Killer Weekend (6 page)

   "And I wish I could, but I can't."

   "Of course you can," Patrick said. "You choose not to. There's a big difference."

   "I choose not to because you've bailed me out of every one of my screwups for as long as I can remember. Not that this is a screwup. It's not. For once I've got a chance at something that could actually work. And your help with the business plan—"

   "Was minimal."

   "It was
not
minimal. There you go again. Don't do that. You helped, and I'm grateful, but when it comes to financing it, I've got to do it myself. You're the one with all the right gut instincts. You don't become a billionaire on luck. I've got to do this, Paddy. That's all. You know that feeling when you know you're right."

   "Then at least start with Stu Holms. This fits right into his latest round of acquisitions."

   Danny joked, "Don't tell that to Liz. She'll slap another antitrust suit on him."

   "Heaven help us," Patrick said.

   "Any tricks to Stuart Holms? Other than not mentioning Liz Shaler?"

   Patrick grinned and stabbed at the slices of chicken in his salad. "He's old school. You won't get a second chance. Practice on Sharples and Jenkins. Save Holms for when you're ready. You've got several strong talking points: Trilogy has done well regionally; the push to national distribution isn't that big a stretch; lean on the fact that the big bottlers filter the water and that your source is two miles deep. Stu likes a good story, so don't be shy. He'll appreciate the evolution and growth. You've done a good job, Danny. That'll mean something to him. You won the trademark on 'organic water.' That's huge. He'll see the value. Save that for last."

   "All good stuff," Danny said.

   Patrick dripped some dressing onto his shirt.

   Danny couldn't help himself. "The pink shirt doesn't work, Paddy. You look like you're wearing house insulation."

   "You think?" Patrick blushed, tugged on his shirt, and then looked around the restaurant self-consciously.

   Danny saw surprise register on his brother's face, just before he heard the warm, soothing voice behind him.

   "Well, look what the cat dragged in. Hey, you two."

   Ailia Holms was strong and fit, like so many of the Sun Valley women. Soon to be middle-aged, with a body that peeled off ten years, she held back a restless playfulness. Her red hair forewarned her per sonality. She was a comfortable flirt in a bright green top and Oilily stretch pants that cleaved to her backside as she bent to peck Patrick on the cheek.

   "Speak of the devil," Patrick said.

   She faux-patted the top of her head, taking advantage of the moment to show off the latest augmentation to her breasts. "Devil? Are my horns showing?"

   She gave Danny an awkward hug that perhaps intentionally thrust her breasts into his chin. "Long time no see, stranger."

   "True story."

   "Everything good?" Ailia asked unflinchingly.

   "For a guy who just spent fourteen months in Club Fed, you mean?"

   "I don't care where you've been, Danny. It's good to see you, is all. You look good."

   "And you."

   "So . . . Ailia . . ." Patrick said. "Tell us about London."

   "We didn't go, as it turns out. Stu got hung up with some deal. Surprise."

   "You've been here . . . all along?" Patrick asked. Danny was suprised by the obvious disappointment on his brother's face.

   "We knew you'd be busy preparing for the conference. Looks like a great one, by the way. Elizabeth Shaler! You waited long enough to announce that!"

   Patrick reached for a chair from an empty table. Ailia waved away the offer.

   "I'd love to, but I can't stay. Stu's waiting." She leaned into Danny a second time and pecked him on the cheek. "See you tonight, I hope," she whispered.

   She gave Patrick an air kiss. "Looking forward to tonight," and hurried off.

   Both men tracked her through the tables.

   "Don't go there," Patrick cautioned. "You're damn lucky Stu never found out about you two the first time."

   "Who said he didn't?"

   "Stu is many things but charitable is not one of them. Nor is he forgiving."

   "I thought the whole town knew."

   "Apparently not."

   Patrick flagged a busboy. "We'll take the check."

   The scrawny kid turned around and clearly recognized him. "Ah . . . yes, sir." He lingered a little longer. "You're Mr. Cutter, right?"

   "Yes, I am."

   "I'm all over the G-six." He patted his pocket.

   "Did you opt for multiplayer?" Patrick asked.

   "It's bitchin'."

   "Kevin?" Cristina, the proprietor, called from the next table. She'd overheard.

   "Check," Kevin said to her, spinning around to tend to the vacated table.

   Danny asked his brother, "The G-six?"

   "A gaming cell phone. Multiuser over EVDO—high-speed wireless. Teens are our fastest-growing market."

   "You never stop."

   Patrick took it as a compliment.

   "You really think the pink doesn't work?"

W
ith the contact lenses removed, his full vision restored, Milav Trevalian studied the mirrored reflection of Rafe Nagler.

         The corners of his lips twisted up, stretching the theatrical facial hair glued to his face, a grin of satisfaction for having made it through the loss of the dog.

   Ricky was no prop; he needed the dog. He'd also left his backpack behind, a calculated risk necessitated by the incompetence of the airline. The Brasilia's lack of overhead baggage space had required all passengers to gate-check their carry-ons. But either the Salt Lake or Sun Valley ground crews had mixed it in with the checked baggage. When it failed to appear on the pickup cart, Trevalian had lost his temper, quickly changing horses and directing his rage at the baggage handlers. With the unexpected loss of the dog, and the sheriff all over him, he'd feared trying to recover the backpack. This, because he couldn't be sure if he hadn't left an old airline identity tag attached to it. With the opaque contacts in place, making him truly blind (he carried two sets, one translucent), he hadn't been able to see if there was a tag there or not. He couldn't afford close scrutiny so the bag and its contents had been left behind.

   Trevalian unpacked Nagler's suitcase, tried on the unfamiliar clothes, and discovered the dead man's shirts fit fine; the pants, though big in the waist, could be made to work with the help of a belt. He noticed small bumps of thread had been sewn into tight knots on the insides of the back pockets of the pants—Braille-like personal codes allowing Nagler to determine color. He found the same hand-sewn bumps on the shirttails, and also on the socks.

   He unpacked the man's clothes into the dresser drawers, hung shirts and pants in the closet, and spread items from the toilet kit on the bathroom counter. He even smeared some toothpaste to imitate the man missing his toothbrush.

   Still contemplating a way around the death of the dog, he settled down onto the bed and lay back. Waiting came easy for him. Milav Trevalian had the patience of a saint.

I
t felt strange to enter his own vehicle as a guest, but the Secret Service would occupy the Blaine County Sheriff Office's Mobile Command Center—the MCC—for the next four days.

   A rock-and-roll tour bus confiscated in a drug bust and remodeled and equipped with every conceivable trick, the MCC was currently parked in front of the post office in the obnoxiously large parking lot that fronted the Sun Valley resort.

   Deputy Special Agent in Charge Scott Ramsey sat behind a laptop computer in one of two opposing booths. Behind him hung a seating chart for the inn's ballroom, each seat labeled with a guest name.

   Ramsey gave Walt a nod. Three other agents stood and scattered into the back of the bus, from where Walt could hear a live feed of CNN.

   Ramsey had the thick neck and shoulders of a steroid user.

   "Dryer's on-site in the hotel but busy at the moment. I told you that over the phone."

   "Let's make him unbusy, if we can."

   "Not possible. How can I help you?"

   Walt laid the stack of photographs, cropped and printed by Fiona, down on the table.

   "We have a visitor," Walt said.

   Ramsey flipped through the first five or six, his face impassive. "Give me the four-one-one."

   "Salt Lake City airport, this morning. The victim was discovered zipped up in a body bag and hidden inside a hung ceiling in a restaurant under construction. We got lucky, I guess you could say: He was still warm. I believe his killer is the same person contracted to do Shaler."

   Ramsey continued flipping through the photos. "Glad I ate a while ago."

   "I can take these directly to the attorney general, but I thought I owed Special Agent Dryer the courtesy of a conversation. If you say that's not important, then that's not important. Thanks for your time." He scooped up the photos, turned around in the small space, offering Ramsey his back.

   Ramsey stood. "Hang on." He squeezed past Walt and led him into the Sun Valley Inn, the resort's conference hotel.

   Walt felt color rise as he recognized snippets of conversation flood down the hall from one of the conference rooms. He rounded a corner and was greeted by a parade of familiar faces just leaving a meeting. Some of the men stopped to shake hands with him.

   "Better late than never, Sheriff," someone called out.

   "Nothing like missing your own meeting," a familiar but unidentified voice said.

   Reflexively, Walt double-checked his watch, though he already knew the time. The security orientation meeting wasn't scheduled for another forty-five minutes and here it was breaking up.

W
alt entered the stuffy conference room prepared for a turf battle with Adam Dryer. He was entirely unprepared for what he saw: his father.

   The two men sat next to each other at a linen-covered table on a dais at the end of the boxy conference room. The dais was raised a foot off the floor facing rows of portable chairs separated by a center aisle, reminding Walt of a courtroom, and he the attorney pleading his case.

   Jerry Fleming lifted his head and met his son's surprised stare. "I left a message."

   Walt checked his cell phone: There was no message indicator.

   "That's bullshit," Walt said.

   Jerry Fleming served as director of security for Avicorps out of Seattle, the world's largest aircraft manufacturer. He'd taken the job and its six-figure salary, a detail he loved to mention to Walt.

   "Who moved the five o'clock?" Walt asked.

   Jerry answered, not Dryer. "The cocktail party at Cutter's tonight put a little hitch in our giddyup. It was in everyone's best interest to advance it an hour."

   "The five o'clock was
my
meeting. Mine and O'Brien's. You have no say in this."

"Apparently I do," Jerry said.

   "Your father brought us intel that First Rights is planning to protest the conference." Adam Dryer made every attempt to make this sound of the utmost importance. "I left you a message on your cell phone about the meeting being advanced."

   Walt gave him a look.

   "Careful, son," Jerry Fleming said.

   "You stay out of this," Walt said.

   "Wish that I could. My company's going to have people at the cocktail party, and the five o'clock didn't give me and my team time to get in place. A conference like this is fluid, son. You know that."

   His father was a fount of security clichés.

   "You want fluid? Try piss and vinegar."

   "The presence of First Rights requires additional planning," Dryer said.

   "The WTO in Seattle?
That
First Rights?" Walt asked.

   "The same," Dryer said.

   Walt now stepped forward and placed the Salt Lake photos in front of Dryer, who gravely flipped through the stack, passing each photograph on to Jerry Fleming.

   "Son of a bitch," Jerry said, meeting eyes with his son. "This is Salt Lake?" He scrutinized the photographs. "Organized mind. Experienced with a knife. Late twenties, early thirties. Single."

   "It isn't a serial killer, Dad. It's a hit man."

   "I've hunted them, son," Jerry said. "All you've done is study them."

   "The upside," Dryer said, raising his voice and making a conscious effort to separate father and son, "is that clearly our intel was wrong. When and if this dead guy's ever IDed, what do you want to bet his initials come back AG? We got all worked up over nothing."

   "And this 'hit,' " Walt said, drawing the quotes, "just happens to occur a couple hundred miles south of where AG Shaler is giving a speech? Give me a break! The intel's solid. The planning for the body bag is the kicker. That should bother us, because it's an indication of premeditation." He paused, allowing that to sink in. "This kill
confirms
the intel. We need to know the victim's identity—fast—and his role in this, because the man behind that knife is on his way here, or is here already."

   "You're entitled to your opinions, Sheriff," Dryer said. "But until we have the identification, until we have
any
kind of evidence connecting this kill to the conference, it would be irresponsible to initiate hysteria over what might be nothing."

   " 'Initiate hysteria'?" Walt asked. "You want another look at those photos? This guy is a pro—whoever he is, whatever his purpose—and he's within three hundred miles of here. All I'm saying is we'd better sit up and take notice."