Killer Weekend

by Ridley Pearson

  Walt fought back a smile. He said, “We stay in here too long and Dryer’s going to have me vetted.”

  “You would have liked him-Charlie. And he, you. He knew all about you-about your saving me.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Of course you did,” she said. “Do you suppose Adam Dryer doesn’t know?”

  “I would doubt it.”

  “Isn’t that strange? And should I tell him?”

  “Your decision entirely,” he said.

  “You’d rather I didn’t,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes. Gosh, it’s good to see you. Isn’t it strange how something like that connects two people? I feel like…Well, I’m gushing. Forgive me.”

  “It’s an honor to be part of your security detail.”

  “Oh…please. I loathe the Secret Service. Not the men themselves-they’re just doing a job-but being watched and accounted for twenty-four/seven. It’s absolutely oppressive.”

  “We’re going to have a tight net around you this weekend. I hope you’re still speaking to me Monday.”

  She grabbed both his hands in hers. “Monday, and the Monday after that, and every Monday forever, Walt. I can tell you’re nonchalant about this, but I’ve never forgotten that night, and I never will.”

  “May there never be another one,” Walt said.

  “Amen to that.”

  A knock on the door.

  “Probably another fund-raising call,” she said.

  “So the rumors are true?” he asked.

  She bit back a smile. Her eyes were positively luminous. She smelled like a garden of lilacs. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She pulled open the door. There were five people jammed into the hallway, all vying for her attention.

  “Not exactly the same as running for county sheriff,” he said over her shoulder, unsure if she’d heard him or not.

  He glanced up the hallway toward the bedroom. He remembered hearing the glass break, could still feel the grip of his weapon cool in his right hand as he slipped it from the holster. Could still feel the hot jolt as the knife entered him. He’d shot three men in the line of duty since that first time-had killed one of them. But nothing came close to this memory. And though he hadn’t admitted it to her, he, too, felt a kindred bond with this woman unlike anything he had with anyone.

  She had heard him, for she turned over her shoulder and spoke to him, as if able to block out the five voices all speaking at once. “You didn’t tell me about the divorce, and I’m going to honor that. But when you’re ready, I’d like to hear about it. If you’re okay with that.”

  They moved as a group then, back down the hall until she let out an ear-piercing whistle without touching her lips. Walt had once had a baseball coach who could whistle like that. Her entourage shut up, and she was tall enough that when she rose onto her tiptoes she lifted above them. “I have a security meeting with Sheriff Fleming, Agent Dryer, and Patrick Cutter right now. It’s confidential, and none of you are invited. After that, I’m going fly-fishing for the afternoon. And after that I’m yours again. I ask you to respect my schedule, and for the time being to leave the house and take a break. Jenna, that means you, too. Okay…so go. Go!”

  The group of handlers dispersed immediately. A moment later it was just the Secret Service detail of four agents, including Dryer, and Patrick Cutter, and Walt. He noticed for the first time that some press was encamped across the street in front of the library, their dark lenses aimed like rifle scopes.

  “Let’s get to it,” Dryer said, clapping and rubbing his hands together.

  One of Dryer’s men lowered and twisted the living room blinds shut, then left through the front door. Walt noticed another of the detail stood outside the kitchen door. The four of them took seats on a couch and a pair of art deco overstuffed chairs that had been a part of the house since the 1950s. A rectangular glass coffee table, covered in magazines and newspapers, sat as an island between them.

  As the four-way conversation began, Walt took a quick assessment: Dryer was efficient and down to business, as he’d learned to expect of the government man; Cutter seemed slightly aloof and impatient, a man with his eyes on the bigger picture; Walt’s job seemed to be to play the paranoid local cop, but he resisted playing to the stereotype; for her part, Liz Shaler found it in her powers to give each person her full attention while scribbling out the occasional note to herself. Walt envisioned the discussion as a transcript written from the recording made by the digital pen that Patrick Cutter placed in the center of the coffee table with everyone’s permission.

  FLEMING: So, a credible threat.

  DRYER: A telecommunications intercept. Most likely the NSA, although we got it from the Bureau.

  CUTTER: Dick never tells me who we get this stuff from. But it’s obviously for real.

  DRYER: Very real.

  FLEMING: Do we have a transcript?

  DRYER: It’s coming, which probably means we’ll get it Tuesday or Wednesday, after the conference and Ms. Shaler’s talk, Sunday morning, are long behind us. Government work.

  FLEMING: But credible.

  DRYER: Mentions “AG” and a price of five hundred thousand dollars.

  SHALER: My stock has gone up. The first man to try to kill me was a volunteer.

  CUTTER: Dick feels it’s of concern, certainly, but it was apparently stated vaguely enough that it could be for any date, now or well into the future.

  FLEMING: I take it means we make adjustments. Have we considered canceling the talk?

  CUTTER: Let’s not get carried away.

  FLEMING: You’ll excuse me, sir, but any of us getting carried away is what we’re trying to prevent.

  DRYER: Any talk of cancellation is premature. We’ve received twelve threats in the past three weeks. This is by far the most credible, but we need more intel.

  CUTTER: It’s the end piece of the conference. I will honor and respect whatever decision you make, Liz, but you know the stakes.

  SHALER: No one’s canceling anything. Walt is just looking after me. I appreciate it, and I’m going to listen to him and give it some thought.

  DRYER: It comes back onto you, Sheriff. We all report to you.

  CUTTER: But not the decision making! Liz can make up her own mind about appearing or not.

  FLEMING: I agree with Special Agent in Charge DRYER: We need as much intel as possible. Has the threat been assigned?

  DRYER: It didn’t come from OC. That’s what we got from the Bureau. Not mob. A third party, someone unknown to them, is behind the buy. That could be good news, could be bad. But at least it’s not some crime family, because that would scream duck and cover, as far as I’m concerned.

  FLEMING: And maybe still does.

  DRYER: For now we stick with the plan: My guys cover her in transit and in situ. Your boys clear the routes, handle crowd containment, traffic flow, and advise us on back-door routing. If there’s any investigation to take place, that’s going to have to come from you, Sheriff. It’s not what we do, and I don’t have the staff. I’ve asked the Bureau to stay on top of this, but you never know. They’re overworked and underpaid, just like the rest of us. Most of the rest of us.

  CUTTER: I can offer any of Dick’s team. He has a couple dozen men on the ground, as far as I know. Most, if not all, are ex-Bureau or military. No one with less than twelve years. A bunch of investigations among them.

  FLEMING: I’ll get with O’Brien then. Thank you. SHALER: I want you all to know that this isn’t the first time and won’t be the last, I’m sure. I feel very safe in your care. I’d like to be kept up on what we know, and I’d be the most comfortable if Sheriff Fleming acted as go-between. So I trust, Agent Dryer, that every effort will be made to keep the sheriff in the loop at all times.

  FLEMING: Sure thing.

  What the transcript would never reveal, Walt realized, were the nuances of glances and telegraphed body language that accompanied the discussion. Patrick Cutter believed he h
ad the most to lose. He worked himself up throughout the meeting, growing steadily more agitated. Special Agent in Charge Dryer maintained a dispassionate calm, but failed to make eye contact with Walt even once, confirming how uncomfortable he was with Walt’s theoretical control of the conference’s security, and his relationship with Liz Shaler; Dryer was a take-charge man, and he saw Walt as standing in his way. Liz Shaler had stood up for Walt, perhaps a little too much, focusing her attention nearly entirely on him over the ten-minute discussion, embracing Walt as her ally, and perhaps even using this support as a threat to Patrick Cutter and Agent Dryer. Walt came away better informed but oddly less confident of his own position. There were games at play, both subtle and overt. The unspoken but clearly apparent alliance between Cutter and Dryer was what he feared most-they meant to have Liz Shaler to themselves, and now saw Walt’s participation as an impediment.

  A commotion at the front door grabbed their attention, and it was a mark of their high nerves that both Dryer and Walt reached for their weapons.

  Three

  T he guard at the front door announced, “The guide’s here.”

  Dryer responded, “Show her in.”

  At five feet eleven, Fiona Kenshaw stood an inch taller than Walt. She wore her brown hair up in a ponytail pulled through a ball cap that read “Kiss My Bass.” She wore a purple T-shirt pulled snuggly over her firm frame, and a pair of hiking shorts with multiple pockets.

  “Small world, Sheriff.”

  Dryer offered Walt a look that said, “You know her, too?”

  “Fiona works for the department part-time as our crime-scene photographer,” Walt explained.

  “Our waiter at dinner last night,” Liz Shaler said, “let it slip that she had a master’s in marine biology from Scripps. Ski-bummed three years ago and never left. Only in Sun Valley.”

  A man followed her through the front door-unannounced, Walt noted-drawing everyone’s attention, including Fiona’s. It was Danny Cutter, Patrick’s wayward younger brother. A radiantly handsome man in his early forties who bore little physical resemblance to his older brother, Danny owned a room the moment he entered-a quality other men envied and women found irresistible. Danny had parlayed this into personal gain for most of his life. Danny blew past Fiona to Liz, whom he kissed affectionately and hugged. He shook hands all around, including with Walt, apparently bearing no grudge over his arrest two years earlier, an event that had been a major setback to his business career. Despite the fact that Walt had the man’s photograph and fingerprints on file at the office-a drug possession-he couldn’t help but like Danny.

  Liz leaned toward Walt. “Look, I know Danny had some problems, but they’re behind him now.” Walt found her sympathetic tone illuminating. It wasn’t easy to stay upset with Danny Cutter for very long.

  Danny approached Fiona with the elegance of a bullfighter. He shook her hand, and unabashedly sized her up. Walt half expected Fiona to curtsy.

  Walt caught Dryer’s eye. “Danny wasn’t announced by your guy. Why not?”

  “Mr. Cutter’s known to us,” Dryer explained. “He’s a personal friend of AG Shaler’s. Listen, we’re aware of his priors, Sheriff, if that’s your concern-”

  “My concern is that whoever’s coming after her needs access. If you’re not screening every single person-myself included-”

  “Danny Cutter?” Dryer asked incredulously.

  “He’s vulnerable. He’s a convicted felon on probation. And he has access-open access.” Walt’s phone rang, sparing him more of a reply. He slipped through the door and took the call outside.

  It was Nancy, his assistant.

  “Transportation Security Administration director from Salt Lake City airport is holding for you. Can I put him through?”

  “What’s it about?” Walt asked.

  “Said it’s urgent, or I wouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “Urgent?” The front door guard overheard this. Walt headed to the Cherokee for privacy. He slid behind the wheel.

  “And don’t forget your father,” Nancy said.

  “Who could forget my father?” he mumbled. “Okay,” he said into the phone as he started the engine for the sake of the air-conditioning. “Put him through.”

  “Listen, we don’t know exactly what we’ve got, only that in this new era of sharing intelligence”-there was no doubting his sarcasm-“it’s my responsibility to pass along this kind of thing in a timely fashion.” Nate Capshaw spoke slowly, as if imagining each word before uttering it. Or maybe, Walt thought, he was considering his choice of words for the sake of legality, carefully weighing how it might read on a court transcript sometime down the road. This won Walt’s attention.

  “And much appreciated,” Walt said.

  “Workers here found a body this morning just over seventy minutes ago.”

  Walt’s internal alarm sounded: Why call the Blaine County sheriff about a body at the Salt Lake airport? “It was inside a body bag that was in turn hidden inside the suspended ceiling of a commercial space under construction between our C and D concourses.” Capshaw was reporting a murder that showed great premeditation.

  Walt’s rapid breathing was amplified by the cell phone.

  “Still warm,” Capshaw said.

  His hands were sweating on the wheel. “So why me?”

  “Our video surveillance was down on that concourse because of the work going on. But one of my guys-listen, this is a long shot-but he followed a guy on a hunch. Thought maybe he recognized him from a past life. Used to be a state cop in Rhode Island. This is about the same time as whoever’s in that body bag was being done, right? My guy loses the suspect in E-the E concourse. Frickin’ madhouse, E, with all these regional jets. But this guy in the body bag…This was a pro job. No question about that. No ID on him. Labels cut out of the clothing. Face cut up. Fingertips removed. Some teeth pulled. A real fucking mess-excuse the French. This guy was meant to be a John Doe, and he’s going to stay that way. And the thing of it is…all the cameras we got in E-working cameras, I’m talking about-and we never get a decent look at his face. Are you kidding me? This guy’s fucking Baryshnikov the way he moves. Keeps his back to the cameras the whole time. Then we lose him in the men’s room.”

  “But why me?” Walt asked again.

  “Seven flights departed from E in the minutes after we lost him. I’m calling all seven destinations, starting with you. Because the first flight to depart was headed up there to Sun Valley. You’ve got that shindig up there this weekend, right? Offers a guy like this some fairly big targets.”

  “Sounds like he got his target,” Walt said. “Call the FBI field office. Ask them to check with Washington. I think they’re going to be interested in your John Doe.”

  “The flight arrives there in fifteen minutes,” Capshaw said.

  “Jesus, why didn’t you say that five minutes ago?” Walt flipped on the flashers, sped away from the curb. He ran the red light at the intersection of Sun Valley Road and Highway 75 and headed south.

  “Give me whatever description you’ve got,” Walt said, waiting to launch the siren until the phone call concluded.

  It was twenty minutes to the airport, on a good day.

  Four

  S even minutes later-eight minutes before wheels down-BCS dispatch had rallied three of its eight cruisers. Two had sealed Friedman Airport. The third, driven by deputy Tom Brandon, pulled up to the terminal only seconds behind Walt.

  “We’ve got six minutes,” Walt told Brandon, a big-boned, thick man in his later twenties. A pair of aviator glasses hid his dark eyes. Tommy Brandon had been ski patrol on the mountain for six years before applying to the Sheriff’s Office. His star had risen quickly, and with it, Walt’s reliance on him. “Suspect is average to tall, dark hair, black T-shirt, jeans or black jeans.”

  “Sheriff?” Other deputies often addressed Walt informally by his first name. Brandon never had, and Walt appreciated it. “That description fits half of the guys in this valley.�
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  “It’s all we’ve got.”

  “And Pete?”

  Pete Wood ran security at the small airport. His guys were trained to unzip bags and stare at X-ray machines.

  “I briefed him on the way in. His guys will keep their distance. This guy killed a man in Salt Lake,” Walt said. “Keep alert, Tommy. Sounds like he’s pretty good with a knife.”

  “At least he’s coming off a plane, he should be clean.”

  “Should be,” Walt said ominously. “If he’s got checked luggage, he could have a piece in there. So if and when we get a twenty, we keep him away from baggage claim. We do not want a hostage situation.”

  “Got it.”

  The Friedman terminal looked bland-like a one-story brown shoebox-when compared with its extraordinary backdrop: a string of foothills rising a thousand feet off the valley floor. This midsection of the valley, the town of Hailey, eleven miles south of Ketchum/Sun Valley, qualified as the transition point between high desert to the south and alpine to the north, leaving the south-facing slopes of the foothills barren, covered in nothing but knee-high wax weed and sagebrush. The north slopes, holding snow longer in the springtime, and the moisture it contained, were covered in evergreen.

  The sound of a plane on approach caused both men to turn and look up.

  “Showtime,” Walt said.

  Brandon raised his voice above the roar of the turboprop. “What about shoes?”

  “Shoes?” Walt nearly had to shout.

  “Suspects change their hair, their face, but just as often leave on the same pair of shoes. Do we have a photo?”

  “No photo. Shoes,” Walt said, sounding impressed.

  “You aren’t careful, Sheriff, I’ll run against you in the next primary.”

  Walt studied his deputy for the crack of a smile or any sign that he was kidding. But Brandon maintained a poker face.

  From the other side of the small terminal came the sudden winding down of the turboprops. The plane had landed.