Ridley Pearson - Killer Weekend

He passed the next fifteen minutes watching them while trying to find a way inside. The journalists suddenly sprang back to life only to realize it was Shaler’s Hispanic housecleaner and not the AG at the side door. But where they cursed with disappointment, Trevalian had to contain his excitement: for the housecleaner carried a bulging white canvas sack in her arms. A laundry bag.

The maid launched the sack into the back of a beat-up Chevy, slammed the hatch, and climbed behind the driver’s wheel.

Trevalian was back in the rental in seconds and had the engine running by the time she pulled out of the drive. He followed, knowing a maid wasn’t going to check for tails. She drove six blocks and parked. He couldn’t find a parking place. He resorted to double parking in a private parking lot that warned of towing unauthorized vehicles. He hurried from the car and caught the door to the Suds Tub as it swung shut behind the maid.

She thanked him.

“Hello, Maria,” a woman with stringy hair said from behind the counter. Even with two fans running, the laundry suffered from high humidity and extreme heat. “Shaler?” she said, tapping on a keyboard and beginning her count, as the laundry bag was inverted. “Be with you in a minute,” she called out to Trevalian.

“No problem,” he said. The appearance of this maid was a gift. The icing on the cake came as the proprietor apologized to the maid that due to the extremely busy weekend and a broken washer, pickup would be Monday at the earliest, no exceptions.

Maria didn’t seem to care. She took a receipt, offered Trevalian a smile in passing, and left, carrying her empty laundry sack with her.

For his purposes, that empty sack would do. But he couldn’t see how to get it without making a scene.

“Can I help you?” the proprietor inquired.

Trevalian asked about the pricing, threw in a few questions about timing, and watched as the woman transferred Shaler’s dirty clothes into a blue sack, placed a sticker on it from the order form, pinned a tag bearing a second sticker to the bag, and then wedged the sack onto the second shelf from the floor with a dozen others-all identical.

“I don’t know if you heard,” she said over her shoulder, “but we’re a little backlogged because of a faulty washer.”

“I’m good,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

As he left, he made a quick study of the business’s security system.

A challenge-but nothing he couldn’t work with.

W alt met Fiona in the parking lot of the golf pro shop. She climbed into the Cherokee and immediately fiddled with the air-conditioning, making it colder.

“Damn, that sun’s hot,” she complained. She worked with her camera, pushing buttons on the back, and then passed it to Walt, who held it gingerly.

On the small LCD screen, he saw a photo of a man he recognized as Andy Bartholomew, the self-proclaimed leader of First Rights. “Where is this, the chairlift?”

“Yeah. River Run. You toggle this flywheel to move to the next shot.”

She leaned in close to demonstrate, and he tensed noticeably. Any proximity to a woman was too close for him right now. Even a bucket seat across a Jeep made him feel as if she were in his lap. She scorned him for his reaction, but went back to her corner. He toggled to the next shot.

What had been a blob in the first photo now turned out to be a man’s shoulder. Also, in this second shot the chairlift as a backdrop became more apparent. The Sun Valley Company operated a chairlift to the top of the mountain for summer sightseeing. Bartholomew, and the man belonging to that shoulder, were clearly in line for the chairlift.

The third photo caused him to gasp. “That’s Dick O’Brien.”

“That’s what Tommy said.”

He didn’t like her referring to Brandon by his first name, and nearly corrected her.

“What the hell is Cutter’s head of security doing with the leader of First Rights?”

“Tommy said that, too.”

“I don’t care about Tommy Brandon, okay?” The words were out of his mouth before he knew it.

Fiona sat up straight.

“Sorry…I…” He pointed to the camera, unable to make eye contact with her.

“What…is going on?” she asked.

After a moment, she obliged him, advancing the images. Another several photos, all taken within a few minutes of one another. Bartholomew and O’Brien boarded and rode a chairlift together. “Oh, shit,” Walt mumbled.

“Sheriff?”

“The only reason you ride a twenty-minute chairlift with someone like Bartholomew is so that no one can listen in,” he said.

“He threatened him,” she said. “That’s what Tommy said happened: The big guy told the younger one that if he made any trouble for the conference there’d be hell to pay.”

“Thing is…,” Walt said, “it only takes about thirty seconds to do that. So why all the cloak-and-dagger involving the chairlift? That’s a lot of trouble to go through-a long ride to share with the guy-if all you’re going to do is try to scare him.”

“So?”

“So I’m going to find out.”

Twenty minutes later he and Bartholomew occupied the front seat of Brandon ’s BCS cruiser, which was parked in a Sinclair gas station across from the employee dormitories a few hundred yards from the site of the First Rights demonstration.

Walt introduced himself and shook hands with Bartholomew, a small man with an erudite face despite a grunge appearance. He emphasized that the man was here of his own free will and was under no legal obligation to cooperate.

“We’re cool.”

“I heard you took in the view from the top of Baldy this morning,” Walt said.

Bartholomew grimaced.

“It’s a small town. I also heard Dick O’Brien took that ride with you.”

Bartholomew studied the car’s ceiling fabric. He released a long exhale.

“I like Dick O’Brien-I’ve worked with him on the conference for the past four years. I don’t want to make accusations against a friend of mine, without a complaint to back it up.”

“No complaints,” Bartholomew said.

Walt considered leaving it there-he’d done his duty. “If he threatened or extorted you, Mr. Bartholomew, it’s my obligation to inform you that we will and can protect you against any such malfeasance.”

“Such a big word for an Idaho sheriff. But then again, Sheriff Walter Fleming, you’re not your average county sheriff, are you? Quantico trained. Your college degree at Northwestern on a full ride. Former two-term president of the state’s Sheriffs’ Association. Currently serving on the National Association of Counties. Your father, a former FBI special agent.”

“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.”