Ridley Pearson - Killer Weekend

“It irks you, doesn’t it? My turning you down?” Danny asked, his tone softened.

“The offer still stands,” Patrick said.

“And it’s an incredibly generous one, but one I can’t accept.”

“It just seems to me-”

“Don’t start! Please.” Danny placed his napkin on the table and pushed his plate away, growing more serious.

“Keeping it in the family-”

“And I wish I could, but I can’t.”

“Of course you can,” Patrick said. “You choose not to. There’s a big difference.”

“I choose not to because you’ve bailed me out of every one of my screwups for as long as I can remember. Not that this is a screwup. It’s not. For once I’ve got a chance at something that could actually work. And your help with the business plan-”

“Was minimal.”

“It was not minimal. There you go again. Don’t do that. You helped, and I’m grateful, but when it comes to financing it, I’ve got to do it myself. You’re the one with all the right gut instincts. You don’t become a billionaire on luck. I’ve got to do this, Paddy. That’s all. You know that feeling when you know you’re right.”

“Then at least start with Stu Holms. This fits right into his latest round of acquisitions.”

Danny joked, “Don’t tell that to Liz. She’ll slap another antitrust suit on him.”

“Heaven help us,” Patrick said.

“Any tricks to Stuart Holms? Other than not mentioning Liz Shaler?”

Patrick grinned and stabbed at the slices of chicken in his salad. “He’s old school. You won’t get a second chance. Practice on Sharples and Jenkins. Save Holms for when you’re ready. You’ve got several strong talking points: Trilogy has done well regionally; the push to national distribution isn’t that big a stretch; lean on the fact that the big bottlers filter the water and that your source is two miles deep. Stu likes a good story, so don’t be shy. He’ll appreciate the evolution and growth. You’ve done a good job, Danny. That’ll mean something to him. You won the trademark on ‘organic water.’ That’s huge. He’ll see the value. Save that for last.”

“All good stuff,” Danny said.

Patrick dripped some dressing onto his shirt.

Danny couldn’t help himself. “The pink shirt doesn’t work, Paddy. You look like you’re wearing house insulation.”

“You think?” Patrick blushed, tugged on his shirt, and then looked around the restaurant self-consciously.

Danny saw surprise register on his brother’s face, just before he heard the warm, soothing voice behind him.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in. Hey, you two.”

Ailia Holms was strong and fit, like so many of the Sun Valley women. Soon to be middle-aged, with a body that peeled off ten years, she held back a restless playfulness. Her red hair forewarned her personality. She was a comfortable flirt in a bright green top and Oilily stretch pants that cleaved to her backside as she bent to peck Patrick on the cheek.

“Speak of the devil,” Patrick said.

She faux-patted the top of her head, taking advantage of the moment to show off the latest augmentation to her breasts. “Devil? Are my horns showing?”

She gave Danny an awkward hug that perhaps intentionally thrust her breasts into his chin. “Long time no see, stranger.”

“True story.”

“Everything good?” Ailia asked unflinchingly.

“For a guy who just spent fourteen months in Club Fed, you mean?”

“I don’t care where you’ve been, Danny. It’s good to see you, is all. You look good.”

“And you.”

“So…Ailia…” Patrick said. “Tell us about London.”

“We didn’t go, as it turns out. Stu got hung up with some deal. Surprise.”

“You’ve been here…all along?” Patrick asked. Danny was suprised by the obvious disappointment on his brother’s face.

“We knew you’d be busy preparing for the conference. Looks like a great one, by the way. Elizabeth Shaler! You waited long enough to announce that!”

Patrick reached for a chair from an empty table. Ailia waved away the offer.

“I’d love to, but I can’t stay. Stu’s waiting.” She leaned into Danny a second time and pecked him on the cheek. “See you tonight, I hope,” she whispered.

She gave Patrick an air kiss. “Looking forward to tonight,” and hurried off.

Both men tracked her through the tables.

“Don’t go there,” Patrick cautioned. “You’re damn lucky Stu never found out about you two the first time.”

“Who said he didn’t?”

“Stu is many things but charitable is not one of them. Nor is he forgiving.”

“I thought the whole town knew.”

“Apparently not.”

Patrick flagged a busboy. “We’ll take the check.”

The scrawny kid turned around and clearly recognized him. “Ah…yes, sir.” He lingered a little longer. “You’re Mr. Cutter, right?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m all over the G-six.” He patted his pocket.

“Did you opt for multiplayer?” Patrick asked.

“It’s bitchin’.”

“Kevin?” Cristina, the proprietor, called from the next table. She’d overheard.

“Check,” Kevin said to her, spinning around to tend to the vacated table.

Danny asked his brother, “The G-six?”

“A gaming cell phone. Multiuser over EVDO-high-speed wireless. Teens are our fastest-growing market.”

“You never stop.”

Patrick took it as a compliment.

“You really think the pink doesn’t work?”

W ith the contact lenses removed, his full vision restored, Milav Trevalian studied the mirrored reflection of Rafe Nagler. The corners of his lips twisted up, stretching the theatrical facial hair glued to his face, a grin of satisfaction for having made it through the loss of the dog.

Ricky was no prop; he needed the dog. He’d also left his backpack behind, a calculated risk necessitated by the incompetence of the airline. The Brasilia ’s lack of overhead baggage space had required all passengers to gate-check their carry-ons. But either the Salt Lake or Sun Valley ground crews had mixed it in with the checked baggage. When it failed to appear on the pickup cart, Trevalian had lost his temper, quickly changing horses and directing his rage at the baggage handlers. With the unexpected loss of the dog, and the sheriff all over him, he’d feared trying to recover the backpack. This, because he couldn’t be sure if he hadn’t left an old airline identity tag attached to it. With the opaque contacts in place, making him truly blind (he carried two sets, one translucent), he hadn’t been able to see if there was a tag there or not. He couldn’t afford close scrutiny so the bag and its contents had been left behind.

Trevalian unpacked Nagler’s suitcase, tried on the unfamiliar clothes, and discovered the dead man’s shirts fit fine; the pants, though big in the waist, could be made to work with the help of a belt. He noticed small bumps of thread had been sewn into tight knots on the insides of the back pockets of the pants-Braille-like personal codes allowing Nagler to determine color. He found the same hand-sewn bumps on the shirttails, and also on the socks.

He unpacked the man’s clothes into the dresser drawers, hung shirts and pants in the closet, and spread items from the toilet kit on the bathroom counter. He even smeared some toothpaste to imitate the man missing his toothbrush.

Still contemplating a way around the death of the dog, he settled down onto the bed and lay back. Waiting came easy for him. Milav Trevalian had the patience of a saint.

I t felt strange to enter his own vehicle as a guest, but the Secret Service would occupy the Blaine County Sheriff Office’s Mobile Command Center-the MCC-for the next four days.