. It was enclosed in a large plastic evidence bag marked as he’d instructed Brandon. Then he pulled out the small evidence bag containing the blue contact lens. He spread Fiona’s crime-scene photographs out like fanning a deck of cards, where the handcuffed Guyot couldn’t help but look at them. “You strike me as a gambling man-a man who knows his way around a deck of cards or a gaming table. I’ve got some odds for you. In case you’re wondering why we collected your shoes a few minutes ago, it’s because of this.” He patted the plaster cast. “Thankfully my job doesn’t require too much thinking. It all comes down to the evidence. Juries just love evidence. The TV show CSI? That’s helped us prosecute cases in ways you wouldn’t believe. Juries eat this stuff up. They understand it better. They believe it.”
“Fuck you.”
“Me? What’d I do? You’re the one who killed her.”
“Fuck that.”
“We’re taking plaster casts of your shoes right as we speak. By the time they dry and are compared to this,” he said, patting the bag again, “any opportunity to plea-bargain is gone. Tell that to Holms’s attorney. Gamble all you like.”
“I’m not talking to you,” Guyot said.
“Then what do you call it?”
Guyot stared back with a stoic face.
“He promised you a ton of money, didn’t he? Promised you he’d get you out on appeal if anything went wrong and that you’d be rich as Croesus when you got out. The thing is, he was talking about the Shaler thing. Trevalian. And maybe he’s right. Maybe he could get you out of that at some point. He’s a powerful man, as I understand it.”
“You have no idea. He’ll have you chasing traffic tickets before this is through.”
“No. It’s through already. It’s over, Emil.” He held up the blue contact lens. “You know what that is? The lab uses fumes to develop prints on certain surfaces. They can develop prints on human skin, on fabric-on things you wouldn’t believe. Contact lenses, for instance.”
Walt pushed back his chair, poured himself some more coffee, and sat back down, making a point of his fatigue.
“You guys heard about us going into the pound, didn’t you? Word got out-it’s a damn small valley and people can’t keep their mouths shut, and that doesn’t help me any, I’ll tell you what. Once we made that connection, I imagine Mr. Holms became a bit concerned. The idea had been to blame it on a cougar, right? But you L.A. guys don’t spend enough time here: two separate cougar attacks in two days? Are you kidding me? Not in ten years. Twenty. Forty. Not ever. And when Holms realized we’d figured out you dumped her in the cage, when he knew we’d be looking at murder, he overreacted. You both did. He let his jealous-husband side take over. You should have been looking for that.”
“You been smoking contraband from the evidence room, Sheriff? You better watch out for that.”
Walt went absolutely still. He let a minute pass. Then another. To both men it seemed much, much longer.
Then he took a deep breath, let out a long sigh, and let his true emotions color his voice. “You picked the wrong car, asshole.” He waved the bag containing the contact lens in the man’s face. “Danny Cutter wasn’t driving the Toyota, Patrick was. Danny’s the one Mr. Holms wanted framed for this. Not Patrick. We were all over Danny until we found the contact lens. This contact lens. The one on which they developed a latent print. The blue stuff: That’s what the fuming does-turns any oils from fingerprints blue. But Patrick didn’t kill her-we can account for every second of his existence. And Danny never drove the Toyota. Duh! You should never have gone along with trying to frame Danny. You’ve got to learn when to say no to the boss.”
Guyot had lost all his color and found it impossible to sit still. His upper lip held a sheen of nervous sweat, and his eyes could no longer risk finding Walt’s.
“He’s in the other room, right now, hearing about this same evidence. He’s being offered a deal, a plea bargain. Now, who do you think is the better deal maker, you or Stuart Holms? Who do you think is going to come out on the short side of this one? When you found that contact lens, you should have just thrown it out. Those are your prints on it, right? We’ll be comparing them in the morning. They sure as hell aren’t his. Hers, if you’re lucky-but I don’t think you’re all that lucky, Emil. And forget about him ever springing you for this. You go down in this state for capital murder, they throw away the key. Welcome to the Wild West.”
The man was breathing hard. Like a runner at the end of a race. All that pent-up anger and frustration straining at the edges of his eyes and pursing his lips to where they’d gone white.
“Never follow the wishes of a jealous husband,” Walt said. He thought of Brandon and Gail.
He waved in one of his deputies to keep an eye on the man, but stopped at the door and jiggled the bag holding the contact lens and the other one holding the plaster cast. “You think either of these is going to implicate Stuart Holms? No. And he knows that. He was counting on that. That, and the power of your greed. He knows all about greed, Stuart Holms. All he needs is for your greed to buy your silence through the trial. Then he’s home free, and you’re the one in the orange suit.”
Four
F iona ran off a series of photographs as Stuart Holms, Emil Guyot, and Milav Trevalian were walked out of the Sheriff’s Office in orange jumpsuits and wearing manacles. Some stragglers from the First Rights gathering, including Bartholomew, were contained across the street by the new city hall, chanting and waving their fists. Walt couldn’t make out their slogan.