Ridley Pearson - Killer Weekend

“Of course you are. But what’s the alternative?”

“I could be a ski bum,” Liz suggested.

“Or sit, bored, on a dozen boards.”

“You made your point,” Liz chided. She’d heard this often from her advisers: nowhere to go but up. “How’s this?” she asked, turning to show her face.

“A million bucks,” Jenna said.

“I hope you’re wrong,” Liz said, “because we need a hell of a lot more than that just to get out of the starting gate.”

S tanding on the U-shaped wraparound balcony that overlooked the living room of his nineteen-thousand-square-foot home, Patrick Cutter surveyed the cocktail party he’d thrown for 125 early arrivals to C 3. Below him, the elite of America ’s communications industry comingled and made merry, fortified by the best champagne, liquor, and wines served in crystal flutes and heavy cut-glass tumblers. The appetizers had been created by a chef from a small Provençal gîte located two kilometers south of Gorde. Many of the guests knew one another, contributing to the lively hum of conversation that hit Patrick Cutter’s ears like music.

His wife, Trish, glanced up from a tightly knit group on the floor below. In February, she’d spent thirty thousand dollars on her face, so this was her coming-out party of sorts. She offered him no wink, no nod, no subtle smile. But the sparkle in her laser-corrected eyes said enough: a success. The conference was off to a good start.

He hoped it would shape the direction of the communications industry in the months to come. Still these changes were subtle. Sometimes they reached the front page of the Wall Street Journal. This sense of history, and his place in it as a leader, thrilled him. In three days’ time, Liz Shaler was to announce her candidacy for president at his conference. How could pride be a sin when it felt so good? Who would not forgive him that little indulgence? This conference was all about indulgence.

His gaze swept the crowd. He caught a voyeuristic glimpse down the dress of the lead violinist in the classical quartet.

Where the hell was Liz Shaler?

He spotted and tracked the unmistakable red plumage of Ailia Holms as she and her husband, Stuart, stopped and chatted to friends. He made a mental note to keep Stu away from Liz Shaler. No need for a scene. A waitress took drink orders. The group erupted in laughter. He watched as Ailia gave Stu a subtle tug, and then led him over to the head of the world’s leading manufacturer of fiber optic cable. Ailia never missed a beat.

As Stu engaged in small talk, Ailia rose to her toes seeking out their next obligation. But when she lingered a little too long in one direction, Patrick followed her gaze to its target: Danny. Alarms sounded in his head: If Ailia wanted Danny, it was for only one reason.

Patrick sought out the nearest staircase-there were six in this house-and made his move to intervene.

W alt parked the Sheriff’s Office Cherokee at the end of a long line of vehicles hugging the shoulder of Adam’s Gulch Road and headed on foot down the curving driveway, adorned with twenty-foot blue spruces and a gorgeous array of flowers, which like so much of residential Ketchum and Sun Valley had been built in the past ten years. That meant each of the towering trees had been purchased mature and transplanted. At a cost of fifteen thousand dollars per tree, it was a most conspicuous display of wealth. But nothing compared to the house itself. Fashioned from five antique New England barns, each dismantled and transported and reassembled into an interconnecting village, the compound looked like a small New England village. Two well-dressed hostesses, both wearing C 3badges, greeted Walt and offered an Orrefors crystal champagne flute bearing a frosted C 3logo. The flute bubbled with a 1990 Krug, judging by the chilled bottles just inside the front door.

“The glass is compliments of Mr. Cutter,” the blonde informed Walt.

Walt had worn a freshly pressed button-down shirt and his best pair of chinos, but knew how out of place he looked compared to the linen, poplin, and silk on display.

The front door, cut within the enormous barn door, opened into a vast space of weathered wood and glass broken into several smaller rooms. The living room’s most prominent feature was a dry stack fireplace with a six-foot-high open hearth that currently held an opulent arrangement of cut flowers and cattails. A balcony surrounded the second floor looking out onto a massive chandelier made of interconnecting antlers.

Walt tried not to stare at the women, the jewelry, the sheer blouses, the tempting necklines. Tried not to succumb to the swirl of French perfumes, the gleaming white teeth of flashing smiles, and the heady rush from the champagne. He retired the half-filled glass on a passing tray and spotted a few faces he knew, all of whom were private security, keeping to the walls or behind one of the dozen hand-hewn timber posts, allowing their employers free rein. All told, he counted four, one hovering near Bill Gates, another close to Sumner Redstone. He expected to find most of the guys out back with the rest of the help-the drivers, chefs, and personal assistants.

He looked for Liz Shaler, expecting he’d find Dryer within an arm’s length, and caught sight of Patrick Cutter coming down a staircase, looking very much like a man in a hurry attempting to look casual. In less than a minute, Walt declined offerings from four different hors d’oeuvres trays.

He watched as Cutter reached the bottom of the stairs and seemed to change directions, heading straight to the front door. Some faces turned in that direction. The buzz of conversation briefly diminished.

Walt glanced back over his shoulder. New York State Attorney General Elizabeth Shaler had arrived.

Cutter succeeded in reaching her first, though nearly out of breath.

Conversation slowly resumed. Shaler’s name echoed around the room.

Flanked by two men in blue jeans and blue blazers, one of whom was Adam Dryer, she looked right past Cutter and spotted Walt and waved. Walt wasn’t sure of etiquette. He returned a small wave, feeling the eyes of a hundred envious strangers bearing down on him.

D anny Cutter saw Ailia approaching-without Stu. Wanting to avoid any gossip, he excused himself from a group of his brother’s friends and headed to the toilet. He passed one of the bars, dodged a few greetings, cut through the library (done sumptuously in suede and African leathers) following discreet signs to the POWDER ROOM taped on doorjambs. He needed a GPS. He passed another of the directional signs, noticing that someone had already crossed out the “d” in Powder.

There had been a time when Danny had been caught up in all this himself: the show, the exaggerated lifestyle, the pretense. There had been a time-prior to the 1990s-when Sun Valley had been about skiing in the winter and hiking, tennis, or golf in the summer. But L.A. riots, earthquakes, and fires had given way to White Flight. The Hollywood set. The arrival of Attitude. The glass and steel replacing the funky log establishments on Main Street. He and his brother were a part of that sea change for the valley, and it wasn’t anything to be proud of.

Chasing sobriety was about as terrifying as being chased by a cougar. And though Danny was all for success, especially his own, he had no desire to be any of the people in this room, including his brother. Briefly, he thought he’d keep right on walking-out the back door. If he could find it.

Concerned that Ailia was looking for him, and knowing how easy it was to get caught up in her web, he kept moving. With her husband as a potential investor, he wanted to avoid complication and succeed or fail on his own.