Ridley Pearson - Killer View

One thing seemed certain: it had been carefully orchestrated. The more he thought about it, the more he knew he couldn’t attend the conference. Worse, he saw no easy way out of it.

McClure prescribed iodine tablets and wanted a follow-up exam in two weeks.

Walt thanked him and headed out to the parking lot. He called Nancy from the Cherokee and asked for a list of all financial supporters of both his opponent and Congressman McMillian.

“I was just calling you,” Nancy said. “The lab called back almost immediately. The sample in the broken test tube-”

“It came back positive for radiation,” Walt declared, as if he’d received the call himself.

“What’s going on?”

“Mark Aker left me crumbs to follow and I almost missed it. A test tube of water, instead of just writing me a message. Why, I’m not sure. Left it on my back porch. Someone stepped on it the other night and I heard them and found it. I don’t know who. But now I get the message: its contaminated water-radioactive water. And I know someone who can clear this up for me.”

AS THE SHUTTLE ESCALADE ARRIVED AT ROGER HILLABRAND’S electronically controlled gate, Fiona Kenshaw checked her face once more in the Subaru’s rearview mirror. She saw the face of a traitor. She’d felt compelled to accept Hillabrand’s invitation to lunch, despite her better judgment. She’d changed clothes three times before settling on blue jeans, a tailored cranberry shirt that offset her dark hair and eyes, and a black boatneck sweater. Over it all, she wore a sheepskin coat that was her most prized, and most expensive, garment. The attention to her clothing informed her of her desire to impress him, which only served to further undermine her disposition. As she climbed out of the Subaru and headed across the squeaky snow to the black Escalade, she didn’t like herself very much.

The driver’s-side door opened and Sean Lunn climbed out, though begrudgingly. She moved quickly to avoid him opening the door for her. There were times such gallantry was a compliment and other times it felt demeaning. Lunn was not doing this out of respect but because his job required it of him. Fiona took exception, hurrying now.

“I’ve got it,” she said.

Lunn didn’t put up any fuss, immediately returning to his place behind the wheel.

The SUV stood high off the ground; she looked down to find the step rail. What she saw there knocked the wind out of her: mud. A grayish brown mud.

She wondered if she hesitated too long, how much of her reaction Sean Lunn caught. Had there been a recent thaw, had the road they now traveled up to the mountaintop estate been rutted, she might have quickly written this off. But neither of those was the case. More important was the mud’s distinctive color.

He was speaking. Talking to her. Saying something. She wasn’t listening, her thoughts locked on that mud. It was the same color mud they’d found on the dress shoes of the rape victim, Kira Tulivich-a sickly, unnatural gray. There was no mistaking it. She had a photographer’s eye. She knew color the way a painter did. It might not be the same mud. But what if it was?

“… do you think?” he said, finishing a sentence.

“I’m sorry?”

“Never mind.”

“No, please.”

“It was nothing. Weather talk. I was wondering if it’ll warm again or if we’re in for a very early winter.”

“Looks like winter to me,” she said.

“Am I driving too fast?” he said, noticing her expression-a mixture of shock and contemplation-and easing back on the accelerator. The private drive twisted and wound its way steeply up the mountain. Lunn knew it well enough to drive fast. Some of the turns were indeed terrifying, though her mind was elsewhere.

“No… no. I’m fine.”

He kept the speed steady. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but this- your being asked up to lunch-is not normal. In case you’re wondering. I can’t name the last time Mr. Hillabrand had a woman up to the house for lunch.”

“Do I look that nervous?” she asked.

“Preoccupied, is how I’d put it.”

“It’s a little unusual,” she said. “His home instead of a restaurant.” But Lunn had read her correctly; her mind was on the mud and where and how the Escalade had picked it up.

“When he dines in town, he’s constantly interrupted. He knows everybody and everybody knows him. Besides, he loves showing off his place. You want to score points with him, compliment him on the house.”

She wondered if part of Lunn’s job description was to soften up Roger Hillabrand’s potential conquests. That was suddenly how she felt. She’d struggled with accepting the invitation. What signals was she sending by attending?

“Do you suppose the dirt roads will thaw or are they frozen now through winter?” She tried to sound nothing but curious. When he didn’t answer right away, she lied: “I ride horses occasionally, and the dirt roads-like Lower Broadford in Bellevue -are the best.”

“Stays this cold, I don’t see anything thawing.”

“Good point.”

She wondered how many of Roger Hillabrand’s employees drove the Escalade. One of them might have driven the same road or area where the girl had been raped. The silence between her and Lunn felt increasingly uncomfortable. Had her question about the thawing roads silenced him or had they simply run out of things to say?

When the vehicle finally pulled to a stop, Fiona made a point of dropping her purse as she opened the door. As she bent to retrieve it, she chipped a chunk of the mud off the rail. She slipped it into one of the purse’s outside pockets. As she stood, she noticed Lunn suddenly looked her way, and she wondered if he’d seen any of that.

She tried to cover her excitement by expressing insecurities over having come here. Lunn said nothing.

In fact, the invitation to lunch had taken a distant backseat to the discovery of the mud. All she really wanted now was to get back down the hill and to connect with Walt as soon as possible.

“WALT, YOU MAY WANT A PART OF THIS.”

Walt was in the middle of a bite of pizza at Smokey’s on Sun Valley Road, his children and their sitter, Lisa, at the table with him. He put down the pizza.

“Part of what, Chuck?” He’d recognized the smoker’s voice on the phone immediately: Chuck Webb, director of the Sun Valley Lodge’s security.

“Front desk got an anonymous call that one of our guests might be in need of medical assistance. Gave us a room number. I responded. It was Danny Cutter, stoned out of his mind. I’ve called SVPD just now. A requirement. But I know the history of you and Mr. Cutter, his probation and all, and so I’m also calling you.”

“You’re holding Cutter?”

“I’m in the room with him.”

“Can I speak to him?”

“He’s way out of it, Walt. In and out of consciousness.”

“Any drugs?”

“Found what looks like an ounce of a white powder taped under the sink.”

“An ounce?” If it tested positive, it would carry twenty years for Cutter, given his current probation. Walt felt a pit in his stomach. “The call to the front desk? Was it recorded?”

“No.”

“Anonymous.”

“Yeah.”

“Afraid for Cutter, was that it?”

“That was the claim. But it’s not right. He’s more than just stoned. He’s out of it.” He paused. “What’s Danny Cutter doing in my hotel when he lives here in town?”

“Who’s it booked to?”

“A John Greydon. Paid cash. We cleared the card for five hundred in incidentals. I can start a trace on the card.”

“What’s the condition of the room?”

“Bed’s made. That’s the stink of it. I know he has a history of drugs, Walt, but this doesn’t feel right.”