Killer Summer (18 page)
Authors: Ridley Pearson
Brandon was pale. He looked disoriented. Walt knew that feeling, savored the fact that it belonged to someone else.
“Stand ready!” he ordered his men as he opened the Cherokee’s back door and removed the seat belt from the attaché’s handle. “Chances are, something’s going down.”
33
F
iona studied herself in the mirror. She was wearing a black tea dress. She wore it well. It wouldn’t be considered sexy or daring, just “right.”
iona studied herself in the mirror. She was wearing a black tea dress. She wore it well. It wouldn’t be considered sexy or daring, just “right.”
Her cottage had warmed with late-afternoon sun. If she stayed too long indoors, she’d break into a sweat. She gathered up her camera bag and her purse, pulled her only black sweater from a hanger, and deposited everything into the passenger’s seat of her Subaru, then headed next door.
Leslie and Michael Engleton had offered her a ride to the auction, but she’d decided to drive herself and wanted to tell them in person. Their house sat atop a secluded hill overlooking a teardrop-shaped pond. It faced the slopes of the Sun Valley ski mountain to the west.
She heard children playing as she entered the house through the kitchen—a niece and two nephews from Carmel, here for two weeks—and wished she’d thought to bring them presents.
Leslie would not be ready on time. She knew she’d find Michael somewhere close by the children, and there he was, dressed for the auction and on his knees, playing pick-up sticks in the house’s main living room, one of three.
Michael was a handsome man, with a shock of white hair in the black that rode above his left ear like a feather. She loved the way he looked at her, like there was no one else in the room—one of his many gifts.
“Perfect,” he said when he spotted her. “She’ll be down in a minute.”
She wondered if he meant the way she looked or the fact that she’d arrived on time. To his credit, Michael never flirted. But she secretly wished he would try just once.
She explained her decision to drive herself, that it was a job for her. Though disappointed, he didn’t act surprised.
“We’ll see you there, then,” he said. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Maybe by dessert.”
She allowed herself a smile, at Leslie’s expense, and was turning to leave when she remembered to say something to the children. She had looked after them on several previous visits and liked all three very much.
It was only then she paid any attention to the pick-up sticks. She stepped closer to the game, looking straight down at the pile of colorful knitting-needle-length wooden sticks interlocked in a jumbled mess.
Perhaps it was flying with Walt, the bird’s-eye view. Perhaps it was her photographer’s eye. Whatever it was, she saw something in that pile of sticks that ran a spike of adrenaline through her.
She was in her car, speeding out the drive, before she realized she’d been rude. She’d forgotten to say good-bye.
34
W
ith the open attaché displaying the Adams bottles inside the air-cooled Plexiglas case, Walt kept an eye on the crowd at the cocktail party. An ATKINSON’S MARKET bag containing Remy’s pants and belongings rested on the grass at Walt’s feet. If the bottles were stolen without the attaché and its GPS, then Walt’s plan to follow it to George Clooney would fail. Convinced he had not seen the end of these people, he watched for the woman who’d been wearing the copper-colored blouse, the woman who’d pushed the baby stroller across Main Street and stopped the wrecker, the woman who’d run naked from the motel room. He believed she was the one in charge. She was the one he was after.
ith the open attaché displaying the Adams bottles inside the air-cooled Plexiglas case, Walt kept an eye on the crowd at the cocktail party. An ATKINSON’S MARKET bag containing Remy’s pants and belongings rested on the grass at Walt’s feet. If the bottles were stolen without the attaché and its GPS, then Walt’s plan to follow it to George Clooney would fail. Convinced he had not seen the end of these people, he watched for the woman who’d been wearing the copper-colored blouse, the woman who’d pushed the baby stroller across Main Street and stopped the wrecker, the woman who’d run naked from the motel room. He believed she was the one in charge. She was the one he was after.
Arthur Remy hobbled in on aluminum crutches. Approaching Walt, he looked like a man on too many painkillers.
“Sheriff . . .”
Walt handed Remy the bag. Remy rummaged through his belongings, his pants, his wallet, found the security card, stuffed his pockets. He then dropped the bag and pants into the grass.
“You have quite a few officers here this evening. I counted four outside.”
“Deputies, yes. An ounce of prevention . . .” Walt said.
He had five total, Brandon and four others. The radios were live, the MC parked nearby, its dispatcher maintaining control over the team. Walt had three roadblocks set up, if needed.
Remy shuffled over to the case containing the Adams bottles, like a mother hen checking her nest. He glanced at the bottles, then up at Walt, and for a moment Walt sensed Remy knew the bottles had been handled. But Fiona had photographed their position, and Walt believed they had been returned exactly.
“We need to talk,” Remy said.
“Anytime.”
“Give me a minute.”
A crowd was gathering. Remy turned and raised his voice so they could hear him.
“An historic evening! A piece of history will end up in a private collection. It’s not every day that happens.”
Walt stepped back. Remy was surrounded at once. Condolences over his knee mixed with questions about his discovery of the bottles. He caught Walt’s eye briefly, but if he intended to convey anything it was lost on Walt, whose attention was galvanized by a woman just then entering the tent.
Fiona hurried toward him.
“Wow!” Walt said, eyeing her.
“I know what it is,” she said breathlessly.
Her present state—flushed and panting—excited him.
“What
what
is?” he asked.
what
is?” he asked.
“Sawtooth Wood Products . . . the kid getting zapped.”
He drew her away from the display tables.
“What about it?” he said.
“Pick-up sticks. The kids, at Michael and Leslie’s, were playing pick-up sticks. The people doing this—the thieves—they’re going to use the logs to block a road. They were after one of the logging trucks. You spill one of those logging trucks . . . you dump logs on the road . . .”
“It would stop traffic for hours,” he muttered, realizing she’d seized upon the escape plan.
He grabbed for his radio but dropped it, pulling Fiona close to him and throwing her to the ground beneath him, as the walls of the tent briefly flared yellow and an explosion ripped through the cocktail party’s peaceful chatter.
There were screams, and immediate panic, but no more explosions. Walt rolled off Fiona and sprang to his feet.
It had begun.
35
I
n one ear Walt heard the calm voice of the MC dispatcher report the explosion. “To all units in the vicinity of the Sun Valley Golf pro shop . . .” her report began. She was broadcasting a 10-80, the radio code for an explosion, over the secure frequency monitored by the valley’s police departments and all on-duty sheriff’s deputies.
n one ear Walt heard the calm voice of the MC dispatcher report the explosion. “To all units in the vicinity of the Sun Valley Golf pro shop . . .” her report began. She was broadcasting a 10-80, the radio code for an explosion, over the secure frequency monitored by the valley’s police departments and all on-duty sheriff’s deputies.
Walt immediately returned over the same frequency. “Code nine,” he said, ordering the roadblocks established. “All units outside a half-mile radius, hold your current positions.”
Three months earlier, there had been a shooting in downtown Ketchum. In and of itself, that was a rare event but not unheard of. It being a slow night in the valley, what made things interesting was that every patrol from Bellevue to the North Shore responded, seventeen police officers and five sheriff’s deputies in all. Walt could see it happening again, despite a review board organized by him, following a front-page article in the newspaper ridiculing local law enforcement for overreacting.
Fiona’s theory about spilling logs on the highway entered his decision making. What if the thieves had read that same newspaper? What if they expected and were trying to orchestrate the same overreaction?
Within seconds, he heard a siren approaching. Then another. And another.
While four of his deputies hurried toward the fire in the golf shop, Walt and Brandon secured the Adams bottles in the attaché and made for the Cherokee, parked alongside the tent.
Emergencies instilled a certain calmness in Walt. His hearing was heightened. He saw things more clearly. He loved this shit.
Guests had scattered. Some had hit the deck like he had, others had fled to their cars. Still others had been rescued by their own bodyguards. But as the confusion settled down, so did the remaining crowd, and surprisingly quickly. Wineglasses were refilled. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves again.
Fiona was by the tent entrance, camera in hand, getting shots of the distant fire.
Another siren, and yet another. It quickly became apparent that, once again, the action-starved police were turning out in droves.
Now behind the wheel of the Cherokee, Walt called his own deputy, who served as the Bellevue marshal, to ask him to recheck the lumberyard for logging trucks.
“There should be two of them,” he told the man.
“Got it.”
“What’s that about?” Brandon said from the passenger’s seat, the attaché in hand.
Walt quickly explained Fiona’s theory, tying it to all the sirens and responding fire trucks and patrol cars.
“So they’re shutting down the highway?”
“Makes for an easier getaway.”
“But they don’t have the wine,” Brandon said, patting the case.
“Not yet, they don’t,” Walt said.
He drove off, negotiating all the well-dressed people gawking at the fire.
“If they didn’t get the rig from Sawtooth, that hardly matters. There are plenty of logging trucks around. All that work on the ski mountain . . .”
“True enough,” Walt said. “First, we get these bottles back into the bank.”
“Why didn’t they rush the party?” Brandon asked. “Why blow that golf cart and then not rush the party?”
“Yeah, I know, that’s bugging me too.”
They passed five patrol cars—two from Hailey, three from Ketchum—heading toward the fire.
“We screwed this up . . . again,” Walt said. “That’s probably half our resources heading the wrong direction.”
Brandon grabbed for the radio and, on Walt’s instruction, reiterated the order for dispatch to recall the patrols. But as he did, two more cars zoomed past, lights blazing.
“Shee-it,”
said Brandon, his face lit by the colorful lights. “Like kids in a candy store.”
said Brandon, his face lit by the colorful lights. “Like kids in a candy store.”
“Entirely too predictable,” said Walt.
They drove through their own roadblock, then moved traffic out of the way with their lights and siren. Ten minutes later, the bottles were returned to the vault, courtesy of the manager, who had agreed to be at their disposal all evening.
“Not exactly what we wanted,” Walt said, back behind the wheel, the Adams bottles now safe.
“We’re missing something,” Brandon said.
“Yup.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Nope.”
“They should have gone after the bottles.”
“Yup.”
Beatrice stuck her wet nose between the seats and licked Walt, who reached back and petted her.
“Why block the highway if you don’t steal the wine?” Brandon asked.
“Roach Motel,” Walt said, yanking the car into gear and racing out of the bank’s parking lot. Brandon clipped his seat belt.
“What the hell, Sheriff ?”
“They check in, but they never check out.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Brandon said. “But, what the hell?”
“They set off the explosion. We respond. They use the logs to close the highway. We’re all trapped.”
“They aren’t after the wine,” Brandon said, grabbing for the vehicle’s support handle.
“They aren’t after the wine,” Walt echoed.
36
S
ummer signaled for Kevin to pull over next to a chain-link fence that separated the tarmac and hangars from the airport access road. Beyond the fence, a dozen business jets were parked and tied down. Kevin killed the engine, his palms slippery on the steering wheel.
ummer signaled for Kevin to pull over next to a chain-link fence that separated the tarmac and hangars from the airport access road. Beyond the fence, a dozen business jets were parked and tied down. Kevin killed the engine, his palms slippery on the steering wheel.
“Sun Valley Aviation’s up there,” he informed her. “Why here?”
“Yeah, but we aren’t exactly going there.”
“Because?”
“Because of the small technicality that I am underage and neither of us is a pilot. You’re not a pilot, are you?” she added as an afterthought.
“No, but my uncle owns a sailplane, a glider. I’m sure they’d let me show it to you. I know most of the guys in there.”
“That’s the point. I’d rather just jump the fence.”
“That’s insane.”
“No, it’s not. It’s easy. Look around, dude. It’s not like anything’s happening around here.”
“Hello? It’s illegal.”
“We can be over in, like, two seconds.”
“But why bother if I can get us through the FBO? Fixed Base Operation,” he added, answering her puzzled expression. “Sun Valley Aviation, we don’t have to jump any fence,” he said. “Maybe I should just go.”
“No way!”
“You’re here. You wanted me to drive you here, and I did. We’re good.”
“I’m
way
early for my flight,” she complained. “The inside of the jet is
way
cool. That’s it, right over there.” She pointed. “I’m telling you, you’re going to totally love it.”
way
early for my flight,” she complained. “The inside of the jet is
way
cool. That’s it, right over there.” She pointed. “I’m telling you, you’re going to totally love it.”
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