Jerry made a point of dramatically checking his watch. “We don’t have near enough of that kind of time.”
“Don’t mix me up with Bobby.”
Jerry slapped the table. His drink jumped. He won the attention of a few nearby tables. He leveled his bloodshot eyes at Walt, wiped his wet lips with his napkin, and then carefully sawed through his slab of prime rib.
“I asked Myra and Kevin to join us for dessert,” Walt said. “If you don’t want to see them…”
“’Course I do.”
“Kevin needs us, Dad. Needs us as role models, not constantly at battle. Maybe we could declare a truce for a few minutes tonight.”
Jerry sought answers in his reflection in the drink. “What battle?”
“And at some point we’ve got to clear the air on Bobby’s death.”
The man’s eyes flashed darkly.
“Kevin and Myra need closure. Keeping it to yourself-”
“I’m not keeping anything to myself.”
“You think you’re protecting us. I know your heart’s in a good place on this. But it’s boomeranging.”
“All the king’s horses and all the king’s men,” Jerry said.
“We can’t help Bobby, but we can put this family back together, Dad.”
“You and Gail are doing your part. Right?” Jerry pulled on the Scotch, rescuing the ice cubes from drowning. He peered out from beneath his brow, cruelly, then set the drink down without a sound.
Walt spotted Myra and Kevin by the grill, scanning tables. “Here they are,” Walt said. “Remember, Dad, he’s not a little boy anymore.”
Jerry drained the drink. “Shut the hell up.”
Twenty-seven
T revalian occupied a high stool in a darkened corner near the entrance to the Duchin Lounge. At 11:15, the place was jumping.
Immediately to his left, a Madison Avenue type, remade in three-hundred-dollar jeans and colorfully stitched cowboy boots, made sloppy with a woman twenty years his junior. They drank from martini glasses; she had an annoying habit of reapplying her lipstick between sips and kisses.
Joe Fos-a Filipino in his sixties-animated jazz standards and show tunes with keyboard flourishes. The bass player pulled the drummer along, and the dancers never rested.
At standing room only, the volume of conversation overpowered the attempts of young waitresses taking orders.
Trevalian nursed a Drambuie, not out of any great love for the potent liqueur, but because it promised to color his breath for the next several hours, and that might prove important.
He had yet to find a way to work around the loss of Ricky. The idea had been to establish himself with the dog so that a substitution wouldn’t be noticed.
At the set break, he studied the clientele, the clubby, familiar way they moved from table to table saying their hellos with air kisses and firm handshakes. Bits and pieces of conversation reached his corner: golf, film, and some politics. Elizabeth Shaler’s name surfaced more than once. He kept an eye on the door in case she happened by. He’d read the New Yorker piece-he’d read nearly everything written about her. Knew her better than she knew herself. Old habits died hard.
When the band began again, it did so as a quartet, behind the enchanting voice of a dirty blonde in her midthirties. She wore a tight-fitting red cocktail dress with a plunging neckline that tickled her navel. She’d worked on her face to look young and innocent. But her smoky, emotionally charged voice added to her years. She won herself light applause, but deserved better. Another place, another time, and he might have been interested.
Shaler never showed. The combo stopped at 11:45, the snifter on the piano overflowing with twenty-dollar tips. The tables slowly emptied ahead of the 1 A.M. closing. Trevalian left the lodge, stepping out into the surprisingly chilly mountain air. He walked quietly along the beautifully lit paths, past the shops, the theater, and the pond, reaching the inn. He continued on, out into the parking lot and beyond, finally reaching a delivery alley.
Moonlit, gray scattered clouds raced overhead, sliced into pieces by the mountain peaks. He worked into a slight stagger, for appearance’s sake, and proceeded down the narrow strip of asphalt toward the loading bays behind the inn.
From the study off Cutter’s kitchen, Trevalian had found the wife’s Outlook program up and running, and he’d scanned her calendar for appointments and appearances. Two entries had mentioned Shaler by name: the opening luau on Friday night and the luncheon on Sunday at 10 A.M.
Rafe Nagler had an invitation to the luau but not to the luncheon.
His foray tonight was to study the layout of the banquet room ahead of her keynote on Sunday-to pace off exit routes and familiarize himself with the look and feel of the ballroom through eyes not clouded by prosthetic contact lenses.
His skin cool, his heart rate calm, Trevalian casually entered a loading bay and moved through a dark service hallway behind the banquet room. He passed food service trolleys, discarded aprons, and a wall phone with a stretched-out cord. The corridor smelled unpleasant but not unfamiliar-years of spilled salads comingling with the stain of human sweat. He pulled open a fire door marked BANQUET ROOM C.
He stepped inside.
Sand. The entire ballroom floor was covered in it. Three inches deep or more. Trevalian sank into it, both astonished and horrified. Then he recalled the Friday night dinner had been themed a luau, and he marveled at Patrick Cutter’s excess. Would it stay the weekend, or would it be removed by Sunday? If it stayed, it would prove a formidable obstacle for him.
His eyes were just beginning to adjust when he heard voices at the far doors.
Someone was coming inside.
Twenty-eight
N early an hour earlier, at 12:30 A.M., Walt had hit a wall of fatigue while attempting to catch up on paperwork. Preparing to call it a night, he’d been organizing the Salt Lake photos when he saw one of the retail space’s torn-apart ceiling. Then he checked Shaler’s master schedule, grabbed his gun belt, and took off at a run.
Now, at nearly 1:30 A.M., driving north, he called O’Brien’s cell phone.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
“I wish,” answered the security man.
Walt asked, “Did your guys check the banquet room after the workers got out of there?”
“You worry too much. I like that about you. We’ve got all day tomorrow. The first real event is the luau tomorrow night.”
“Shaler’s scheduled for a walk-through and sound check at 10 A.M., preregistration.”
He could practically hear O’Brien thinking.
“We need to sweep the room,” Walt announced. “I’m heading up there. I’m going to do a walk-through tonight.”
“Tonight? How ’bout first thing in the morning? We’ve got to move Patrick back into the residence. He dined in town following the party.”
Walt could hear O’Brien’s despair. Private security often amounted to little more than babysitting. He’d never envied his father his six-figure salary for this reason.
O’Brien offered to send two of his guys over to help Walt.
“I’m good. I’ve got patrols doing nothing this time of night.”
With O’Brien still making offers, Walt politely signed off and called Tom Brandon. Brandon was off duty. When he failed to reach him, Walt turned off into the Red Top trailer park. With so many of the trailers looking the same, he drove past Brandon ’s on his first try. It wasn’t the trailer, but his wife’s car that stopped Walt on the second try: Gail’s minivan was parked in Brandon ’s driveway. He slowed, then continued on, catching sight of the trailer in his rearview mirror. Dark. Locked up for the night.
He pulled to the corner, stopped, and threw his head against the steering wheel. He couldn’t catch his breath. His heart was doing a tumbling act. He squeezed out tears before he knew it, then leaned back and wiped his face on his sleeve. He kept checking the rearview mirror, the minivan and the trailer now quite small in the frame, hoping he’d gotten t
he wrong place, the wrong car. He drove around the block again, and this time checked the plates. Stopped at the same corner. Ached the same way.
He thought back to Brandon ’s comment about running against him in the primary, and he saw it on a whole new level. His deputy was doing his ex-wife. Stealing the best thing in his life. Never mind that it had to end, it didn’t have to end like this, and for a brave moment Walt considered confronting them both.
Then he drove on, in a daze of confusion, a lump like a piece of coal rammed down his throat.
He did his best to control his voice and summoned his patrols over the radio. But a bear had been reported tearing up trash cans mid-valley and his two available cars had responded. He headed to Sun Valley, alone and afraid in a way he’d not felt. His father’s sarcastic sting about the nature of crime in the valley-his job-echoed uncomfortably in his mind. Gail had moved on. It was all but unthinkable-but think about it he did.
He checked in at the inn’s front desk, not wanting Sun Valley security mistaking him for a prowler.
The Bavarian woman behind the desk said no one was to enter the banquet rooms until morning.
He touched his sheriff’s badge, pinned to his uniform. “I’m not asking. I’m just letting you know I’m here. If you’d like, I’d be happy to wake Larry Raffles.” Walt pulled out his cell. Raffles managed the resort.
She declined, though a little frostily, dangled a set of keys, and led Walt down a walnut-paneled corridor. She unlocked a set of doors for him and accompanied him inside. A geometric shape of light flooded across lavishly decorated tables and…sand.
The young woman found some lights. Enough to navigate.
“I’ll make sure it’s locked when I leave. And I’ll stop by the desk, so you know I’ve left.” He thanked her. The door clunked shut behind her.
The room was shaped like a shoebox, with Walt in the center of one of the long sides. He faced the elevated riser from where Liz Shaler would give her talk. It currently held six potted palm trees. Gift boxes sat at each place setting. Envy nibbled at Walt-that Cutter, or anyone, should have this kind of disposable income.
He dragged his feet through the thick sand wishing he could take his boots off. He reached the riser, knee height and rimmed with a navy blue skirt.
Through his grief, frustration, and fatigue, something tugged at him. He’d come to respect such sensations. He stood absolutely still, blood thumping past his ears, his throat dry. Wishing for more light, he spotted a bank of dimmer switches forty feet away. Almost automatically, he unsnapped his holster, felt the cool of its gnarled grip. Moved silently, sweat breaking out all over him.
The bank of light switches was too far. He felt drawn to his right, and he followed his instinct.
His boots moved absolutely silently in the sand. He passed one table after another, looking left, right, ahead, and behind.
The tablecloths cascaded down to seat height, screening the area beneath the tables, leaving fifty hiding places to search.
His radio, clipped to his waist, spit with static. “Sheriff, what’s your twenty?”
A blur to his right. A man’s form raced for an exit, slammed a door open, and vanished before Walt got a decent look at him.
Running now, Walt reached for his radio’s handset and called out the code for a suspicious person, “Ten-one-oh-seven. In pursuit on foot. Sun Valley Inn. Request backup.” His belt snagged a tablecloth and dragged it off to the sound of exploding wineglasses.
He burst into a service hallway that was pitch black. He reached down and silenced his radio.
Took two steps forward. Smashed into a food dolly, tripped, and went down on one knee. Jumped to his feet, his eyes stinging to pierce the dark. The suspect had disappeared.
Twenty-nine
T revalian, hidden behind a meal cart, kept his back to the wall. He knew the quickest way out: the service hallway to the loading platform. He knew he’d be exposed for several seconds if he ran. But a moving target, at least. The sheriff was less than ten feet away-unmoving, barely breathing. More professional, more careful than he’d have thought.
With his back literally against the wall, he once again calculated the time and distance to the end of the hall. He walked himself through the sharp left turn to the loading dock. He had no desire for confrontation. Only escape.
He hesitated only briefly. Then he shoved the food cart and ran.
Thirty
W alt drew his weapon as the cart smashed into the wall. He didn’t remember grabbing his flashlight, but there it was, held with the gun as if a single piece.
The dark shape of a man juked right and left, zigzagging down the hall, and was gone.
Walt turned left at the end of the hall and broke through hanging ribbons of sheet plastic used as a cold barrier. He jumped off the loading dock, lost his balance, and fell forward. As he came to his feet, the suspect was now twenty yards ahead of him. A very fast runner.
Walt holstered the gun at a full sprint. He wasn’t going to shoot only to find it was a high school kid, or the wayward son of a hotel guest. He followed out onto the first fairway of the Sun Valley golf course, and heard the tick-tick-tick of lawn sprinklers before he felt the first cold shower. Within seconds he was soaked through, his boots slogging through the spongy grass.
He trailed the suspect by twenty yards as he followed him through a wall of towering evergreens and out into a back parking lot. The man ran well and showed no signs of slowing, having increased the gap between them. Beyond the lot loomed a field of white tents that Walt recognized as the Sun Valley Art Show. Closed for the night, the tents covered two acres and offered the suspect a place to get lost.
He disappeared there, Walt several long seconds behind.
Walt slowed to a walk, catching his breath, listening for the man. He was soaked through, his boots squishing with each step. The vendors had lowered the walls of the tents. He took his weapon back in his hand, aimed the flashlight tent to tent. Yanking back flaps and peering inside, he worked down the row. The man was here.
Walt leaned forward for the next tent, when a sharp snap of fabric turned him around in time to see the darkened figure take off and disappear around a corner. Walt cut through between tents, arriving in the adjacent aisle. He saw a tent jerk and wiggle as his quarry caught a foot on a rope.
Walt crashed through into the next aisle. He spotted the man to his right just rounding a corner. Walt took off at a sprint, hugging the same corner.
The other man jumped out and connected with Walt, shoving him and using his momentum to lift him off his feet. Walt was catapulted into a tent across the aisle, crashed into and through the front wall of canvas, and took out the legs of a portable table. He rolled, came to his feet, tripped over a horse saddle, and went down hard.
A harsh beam of light filled his eyes.
“Sheriff? That you? What the hell?” The voice belonged to a Sun Valley Company security man.
Out of breath, Walt coughed out, “A guy…running…” He pointed. “After him!”
The security man just stood there, confused. “What guy?”
Walt pushed past the man into the aisle. Empty.
“What guy?” the guard repeated.
“Where’d you come from?” Walt asked. “How could you not have seen him?”
“Didn’t see no one. Heard you crashing around over here. Came running.”
“Get on the radio. I don’t want any cars leaving the main lot. Anyone with wet hair gets detained.”
“Wet hair. Yes, sir.”
Walt took off toward the lodge. The hit man was here to kill Liz Shaler, he had no doubt now. Given the element of surprise, the man could have done far worse to him. Stabbed him. Broken his neck. Taken his gun. But he’d attempted none of these and instead of making him an amateur it marked him a pro: He’d done the minimum required to get cleanly away. Intentional or not, the man had delivered a message.
And whether Dryer chose to or not, Walt intended to liste
n.
FRIDAY
One
O ver the incessant din of the Weather Channel, Danny Cutter heard the telephone system’s unique ring tone that signaled an arrival at the front door of his brother’s compound. He continued on the elliptical as he used the television remote to view a fish-eye image of Ailia Holms, dressed in a two-color, gray, zippered shell, white iPod wires in her ears. She stared up toward what was supposed to be a hidden camera. She mouthed, “Hello…” Her hair was pulled back into a single ponytail, her cheeks red with the cool morning air.
Danny resentfully disembarked the trainer, punched a button on the phone, and told her, “Be right there.”
The gym occupied the upper floor of the swimming pool barn. He navigated his way back through the series of renovated barns to the front door-a two-minute, brisk walk.
A towel draped around his neck, he answered the door.
“Hey there,” Ailia said, stepping inside without invitation.
Danny eased the door shut.
“Sleep well?” She used her vixen voice, the voice of the woman who had seduced him the night before.
“He’s not here,” Danny said. “He’s up at the lodge. The rest of the guests all arrive before noon.”
She touched his cheek. “Hot and sweaty. Just how I left you last night.”
“You could try his cell.”
“I’m taking a run out Adam’s Gulch,” she explained. “You want to come with?” Patrick’s compound abutted state forest land. Aspen -and evergreen-shrouded mountains were braided together with interlocking bike and foot trails.
“I’m just wrapping up,” he said, declining. “There’s coffee, if you want.”
“Staff arrives at eight, isn’t that right?” She checked her watch and cozied up to him. “We could put that twenty minutes to good use.”
“Rain check,” he said.
She complained, “It doesn’t rain much here, Danny. You know that.” She stepped away and looked around the room. “You’d never guess there were a hundred people here last night.”
Killer Weekend Page 8