Ridley Pearson - Killer View

He double-checked the alignment of the photos over the map. Allowing for the fact that three other corner pins might be off by a quarter inch or so, it looked like a good job.

Fiona eyed it proudly. “You realize the map went on the wall, not the other way around? Shouldn’t we put the wall behind the map?”

“Yeah, but I want to use the holes that were in the wall to mark our map. We saw three pushpins on the floor. What if they were marking certain spots?” Walt withdrew a pushpin from the side of the corkboard and answered her by carefully poking the pin’s needle through each of the three black specks. He then removed the photographs, leaving the map with three new pinholes in it.

Fiona went quiet as she watched him work. He crossed to a computer and called up a mapping website that included hybrid images of maps overlaid onto satellite imagery. A few clicks later he had zoomed in on the Pahsimeroi Valley, with small, circular green dots, each the product of a pivot irrigation system-a huge, wheeled sprinkler arm that irrigated a quarter square mile of ground. These identified working ranches. He then cross-referenced the two maps and used the cursor on the computer to give him latitude and longitude for each of the pin markings.

He wrote down the three locations, knowing they held significance for Mark Aker. It was possible that Aker had visited them, either professionally or otherwise.

“How’d you do that?” she asked.

“You just saw me.”

“No. I mean, how’d it occur to you to do that?”

“It’s what I do,” he answered.

“Three pinpricks in a log wall. Are you kidding me?”

“Three ranches,” he said, standing and studying the topo map. “A vet,” he reminded.

The discovery that Aker had pinpointed the ranches intrigued Walt. As a vet, the man did plenty of house calls without marking them on maps. He’d been told of Mark’s secretive ways over the past month, of Mark’s spending extra time up at the cabin. But no one knew he’d actually been at the cabin; he could have easily been over in the Pahsimeroi.

He opened the door to the incident room and called out loudly for Tommy Brandon, startling Fiona with the sharpness of his voice.

Brandon appeared, his left arm in a sling. It was the first the two had seen each other since the shooting. Other deputies would have taken a week’s leave, but Walt had received no such request on his desk and knew Brandon would give him no excuse to be put on leave.

“You okay?” Walt asked.

“Fine.”

“Want to take a ride?”

“Where to?”

“Randy Aker was shot with a ketamine cocktail before he dove off those rocks. He was wearing his brother’s jacket-his brother’s scent. Now, come to find out, Mark was drugged by the same cocktail. And he was interested in three ranches over in the Pahsimeroi. He marked them on a topo map he had pinned to his cabin wall. Whoever took Mark probably took the map as well.”

“Count me in,” Brandon said.

BEFORE HE GOT OUT OF THE BUILDING, WALT WAS GRABBED by the officer on duty and introduced to a gorgeous woman from the Denver office of the CDC. Lynda Bezel was in her early thirties and wore a dark blue suit. It wasn’t a look typically seen in Hailey, Idaho. The Sun Valley look was Patagonia and Eddie Bauer; faded jeans, hiking boots, and clinging tops. She had a creamy complexion, and pale eyes that opened wide as she spoke.

“This might be better discussed in confidence,” she said. She had a raspy bedroom voice and the coy smile that went along with it. She sat in Walt’s intentionally uncomfortable visitor’s chair. She crossed her legs with a whisper of panty hose.

“I’ve come here as a courtesy,” Bezel began, comfortable with taking the lead. “Daniel Cutter is on probation, as we understand it. Because he’s in the system, I thought it only right to pay you a visit and let you know I intend to question him later today.”

Walt had a history with Danny Cutter that went back several years. Patrick Cutter, Danny’s older brother, now ran a billion-dollar cellular company. Danny, whom Walt liked better than his far-more-successful brother, had a prior arrest and conviction on drug charges. He’d spent time in a federal minimum security facility before returning to Ketchum, just in time to be caught up in a murder investigation-the valley’s only murder in six years. He was a womanizer, a hard-partying boy who had cleaned up his act and, as part of his attempt to reestablish himself, had founded a bottled-water company, called Trilogy Springs, based in Ketchum.

“Concerning?” he asked.

“We were contacted by a Salt Lake City hospital. Two of Mr. Cutter’s employees have taken ill. Their condition is listed as serious. Doctors have not been able to stabilize them. I’m here to interview Mr. Cutter about his company’s role, if any, in these illnesses and to question him about his actions. We have a full inspection team on the way to the Trilogy Springs bottling facility, near Mackay, Idaho.”

“What actions?”

“It has come to our attention that Mr. Cutter may have flown the two employees in a private jet to Salt Lake City while possibly denying them medical care locally.”

“You think he tasked those two down to Salt Lake to avoid being found out? That doesn’t sound like Danny. Listen, Salt Lake ’s the better health care. All our Life Flights go to Boise or Salt Lake.”

Bezel jotted down something into a small notebook. She looked comfortable in the chair. Maybe she was into yoga; she looked it.

“You said you came to me as a courtesy,” Walt said, somewhat suspiciously.

“Exactly.”

“Is there a probation violation?”

“He traveled with the employees out of state. I assume that was with your knowledge and permission?”

He was getting the idea now. Beneath the superfeminine façade was a bulldog. “I’m not his probation officer.”

“But, as a felon, he’s required to notify your office if he intends to travel out of state, is he not?”

“He is.”

“Did he do that in person or by phone?”

Walt felt cornered. He wasn’t going to lie for Danny Cutter, but he didn’t like the idea of the CDC playing babysitter.

“I could check with his PO.”

“Would you, please. The point is, if he entered this facility-your offices-there’s the possibility of contagion.”

“The illness is contagious?”

“There are two patients with similar symptoms. Tests are being conducted. Doctors have not yet identified the illness. We’ve asked both Mr. Cutter and his assistant to keep themselves isolated prior to my arrival. My job is to track their movements since their contact with the individuals in question. We’ve also notified the pilots as well as employees at the Fixed Base Operation that serviced the plane.”

He read between the lines. “Are you saying this is somehow terrorist related?” He’d had the recent warning from Homeland concerning activity by the Samakinn. “Was Trilogy contaminated intentionally?”

“We don’t know what we’ve got, much less how Cutter’s employees might have contracted it. But, with your permission, we’d like to pass out tags to everyone employed here.” She produced what looked like a car air freshener, a round disc in a cheap plastic frame divided into six wedges of different-colored paper. It dangled from her fingers like a Christmas ornament. “And we’d like both physical swabs of the environment and a few blood samples.”

“Jesus.”

“Your deputies and staff come in contact with the public. Should any one of these indicators change colors, no matter how subtle, we need to hear about it.”

Walt knew from recent training that such indicators had been proven to help field investigators narrow down searches and limit exposure. He had a box of similar tags in a cupboard in the incident room. He’d never had use for them.