Walt had posted several deputies: four in uniform outside, two in plainclothes inside. He had the Mobile Command vehicle, the MC, parked nearby, a thirty-foot RV tricked out with all sorts of communications equipment, all of it donated.
Walt spotted Remy, crossed the tent, and politely ushered him into the grand dining tent, where a sea of bare round tables and a massive stage awaited the following night’s festivities. He handed Remy a stack of nine photographs that Branson Risk had e-mailed to him.
“Do you recognize this man?”
The photos were dark, the faces distorted by movement. The man in question had been wrestling with the attaché case, which was locked to the Taurus’s seat frame. Two of the nine caught a piece of his face in focus.
“No,” said Remy.
“You have to wonder how these people knew what they knew,” Walt said. “They went to a lot of trouble trying to steal that case.”
“The Adams bottles have been in the catalog for months, Sheriff. Whoever did this has had a long time to plan.”
“But as I understand it, Branson Risk contained the delivery details to a handful of people.”
“I’m certain of it. But they are in the business of moving valuable art, are they not? Certainly they must establish patterns to their work, no?” He passed the photographs back to Walt.
“It still doesn’t explain how they knew which flight Malone would be on or which car he’d rented.”
“Someone at the airport . . . a TSA agent, perhaps. The case required all sorts of waivers because of the TSA’s ban on fluids. We did as they asked. If you paid off the right agent, you’d know what’s moving where.”
“You’ve thought about this, have you?” Walt asked.
“It’s my million dollars, Sheriff. A man has been killed. Yes, I’ve thought about it.”
“We are on occasion asked to provide transportation for valuable art,” Walt conceded. “As you can imagine, there’s a great deal of it in this valley. This kind of thing is not entirely foreign to me. But, honestly, we’ve met private, not commercial, jets. I’ve never known of any big-dollar private art arriving on a commercial flight.”
“That was at my request, I’m afraid,” Remy said. “Your local airport ran out of landing times for general aviation, given the high volume of private aircraft arriving this weekend. That left us the option of landing the bottles privately in Twin Falls and driving them two hours north or flying them in commercially and requiring a nightmare of paperwork. The less they’re moved, the better. I opted for the commercial flight, going against Branson Risk’s recommendations. So the blame falls on me.”
“And Branson Risk,” Walt said.
“I’m not convinced this is going to get you anywhere.”
Walt tapped the top photograph. “I need to identify this individual. I need to know how they could be so well prepared and ready for Malone’s arrival.”
“You believe they will try again.” Remy made it a statement. “I seriously doubt that.”
“Tonight, tomorrow night—they’ve spent time and money on this. They’ll make another try. It’ll be something bold, daring, and, they hope, completely unexpected. The way they used the wrecker tells us that much.” He pulled Remy deeper into the tent, well out of earshot. “What if I could have a local artist duplicate the bottles? Copy the labels? Replace the real bottles with fakes?”
Remy’s eyes hardened. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is an educated crowd, not easily fooled. I guarantee you.”
“Just a thought,” Walt said.
“And a ridiculous one at that,” Remy said. “Do me a favor and protect my bottles, Sheriff. Don’t go getting creative. If we need to reinvent the wheel, no one will be knocking on
your
door. So do what you’re good at and be a presence.” Saliva popped from his mouth with the
p
in
presence.
He thumped Walt on the arm playfully. “Okay?” he asked. “Okay,” he answered rhetorically.
16
W
ith Lorraine Duisit on his arm, Christopher Cantell entered the wine-auction preview displaying an invitation that had him as Christopher Conrad, owner of Oakleaf Barrels, a manufacturer of casks and distributor of distillery equipment. He wore black silk pants, a white linen shirt, a hand-loomed sweater of burgundy raw silk and forest green microfibers, and lots of gold bling on his hands and wrists. He had donned a medium-length hairpiece and green contact lenses, easy additions that grossly altered his looks. Lorraine wore a copper satin top over tight-fitting autumn-toned linen pants and Ceylon-white, crystal-beaded Bianca sandals. The pair exuded enough nouveau richness to repel any possible interest in them.
Cantell left the photography to Lorraine, who, even though she was a natural brunette, could play the dumb blonde with aplomb. She made a point of giggling and jiggling her way around the tent, speaking a little bit too loudly, name-dropping and snapping shots. She made sure to get shots with the golf shop in the background.
Cantell took note of the large number of drivers and security personnel loitering outside. He was less surprised by the two undercover and four uniformed men, probably from the Sheriff’s Office. He and Lorraine confined themselves to the lots of red wines, tasting several cabernets and pinots, sampled the hors d’oeuvres, then pulled away, keeping to themselves and making a point to stay away from the Adams bottles.
“This could get interesting,” she said.
“Already is.”
“Are you sure it’s enough?”
“No,” he answered. “It’s a bit far, and may not do the trick.”
“Then what?”
“I’m considering Fort Worth,” he said.
“You wouldn’t!”
“Why not?”
“People were hurt,” she reminded him.
“Mild stuff. Outpatient material.”
“It was a
stampede
!”
“I’m only considering . . . no decision yet.”
“Hello!” It was a blond woman whom Cantell took to be in her early fifties, though there was no telling with this set: she might have been seventy underneath all the work. “Susie,” she said, extending her telltale hand, her skin like a dried apple.
“Chris Conrad and my friend Laura,” Cantell said. “Oakleaf Barrels.”
She tried to look impressed but obviously had not heard of them.
“It’s like those BASF television ads,” Cantell said. “You know, we don’t make the wine, we make what makes the wine better. In our case, it’s the oak casks. Can’t have a good wine without a properly aged cask.”
“Oh . . . of course . . . How interesting.” She couldn’t have cared less. “Do you know anyone here? May I introduce you around?”
“We’re just fine, thank you. Looking forward to tomorrow night.”
Lorraine burst in. “What a lovely setting.”
“It
is,
isn’t it?”
“And how do you fit into all this?” Cantell asked.
“I’m in real estate,” Susie said. “Along with about half the valley’s population.” She smiled with her big teeth. “I serve on the center’s board. We reap the rewards of all this.” She waved her hand. “It’s so generous of all of you.”
“Happy to do our part. Will the dinner go off on time?” Cantell asked.
“Honestly,” she said, lowering her voice, “we typically run about a half hour behind. Ketchum time, we call it.”
“So dinner will seat around . . . ?”
“Eight-fifteen, eight-thirty, I would guess. Will you be with us for the dinner?”
“Oh, we’re in for the whole enchilada,” said Lorraine, “not that you’re serving Mexican.” She hoped for a laugh. “Chris brought his wallet, if you know what I mean.”
“Isn’t that . . . delightful,” Susie said. She glanced around, desperate to be free of them. “I expect I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.”
Cantell offered her his hand, and they shook.
“It’ll be a blast,” Lorraine said.
Cantell flashed her a look. “It sure will be,” he said.
Susie worked her way back into the crowd.
17
F
iona entered the tent on the arm of Roger Hillabrand, the CEO of a multinational defense-contracting firm, who’d been a central figure in a recent investigation of Walt’s office. He had a Robert Redford thing going: rich, rugged, and ready for action.
Seeing her, Walt wanted to simply disappear.
“Another junior high reaction to an adult situation,”
is how Gail would have labeled it. His relationship with Fiona was not entirely professional, though he wasn’t sure she knew that. If forced to say hello, to acknowledge the pair, he might blush or stammer or otherwise give himself away. That was to be avoided at all costs.
He should have realized she’d attend, should have realized guys like Hillabrand didn’t give up. He’d gone after her before, during the investigation. Fiona had pushed back, but had now obviously had a change of heart. Walt barely recognized her in the skintight designer jeans, high heels, and red silk, western-style shirt unsnapped to the third button.
They arrived to the party like Sun Valley royalty. Thankfully, they were swallowed up immediately by the social crush.
“Hey, Sheriff, isn’t that—?”
“Yeah,” Walt said, cutting Brandon off, forcing himself to look away.
“She sure cleans up good.”
“I’ll be at Mobile Command. Stay on comm.”
He headed for the far entrance of the tent.
The tent itself was now crowded with guests, a confusing mix of pretensions and loud talk that went with wine connoisseurs. Overhearing such descriptions as “a buttery nose” and “a chalky vanilla finish,” he wanted to laugh. To him, wine came in a box, and eventually went down the toilet.
The more tasting that went on, the louder the voices became, a shouting match with built-in laugh track.
Nearly out of the tent now, Walt overheard a young woman arguing with a volunteer hostess that she should be allowed in the party. The volunteer politely explained it was by invitation only.
“I won’t be but five minutes,” the young woman complained bitterly. “I promise, I won’t drink any wine. I could care less! I just need a minute with one of the presenters.”
“Who?”
“Arthur Remy. It’s
extremely important.
”
Mention of Remy’s name caught Walt’s attention. The volunteer hostess said something Walt couldn’t hear. The young woman seeking entrance, clearly disgusted, charged past her into the tent.
W
hen Fiona spotted Walt, she gripped Roger’s arm more tightly and steered him toward the whites.
“Do you ever play that game where you make up what other people do, who they are, what they’re thinking?” she blurted out before realizing how childish it sounded. “Forget I just said that,” she added, embarrassed.
“Heavens no! It’s a wonderful game. The only problem is, I know everyone here.”
“Everyone?”
“Damn near.”
They each accepted a small glass of white wine.
“What about him,” she asked, “the anxious-looking guy?”
“You guess first,” he said. “I’ll tell you how close you are.”
“You know him?”
“
Of
him, absolutely.”
“Someone intense. A surgeon maybe. Or a broker who lost everything in the crash last year. He’s a wannabe, worried sick, by the look of him, at not being the center of a conversation.”
“That’s Teddy Sumner,” Hillabrand revealed. “His wife was the film producer Annette Dunning. You know,
The Last Look
,
A Farewell to Harm
—”
“I loved that movie!” she gasped.
“She died of breast cancer . . . two years ago, now. Teddy took over the reins, soon confirming the old adage that there can’t be two geniuses in the same bed.”
“There’s no such adage.”
“There ought to be. He’s squandered most of the fortune she’d made them—not helped any by the crash, of course—living well beyond his means. Has a teenage daughter, I think, which can’t be easy. A nice enough guy who should have been content to live off her earnings rather than trying to prove himself, which rarely works. You want to feel sorry for him, but he was his own undoing.”
“Your turn,” she said, looking around the tent. She pointed out the Engletons, whose guest cottage she was renting. He was tall, with a wisp of white interrupting his dark hair. She was exotic-looking, wearing a shawl from India or Pakistan.
“I know Michael and Leslie very well. You know that.”
“But if you didn’t . . . ?”
“But I do . . . That’s not how the game is played, is it?”
“Okay, fine. How about the man with the pinup, the blow-up doll . . . Do you know them?”
“Aren’t we generous?”
“I don’t feel sorry for someone who looks like a teakettle. You don’t wear a copper top like that unless you’re starved for attention.”