In Harm's Way

“We crossed out the ones that didn’t make any sense,” Emily explained.

“And we put arrows by the ones that sounded like names,” Nikki said.

He looked at his watch: they’d been at it for just over an hour, content to eat up reading time. He’d been occupied with Larry King and stewing over his personality shortcomings.

He praised their effort, placed the pages down onto the coffee table, and headed into their room; the three of them spent forty-five minutes reading about five kids inside Disney World after dark. The girls went to bed reluctantly, which was typical for any night, especially in summer when the sun didn’t set until nine-thirty and the sky glowed faintly well past ten p.m.

He got a kick out of their effort, pushing the pages aside and reviewing some paperwork from his briefcase until well past eleven. Letterman was tearing into the administration’s health care proposals as Walt packed it up for the night. He killed the TV and subsequently knocked the girls’ hard work onto the floor, scattering the pages.

There was no explaining what the eye could see or the ear could hear. No explaining why Walt could look across a forest floor and effortlessly spot game tracks where others could not. No explaining how a musician could hear a flurry of notes within the confines of utter silence. Walt was bent over and scooping up the fallen pages as his eye picked first one word singled out with a hand-drawn arrow, then a second.

Shaw Ken

His eye darted around the page as his fingers found the sheet and brought it up to a reading distance, Walt still bent over the coffee table. Both entries had been crossed out, distinguished as nonsense words by either Nikki or Em:

The cross-out was such that he could read the word as Fine or Fino.

The top of the page carried an extraordinarily long URL that combined the website and the search string. Walt hurried to the computer and carefully typed the address into the browser bar, his throat tight, his mouth dry, his heart pounding. He knew the answer but the investigator in him would not allow any jumping to conclusions, demanding precise evidence. He double-checked each letter in the long address, not wanting to input it a second time and, confirming its accuracy, hit Enter.

The screen went blank. Walt found himself holding his breath as the web page loaded. He scrolled down the results, the page lying alongside the keyboard.

Fino

“No…” he muttered aloud.

The e-mail address “[email protected] /* */” unscrambled to Fino A Shaw Ken. Fiona Kenshaw.

He looked back and forth between the page and screen in disbelief, trying hard to convince himself there had to be a mistake. Obviously, the girls had input the address incorrectly. But that reliable eye of his picked out the truth: all the double-checking wasn’t going to change the results. Nikki and Emily had done a fine job of it.

He pushed away from the table. The chair legs caught and he nearly went over backward, throwing his legs out and recovering his balance. But he was unsteady on his feet as he stood and roamed the room, his eyes unable to leave the screen and the piece of paper carrying his daughters’ handiwork. He paced. Hurried into the kitchen and popped a beer and drank from the can greedily as he continued to contemplate what it all meant. He knew what it meant, of course, but he couldn’t allow it to mean that, so his effort was to reframe the evidence into something that made sense, offered an alternate universe.

He pried his eyes away long enough to glance at his watch: 11:28. He pulled the BlackBerry off his hip and held it in his palm, then sneaked a glimpse over his shoulder toward the girls’ room. This was the collision of work and family, this moment and moments like it. The after-hours demands of the job and his allowing it to interfere.

He scrolled through the BlackBerry’s address book to Myra’s entry. His sister-in-law or Kevin would willingly come over and be in the house for the sake of his daughters if asked. Kevin was probably awake anyway.

He worked the device and his thumb hovered over the green key, now with Fiona’s cell number highlighted. Then, not.

The list server evidence was not yet evidence-it would have to arrive in written form from either Boldt or Buddy Cornell to be of use to Walt’s prosecuting attorney. Walt had mistakenly-stupidly, he thought-requested that Boldt pressure his people to authenticate the evidence, to deliver it formally. Could he now undo that request without sending up a red flag? Was he willing to do so for her? Did he dare jump to such conclusions without giving her a chance to explain things?

But he told himself he wasn’t jumping to any conclusions. First had been Gale’s NA sponsor telling him Gale was atoning to women, and Walt’s recollection of the photo of the wide-eyed black kid on Fiona’s wall, photos taken of Katrina victims: New Orleans, Gale’s home city. Now the list server e-mail address providing a direct link between Gale and Fiona. Combined with Fiona’s recent erratic behavior, Walt began to see his suspicion of Kira-and Fiona’s reaction to it-in a new light. He thought back to his interview of Vince Wy

If he drove up to see her, what excuse would there be later for his not having used a ruling of probable cause to conduct a search of the property? He no longer needed the Engletons’ permission for such a search. He had to shed his emotional response and think this through more carefully. Where did the evidence lead? What was hard evidence, and what amounted to speculation? What would his record show or suggest? Detailed records were kept of his e-mails, phone calls, radio calls, informal meetings, proper interrogations. Could he untangle that to keep charges off of Fiona? Was that what he wanted to do? Was that something he was willing to do?

He had prided himself over a career of public service at having never corrupted a case or allowed himself to be corrupted. The office had accepted donations of Hummers, RVs, boats, trailers, and cash-He had never once taken so much as a gas can or a dime for himself. He’d had ample opportunity to screen friends from drunk driving charges or excuse parking tickets. Never had done it. But Fiona was different. Not only could he forgive a woman from defending herself against the likes of a Martel Gale, but after nearly two years of avoiding women in the wake of his marriage’s collapse, he’d now found the one woman he was willing to risk himself with-and here was his repayment. It seemed quite possible she’d bludgeoned a man to death.

His thumb cleared the phone’s search field and typed an “F” into the blank bar. Hovered there.

But his cell phone calls were a matter of public record. He looked toward the kitchen phone. His home calls could easily be subpoenaed. His work calls. His e-mail. He cursed into the room: his life was a matter of public record.

He caught sight of the computer. Nikki had a Hotmail account she used for instant messaging. He’d set it up for her. He knew the password. He stepped toward the di