“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.
Walt 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?”
“There were several calls back and forth,” Remy said. “A good deal of concern.”
“So, in theory, Branson has photographs that could prove helpful to the investigation.” Walt couldn’t take his eyes off the case.
“If they exist, I will have them make them available to you.” Remy caught Walt staring. “Go ahead, Sheriff. Be my guest. They’re a piece of history.”
Walt opened the lid.
Inside, packed in custom-molded gray foam, were three dark green bottles of wine.
11
Cantell’s team boarded Sun Valley’s River Run high-speed quad chairlift at five-minute intervals so as not to be seen sitting together. The views behind them were spectacular: the town of Ketchum in the foreground, then, farther east, the Sun Valley resort, with its hotels and golf course. A second chairlift carried them to the very top, from which one could see for a hundred miles in all directions: craggy mountaintops north, east, and west, and, to the south, a vast expanse of high-altitude desert.