CUTTER: I can offer any of Dick’s team. He has a couple dozen men on the ground, as far as I know. Most, if not all, are ex-Bureau or military. No one with less than twelve years. A bunch of investigations among them.
FLEMING: I’ll get with O’Brien then. Thank you. SHALER: I want you all to know that this isn’t the first time and won’t be the last, I’m sure. I feel very safe in your care. I’d like to be kept up on what we know, and I’d be the most comfortable if Sheriff Fleming acted as go-between. So I trust, Agent Dryer, that every effort will be made to keep the sheriff in the loop at all times.
FLEMING: Sure thing.
What the transcript would never reveal, Walt realized, were the nuances of glances and telegraphed body language that accompanied the discussion. Patrick Cutter believed he had the most to lose. He worked himself up throughout the meeting, growing steadily more agitated. Special Agent in Charge Dryer maintained a dispassionate calm, but failed to make eye contact with Walt even once, confirming how uncomfortable he was with Walt’s theoretical control of the conference’s security, and his relationship with Liz Shaler; Dryer was a take-charge man, and he saw Walt as standing in his way. Liz Shaler had stood up for Walt, perhaps a little too much, focusing her attention nearly entirely on him over the ten-minute discussion, embracing Walt as her ally, and perhaps even using this support as a threat to Patrick Cutter and Agent Dryer. Walt came away better informed but oddly less confident of his own position. There were games at play, both subtle and overt. The unspoken but clearly apparent alliance between Cutter and Dryer was what he feared most-they meant to have Liz Shaler to themselves, and now saw Walt’s participation as an impediment.
A commotion at the front door grabbed their attention, and it was a mark of their high nerves that both Dryer and Walt reached for their weapons.
Three
T he guard at the front door announced, “The guide’s here.”
Dryer responded, “Show her in.”
At five feet eleven, Fiona Kenshaw stood an inch taller than Walt. She wore her brown hair up in a ponytail pulled through a ball cap that read “Kiss My Bass.” She wore a purple T-shirt pulled snuggly over her firm frame, and a pair of hiking shorts with multiple pockets.
“Small world, Sheriff.”
Dryer offered Walt a look that said, “You know her, too?”
“Fiona works for the department part-time as our crime-scene photographer,” Walt explained.
“Our waiter at dinner last night,” Liz Shaler said, “let it slip that she had a master’s in marine biology from Scripps. Ski-bummed three years ago and never left. Only in Sun Valley.”
A man followed her through the front door-unannounced, Walt noted-drawing everyone’s attention, including Fiona’s. It was Danny Cutter, Patrick’s wayward younger brother. A radiantly handsome man in his early forties who bore little physical resemblance to his older brother, Danny owned a room the moment he entered-a quality other men envied and women found irresistible. Danny had parlayed this into personal gain for most of his life. Danny blew past Fiona to Liz, whom he kissed affectionately and hugged. He shook hands all around, including with Walt, apparently bearing no grudge over his arrest two years earlier, an event that had been a major setback to his business career. Despite the fact that Walt had the man’s photograph and fingerprints on file at the office-a drug possession-he couldn’t help but like Danny.
Liz leaned toward Walt. “Look, I know Danny had some problems, but they’re behind him now.” Walt found her sympathetic tone illuminating. It wasn’t easy to stay upset with Danny Cutter for very long.
Danny approached Fiona with the elegance of a bullfighter. He shook her hand, and unabashedly sized her up. Walt half expected Fiona to curtsy.
Walt caught Dryer’s eye. “Danny wasn’t announced by your guy. Why not?”
“Mr. Cutter’s known to us,” Dryer explained. “He’s a personal friend of AG Shaler’s. Listen, we’re aware of his priors, Sheriff, if that’s your concern-”
“My concern is that whoever’s coming after her needs access. If you’re not screening every single person-myself included-”
“Danny Cutter?” Dryer asked incredulously.
“He’s vulnerable. He’s a convicted felon on probation. And he has access-open access.” Walt’s phone rang, sparing him more of a reply. He slipped through the door and took the call outside.
It was Nancy, his assistant.
“Transportation Security Administration director from Salt Lake City airport is holding for you. Can I put him through?”
“What’s it about?” Walt asked.
“Said it’s urgent, or I wouldn’t have bothered you.”
“Urgent?” The front door guard overheard this. Walt headed to the Cherokee for privacy. He slid behind the wheel.
“And don’t forget your father,” Nancy said.
“Who could forget my father?” he mumbled. “Okay,” he said into the phone as he started the engine for the sake of the air-conditioning. “Put him through.”
“Listen, we don’t know exactly what we’ve got, only that in this new era of sharing intelligence”-there was no doubting his sarcasm-“it’s my responsibility to pass along this kind of thing in a timely fashion.” Nate Capshaw spoke slowly, as if imagining each word before uttering it. Or maybe, Walt thought, he was considering his choice of words for the sake of legality, carefully weighing how it might read on a court transcript sometime down the road. This won Walt’s attention.
“And much appreciated,” Walt said.
“Workers here found a body this morning just over seventy minutes ago.”
Walt’s internal alarm sounded: Why call the Blaine County sheriff about a body at the Salt Lake airport? “It was inside a body bag that was in turn hidden inside the suspended ceiling of a commercial space under construction between our C and D concourses.” Capshaw was reporting a murder that showed great premeditation.
Walt’s rapid breathing was amplified by the cell phone.
“Still warm,” Capshaw said.
His hands were sweating on the wheel. “So why me?”
“Our video surveillance was down on that concourse because of the work going on. But one of my guys-listen, this is a long shot-but he followed a guy on a hunch. Thought maybe he recognized him from a past life. Used to be a state cop in Rhode Island. This is about the same time as whoever’s in that body bag was being done, right? My guy loses the suspect in E-the E concourse. Frickin’ madhouse, E, with all these regional jets. But this guy in the body bag…This was a pro job. No question about that. No ID on him. Labels cut out of the clothing. Face cut up. Fingertips removed. Some teeth pulled. A real fucking mess-excuse the French. This guy was meant to be a John Doe, and he’s going to stay that way. And the thing of it is…all the cameras we got in E-working cameras, I’m talking about-and we never get a decent look at his face. Are you kidding me? This guy’s fucking Baryshnikov the way he moves. Keeps his back to the cameras the whole time. Then we lose him in the men’s room.”
“But why me?” Walt asked again.
“Seven flights departed from E in the minutes after we lost him. I’m calling all seven destinations, starting with you. Because the first flight to depart was headed up there to Sun Valley. You’ve got that shindig up there this weekend, right? Offers a guy like this some fairly big targets.”
“Sounds like he got his target,” Walt said. “Call the FBI field office. Ask them to check with Washington. I think they’re going to be interested in your John Doe.”
“The flight arrives there in fifteen minutes,” Capshaw said.