Ridley Pearson - Killer Summer

She trusted he was too consumed in the wine auction and his deals to notice any change in her, because she knew she wasn’t going to pull this off perfectly. She didn’t lie to him and he didn’t lie to her: this was an oath they’d made after her mother died. They were in this together. Only now she was deserting him. It made her feel a little crazy in the head. He didn’t deserve what she was about to do to him, no matter how much he tried to keep her being a kid instead of allowing her to be the woman she was.

Her hand hesitated, about to deliver a T-shirt to the suitcase. She could have undone this before it ever got started. He begged her all the time to talk, to tell him what she was thinking. But she put the shirt in the suitcase, continuing her packing.

There was no turning back now.

Walt heard the aspen leaves overhead, clattering like playing cards raking bicycle spokes. He watched Beatrice zooming around in the leaves on the ground, chasing phantoms and kicking up dust. This was where his heart was, he was reminded, away from town, away from his badge, on a walk with his dog in the backcountry. Gail’s abrupt departure from the marriage had driven him deeply into his work. In an instant, here in the sweet-smelling air, with the wind whistling past his ears, he realized he’d used his work as a place to hide. Leave it to Beatrice to reveal this truth to him.

Yellow police tape ran tree to tree, enclosing a thicket of golden willow. At the center were two camo-painted ATVs, the geometric shapes seen from the glider.

“So?” Fiona said, watching Brandon and the two deputies, Tuttle and Blompier, cut back the willows to make a path to the vehicles.

It was nice to see Brandon do some hard labor. Tuttle, on the other hand, worked like a maniac, going at the willow with lopping shears like a man possessed. Tuttle had spoken to a man peeing by the side of Deer Creek Road, a man now of interest to the investigation, and he was taking out his anger and frustration at having not written down the Yukon’s plate number on the willow stalks.

“We want a record of the scene,” Walt answered her, “including the boot print Tuttle found.” He pointed. “Same for the tire tracks. Everything to scale.”

“I was actually asking what you’re hoping to get from this,” she said, attempting to clarify.

Walt checked his wristwatch. The second hand seemed to be moving much faster than usual. “Evidence. Something to follow? The auction begins in a little over eight hours. Basically, I’m hoping for a miracle.”

“You had them on the run. You think they wiped them down?” she said.

She’d been around his office enough that she was beginning to think like an investigator. He suppressed a smile.

“We’ll find out,” he said.

He pulled her aside as a car pulled up behind them.

Walt lacked a forensics team. On those rare occasions when he needed one, he’d call the Nampa crime lab. But when in a real hurry, he called Barge Levy, the principal of the valley’s Silver Creek Alternative School. Levy held a master’s in science from MIT, and he was something of an amateur lab technician, as close as Walt could get to a local forensics expert. Levy could perform basic tasks, such as fuming, dusting, and lifting prints, as well as the Nampa team.

Levy walked stiff-legged, the result of two hip replacements. He had salt-and-pepper hair and piercing blue eyes. He used his contagious, self-aware laugh to his advantage, a means to politely interrupt.

“What goes, boss?” Levy asked.

“Hate to take you away from summer vacation.”

“No you don’t.” He let loose a laugh, startling some birds out of a nearby tree. “You want the rest of us to suffer right along with you.”

“You two know each other…?” he said, gesturing in Fiona’s direction.

“Fiona’s been kind enough to help us out on Professional Day at the school,” Levy said. “And she works with some of our girls.”

“I didn’t know that,” Walt admitted.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” Fiona said.

Levy let rip another of his laughs. Fiona knelt and rummaged in her bags, switching camera lenses.

“These may relate to an open investigation,” Walt told him. “If they were wiped down, it was in a hurry. Fiona will record your work, if that’s okay.”

“No worries. But I’ve got to tell you, they’re dust bombs,” Levy said. “I doubt I’ll be lifting any prints.”

“Whatever you can do.”

“Got it.”

“Try the gas cap, and the valve caps to all four tires.”

Levy nodded. “Nice. You must do this for a living.” He barked out yet another laugh.

Walt said, “Before you start, I’ve got a riddle for you.”

“Riddle-iculous,” Levy said.

“Let’s say I’ve got a group trying to boost a couple of bottles from the wine auction.”

“Okay.”

“And I suspect one or more of them pulled a B and E at Sawtooth Wood Products last night.”

Levy cocked his head curiously. “Yeah?”

“The lumberyard has a couple of tractor trailers, some Cats of various sizes. A pair of wood splitters, both hydraulic. Some John Deere lawn mowers, some chainsaws. A few hundred logs, and mountains of slash and piles of split firewood.”

“Okay.”

“They’ve got a hell of a shop to maintain all that gear-maybe the best shop in the valley.” He paused, allowing Levy to take it all in. “How does any of that fit into a plan to steal a couple bottles of wine?”

Levy pinched his chin. “Where are these bottles now?”

“In a vault, a bank safe.”

“Hydraulics might help open a vault. A Cat could take out a wall.”

“True enough. But the bottles are more vulnerable once they’re at the auction, right?”

“And if they’re pros, they know that’s just the way you’d think.”

“Okay,” Walt said, “I can buy that.”

“House plans,” Fiona said. “That company has built some of the premiere houses in the valley. We did a profile of them in the Express. They must have plans on file for some of the biggest.”

“Brilliant!” Walt said. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“Maybe they need some lumber to build themselves a Trojan horse,” Levy teased, chuckling to himself.

Once again, Walt thought back to fly-fishing with Kevin, his attempt to match the hatch. “A Trojan horse,” he muttered.

Listen, Sheriff, my bikini’s a lot more revealing than this bra is,” said Janet Finch, “so don’t feel you’re embarrassing me. Please, stay, so we can talk this through.”

She pulled off her T-shirt, her back to Walt, while Deputy Sheriff Wilma Karl pinned a tiny Bluetooth microphone inside the bra cup, ran a wire along the right strap and over the collarbone to a small credit-card-sized transmitter taped to the skin beneath the bra’s hooks at the back.

On the table lay a mobile phone to take the place of Finch’s. Whether on or off, the Motorola CABO would transmit whatever the microphone picked up, enhanced by a Bluedriving kit, with an extended range of nearly two hundred yards. Even if Finch’s phone were taken from her, switched off, and placed in a room at the other end of the house, Walt’s guys in the MC would still be able to eavesdrop on her conversation with Remy.

At her request, Walt stayed in the room. It had been a while since he’d seen a woman’s bare back, and Janet Finch’s was taut and smooth-skinned. He suffered the physical tug of being male, the emotional whiplash of a betrayed husband, and the self-righteousness of always wanting to remain professional. He felt a little sick, in fact.

“Why would Remy suddenly agree to see me?” she asked.