The dark beauty behind the registration desk wore a soft-gray suit, starched white blouse, and a bronze name tag that read SLADANA, and, beneath the name, CROATIA. She had an appealing, provocative accent that also made her difficult to understand. Her eyes so dark, he couldn’t see her pupils.
Walt was three inches shorter than she, his eyes level with her mouth. She had nice teeth.
“A Mr. Malone was scheduled to be your guest,” he said, his uniform introducing his authority. “I’d like to see the room, if I may. Any messages or packages. Anything at all you may have for him.”
Short, dark purple-polished nails tapped the keyboard.
“Randall Malone?” she asked.
Walt nodded.
“I am show voice mail for Mr. Malone . . . You like?”
“Yes, please.”
“House phone across from restrooms, down hall to left. Room two-sixteen.”
He had been hoping for a FedEx package containing a card that might unlock the attaché case. His disappointment was somewhat abated by the existence of the voice mail.
He worked his way past designer-label hotel guests crowding the lobby bar—pearl-white teeth and breast implants, golf tans, loafers without socks.
He connected with the hotel operator. The man on the voice mail did not identify himself. He recited a phone number and a time—“nine o’clock”—and hung up. The time matched Malone’s unnamed appointment in the BlackBerry.
Walt checked his watch: forty-five minutes late. He had little patience for the cloak-and-dagger that private security firms often embraced. They were wannabe spooks. He doubted the call originated from Malone’s office; they’d have phoned his BlackBerry. So maybe the phone number had to do with the attaché. A ransom payment? Was it time-sensitive? Life or death? A kidnapped journalist in Iraq? An oil company employee in Venezuela? Not much would surprise him, given the residents of Sun Valley.
Whom to call first: Branson Risk or the number left on the voice mail? If the person answering the call failed to hear Malone’s voice, would that have consequences? Convinced the attaché would disappear behind a wall of attorneys, he decided to hold off contacting the security company until he’d returned the call left in the voice mail.
Concerned that the person on the receiving end of the call might be expecting to see the hotel’s caller ID, Walt first picked up the hotel phone and connected to the operator. But he quickly hung up. What if the caller ID from Malone’s BlackBerry had been supplied and was part of the verification procedure?
Walt returned to the Cherokee, retrieved Malone’s phone, and searched its contact list for the phone number that had been left on the voice mail. It wasn’t stored.
He contemplated his options, dialed the number left on the voice mail, and impatiently awaited an answer.
9
S
ummer Sumner spotted her mark as the black Escalade rolled to a stop in front of the Sun Valley Lodge. The boy’s lanky frame wasn’t well served by the gray bellboy uniform: the collar was too big, the pants an inch short. But he had an agreeable face that was currently caught in a faraway stare that resonated with her. She doubted he was of drinking age, which put them pretty much in the same boat.
Her father was on the phone—
surprise!
—his face overcome with anguish, the money problems continuing. She sneaked the second button of her shirt open, a crass but necessary step. A boy like that . . . If her father had taught her anything, it was to take what you want.
“You don’t get ahead by waiting for handouts.”
An older bellhop helped her from the Escalade. This wouldn’t do. She worked to make eye contact with the boy her age, hoping to provoke him enough to come to her rescue. Instead, he moved toward the doors and pulled one open. She fired off a coy smile that she’d borrowed from a Beyoncé music video. He didn’t seem to react, which left her hunting for another easy mark. There was no time to waste. She had to put her plan in motion.
They entered the sumptuous lobby of dark wood and brass fixtures, alabaster chandeliers bathing the space in honey-colored light. Foreign-accented voices of the receptionists mingled with small talk coming from the couches and chairs directly ahead. Beyond the couches was a second set of double doors that she saw led to a patio and an outdoor ice-skating rink.
Her father handed her an envelope with a card key in it and joined the bellman in the elevator.
“Don’t lose it,” he said, ever the voice of confidence.
The last phone call had obviously not gone well.
“Gee, I’ll try not to,” she said. “Tell you what: I’ll meet you up there.”
They remained fixed in a staring contest until the elevator doors closed.
She scanned the lobby: no one remotely her age. Maybe the pool or tennis courts would turn up a worthy candidate, although she was hoping for a local boy, someone with a car. She hadn’t given up on the hotel staff just yet.
“You don’t get ahead by waiting for handouts.”
10
H
ello?” a heavily accented voice answered Walt’s call. He wasn’t any good at deciphering accents, but just hearing it made him wonder if he’d stumbled into a kidnapping ransom drop.
“Malone,” Walt said.
“You’re late.”
“Complications.”
“Three twenty-five Aspen Hollow, Northwood. Twenty minutes.” The line went dead.
French or Italian,
he thought. He’d been to Mexico a couple of times: it wasn’t Spanish.
He called dispatch, requesting backup. The office had eight patrols out at any one time, covering an area roughly the size of Rhode Island. He was told there were no cruisers in his vicinity.
“How about Brandon?” he asked, his stomach turning.
“He’s graveyard tonight.”
Deputy Tommy Brandon lived close by, two miles south of Ketchum, with Walt’s soon-to-be ex-wife, Gail. It had been going on for the better part of the past two years, though Walt had only discovered the affair a year earlier.
“On call?”
“Yes, sir. You want me to raise him?”
“Please.”
Ten minutes later, a shiny black pickup truck pulled up beside Walt’s Cherokee in front of the Elephant’s Perch, an outfitting store in the center of town.
Brandon, a big man with a boyish, rosy-cheeked face, had thrown on his deputy’s shirt and gun belt over a pair of blue jeans and running shoes. He walked with urgency to the door of Walt’s Cherokee.
“What’s up?”
Walt filled him in on Malone’s death and the discovery of the high-tech briefcase, currently in the Cherokee’s passenger’s seat.
“If it’s a ransom drop,” Walt said, “maybe it gets tricky when I show up in place of this guy. I’m going to tape down the TALK button on my radio so you can monitor the situation.”
“It’s just us?”
“There’s a possible time element.” He checked his watch. “Let’s move.”
“You get shot up, Sheriff, and I’m the one backing you up . . . Well, given our . . .
situation
. . . how do you think that’s going to look?”
“Not good for you. Thankfully, that’ll be your problem, not mine.”
“You’re making jokes?”
Walt indicated his radio handset clipped to his shirt’s epaulet. “If you hear it going south, do something.”
“Thanks for clearing that up,” Brandon said.
W
alt parked down the street to keep his Cherokee out of view and walked up a horseshoe-shaped driveway of hand-laid brick pavers, the attaché case in his left hand, his gun hand free. The driveway contained a small aspen grove with a man-made, rock-lined gurgling brook. The aspens blocked any view of the front door from the street. He heard a truck rumble past. Brandon.
The log home was constructed of huge timbers, the gaps sealed with toothpaste-white chinking. Walt rapped the pewter cowboy-boot door knocker twice sharply.
The door opened, revealing a thin man about Walt’s height, with a stubble of closely cropped black hair, black eyebrows, Euro-styled green-framed eyeglasses, and rough skin. He wore crisply pressed black trousers, Italian loafers, and no socks. He had a diamond earring in his left ear. His lips pursed in confusion as his eyes settled on the attaché.
“Excuse me . . . Sheriff,” he said, reading Walt’s name tag. “I was expecting—”
“A Mr. Randall Malone,” Walt said.
It took the man a moment to recover.
“I believe this is yours.” Walt said.
“The contents, yes. Not the case.” He leaned to look down the driveway. “And Mr. Malone is . . . ?”
“Dead,” Walt said, adding, “Sheriff Walt Fleming,” offering his hand.
The two shook hands—the man’s skin was clammy. “Dead? How?”
“Looks like a heart attack,” Walt answered. “You are?”
“Arthur Remy.” He stepped back and gestured for Walt to come inside. “Good God . . . I’m a houseguest here.” He shut the door. “I’m a guest of—”
“Doug and Ann Christensen,” Walt said.
“Just so.” Remy sounded impressed.
“Sun Valley could just as easily be named
Small
Valley,” Walt said.
“Dead?” Remy repeated. “But I spoke to him not fifteen—”
“That was me,” Walt said. “We traced him to the hotel.”
“But then where? When? Has anyone called the company?”
The living room smelled of vanilla, and from the cut-flower arrangements to the Chinese silk pillows atop the off-white couch it looked like something straight out of
Architectural Digest.
A nineteenth-century seven-foot Bösendorfer grand piano was parked in the corner. It cost roughly the same as Walt’s house.
“Branson Risk? No, not yet. We had concerns about the contents of the case. If a ransom drop, then—”
“Ransom? Not hardly.”
The living room led to a stately dining room and through to the restaurant-caliber kitchen, off of which was a family room with hearth, four couches, three coffee tables, and a glassed-in breakfast nook. The interior of the log home was Santa Fe stucco, with hand-worked walls sponged with brick-tinted paint. Remy poured himself a glass of red wine from a bottle on the counter, offering Walt something to drink. Walt declined.
“I need to view the contents of the case,” Walt stated, “for the sake of the investigation.”
“What investigation?”
“The heart attack may be related to an assault and kidnapping.”
“Jesus Christ.” Remy sat down in an overstuffed chair pulled up to a harvest table beneath a deer-antler chandelier.
Walt set the attaché onto the table, just out of Remy’s reach. “Malone died at the scene.”
Remy’s hand shook slightly as he worked the wineglass to his moist lips.
“I interrupted the assault, what may have been an attempted robbery,” Walt continued. “Because this is now a criminal investigation, Mr. Remy—quite likely a homicide investigation—I need to know the contents of the case.”
“So you said.”
“My office will do its best to protect your privacy. That goes for your relationship with Branson Risk as well. But we will investigate.”
Remy coughed, twisting his face uncomfortably.
“Jesus.”
He finished his glass of wine and eyed the bottle on the counter.
“Go ahead,” Walt said.
Remy didn’t appreciate being so easy to read, but he wouldn’t deny himself the refill. He returned to his chair with a full glass.
“You want Andy on the phone?” Remy asked. “I can get Andy for you.” He pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket. “Andy Cohen, Branson’s director?”
“That can wait. At present, I’m interested only in the contents of this case.”
Remy seemed to consider his situation. He looked down at the case, then back up at Walt. He nodded.
“Yes. All right. You will wait one minute, please.”
He left the room, returning with a plastic card that fit into the slot underneath the handle and turned the red LED green.
“I’ve never seen a case like this before,” Walt admitted.
“A Branson original,” Remy explained. “When locked, the internal GPS is constantly broadcasting its location. If the case is jimmied or violated in any way, a hidden camera transmits photographs continuously. Branson predetermines the route the case will take. The camera also engages if the GPS track varies from that route.”
“Were you notified the case was off route?”
“I was,” Remy said. “It went west of Hailey.”
“That’s correct. Branson’s reaction?”
“I assume they attempted to contact the courier.”
“You didn’t hear from them again?”