Killer Weekend (15 page)

   "You want a gold star for doing your homework, go back to school," Walt said. "Or do I counter by telling you you're a Berkeley grad who joined the Peace Corps, worked for Nader's election campaign in 2000, and then went off track. You're an angry teen on steroids, Mr. Bartholomew. I'm not interested in you, only whether or not Dick O'Brien threatened you."

   "I can handle myself."

   "Which is what I'm afraid of. It's my job to handle Dick O'Brien, not yours. Don't mess with him."

   "You can relax, Sheriff. His interest was in making a contribution to our cause."

   Walt mulled this over. "A contribution?" he said.

   "Fifty thousand dollars: twenty-five up front, twenty-five when we cross the Blaine County border. He suggested we park ourselves on the capitol's front lawn in Boise."

   "Fifty thousand dollars if you walked."

   "That's what the man said."

   "And what did you say?" Walt asked.

   "I told him to get in line. I turned down a hundred grand yesterday."

   "I'm in the wrong business. Who offered you the hundred?"

   "No idea," Bartholomew said. "An anonymous phone call. Maybe it was a joke."

   "You have no idea who made the offer?"

   "Cutter, I can understand," Bartholomew said. "He has his gig to protect. But the first one? Who but Cutter cares about it that much?"

   "If you try to do to Sun Valley what you did to Seattle," Walt warned, "you'll be met with a show of overwhelming force."

   "Shock and awe?" he said sarcastically. "Let me tell you something, Sheriff. You're limited to tear gas and rubber bullets, and we've seen them both."

   "I have National Guard Reserves on call. If you start something, I will finish it."

"And whom do I see if I'm threatened by the sheriff?"

   "That would be me," Walt said, trading ironic smiles with the man. He reached for the missing door handle, then knocked loudly on the glass for Brandon to let him out.

   Walt stood up out of the car to find himself face-to-face with his deputy. Bartholomew slid across the seat and also got out. He headed across Sun Valley Road back toward the demonstration.

   "Sheriff?" Brandon said, when Walt failed to move. Brandon was nearly a head taller.

   Walt hesitated, his head spinning, his fists clenched. "You two could have waited for the paperwork to come through."

   Brandon's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. He stiffened his posture, standing at rigid attention.

   Walt opened his mouth to say more, but then reconsidered, shook his head, and walked away. He didn't look back to check, as he crossed the road, but he sensed the man was still standing there staring straight ahead, and it gave him a much needed sense of satisfaction.

   "Asshole," he mumbled under his breath.

T
revalian worked out hard before an operation, believing it mitigated the adrenaline rushes. Late Friday night he spent forty minutes on a treadmill and an elliptical, and another twenty with light weights—half his typical daily routine. With the edge burned off his nerves, he found his response time was quicker, his thinking clearer.

   As he returned from the late night workout, his mind on the Suds Tub laundry and not the hallway's wall of fame—photos of Gary Cooper, Ernest Hemingway, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Clint Eastwood— he spotted a scuffle ahead.

   It appeared to be a feud between a husband and wife. The man had hold of her upper arms. He raised his voice drunkenly. The woman wore a clinging formal dress, her bare back to Trevalian. With each step she took to distance herself, the man moved with her—an awkward and dangerous dance.

   She broke away from him with a sudden jerk, turning toward Trevalian. It was the jazz singer from the night before. The man was not her husband, but some lech of a hotel guest. Trevalian quickened his step. The singer spotted him, locked onto him. Her eyes cried for help.

   He knew better than to get involved in this. But as the elevator bell dinged and the doors drew open, he saw an opportunity. The slobber ing fool called out, "Hey, there! You come back here! We're not done!" He looked about sixty, though fit for his age.

   Trevalian moved toward her with deliberate speed. Her purse thumped against her flank. Trevalian hooked her elbow with his sweatsoaked arm, spun her around on her high heels, and escorted her into the elevator.

   The elevator car lifted past the second floor sounding a bell. They met eyes; hers were bright with appreciation.

   "I hope that wasn't your husband," Trevalian said.

   She held up her left hand: no ring.

   The elevator arrived at the third floor. He held the door and let her pass. She opened her mouth to thank him. He said, "No charge." The elevator doors closed and they turned in opposite directions. Then the violent cursing of a man's angry voice rose up the stairway.

   She turned back toward him. "Hide me, please. Just for a minute."

   On the job, Trevalian did not get involved; he did not womanize.

   "Five minutes," he said. He took her by the elbow and led her down the hallway.

   They walked briskly. As the man's voice became clearer, far behind them, Trevalian broke into a light jog. The woman stopped, foisted her purse onto Trevalian, kicked off her heels, squatted down to scoop them up, hoisted her dress, and took off at a run. At the sight of him holding her purse she broke into a nervous laugh.

   With the door to Meisner's room locked behind them, and the jamb loop in place, he said, "You know where the phone is." He indicated his own sodden athletic wear and, gathering a fresh change of clothes into his arms from the closet, said, "I'm going to shower. I am not going to spring out naked and attack you," he said. "I'm sure you have someplace to go."

   "And if I stay?" she asked in her husky, singer's voice. The lace of her bra showed. She adjusted the low-cut dress. "Could we make it ten minutes instead of five?"

   "I'm heading out." He was also about to dress in all black, although that was enough in fashion not to be a problem.

   When he came back out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, he found her sitting at the desk, a hotel bottle of liquor uncapped. She was drinking from a coffee mug. She'd applied some fresh lipstick.

   "They probably charge a fortune for these, and I'm sorry, but I needed it."

   "Did you call someone?" he asked.

   "I didn't."

   "Because?"

   She shrugged. "Fine line. I'm not supposed to offend the guests. But I don't have to put up with that bullshit either. If I bring security into it—especially this, of all weekends—it'll make it into more than it was . . . is . . . whatever."

   "He was hurting you."

   "He's an asshole. But on a weekend like this the place is full of them."

   "I'm sorry," he said, "but you can't stay."

   "No problem." She rose, adjusted her dress again, and slipped on her shoes. "I owe you a drink."

   "Rain check?" he said.

   "This is Sun Valley. It snows here, but it doesn't rain."

   "My loss."

   "Can you walk me out?" she asked.

   "I can get you down to the lobby."

   "That'll do." She extended her hand. "Lilly."

   "Peter," he said, providing Meisner's first name.

   They reached the lobby without incident.

   Scouting the area, she said, "I meant it about the rain check."

   She turned. She saw only his back, heading down the same hallway from which he'd first appeared.

J
ust before midnight, with the summer sky ripped in two by a vivid Milky Way, Walt entered Friedman Memorial Airport, still reeling over his brief encounter with Dick O'Brien.

   With O'Brien attending a dessert function at Trail Creek Cabin, where the commissioner of the FCC was giving an informal talk on the Politics of Policy to forty-five special ticket holders, he'd suggested meeting Walt at the Hemingway Memorial. A well-trodden path less than a mile from the cabin. Walt had worked his way down through the dark, flashlight in hand, to Hemingway's bust. The famous writer overheard everything they said.

   O'Brien, defensive from the start, lit a cigarette, its red ember traveling up and down like a firefly.

   "So?" the big man said. "I heard you spoke to Bartholomew. You might have told me you had him under surveillance."

   "I might have, but I didn't."

   "Hell of a view from up there," O'Brien said.

   "I'm not telling Patrick Cutter his business—"

   "Wouldn't be any point," O'Brien said, sounding exasperated.

   "Making that kind of offer . . . it wouldn't hurt if I knew about it."

"Damned if I do, damned if I don't."

"Did Bartholomew tell you about the hundred K?" Walt asked.

"He did. It wasn't us."

"Then who?"

"That's the hundred-thousand-dollar question," O'Brien said.

   "Let me run this by you: If you've been planning to assassinate Eliz abeth Shaler, if you've paid out maybe half a million in fees, and a good chunk in expenses and advance work, wouldn't the arrival of First Rights scare you just a little?"

   "The protesters get nasty," O'Brien speculated. "It shuts down the conference, and you lose your shot at her."

   "The hundred grand serves as an insurance policy—to make sure nothing upsets the conference."

   O'Brien whistled.

   "Tell me I'm crazy," Walt said.

   "Wish I could," O'Brien said, lighting another cigarette.

   It felt as if several minutes passed. O'Brien with the cigarette. The sound of the creek.

   O'Brien exhaled a pale cloud. "I can't take this to Cutter as further proof of the hit. If that's what you're asking—"

   "The hell you can't."

   "Do you trust some guy who let his protesters cause two million dollars' worth of damage in downtown Seattle? Patrick Cutter won't."

   "She should cancel that speech."

   "He's going to need more."

   "That's bullshit," Walt said.

   "Patrick will see this as a negotiating stance, nothing more. He eats guys like Bartholomew for lunch. This kid has zero credibility."

   O'Brien's words stayed with Walt as he entered the air terminal. He'd received a message that Pete—the former volunteer fireman who now ran airport security—had to see him immediately. He'd called but reached voice mail. Heading to Hailey anyway, he swung by the airport.

   "Hey, Walt," Pete said, greeting him at the automatic doors. He'd been waiting for him. Pete wore extra-extra-large and had hands like an NBA player. He sounded as if he'd smoked from birth.

   "What have you got?" Walt asked, releasing the handshake before it became a contest.

   "Yesterday. You and Brandon," Pete said. "The dog thing."

   "Yes."

   "Flight seventeen-forty-six."

   "If you say so," Walt said. He followed down a wide corridor to the two small and unattended airline counters, pushed through a door marked authorized personnel only. The back room was crowded with unclaimed luggage.

   "Pete, it's been a long day."

   "The way it works anymore," Pete said, "is we gotta send back lost items to Salt Lake. They got the full-size X-ray machines down there. But we can't scan 'em because of their size, so we open them up. In this case we could scan it, and we also did a hand search."

   "Pete," Walt said again.

   "Yesterday you were looking for some guy on flight seventeenforty-six. Today we got ourselves an unclaimed bag from seventeenforty-six." He mugged for Walt, letting him stew. "I wouldn't have bothered you, Walt, except for its contents."

   "Its contents," Walt repeated.

   Pete hoisted the bag onto a table and dumped it upside down. The contents scattered. Pete said, "Suture, bandages. Hypodermic needles. Fuckin' traveling emergency room. Only thing missing is a scalpel, and you got yourself a regular surgical suite."

   Walt moved the contents around, using his pen. "You touch any of this?"

"No, sir," Pete said.

"It's good work, Pete," Walt said. "Syringes got through security?"

   "Diabetics are allowed syringes. See 'em all the time. More than one or two, you're usually asked to put it in with the checked luggage. Not always."

   Walt inventoried the contents. A navy blue sweater. A paperback novel by Leslie Silbert. Three boxes of bandage wrap. A box of butterfly bandages. A pair of forceps. Two pairs of needle holders. Two containers of suture marked Ethicon #3 and Ethicon #0. A box of latex gloves. "Shit," Walt said. "No ID?"

   "No. None."

   He studied the sweater. "Some hairs, looks like. Maybe some prints on these boxes, or the forceps."

   "Who leaves something like this behind? You know? Wouldn't you come back to get it? I would."

   Walt returned the contents to the bag. He noted a white loop of stretch string at the bottom of one of the back straps. "This coulda been an ID," he said.

   "Could have been tore off years ago."

   Walt glanced around the disorganized room and its filthy floor. "Do me a favor and ask these guys to sweep up. Let's run any loose ID tags they find."

   "Against passenger manifest," Pete stated. "Done."

   Walt wrote down the contents of the bag.

   "Listen, Pete . . . could you buy me the weekend, before sending it down there?" Walt asked. He knew TSA regulations were strict. "I'd like to get some of these items to the Nampa lab. The lab will do weekend work for the right price."

   "Prints . . ." Pete said. "You think?"