“Please.”
Ten minutes later, a shiny black pickup truck pulled up beside Walt’s Cherokee in front of the Elephant’s Perch, an outfitting store in the center of town.
Brandon, a big man with a boyish, rosy-cheeked face, had thrown on his deputy’s shirt and gun belt over a pair of blue jeans and running shoes. He walked with urgency to the door of Walt’s Cherokee.
“What’s up?”
Walt filled him in on Malone’s death and the discovery of the high-tech briefcase, currently in the Cherokee’s passenger’s seat.
“If it’s a ransom drop,” Walt said, “maybe it gets tricky when I show up in place of this guy. I’m going to tape down the TALK button on my radio so you can monitor the situation.”
“It’s just us?”
“There’s a possible time element.” He checked his watch. “Let’s move.”
“You get shot up, Sheriff, and I’m the one backing you up . . . Well, given our . . . situation . . . how do you think that’s going to look?”
“Not good for you. Thankfully, that’ll be your problem, not mine.”
“You’re making jokes?”
Walt indicated his radio handset clipped to his shirt’s epaulet. “If you hear it going south, do something.”
“Thanks for clearing that up,” Brandon said.
Walt parked down the street to keep his Cherokee out of view and walked up a horseshoe-shaped driveway of hand-laid brick pavers, the attaché case in his left hand, his gun hand free. The driveway contained a small aspen grove with a man-made, rock-lined gurgling brook. The aspens blocked any view of the front door from the street. He heard a truck rumble past. Brandon.
The log home was constructed of huge timbers, the gaps sealed with toothpaste-white chinking. Walt rapped the pewter cowboy-boot door knocker twice sharply.
The door opened, revealing a thin man about Walt’s height, with a stubble of closely cropped black hair, black eyebrows, Euro-styled green-framed eyeglasses, and rough skin. He wore crisply pressed black trousers, Italian loafers, and no socks. He had a diamond earring in his left ear. His lips pursed in confusion as his eyes settled on the attaché.
“Excuse me . . . Sheriff,” he said, reading Walt’s name tag. “I was expecting—”
“A Mr. Randall Malone,” Walt said.
It took the man a moment to recover.
“I believe this is yours.” Walt said.
“The contents, yes. Not the case.” He leaned to look down the driveway. “And Mr. Malone is . . . ?”
“Dead,” Walt said, adding, “Sheriff Walt Fleming,” offering his hand.
The two shook hands—the man’s skin was clammy. “Dead? How?”
“Looks like a heart attack,” Walt answered. “You are?”
“Arthur Remy.” He stepped back and gestured for Walt to come inside. “Good God . . . I’m a houseguest here.” He shut the door. “I’m a guest of—”
“Doug and Ann Christensen,” Walt said.
“Just so.” Remy sounded impressed.
“Sun Valley could just as easily be named Small Valley,” Walt said.
“Dead?” Remy repeated. “But I spoke to him not fifteen—”
“That was me,” Walt said. “We traced him to the hotel.”
“But then where? When? Has anyone called the company?”
The living room smelled of vanilla, and from the cut-flower arrangements to the Chinese silk pillows atop the off-white couch it looked like something straight out of Architectural Digest. A nineteenth-century seven-foot Bösendorfer grand piano was parked in the corner. It cost roughly the same as Walt’s house.
“Branson Risk? No, not yet. We had concerns about the contents of the case. If a ransom drop, then—”
“Ransom? Not hardly.”
The living room led to a stately dining room and through to the restaurant-caliber kitchen, off of which was a family room with hearth, four couches, three coffee tables, and a glassed-in breakfast nook. The interior of the log home was Santa Fe stucco, with hand-worked walls sponged with brick-tinted paint. Remy poured himself a glass of red wine from a bottle on the counter, offering Walt something to drink. Walt declined.
“I need to view the contents of the case,” Walt stated, “for the sake of the investigation.”
“What investigation?”
“The heart attack may be related to an assault and kidnapping.”
“Jesus Christ.” Remy sat down in an overstuffed chair pulled up to a harvest table beneath a deer-antler chandelier.
Walt set the attaché onto the table, just out of Remy’s reach. “Malone died at the scene.”
Remy’s hand shook slightly as he worked the wineglass to his moist lips.
“I interrupted the assault, what may have been an attempted robbery,” Walt continued. “Because this is now a criminal investigation, Mr. Remy—quite likely a homicide investigation—I need to know the contents of the case.”
“So you said.”
“My office will do its best to protect your privacy. That goes for your relationship with Branson Risk as well. But we will investigate.”
Remy coughed, twisting his face uncomfortably.
“Jesus.”
He finished his glass of wine and eyed the bottle on the counter.
“Go ahead,” Walt said.
Remy didn’t appreciate being so easy to read, but he wouldn’t deny himself the refill. He returned to his chair with a full glass.
“You want Andy on the phone?” Remy asked. “I can get Andy for you.” He pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket. “Andy Cohen, Branson’s director?”
“That can wait. At present, I’m interested only in the contents of this case.”
Remy seemed to consider his situation. He looked down at the case, then back up at Walt. He nodded.
“Yes. All right. You will wait one minute, please.”
He left the room, returning with a plastic card that fit into the slot underneath the handle and turned the red LED green.
“I’ve never seen a case like this before,” Walt admitted.
“A Branson original,” Remy explained. “When locked, the internal GPS is constantly broadcasting its location. If the case is jimmied or violated in any way, a hidden camera transmits photographs continuously. Branson predetermines the route the case will take. The camera also engages if the GPS track varies from that route.”
“Were you notified the case was off route?”
“I was,” Remy said. “It went west of Hailey.”
“That’s correct. Branson’s reaction?”
“I assume they attempted to contact the courier.”
“You didn’t hear from them again?”
“There were several calls back and forth,” Remy said. “A good deal of concern.”
“So, in theory, Branson has photographs that could prove helpful to the investigation.” Walt couldn’t take his eyes off the case.
“If they exist, I will have them make them available to you.” Remy caught Walt staring. “Go ahead, Sheriff. Be my guest. They’re a piece of history.”
Walt opened the lid.
Inside, packed in custom-molded gray foam, were three dark green bottles of wine.
11
Cantell’s team boarded Sun Valley’s River Run high-speed quad chairlift at five-minute intervals so as not to be seen sitting together. The views behind them were spectacular: the town of Ketchum in the foreground, then, farther east, the Sun Valley resort, with its hotels and golf course. A second chairlift carried them to the very top, from which one could see for a hundred miles in all directions: craggy mountaintops north, east, and west, and, to the south, a vast expanse of high-altitude desert.
Cantell avoided the busy mountaintop ski lodge. Mountain bikers and parasailors prepared for descent, while day hikers huddled in groups, trail maps in hand. The grid of Ketchum’s streets spread out three thousand feet below, the buildings and vehicles looking like toy models.
Cantell�
��s team hiked down to a location that offered a view both east and south. In late July, the ski slopes were a vivid green broken by flecks of yellow columbine and red Indian paintbrush that swayed in the constant breeze.
The four hoisted binoculars as Cantell spoke.
“First: the bridge,” he said. Highway 75’s only bridge was a formed-concrete, three-lane span crossing the Big Wood River. “Roger, placement is everything.”
“No problem.”
“Salvo,” Cantell said, “the power pole, to the east, will block the bike path.”
“Sure,” Matt said, “got it.”
“Roger,” Cantell said, “you can make out the roof of the new symphony pavilion behind the lodge.”
“Yeah.”
“The golf course is just to the north,” Cantell said, “the row of golf carts.”
“Okay.”
“That’s you . . . before the truck. It should look like an overcharged battery or a short. Nothing too spectacular.”
Roger smirked. “Can do.”
“After setting the charge, you’ll meet up with Matt and we enter phase two. You guys will be picked up on the other side by Lorraine, and we’ll meet in the Albertson’s parking lot north of Hailey.”
“Sounds good.”
“Lorraine, you’ll pick them up in the Starweather subdivision. There’s a private bridge there that crosses to a ranch. That’s the rendezvous.”
Lorraine nodded.
Cantell trained his binoculars well south to his prize, the asphalt shimmering in the heat. “Any questions?”
“What if I can’t get the keys?” Lorraine asked. “Has that been considered?”
“Then you need to get yourself invited back to his room,” Cantell explained. “Matt will shadow you, as planned. He’ll call Roger in if necessary. We need that key, and nothing, no way, can raise suspicion.”
Cantell addressed the three. “Remember Fort Lauderdale,” he warned. “Timing is everything. These wine bottles fell into our lap. We’ve done what’s necessary. We chummed the water.”
“But we screwed it up,” Salvo said.
“We can live with that,” Cantell said. “It may actually play to our advantage.” He considered his next words carefully. “A word of caution to each of you.” He looked directly at Salvo. “No screw-ups. Matt, if I hear you’re hanging around the hotel pools or trolling the skate parks, I’ll cut you out.
“Our success depends on our anonymity,” he continued. “None of us can afford to be remembered. And Matt, just for your information, sixteen- and seventeen-year-old girls remember everything.”
“It’s not a problem.” Salvo’s eyes hardened and his jaw muscles knotted.
Addressing Lorraine, Cantell said, “Makeup and wig aside, you can’t be remembered either. And we can’t drug him because that’ll set them onto us. So it’s tricky.”
“I know,” she said. “Trust me, I’ll be careful. I’ll have tattoos in all the right places—temporary, but he won’t know that. And, trust me, he’ll remember them.”
Salvo started to chuckle, but she stared him down.
“You want to switch jobs, Matt?” she asked hotly. “Maybe he’s into boys. Who knows? That would get me off the hook.”
Salvo tried to look confident—a losing effort. “Hey,” he said, “I’m going to be the most exposed of anyone. You want to switch? I’ll switch!”
“Shut up, Matt,” Cantell said. “The risks and responsibilities are as equally distributed as possible.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Well, don’t!” Cantell said. “You take care of yourself. That’s enough.”
He looked south of the mountain. “People like this . . .” he said, his voice drifting.
Salvo looked ready to brawl. McGuiness patted him on the back. “We cool?” McGuiness said.
“Cool,” said Salvo. He was anything but.
12
Lorraine Duisit recognized the man from the photo Cantell had showed her, another of those surprises that made Christopher Cantell such an enigma. It was as if he were two people, one of them so deeply buried even a lover could not penetrate. That was part of what attracted her to him, this mysterious quality that constantly surprised her, but it also put her off, worried her. He could be so difficult to read. How could she ever commit to that?
Michel’s Christiania and Olympic Bar and restaurant dated back forty years. It buzzed with conversation and the melodies of a piano man. The split-level layout was divided into a lower-level dining room and upstairs bar. A pair of antique wooden skis was crossed on a wall that rose to a balcony used for private parties. If walls could talk, she thought, as she occupied a banquette in the bar close to the piano, with a view of the crowded dining room and out the open French doors to a small patio beyond.
A man belonging to the face in the photo entered and immediately sized up the room, his eyes finding the single women, including Lorraine. She didn’t make eye contact—not yet. He took one of two open stools at the baby grand—exactly as Cantell had told her he would. It took several inquisitive glances, three songs, and a white wine until she felt the timing was right. She signaled for the check, and took a moment to pull on a sweater that partially covered her metallic-knit halter top. She left her cleavage showing.
“Not leaving so soon?” he said, materializing in front of her.
“The wine gave me an appetite. I’m famished,” she explained.
“Then let me buy you dinner,” he said. “I have a table for one that’s horribly imbalanced.”
“No,” she said, blatantly cautious. “It’s tempting, but no thank you.”
“Because?”
“Again, the wine. I tend to . . . to get myself into trouble.”
“That doesn’t sound so terrible.”
“Not for you.” She had a guttural, melodious laugh, and she used it to her advantage. “I have to live with myself in the morning.” She looked him directly in the eye.
“I’d love the company,” he said. “But I won’t push you.”
“You just did.”
“I’m William. No strings, I promise.”
“But it’s the strings,” she said softly, “that make it interesting. Why brush and saddle the horse if you’re not going to ride it?” She paused. “Do you like to ride, William?”
“Fly,” he said without missing a beat. “There’s an unclaimed stool at the piano. Yours if you want it.”
“I want it,” said Lorraine. She caught the waiter’s attention. “Leave it open,” she said, following William to the piano.
“Put it on my tab, Gina,” William instructed.
Lorraine glanced over her shoulder catching a glimpse of Salvo. He was sipping a seven-dollar beer at the bar, looking bored.
She ate a big meal: lamb shank with rosemary mashed potatoes and asparagus. Cantell insisted men liked women who ate well. She wanted William to like her.
They skipped dessert for snifters of Grand Marnier.
“Is there dancing?” she asked, knowing the answer. “And I don’t mean rock. Something more . . . You know, standards, that sort of thing?”
“The Duchin Room . . .”
“Do you like to dance, William?”
“Let’s find out,” he said, leaning toward her slightly so the heady scent of alcohol and oranges carried from his breath.
She caught the headlights of the Expedition in the outside mirror of William’s rented Chevy. Salvo had replaced the plates earlier in the day and had been outside waiting for Lorraine when she left.
The Duchin Room’s lights were low, a competent trio working through the theme song to Titanic. The small dance floor was crowded with white-haired couples. A few trophy wives went through the motions. Thankfully, this crowd would not distract Salvo. He was inclined toward the pom-pom set.
As William searched for a table, he suggested the dance floor, but she declined, wanting another drink in him first. Business before pleasure.
Halfway thro
ugh their drinks, a table opened up near the band, and they crammed onto a bench side by side. She warmed him up with some affectionate touching, laying her hand on his arm, pressing her leg against his. With the first strains of a slow song, she looked out at the dance floor and said, “So?”
As the two of them stood, she saw Salvo lay a bill on the bar and move toward the dance floor. She appreciated Salvo’s ability to stay with the plan.
William was a decent dancer. As he pulled her to him, she let him feel all of her, let him know where she was going with this. His arms now surrounded her and his hands gently brushed her backside. She broke free, spun him around, and pressed herself up against him. As she did so, her hands slipped into his pockets. He tensed with the contact, as she continued to playfully slip her hands in and out of his pockets. She gently urged him closer to a post at the edge of the dance floor and, as Salvo appeared there, released a ring of keys into his outstretched hand, William none the wiser.
Salvo entered the men’s room, surprised by the appointments: marble wainscoting, gleaming brass fixtures, lead-cut mirrors, linen hand towels, classical music, oil paintings on the walls.
He closed himself into a stall and worked quickly to take a wax impression of what proved to be an unusual, complicated key.
He arrived back at the Duchin Room in the middle of an up-tempo “Girl from Ipanema.” Lorraine and the pilot were still on the dance floor. She caught his eye and pointed to the floor. Salvo dropped the keys by the post, made a final loop through the bar as if hunting for a friend, and left.
It took William forty-five minutes to notice his keys were missing. The discovery came as he went to pay the check.
“Shit,” he said, patting his pants frantically, explaining his loss.
“I’ll bet it’s my fault,” Lorraine said, allowing another of her provoking laughs. “Your pockets,” she added, wishing she could force herself to blush. “The slow dance.”
They searched the dance floor between songs, interrupted by a waitress. The key chain had been turned in to the bartender.
She accepted a ride back to the Christiania, where they’d started.
Killer Summer (Walt Fleming) Page 4
