Killer Weekend (4 page)

   Walt avoided checking out her rack by returning his attention to the arrival. The first few passengers were retirement age; then came two families with young kids; then several men who looked like the Cutter conference prototypes, CEOs dressing down in blue blazers, buttondown shirts, and khaki pants. A silver-haired golfer and his wife wearing matching St. Andrews sun visors followed the four executives.

   "I'm bothering you," Julie said.

   "Busy at the moment," Walt said.

   "On the job? Seriously? What's up?"

   "Just a meet-and-greet. Maybe we could do this later," he suggested, still not taking his eyes off the arriving passengers.

   "Sure," she said. Walt didn't like letting her icy tone go uncorrected, but he had no choice.

   He checked over with Brandon, who shrugged: still no suspect.

   The arriving passengers began to mill about, blocking his view of the plane. Walt moved closer to the arrivals door in order to get a better view. A snarl had formed around the baggage trolley. Two female baggage handlers were arguing with a guy, his back to Walt.

   He caught Brandon's eye once more and signaled that he was headed outside. The dry, hot air slapped him in the face. He hurried toward the commotion, holding his weapon in the holster as he jogged.

   A baggage handler spoke up. "You cannot go back there, sir!"

   Walt felt a surge of adrenaline.
Someone's trying to breach security.
He couldn't make out what the man said but it made the woman even angrier.

   Walt involuntarily unsnapped his holster.

   "What's going on here?" he asked, grabbing the man by the shoulders and spinning him around.

   He wore wraparound sunglasses and carried a white cane in his right hand.

   He pulled away, stumbled, and nearly fell over a loose bag. Walt steadied him, apologizing and introducing himself in alternating strokes.

   The man was blind.

   "What's the problem here?" he asked finally.

   The passenger composed himself. "I asked to see my dog. He's a service dog. I shouldn't be made to wait."

   "I've explained to him, Sheriff," the woman said, "that no one besides us can go back there, sir."

   "Your dog's back there?"

   He nodded vigorously. "They required me to kennel him and to check him like baggage. They made me sign a release because of the July heat. I just want to make sure he's okay."

   "We can do that," Walt said. "But we're going to have to do it inside at baggage claim. She's just doing her job: No one's allowed back there."

   Walt glanced over his shoulder, wondering how many passengers he'd missed during this encounter. He hoped Brandon had gotten a good look.

   "You're the sheriff? Seriously?" The blind man sounded amused. A wry smile overcame him.

   "Blaine County sheriff. Yes. Let's take this inside. Okay?"

   "Rafe Nagler." He switched hands with the cane and stuck his right hand out into space. Walt took hold and they shook hands. "I'm here for the Cutter conference. There's supposed to be someone here to pick me up."

   "We'll get it sorted out. Can I offer you . . . ?" Walt took him by the elbow.

   The blind man allowed himself to be led. "Thank you, Sheriff."

   "I'm sorry for the confusion," he said. "Your first time here?"

   "Yes. I've heard wonderful things. Did you know there's a ski program for the visually impaired?"

   "Not this time of year," Walt said.

   "No." Nagler smiled. "Maybe not. But kayaking, and rock climbing."

   "Kayaking? Seriously?"

   Nagler leaned his head back and laughed, showing his teeth. "I'm bullshitting you," he said. "But the rock climbing's for real."

   Walt grinned but of course the man couldn't see it. Then he faked a laugh, which sounded stupid.

   "I've never attended the Cutter conference, but it's said to be the single most important such meeting in the country."

   "Patrick Cutter knows how to throw a party," Walt confirmed.

   "The
Journal
called it the most influential three days to the communications business," Nagler said.

   "Sounds right."

   "Called Patrick Cutter a kingmaker. Disney bought ABC as a result of this conference. Brighton Distilleries acquired a film studio and changed its entire business plan."

   "And you are?"

   "A dreary professor invited to bore the executives for an hour on Saturday."

   "I doubt that."

   Walt pulled open and held the door, the air-conditioning catching in his throat, a welcome relief. He eagerly scanned the interior. Brandon was nowhere to be seen.

   "Do you see Ricky's kennel?" Nagler asked.

   "Oversized items are delivered at the far end."

   "I'm good now, Sheriff, thank you." Nagler extended his cane and gently broke Walt's grip.

   He negotiated his way through a minefield of pulled luggage and impatient passengers.

   Walt rose to his toes and saw Brandon standing alone. No suspect. Anxiety flooded him. This was the perfect place to identify and arrest a possible hit man arriving to kill Shaler. Right here and now. The contrarian in him wanted to believe that the murder victim in Salt Lake City had been the intended target, that the job was over and done. That the feds had gotten it wrong. That he and O'Brien and Dryer had nothing more to worry about. This was how Cutter would spin it. Possibly Dryer along with him.

   Time worked against him. Baggage arrived, sliding down the short, stainless steel chute with a jarring bang. Like cows at a feeding trough, the passengers approached and nudged one another aside.

   The crowded space became more chaotic with passengers wielding bags. The terminal's automatic doors clapped open and shut. Walt spun a full circle, his frustration mounting. Another few minutes and the terminal would be all but empty.

   He signaled Brandon and caught his attention. The two men stepped outside in concert, each through a different door. Together they inspected the parking lot for anyone who'd managed to slip past unnoticed.

   Brandon stood by the taxi stand and hotel/van pickup. He leaned his head into several of the vehicles, scanning the boarding passengers.

   Over Walt's radio came Brandon's voice. "I've got zilch."

   "Ditto," Walt replied.

   "Hang on . . . we've got a situation inside," Brandon announced.

   Walt turned and hurried back into the terminal.

A
wall of onlookers blocked Walt's view. He crossed the room and forced his way through the small crowd that had gathered. At the same time, Brandon reached the center of the huddle.

   It was Nagler, the blind man again, kneeling on the floor in front of a cream-colored kennel. He was crying, or cursing, patting the floor violently, feeling for his cane. Catching it with his right hand, he lifted it roughly as if to whip the confused baggage handler. Walt jumped forward and grabbed the man's forearm and peeled the cane from his fingers.

   "Hold it!" Walt said sternly.

   "Sheriff?" Nagler's face was flushed and splotchy. The sunglasses had slipped down his nose, giving Walt a fleeting glimpse of a milky eye with no iris, no pupil. Only a sickening, yellow-white bulb.

   "There's been a tragic accident," the baggage handler said.

   "Bullshit!" Nagler said. "They killed my dog. They killed Ricky!"

   "The heat," the handler said. She fingered a large neon orange tag attached to the kennel's metal grate door. "The release spells it all out."

   "You think I
read
your stupid release?" Nagler shouted. "Is it in Braille? Give me a break! They said it was a formality, an insurance thing. That it was a short flight—an hour—and that people flew their pets all the time."

   "It's true, they do," the baggage handler said. "But it's the middle of the day, sir. And a hot one at that. And—"

   "My dog is dead," he wailed. "Do you have any idea—"

   "There's nothing more to be gained here," Walt said. "We're sorry for your loss. Let's get you to where you're going. Get you settled."

   "Settled? I'm not leaving Ricky."

   "We'll get him to the local vet. You can decide how you want to . . . handle things from there. Didn't you say someone was meeting you?"

   "That would be me." A twenty-something woman with a fresh face and freckles stepped out of the small crowd. "Karen Platt. I'm a greeter for C
³
. I'm Mr. Nagler's greeter. His driver." She turned toward Nagler. "I am, like, so sorry about the dog. Ohmygod, I can't imagine . . ."

   Nagler came to his feet. Walt placed the cane back into the man's hand.

   "Promise me you won't hit anyone with that," Walt said.

   "Ricky and I . . . ," Nagler said but was unable to finish. He threw his head back, looked to the ceiling, and took a deep breath. "You have no idea."

   "We'll see if we can't do something. Maybe we can find a dog for the weekend."

   "It doesn't work like that. Ricky and I have been together six years."

   "Maybe we can do something."

   "Did you check any luggage, sir?" Brandon spoke up, his low voice drawing Nagler's attention. Ever the practical one; always thinking ahead.

   Nagler fumbled in his back pocket and pulled out a ticket sleeve. Stapled to the inside of the sleeve was a bag tag. He handed it in Brandon's direction. Brandon took it and passed it to Nagler's driver. She went down the line of the few remaining bags and, checking baggage strips, pulled out a hard-shelled Samsonite.

   "No one read me the release," Nagler muttered. He swung his cane out in front of him, but without the energy that had fed his initial anger. "Where's the car? Ricky could have gotten me out of here just fine." He tested the area with the cane and made his way slowly, Karen Platt dragging his suitcase.

   Brandon shut the wire door and hoisted the dog kennel like it was a loaf of bread. "Tough break," he said to Walt.

   Walt glanced around, having almost forgotten about their suspect. He felt the weight of defeat.

   Elton John's "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" leaked out of speakers in the ceiling.

   
Shit,
he thought: He'd have that tune stuck in his head the rest of the day.

R
 afe Nagler pulled himself out of the Volvo, his white cane at his side. A voice summoned in a thick Eastern European accent. The man sounded big. He grabbed Nagler firmly by the arm.

   "Welcome to the Sun Valley Lodge."

   "Thank you." Nagler swung his cane. The bellman took him by the arm. "Lodge or inn?" he asked, as he was led up some stairs. "I thought the conference is at the Sun Valley Inn."

   "Actually, we offer the two hotels: the lodge, which is where you are now—more upscale and geared for entertainment; and the inn, just across the pond, that provides additional rooms and houses our conference and banquet facilities."

   Karen Platt, his driver, called out that she'd take care of his bag. She sounded both anxious and nervous, as she had been for the twentyminute ride from the airport, and the half hour spent at the vet making arrangements for Ricky's cremation.

   "Would you describe the lobby to me, please, with twelve o'clock straight ahead?" Nagler said to the bellman as they entered the hotel.

   "Of course. It's a big room, almost two rooms connected by a hall

way running nine o'clock to three o'clock. It's large. Grand. There's an alcove immediately to our right—registration desk. Concierge is ahead—one o'clock—at a large desk, mahogany or cherry with a leather top. There are some columns between here and there. Square; wood-paneled. Eleven o'clock, two more columns. Double doors at twelve o'clock far at the end of the lobby that lead outside to the patio. Down the hallway I mentioned are some wonderful photographs, historic photographs of the lodge and its famous guests: Marilyn Monroe, Bobby Kennedy, Jimmy Stewart, some presidents. Perhaps I can describe some of them to you during your stay."

   "I'd like that," Nagler said.

   "The Duchin Lounge is at eleven o'clock, near the doors to the patio," he continued. "There are two couches and several chairs between where we are and the Duchin Lounge. A coffee table. The entrance to Gretchen's, breakfast and lunch, is behind the concierge."

   "At one o'clock," Nagler said.

   "Yes, sir. Very good."

   Nagler turned right. "Registration?"

   "You're a quick learner."

   "You work with what you're given. That scraping sound beyond the patio doors?"

   "The outdoor skating rink."

   "An outdoor skating rink in July?"

   "Exactly! Unbelievable, eh? We are famous for our weekend ice shows. Very important skaters."

   The desk receptionist had a French accent and handled his reservation with aplomb. She retrieved a leather tote bag for him loaded with gifts from the C
³
. She noted mention of his service dog.

   "There's been an accident," Nagler said, his voice tight. "Ricky's not with us."

   The receptionist and the bellman both offered their condolences.

   Nagler and the bellman rode the elevator to the third floor, discussing the hotel's history and construction.

   They arrived at the room and the bellman admitted him. Nagler pulled a bill from his left pants pocket and handed it to the man. Left pocket: tens. Right pocket: ones.

   "Listen," Nagler said, after following the bellman's quick description of the room's layout. "Ricky, my dog, was my eyes. I've grown quite dependent on him. It's not that I can't negotiate with my cane—of course I can—but I'm out of practice. If you could pass word around to the staff . . ." He offered another three tens into the air and they were accepted.