Ridley Pearson - Killer Weekend

“Someone tried to clean it up,” Anderson explained. “Hosed it down. Maybe mopped. Spent some time on it. I’ll luminol the brooms and mops.”

“We’ll want to check the drain for tissue, the brooms for prints.” Walt indicated an area in front of the cage. “Get pictures of this as well, please.”

Anderson illuminated the area in question. “Interesting,” he said, his teeth glowing white and standing out from his blue face.

The green smear indicating spilled blood was interrupted by two columns-representing clean concrete.

“These are blood shadows,” Anderson explained.

“I don’t want to ask.” Fiona sounded frightened.

“Blood splatter traveled out of the cage and was blocked.” Anderson hesitated. “Someone stood here and watched her die.”

B randon had rounded up Patrick Cutter’s seven-person staff, and two security personnel, and was detaining them on the patio until further notice, ensuring they didn’t attempt to manipulate the environment or damage possible evidence.

Doug Aanestad read through the hastily scrawled search warrant. “Must be nice to work in a place where judges can be bent to favor at three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon.”

“Small-town living,” Walt said. “This may take a while.”

“Ginny will make us both a latté, if you’ll release her for a minute. Best latté you’ve ever had. Patrick gets his beans flown in from Colombia.”

“Pass. Everyone stays where they are.”

“It’s a fishing expedition, Walt, and you know it. She got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bad luck is all.”

“Don’t I wish.”

“You have evidence to the contrary?”

“Don’t you wish,” Walt said. “I don’t share intel with the enemy.”

“Five minutes, and you can put her back on the patio. I’m telling you: flown in from Colombia. You’ve never tasted anything like this.”

Walt answered with a glare. Aanestad slumped into a living room chair that swallowed him. He continued reading the warrant. Again he mumbled something about Walt’s good fortune.

By 3:30 P.M. Walt was following Anderson around the house, as Anderson chased electrical outlets to power his black light. When Anderson moved toward the master bedroom, Aanestad steered him clear, pointing out that the warrant contained Walt to a search for evidence linked to Danny, his client, and not the owner of the house. Phone calls were made, and Aanestad won.

Anderson was going through the guest suite when deputies Tilly and Kaiser showed up, beckoning Walt to the six-car garage. Aanestad followed, the vigilante watchdog.

Several of the garage bays stood empty. Four cars remained: a Hummer, a BMW sports coupe, a gleaming black pickup truck, and a Toyota Land Cruiser. All had their doors open, mats out on the poured concrete; some seats had been removed.

Walt informed Aanestad, “Just FYI, we have two teams searching both Patrick’s and Danny’s cars over at Sun Valley. It’s all covered in the warrant.”

“I saw that. I still think it’s a stretch to include all the vehicles when my client claims to have driven only the Lexus. But there you have it.”

“If you aren’t careful, Doug, someone’s going to accuse you of being Patrick’s lawyer.”

“I am Patrick’s lawyer-locally,” he clarified, even though he thought Walt knew that. “I represent the family.”

“We found it over here,” Tilly said, eager to show his prize.

Walt approached the back of the Land Cruiser with a quickened pulse. Aanestad was getting on his nerves; and Anderson ’s failure to find a speck of blood evidence was beginning to make him look as foolish as Aanestad made him out to be.

Tilly pointed into the back of the vehicle, where a small white arrow made of removable tape had been fixed to the caramel-colored carpeting.

Walt’s eyes followed the white arrow, and at first he didn’t see anything. Then he moved slightly to his left in order to catch the light better.

Aanestad called out, “That’s Patrick’s car. This has nothing to do with Danny.”

At the tip of the white arrow lay a single, clear contact lens.

W alt stood to the side and down the hallway from the Picabo Street Room, out of the way of the conference guests departing a talk given by the secretary of the treasury. Having Doug Aanestad by his side won Patrick Cutter’s attention. The eye communication was between attorney and client, with only a passing glance at Walt.

Cutter dealt with a few enthusiastic guests, waited to make sure the secretary was properly escorted to the next function, and then lingered long enough to have the hallway to themselves for a moment.

“Is that room clear?” Walt asked as he shook hands with Cutter.

“Yes, certainly.” Patrick led them into the room and Walt shut the door. Capable of holding a hundred or more, the conference room smelled of warm bodies and coffee. Two food service personnel entered to refresh the ice water and clear glasses from the dais. Walt asked them to leave, and they did so without question.

“As you know,” the attorney told his client, “the sheriff and his men searched your residence this afternoon.” He focused intently on Cutter’s eyes, attempting to communicate the severity of the situation. “He would like to ask you some questions.”

“Of course,” Cutter blurted out, looking alarmed.

“I advise you, Patrick, to check with me before answering. Do we understand each other? Each and every question, you will check with me before answering. Given this condition, I’m allowing this conversation to take place. But I must have your understanding on this: The sheriff wanted to run a recording device-I have prohibited that; he wanted to see you alone, by himself, also forbidden; he claims to have reason to suspect you in a possible murder investigation, Patrick. That’s right: murder.”

“Danny?” Cutter blurted out. Despite the golf tan, he looked suddenly pale.

“He’ll get to that,” Aanestad said. “But there’s a good example: I don’t want you speaking until I’ve nodded my okay. And I want you to think clearly about your answers before giving them.”

Cutter nodded.

Walt began by asking some of the same general questions he had asked Danny Cutter earlier. Patrick could not recall with any clarity when he’d last seen Ailia Holms-he pointed out the large number of guests he was now dealing with on an hourly basis. He thought it might have been as far back as the cocktail party at his residence. Walt soon moved into more sensitive territory.

“You directed Dick O’Brien to pass along a DVD to me from your home security cameras-”

“Wait just a minute!” Aanestad conferred with Cutter in the corner by a table with a black skirt piled with copies of a book written by the treasury secretary. They returned and both men sat down facing Walt.

“I did,” said Cutter.

“Why would you do that? Implicate your brother like that?”

Cutter checked with Aanestad, who nodded faintly. “It seemed the right thing to do. It’s the cover-up that gets you hanged, Sheriff. We all know that.”

“You could have destroyed it. Who would have known?”

He checked with Aanestad each and every time. “Same answer.”

“You could have warned your brother.”

“He’s an adult.”

“Who has driven which of your cars this weekend, between you and Danny?”

“I drive the Cayenne. I gave Danny the Lexus. My wife either rides with me or uses the Volvo.”

“What about the Land Cruiser?” Walt asked.

Aanestad shook his head, and Patrick Cutter, looking confused, raised his eyebrows at Walt. “I’m advised not to answer that,” he said.