Eleven
T revalian’s trick was to put a liberal amount of Vaseline laced with cayenne pepper up both nostrils. His nose ran like a faucet and gave Nagler the excuse to miss most of the events. The beauty of the Nagler identity was that the former academic was a virtual recluse, rarely seen outside the think tank. He did not travel in these circles, nor was he known by them. He crashed the invitation-only luncheon he’d seen mentioned on Cutter’s home computer.
No one would be so impolite as to bounce a blind man, and they did not. A place was set, and he sat through the outdoor luncheon, on the lawn of the Guest House, only three tables away from the woman he’d come to kill. Had he not cared about his own freedom, he might have run a knife through her and been done with it, for the Secret Service agents kept their distance, guarding the perimeter but not the woman. With his semitransparent contacts in place, Trevalian could see well enough to not make a mess of eating.
Prior to dessert he excused himself, having exhausted his Kleenex, and wanting to set the hook. As expected, a Secret Service agent escorted him and Toey to a golf cart that then shuttled him back to the lodge. This planted the dog’s existence firmly in the minds of the agents.
Back in Nagler’s room, Trevalian moved quickly, with a rehearsed system of changing from one man to the other. He locked the appropriate doors, hung out the PRIVACY tags, and then left the rooms and took the stairs to the ground floor.
Trevalian, as hotel guest Meisner, walked hurriedly into the side lot where he’d parked the rental. He drove out onto Sun Valley Road and parked along the bike path with a tourist map unfolded on the steering wheel. Ten minutes later, two black Escalades driving in tandem pulled up to the traffic light. Shaler’s escort.
He followed well back of the Escalades, turned and approached a building marked as the library. The television crews gave away her home. He parked and got out, having not figured on such a scene. There was no way he could get near her house without either being arrested or his face being shown on national television. He studied the suddenly excited reporters and news crews, all swilling Tully’s iced coffees from paper cups. Their enthusiasm, manifested as shouting and screaming, waned as Shaler entered the house without comment. These same news crews would likely be covering the brunch on Sunday. They would be in the room. Now he was the one who felt on edge: jumpy and excited.
He passed the next fifteen minutes watching them while trying to find a way inside. The journalists suddenly sprang back to life only to realize it was Shaler’s Hispanic housecleaner and not the AG at the side door. But where they cursed with disappointment, Trevalian had to contain his excitement: for the housecleaner carried a bulging white canvas sack in her arms. A laundry bag.
The maid launched the sack into the back of a beat-up Chevy, slammed the hatch, and climbed behind the driver’s wheel.
Trevalian was back in the rental in seconds and had the engine running by the time she pulled out of the drive. He followed, knowing a maid wasn’t going to check for tails. She drove six blocks and parked. He couldn’t find a parking place. He resorted to double parking in a private parking lot that warned of towing unauthorized vehicles. He hurried from the car and caught the door to the Suds Tub as it swung shut behind the maid.
She thanked him.
“Hello, Maria,” a woman with stringy hair said from behind the counter. Even with two fans running, the laundry suffered from high humidity and extreme heat. “Shaler?” she said, tapping on a keyboard and beginning her count, as the laundry bag was inverted. “Be with you in a minute,” she called out to Trevalian.
“No problem,” he said. The appearance of this maid was a gift. The icing on the cake came as the proprietor apologized to the maid that due to the extremely busy weekend and a broken washer, pickup would be Monday at the earliest, no exceptions.
Maria didn’t seem to care. She took a receipt, offered Trevalian a smile in passing, and left, carrying her empty laundry sack with her.
For his purposes, that empty sack would do. But he couldn’t see how to get it without making a scene.
“Can I help you?” the proprietor inquired.
Trevalian asked about the pricing, threw in a few questions about timing, and watched as the woman transferred Shaler’s dirty clothes into a blue sack, placed a sticker on it from the order form, pinned a tag bearing a second sticker to the bag, and then wedged the sack onto the second shelf from the floor with a dozen others-all identical.
“I don’t know if you heard,” she said over her shoulder, “but we’re a little backlogged because of a faulty washer.”
“I’m good,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
As he left, he made a quick study of the business’s security system.
A challenge-but nothing he couldn’t work with.
Twelve
W alt met Fiona in the parking lot of the golf pro shop. She climbed into the Cherokee and immediately fiddled with the air-conditioning, making it colder.
“Damn, that sun’s hot,” she complained. She worked with her camera, pushing buttons on the back, and then passed it to Walt, who held it gingerly.
On the small LCD screen, he saw a photo of a man he recognized as Andy Bartholomew, the self-proclaimed leader of First Rights. “Where is this, the chairlift?”
“Yeah. River Run. You toggle this flywheel to move to the next shot.”
She leaned in close to demonstrate, and he tensed noticeably. Any proximity to a woman was too close for him right now. Even a bucket seat across a Jeep made him feel as if she were in his lap. She scorned him for his reaction, but went back to her corner. He toggled to the next shot.
What had been a blob in the first photo now turned out to be a man’s shoulder. Also, in this second shot the chairlift as a backdrop became more apparent. The Sun Valley Company operated a chairlift to the top of the mountain for summer sightseeing. Bartholomew, and the man belonging to that shoulder, were clearly in line for the chairlift.
The third photo caused him to gasp. “That’s Dick O’Brien.”
“That’s what Tommy said.”
He didn’t like her referring to Brandon by his first name, and nearly corrected her.
“What the hell is Cutter’s head of security doing with the leader of First Rights?”
“Tommy said that, too.”
“I don’t care about Tommy Brandon, okay?” The words were out of his mouth before he knew it.
Fiona sat up straight.
“Sorry…I…” He pointed to the camera, unable to make eye contact with her.
“What…is going on?” she asked.
After a moment, she obliged him, advancing the images. Another several photos, all taken within a few minutes of one another. Bartholomew and O’Brien boarded and rode a chairlift together. “Oh, shit,” Walt mumbled.
“Sheriff?”
“The only reason you ride a twenty-minute chairlift with someone like Bartholomew is so that no one can listen in,” he said.
“He threatened him,” she said. “That’s what Tommy said happened: The big guy told the younger one that if he made any trouble for the conference there’d be hell to pay.”
“Thing is…,” Walt said, “it only takes about thirty seconds to do that. So why all the cloak-and-dagger involving the chairlift? That’s a lot of trouble to go through-a long ride to share with the guy-if all you’re going to do is try to scare him.”
“So?”
“So I’m going to find out.”
Twenty minutes later he and Bartholomew occupied the front seat of Brandon ’s BCS cruiser, which was parked in a Sinclair gas station across from the employee dormitories a few hundred yards from the site of the First Rights demonstration.
Walt introduced himself and shook hands with Bartholomew, a small man with an erudite face despite a grunge appearance. He emphasized that the man was here of his own free will and was under no legal obligation to cooperate.
“We’re cool.”
“I hea
rd you took in the view from the top of Baldy this morning,” Walt said.
Bartholomew grimaced.
“It’s a small town. I also heard Dick O’Brien took that ride with you.”
Bartholomew studied the car’s ceiling fabric. He released a long exhale.
“I like Dick O’Brien-I’ve worked with him on the conference for the past four years. I don’t want to make accusations against a friend of mine, without a complaint to back it up.”
“No complaints,” Bartholomew said.
Walt considered leaving it there-he’d done his duty. “If he threatened or extorted you, Mr. Bartholomew, it’s my obligation to inform you that we will and can protect you against any such malfeasance.”
“Such a big word for an Idaho sheriff. But then again, Sheriff Walter Fleming, you’re not your average county sheriff, are you? Quantico trained. Your college degree at Northwestern on a full ride. Former two-term president of the state’s Sheriffs’ Association. Currently serving on the National Association of Counties. Your father, a former FBI special agent.”
“You want a gold star for doing your homework, go back to school,” Walt said. “Or do I counter by telling you you’re a Berkeley grad who joined the Peace Corps, worked for Nader’s election campaign in 2000, and then went off track. You’re an angry teen on steroids, Mr. Bartholomew. I’m not interested in you, only whether or not Dick O’Brien threatened you.”
“I can handle myself.”
“Which is what I’m afraid of. It’s my job to handle Dick O’Brien, not yours. Don’t mess with him.”
“You can relax, Sheriff. His interest was in making a contribution to our cause.”
Walt mulled this over. “A contribution?” he said.
“Fifty thousand dollars: twenty-five up front, twenty-five when we cross the Blaine County border. He suggested we park ourselves on the capitol’s front lawn in Boise.”
“Fifty thousand dollars if you walked.”
“That’s what the man said.”
“And what did you say?” Walt asked.
“I told him to get in line. I turned down a hundred grand yesterday.”
“I’m in the wrong business. Who offered you the hundred?”
“No idea,” Bartholomew said. “An anonymous phone call. Maybe it was a joke.”
“You have no idea who made the offer?”
“Cutter, I can understand,” Bartholomew said. “He has his gig to protect. But the first one? Who but Cutter cares about it that much?”
“If you try to do to Sun Valley what you did to Seattle,” Walt warned, “you’ll be met with a show of overwhelming force.”
“Shock and awe?” he said sarcastically. “Let me tell you something, Sheriff. You’re limited to tear gas and rubber bullets, and we’ve seen them both.”
“I have National Guard Reserves on call. If you start something, I will finish it.”
“And whom do I see if I’m threatened by the sheriff?”
“That would be me,” Walt said, trading ironic smiles with the man. He reached for the missing door handle, then knocked loudly on the glass for Brandon to let him out.
Walt stood up out of the car to find himself face-to-face with his deputy. Bartholomew slid across the seat and also got out. He headed across Sun Valley Road back toward the demonstration.
“Sheriff?” Brandon said, when Walt failed to move. Brandon was nearly a head taller.
Walt hesitated, his head spinning, his fists clenched. “You two could have waited for the paperwork to come through.”
Brandon ’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. He stiffened his posture, standing at rigid attention.
Walt opened his mouth to say more, but then reconsidered, shook his head, and walked away. He didn’t look back to check, as he crossed the road, but he sensed the man was still standing there staring straight ahead, and it gave him a much needed sense of satisfaction.
“Asshole,” he mumbled under his breath.
Thirteen
T revalian worked out hard before an operation, believing it mitigated the adrenaline rushes. Late Friday night he spent forty minutes on a treadmill and an elliptical, and another twenty with light weights-half his typical daily routine. With the edge burned off his nerves, he found his response time was quicker, his thinking clearer.
As he returned from the late night workout, his mind on the Suds Tub laundry and not the hallway’s wall of fame-photos of Gary Cooper, Ernest Hemingway, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Clint Eastwood-he spotted a scuffle ahead.
It appeared to be a feud between a husband and wife. The man had hold of her upper arms. He raised his voice drunkenly. The woman wore a clinging formal dress, her bare back to Trevalian. With each step she took to distance herself, the man moved with her-an awkward and dangerous dance.
She broke away from him with a sudden jerk, turning toward Trevalian. It was the jazz singer from the night before. The man was not her husband, but some lech of a hotel guest. Trevalian quickened his step. The singer spotted him, locked onto him. Her eyes cried for help.
He knew better than to get involved in this. But as the elevator bell dinged and the doors drew open, he saw an opportunity. The slobbering fool called out, “Hey, there! You come back here! We’re not done!” He looked about sixty, though fit for his age.
Trevalian moved toward her with deliberate speed. Her purse thumped against her flank. Trevalian hooked her elbow with his sweat-soaked arm, spun her around on her high heels, and escorted her into the elevator.
The elevator car lifted past the second floor sounding a bell. They met eyes; hers were bright with appreciation.
“I hope that wasn’t your husband,” Trevalian said.
She held up her left hand: no ring.
The elevator arrived at the third floor. He held the door and let her pass. She opened her mouth to thank him. He said, “No charge.” The elevator doors closed and they turned in opposite directions. Then the violent cursing of a man’s angry voice rose up the stairway.
She turned back toward him. “Hide me, please. Just for a minute.”
On the job, Trevalian did not get involved; he did not womanize.
“Five minutes,” he said. He took her by the elbow and led her down the hallway.
They walked briskly. As the man’s voice became clearer, far behind them, Trevalian broke into a light jog. The woman stopped, foisted her purse onto Trevalian, kicked off her heels, squatted down to scoop them up, hoisted her dress, and took off at a run. At the sight of him holding her purse she broke into a nervous laugh.
With the door to Meisner’s room locked behind them, and the jamb loop in place, he said, “You know where the phone is.” He indicated his own sodden athletic wear and, gathering a fresh change of clothes into his arms from the closet, said, “I’m going to shower. I am not going to spring out naked and attack you,” he said. “I’m sure you have someplace to go.”
“And if I stay?” she asked in her husky, singer’s voice. The lace of her bra showed. She adjusted the low-cut dress. “Could we make it ten minutes instead of five?”
“I’m heading out.” He was also about to dress in all black, although that was enough in fashion not to be a problem.
When he came back out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, he found her sitting at the desk, a hotel bottle of liquor uncapped. She was drinking from a coffee mug. She’d applied some fresh lipstick.
“They probably charge a fortune for these, and I’m sorry, but I needed it.”
“Did you call someone?” he asked.
“I didn’t.”
“Because?”
She shrugged. “Fine line. I’m not supposed to offend the guests. But I don’t have to put up with that bullshit either. If I bring security into it-especially this, of all weekends-it’ll make it into more than it was…is…whatever.”
“He was hurting you.”
“He’s an asshole. But on a weekend like this the place is full of them.”
“I’m sor
ry,” he said, “but you can’t stay.”
“No problem.” She rose, adjusted her dress again, and slipped on her shoes. “I owe you a drink.”
“Rain check?” he said.
“This is Sun Valley. It snows here, but it doesn’t rain.”
“My loss.”
“Can you walk me out?” she asked.
“I can get you down to the lobby.”
“That’ll do.” She extended her hand. “Lilly.”
“Peter,” he said, providing Meisner’s first name.
They reached the lobby without incident.
Scouting the area, she said, “I meant it about the rain check.”
She turned. She saw only his back, heading down the same hallway from which he’d first appeared.
Fourteen
J ust before midnight, with the summer sky ripped in two by a vivid Milky Way, Walt entered Friedman Memorial Airport, still reeling over his brief encounter with Dick O’Brien.
With O’Brien attending a dessert function at Trail Creek Cabin, where the commissioner of the FCC was giving an informal talk on the Politics of Policy to forty-five special ticket holders, he’d suggested meeting Walt at the Hemingway Memorial. A well-trodden path less than a mile from the cabin. Walt had worked his way down through the dark, flashlight in hand, to Hemingway’s bust. The famous writer overheard everything they said.
O’Brien, defensive from the start, lit a cigarette, its red ember traveling up and down like a firefly.
“So?” the big man said. “I heard you spoke to Bartholomew. You might have told me you had him under surveillance.”
“I might have, but I didn’t.”
“Hell of a view from up there,” O’Brien said.
“I’m not telling Patrick Cutter his business-”
“Wouldn’t be any point,” O’Brien said, sounding exasperated.
“Making that kind of offer…it wouldn’t hurt if I knew about it.”
“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”
“Did Bartholomew tell you about the hundred K?” Walt asked.
Killer Weekend Page 11
