Killer Summer (Walt Fleming)

by Ridley Pearson

  Enrico, on the other hand, made her feel like she was already out of college.

  She kept one eye on the suite’s living room as she began repacking her suitcase. She left the closet open so that if he happened to come into the room, she could hide the suitcase, hide her intentions.

  She was sweating despite the room’s air-conditioning. Her head throbbed and her stomach felt squeamish. She’d never done anything like this. He would go ballistic. She had no idea what he’d do to her, but she knew it wouldn’t be pretty.

  She flashed back to the voice on the BlackBerry call she’d taken for her father. There was a name attached to that voice—a face, even—but she couldn’t remember it exactly, couldn’t make a name stick to the face. She shook off her wondering and continued stuffing her delicates in the suitcase.

  She trusted he was too consumed in the wine auction and his deals to notice any change in her, because she knew she wasn’t going to pull this off perfectly. She didn’t lie to him and he didn’t lie to her: this was an oath they’d made after her mother died. They were in this together. Only now she was deserting him. It made her feel a little crazy in the head. He didn’t deserve what she was about to do to him, no matter how much he tried to keep her being a kid instead of allowing her to be the woman she was.

  Her hand hesitated, about to deliver a T-shirt to the suitcase. She could have undone this before it ever got started. He begged her all the time to talk, to tell him what she was thinking. But she put the shirt in the suitcase, continuing her packing.

  There was no turning back now.

  25

  Walt heard the aspen leaves overhead, clattering like playing cards raking bicycle spokes. He watched Beatrice zooming around in the leaves on the ground, chasing phantoms and kicking up dust. This was where his heart was, he was reminded, away from town, away from his badge, on a walk with his dog in the backcountry. Gail’s abrupt departure from the marriage had driven him deeply into his work. In an instant, here in the sweet-smelling air, with the wind whistling past his ears, he realized he’d used his work as a place to hide. Leave it to Beatrice to reveal this truth to him.

  Yellow police tape ran tree to tree, enclosing a thicket of golden willow. At the center were two camo-painted ATVs, the geometric shapes seen from the glider.

  “So?” Fiona said, watching Brandon and the two deputies, Tuttle and Blompier, cut back the willows to make a path to the vehicles.

  It was nice to see Brandon do some hard labor. Tuttle, on the other hand, worked like a maniac, going at the willow with lopping shears like a man possessed. Tuttle had spoken to a man peeing by the side of Deer Creek Road, a man now of interest to the investigation, and he was taking out his anger and frustration at having not written down the Yukon’s plate number on the willow stalks.

  “We want a record of the scene,” Walt answered her, “including the boot print Tuttle found.” He pointed. “Same for the tire tracks. Everything to scale.”

  “I was actually asking what you’re hoping to get from this,” she said, attempting to clarify.

  Walt checked his wristwatch. The second hand seemed to be moving much faster than usual. “Evidence. Something to follow? The auction begins in a little over eight hours. Basically, I’m hoping for a miracle.”

  “You had them on the run. You think they wiped them down?” she said.

  She’d been around his office enough that she was beginning to think like an investigator. He suppressed a smile.

  “We’ll find out,” he said.

  He pulled her aside as a car pulled up behind them.

  Walt lacked a forensics team. On those rare occasions when he needed one, he’d call the Nampa crime lab. But when in a real hurry, he called Barge Levy, the principal of the valley’s Silver Creek Alternative School. Levy held a master’s in science from MIT, and he was something of an amateur lab technician, as close as Walt could get to a local forensics expert. Levy could perform basic tasks, such as fuming, dusting, and lifting prints, as well as the Nampa team.

  Levy walked stiff-legged, the result of two hip replacements. He had salt-and-pepper hair and piercing blue eyes. He used his contagious, self-aware laugh to his advantage, a means to politely interrupt.

  “What goes, boss?” Levy asked.

  “Hate to take you away from summer vacation.”

  “No you don’t.” He let loose a laugh, startling some birds out of a nearby tree. “You want the rest of us to suffer right along with you.”

  “You two know each other . . . ?” he said, gesturing in Fiona’s direction.

  “Fiona’s been kind enough to help us out on Professional Day at the school,” Levy said. “And she works with some of our girls.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Walt admitted.

  “You don’t have to sound so surprised,” Fiona said.

  Levy let rip another of his laughs. Fiona knelt and rummaged in her bags, switching camera lenses.

  “These may relate to an open investigation,” Walt told him. “If they were wiped down, it was in a hurry. Fiona will record your work, if that’s okay.”

  “No worries. But I’ve got to tell you, they’re dust bombs,” Levy said. “I doubt I’ll be lifting any prints.”

  “Whatever you can do.”

  “Got it.”

  “Try the gas cap, and the valve caps to all four tires.”

  Levy nodded. “Nice. You must do this for a living.” He barked out yet another laugh.

  Walt said, “Before you start, I’ve got a riddle for you.”

  “Riddle-iculous,” Levy said.

  “Let’s say I’ve got a group trying to boost a couple of bottles from the wine auction.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I suspect one or more of them pulled a B and E at Sawtooth Wood Products last night.”

  Levy cocked his head curiously. “Yeah?”

  “The lumberyard has a couple of tractor trailers, some Cats of various sizes. A pair of wood splitters, both hydraulic. Some John Deere lawn mowers, some chainsaws. A few hundred logs, and mountains of slash and piles of split firewood.”

  “Okay.”

  “They’ve got a hell of a shop to maintain all that gear—maybe the best shop in the valley.” He paused, allowing Levy to take it all in. “How does any of that fit into a plan to steal a couple bottles of wine?”

  Levy pinched his chin. “Where are these bottles now?”

  “In a vault, a bank safe.”

  “Hydraulics might help open a vault. A Cat could take out a wall.”

  “True enough. But the bottles are more vulnerable once they’re at the auction, right?”

  “And if they’re pros, they know that’s just the way you’d think.”

  “Okay,” Walt said, “I can buy that.”

  “House plans,” Fiona said. “That company has built some of the premiere houses in the valley. We did a profile of them in the Express. They must have plans on file for some of the biggest.”

  “Brilliant!” Walt said. “I hadn’t considered that.”

  “Maybe they need some lumber to build themselves a Trojan horse,” Levy teased, chuckling to himself.

  Once again, Walt thought back to fly-fishing with Kevin, his attempt to match the hatch. “A Trojan horse,” he muttered.

  26

  Listen, Sheriff, my bikini’s a lot more revealing than this bra is,” said Janet Finch, “so don’t feel you’re embarrassing me. Please, stay, so we can talk this through.”

  She pulled off her T-shirt, her back to Walt, while Deputy Sheriff Wilma Karl pinned a tiny Bluetooth microphone inside the bra cup, ran a wire along the right strap and over the collarbone to a small credit-card-sized transmitter taped to the skin beneath the bra’s hooks at the back.

  On the table lay a mobile phone to take the place of Finch’s. Whether on or off, the Motorola CABO would transmit whatever the microphone picked up, enhanced by a Bluedriving kit, with an extended range of nearly two hundred yards. Even if Finch’s phone were
taken from her, switched off, and placed in a room at the other end of the house, Walt’s guys in the MC would still be able to eavesdrop on her conversation with Remy.

  At her request, Walt stayed in the room. It had been a while since he’d seen a woman’s bare back, and Janet Finch’s was taut and smooth-skinned. He suffered the physical tug of being male, the emotional whiplash of a betrayed husband, and the self-righteousness of always wanting to remain professional. He felt a little sick, in fact.

  “Why would Remy suddenly agree to see me?” she asked.

  “He’s protecting his investment, I imagine. Doesn’t want a repeat of last night, your barging in on the tasting. He’s hedging his bets.”

  “But not to hurt me?”

  “I can’t see that, no,” Walt said. “He’s a guest in that house. And if he tries anything, we’ll hear what’s going on, anyway, so not to worry.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “It was you who called me, not the other way around.”

  “Because he called me! Okay, so I’m curious. I want to do this,” she said. “I admit it.”

  “You’re nervous. That’s good. If you weren’t, I’d be worried.”

  With the deputy’s help, Finch pulled the T-shirt back on.

  Deputy Karl asked Finch to speak, to test the equipment, which Finch then did.

  “All set, Sheriff,” Karl said.

  Walt thanked Karl and dismissed her.

  “If you can get him on the defensive,” Walt said to Finch, reminding her of what they’d discussed only minutes earlier.

  “Yeah, I know: trip him up.”

  “No, actually, I wouldn’t go there. He invited you. You’re not going to plant any land mines that he isn’t prepared for, that he hasn’t seen coming. But if you engage him intellectually, you might get an emotional reaction. You might get him off his game.”

  “I’m listening . . .”

  “We use these same techniques in interrogation. The idea is to get the subject in his own comfort zone, whatever that is. Then engage him on his own terms, not yours. Speak his language. Act as if you’re his guest, not the other way around. If he has a one-syllable vocabulary, keep with one syllable. Pull him out slowly and then challenge him, again on his terms. Don’t back him into a corner until you’ve led him out into the middle of the room. It’s an outgrowth of differential reinforcement. People allowed to win early will later defend their positions. People challenged from the start will shut down. The catch is, it requires you to forfeit your own ego. It’s tricky stuff, but I promise you it works.”

  “Which means I do what?” she asked.

  “Basically, let him do the talking as much as possible. Be aware that he may try the same techniques on you. One thing I wouldn’t do is state anything as fact. Questions are fine. Statements tend to backfire, and, in your case, may shut him down.”

  “But I know what I’m talking about!” she protested.

  “That’s exactly what you have to leave behind: that attitude. Someone may have been stalking you, maybe or maybe not related to Remy, but, from where I stand, it only makes sense. He may have wanted to scare you out of the valley. When that didn’t happen, he moved on to plan B, fraternizing with the enemy, dismissing your claims. If nothing else, by questioning you he finds out how to be prepared for you. He knows he has to come up with acceptable answers in case you try to crash the auction like you crashed the tasting. He’s playing you. If the bottles are forgeries—”

  “They are!”

  “Then he’s fooled a lot of people already. As you said, that means he’s already got a lot of time and money invested in this. So a lot is riding on the outcome, including his reputation. And you are the Antichrist.”

  “If this was supposed to be a pep talk . . .”

  “It wasn’t,” he said.

  “And if he does try something . . .”

  “He won’t. If he does, we’re two to three minutes away, tops.” Walt scooped up the CABO phone and handed it to her. “We’re recording everything. Go in and get what you can.”

  Janet Finch stood at the front door of the Christensens’ house on Aspen Drive, the doorbell chiming, her heart in her throat. She took a deep breath to settle herself. It didn’t work.

  Remy answered the door, his übercool glasses and stubble haircut, silk pants and linen shirt lending him a moneyed look.

  “Ms. Finch.” He stepped aside, admitting her.

  She entered the home, admiring the furnishings, including the piano in the living room. He pointed to a couch. She was swallowed by it. Remy took a sturdier armchair to her left. She found him intimidating.

  “I would like to think you’ve come here of your own accord, Ms. Finch—what a lovely name, incidentally: a practical and decorative bird, the finch—that your thoughts are your own. Because I fear it is more likely that your so-called research is really an effort on someone else’s part to devalue or invalidate my historic find, either out of penurious underhandedness or scholarly jealousy.”

  He had taken the high ground, attempting to drive her back on her heels.

  She resisted the urge to defend herself. “I appreciate your time, Mr. Remy. I’m delighted you called.”

  “You are aware of the due diligence a find like this is put through?” he said. “The rigors of research and testing involved in verification? I remind you: these bottles were discovered nearly eleven months ago, shortly after the Jeffersons, and have been undergoing authentication and verification ever since. The best experts have examined, reviewed, and analyzed this find, and yet you, a graduate student who originally majored in animal husbandry, believe the experts got it all wrong. Don’t you find that the slightest bit presumptuous?”

  She took a deep breath. “I may have given you the wrong impression, Mr. Remy. Yes, I have some questions for you, it’s true. And, yes, they are of a scholarly bent and for my doctoral thesis. I did not, do not, expect to be compared in the same breath with such experts as Shilling, Partuuk, and Hamlin. I was hoping, however presumptuous it may be of me, to help you, not to challenge you; to prevent you from making what I believe would be a horrible mistake and thereby safeguard your incredible reputation . . . a mistake that would be bad not only for you but for our industry.”

  He studied her, squinting suspiciously through his thick glasses. She felt violated, and crossed her arms high on her chest.

  “That would presume I give your claims any credence,” he said.

  “Indeed.”

  “And I assure you, I do not. We have documentation and certification confirming the authenticity of this find. What is more problematic is the damage your dogged determination to prove me wrong can inflict on the auction price. If you are trying to make a name for yourself, Ms. Finch, you may want to rethink your strategy. I promise you, it’s not my reputation that’s going to suffer if you persist, it’s yours.”

  Again, she fought the urge to do battle with him. “Ha! I see you figured me out,” she said sarcastically. “How clever you are, Mr. Remy.” She stood up from the couch. “Believe it or not, I didn’t come here to entertain you. If at some point you’re interested in keeping yourself out of the tabloids and maybe out of jail, you might study microfractures, especially as they pertain to glass of a wood-ash composition. You have my number.”

  He came out of the chair with a remarkable agility, a catlike quickness that surprised her. He had her by the upper arm, his strength considerable. “I’ve insulted you,” he said. “How foolish of me.”

  “You are a legend, sir. A broker that has put his name in the history books multiple times. You must have plenty of money. So I just don’t see the point of this . . . charade. You may believe me out of my element, and you’re entitled to your opinion, but in fact this is my element. I am a student of the very experts you’ve used in your verification. My interest is to complete the research necessary to finish writing my thesis.”

  “Microfractures?” he said.

  “Glass is a super
cooled liquid,” she said. “As a result, there is no order to the molecules. They’ve been caught in a state between liquid and solid, and won’t achieve a solid state for aeons. Because of this random distribution of molecules, glass, when it is cut with an engraving tool or ground with a grinder, produces microfractures aligning away from the tool or grinder. Modern engraving is done with diamond tips spinning at phenomenal speeds, far faster than the tools of two centuries ago. Today’s tools produce microfractures aligning into the glass, not away from the tool.

  “Dr. Weisling was not stabbed to death by a madman. He was stabbed to death because his microfracture research uncovered your bottles as fakes. Either you knew that going in or it was too late to stop what you’d started, but either way your reputation is on the line.”

  Remy’s eyes had grown even bigger behind the distortion of his glasses.

  “What . . . do . . . you . . . want?”

  She hesitated. “You won’t believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  “To prove that Jefferson inventoried every bottle, damn-near every glass from his cellar, and that these Adams bottles were never a part of it. In short: the truth.”

  “You’re right, I don’t believe you. Is it money?”

  “I want you to withdraw the Adams lot from the auction,” she said. “I want access—full access—to the bottles for further analysis. I want a thorough description—which you have yet to give—of exactly where and under what circumstances you discovered the bottles. And I want any documents that show any mention of these bottles as having been in the possession of Jefferson, John Adams, or John Quincy Adams, as I’ve been unable to verify the existence of any such gift between the families.”