Ridley Pearson - Killer Weekend

He felt his resistance failing. Her perfumes invaded him and hit like a drug. His skin burned where she touched him.

“Feel where I’m the warmest?” she said, pushing her hips forward and burning through to his thigh.

More scents escaped from her neckline-dark, lusty odors that didn’t come from a bottle-scents that were designed to trigger urges and instincts, and he was a fool to think he could prevent it. He drank them down and they fed him, and the addict in him, so barely confined, wanted more. He’d sworn no internal oath against this. He had no battle with her. Physically he needed this, and she knew it and the offer that now came out of her, in an expression of hands and a willingness of her lips parting to kiss him, so overwhelmed him that he didn’t simply give in to it, he thrived on it.

He pulled off her clothes, down to that tangle of dark, and devoured her in a flurry of impulse, while she pleasured herself behind guttural coughs as she sped toward climax.

Down in the living room, the quartet played on, their strains heard as muted sentimental nonsense, while in the room, behind a wincing call for more, the real music played to its finale.

P atrick Cutter couldn’t find them. He’d lost track of Ailia and Danny, and while overcome with joy at the arrival of Shaler, he wanted to spare his brother from doing something stupid. Added to his motivation was jealousy, but he kept that in check for the time being. Having left Liz Shaler in capable hands, he now searched more aggressively.

He crossed through the kitchen, briefly sidelined by Heinz, his German chef imported from southern France. Ironically, the complaint involved Stuart Holms’s personal chef, who had “taken over” one of the three ovens “without regard” for Heinz. Patrick settled the man down and got out of there in a hurry. Holms’s chef traveled with Stuart everywhere, supposedly to provide a special diet to the Wall Street wonder. He was currently preparing finger food for a party of one. Chef Raphael delivered each plate of treats to his boss personally, making a great show of it and convincing some-Patrick was sure-to believe it was Holms’s party, not his. The delay heightened his sense of urgency: He had to find Ailia before she relit his brother’s fuse, and perhaps blew them all up in the process.

Passing his wife’s study, he stopped short.

“May I help you?”

The man sitting behind her desk wore dark sunglasses. He had a mustache and beard, and looked vaguely familiar.

“Are you a waiter?” the man asked.

“I’m the owner, actually. Patrick Cutter. May I help you?” Only as the man stood out of the chair did Patrick spot the white cane leaning against the desk.

“It’s Rafe Nagler, Mr. Cutter.”

Patrick muttered an apology and hurried across the room. After some awkwardness of unknown etiquette on Patrick’s part, the two shook hands. “So glad you made it!” he said.

“Stonebrook was honored to be invited.”

“You have a marvelous reputation.”

“The foundation, you’re speaking of. My reputation is, as I’m sure you are aware, that of a loner. A recluse. That’s exaggerated, I assure you.”

“The Nostradamus of new technologies? You’re entitled to your eccentricities, Mr. Nagler. We’re happy to have you. You’re in my wife’s study. Did you know that?”

“Her study?” the man asked. He smiled. “Good God, how embarrassing. I was looking for a place to sit down is all.”

“You found one, but maybe you’d prefer something a little closer to the party? Or if you want some solitude, I can send a waiter.”

“No, please,” Nagler said. “I’ll rejoin the party with pleasure.”

“I heard about your dog, and I’m gravely sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through. We’re looking into some possible remedies.”

“It’s kind of you, but don’t trouble yourself. I’m pursuing some options. I’m not bad with a cane, if you excuse mistaking a study for the dining room.”

Cutter laughed and then helped the man to the door, turning him toward the noise of the reception. “If you’ll excuse me…,” he said.

“Pleased to meet you,” Nagler said, heading toward the din.

Patrick headed a few steps toward the north staircase when something pulled at him and he reentered the study. It was narrow and long. Not easily mistaken for a dining room that sat twenty-eight. He couldn’t identify what bothered him about Nagler’s explanation, but it was enough to draw him to the far side of his wife’s desk and next to the chair where Nagler had sat. Now he realized what had called him back: the reflection of the computer screen in the window behind her chair. It should have displayed the screen saver: a photo of Bald Mountain in winter. Instead, it showed the Windows home screen.

The screen saver only left the screen if the keyboard was touched or the mouse moved.

Nagler could have bumped it, he supposed. Gnawed at by lost time, he took one last look before returning to his search for Danny.

But a nagging sensation remained: How had Nagler bumped the keyboard or mouse, given that both were at the far end of the desk?

A s Walt followed Dryer and Shaler out of the living room and into the sumptuous library, he caught a brief glimpse of the blind man, Rafe Nagler, just leaving by the front door. It reminded him to try to find Nagler a loaner sight dog.

“So…Walt…what is it?” Liz asked, once Dryer had pushed the door shut. She sat down heavily in a leather chair and rubbed her right calf.

Walt glanced over at Dryer, who returned an unsympathetic look. The photos weighed heavily in Walt’s back pocket.

“We have evidence, Your Honor, of a horrific killing in Salt Lake City. It makes me wonder if we can provide for your safety.”

“Adam?”

“I feel differently but promised the sheriff face time with you.”

“Of course,” she said. Giving her attention to Walt immediately soured Dryer.

Walt reviewed the discovery of the body at the Salt Lake airport, describing it as a gruesome murder but avoiding anything too graphic per his arrangement with Dryer. He finished by saying, “There’s a possibility this ties in to the most recent threat.”

“There is no evidence connecting the two.”

Walt countered, “A possible suspect was followed by a TSA agent to the E concourse, where he subsequently disappeared. The first flight leaving that concourse was bound for Sun Valley, Your Honor.”

Her eyes tightened and fell away from Walt to an unfixed stare. “I see.” As she regained composure she looked up at Dryer, who wouldn’t look directly at her.

“We met that flight,” Walt said, “having received this intelligence in advance, and failed to identify a suspect matching the description we’d been given. But I should caution: That doesn’t mean he wasn’t on that flight.”

“It’s a lot to process,” she said.

Walt said, “Evaluation of an event like this can take weeks. I’m told the FBI has seized security video from the airport that might have helped us. Anticipate a wrestling match with Homeland over those tapes.”

“We’re heading into a weekend,” Dryer reminded, “and that doesn’t help us any.”

“So there’s no way to know who this dead man was, or why he was killed?” she asked.

Walt suggested two possibilities: one, that the intelligence intercept had been a ruse and that the target of the contract was now dead; two, that the dead man was killed because he’d recognized the killer or had seen something he shouldn’t have.

“Or,” she said, “I can hear it in your voice, Walt. Come on. I’m a big girl.”