Ridley Pearson - Killer Weekend

“I’ll be home within the hour,” Holms said.

“A Sunday night, early Monday actually, in July? You think? You could be right, I suppose.” He sampled the tea again; same result. He said, “So here’s the thing. Have you had a chance to look at this seating plan behind me?”

Holms looked up and gave the impression this was the first time he’d paid any attention to it.

“You know why we got that out to take a look at it? Because we wondered if any of Cutter’s invited guests had missed the Shaler brunch. Because there could be two reasons for that: Someone was sick, or had a scheduling conflict; or someone wanted to avoid being present when the bomb they’d arranged to kill Shaler went off. And, as you can see by the Xs, only two people missed the talk: you and your late wife.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“This is the sheriff we’re talking about, but your point is taken. Anyway…the sheriff said something about a guy named Raphael. Your chef, I believe?”

Holms did a very good imitation of being bored by all this. Dryer knew differently-he had his eye on a vein in the man’s neck. His pulse was elevated, his eyes dilated, and he was growing increasingly restless. Walt’s emphasis had been on taking away the man’s sense of control. It seemed to be working, Dryer thought.

“He said how you don’t eat anything that isn’t prepared by this guy Raphael. And I suppose that’s a personal thing, and I’ve got no comment, although my personal chef is a guy named McDonald, but I doubt the two know each other. So, anyway, the problem for the sheriff is this seating chart, prepared back in June, that has you down for the regular meal. No Raphael. And I’ve got to admit, he has a point: It seems to suggest you knew back in June that you wouldn’t be attending the Shaler brunch.”

Holms glanced up at the seating chart. Then his eyes darted to meet Dryer’s before once more landing on the chart. Wisely, he chose not to comment. The blue bead on his neck was growing, and beating wildly. His Adam’s apple jumped as he tried to swallow.

“I figure-or rather the sheriff does-that you wanted to save Raphael in case the bomb took out the kitchen help. So you didn’t book him. Why lose a good chef? Here’s where it gets a little extreme, even for me,” Dryer continued. “The sheriff believes not only that you killed your wife-or had her killed-but that you planned it far enough in advance to make sure it gave you the ultimate excuse not to attend the Shaler brunch. Who was going to question a grieving widower? But that’s where the irony comes in: because here I am questioning you. So maybe that part didn’t work so well.”

Holms blinked rapidly but still managed to say nothing. Dryer smiled openly, well aware that when contrasted with his acne-scarred cheeks, he looked menacing when doing so.

“Here’s what may interest you, Mr. Holms. It did me. The sheriff has no intention of pursuing Trevalian and you for the attempted assassination of Elizabeth Shaler. That’s why I’m here-I’m federal, he’s state. He’s leaving all that to my office and the AUSA to sort out. He’s focused on one thing and one thing only: the murder of your wife. That was done on his turf. He says you’re good for it-something about a fingerprint developed on a contact lens-and who am I to argue? It’s his show. If he wants to make an ass out of himself, who am I to interfere?”

Holms endeavored to stay calm, but it was a battle he was quickly losing.

E mil Guyot, in his Tommy Bahama Hawaiian shirt and what had once been cream-colored trousers, looked like he belonged on South Beach. Walt perused a copy of the man’s California handgun registration, learning what little he could from it.

“So, Emil, you understand that possession of an automatic weapon carries a minimum sentence. Idaho has very liberal gun laws, but on that one we’re kinda strict.” He added, “Be advised that I’m running a recording device”-pointing to his iPod-“just so we don’t get into who said what.”

Emil mugged for Walt but didn’t speak. He was, no doubt, on orders to wait for Holms’s attorneys.

“The only hope for you on the gun charge is to have it dropped altogether. There’s no such thing as a lesser charge when it comes to customizing a weapon. Not in this state.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you. I’m waiting for my attorney.”

“We’re all waiting for something,” Walt said, pleased that the man had started talking. “For one thing, I can’t drop the charges without an attorney present.”

“You’re not dropping any charges.”

“No, you’re right. I’m adding to them,” Walt said. “How’s capital murder suit you?” He had to give it to the guy: He wouldn’t want to play poker against Emil Guyot. “A guy like Stuart Holms? Amazing businessman. A legend, I hear. Probably a pretty lousy husband. His love is for money and power, and since women love both of those, too, it comes down to control, and that can get nasty. I’m recently divorced-or about to be. Something of an expert. He’s probably a good guy to work for though, right? You must make five, six times what I do-”

“Ten.”

“Ouch,” Walt said. He leaned down and set the plaster cast on the table with a thump. It was enclosed in a large plastic evidence bag marked as he’d instructed Brandon. Then he pulled out the small evidence bag containing the blue contact lens. He spread Fiona’s crime-scene photographs out like fanning a deck of cards, where the handcuffed Guyot couldn’t help but look at them. “You strike me as a gambling man-a man who knows his way around a deck of cards or a gaming table. I’ve got some odds for you. In case you’re wondering why we collected your shoes a few minutes ago, it’s because of this.” He patted the plaster cast. “Thankfully my job doesn’t require too much thinking. It all comes down to the evidence. Juries just love evidence. The TV show CSI? That’s helped us prosecute cases in ways you wouldn’t believe. Juries eat this stuff up. They understand it better. They believe it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Me? What’d I do? You’re the one who killed her.”

“Fuck that.”

“We’re taking plaster casts of your shoes right as we speak. By the time they dry and are compared to this,” he said, patting the bag again, “any opportunity to plea-bargain is gone. Tell that to Holms’s attorney. Gamble all you like.”

“I’m not talking to you,” Guyot said.

“Then what do you call it?”

Guyot stared back with a stoic face.

“He promised you a ton of money, didn’t he? Promised you he’d get you out on appeal if anything went wrong and that you’d be rich as Croesus when you got out. The thing is, he was talking about the Shaler thing. Trevalian. And maybe he’s right. Maybe he could get you out of that at some point. He’s a powerful man, as I understand it.”

“You have no idea. He’ll have you chasing traffic tickets before this is through.”

“No. It’s through already. It’s over, Emil.” He held up the blue contact lens. “You know what that is? The lab uses fumes to develop prints on certain surfaces. They can develop prints on human skin, on fabric-on things you wouldn’t believe. Contact lenses, for instance.”

Walt pushed back his chair, poured himself some more coffee, and sat back down, making a point of his fatigue.

“You guys heard about us going into the pound, didn’t you? Word got out-it’s a damn small valley and people can’t keep their mouths shut, and that doesn’t help me any, I’ll tell you what. Once we made that connection, I imagine Mr. Holms became a bit concerned. The idea had been to blame it on a cougar, right? But you L.A. guys don’t spend enough time here: two separate cougar attacks in two days? Are you kidding me? Not in ten years. Twenty. Forty. Not ever. And when Holms realized we’d figured out you dumped her in the cage, when he knew we’d be looking at murder, he overreacted. You both did. He let his jealous-husband side take over. You should have been looking for that.”