Ridley Pearson - Killer Summer

“Dr. Weisling was not stabbed to death by a madman. He was stabbed to death because his microfracture research uncovered your bottles as fakes. Either you knew that going in or it was too late to stop what you’d started, but either way your reputation is on the line.”

Remy’s eyes had grown even bigger behind the distortion of his glasses.

“What… do… you… want?”

She hesitated. “You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“To prove that Jefferson inventoried every bottle, damn-near every glass from his cellar, and that these Adams bottles were never a part of it. In short: the truth.”

“You’re right, I don’t believe you. Is it money?”

“I want you to withdraw the Adams lot from the auction,” she said. “I want access-full access-to the bottles for further analysis. I want a thorough description-which you have yet to give-of exactly where and under what circumstances you discovered the bottles. And I want any documents that show any mention of these bottles as having been in the possession of Jefferson, John Adams, or John Quincy Adams, as I’ve been unable to verify the existence of any such gift between the families.”

“That’s all?” he said sarcastically, gasping as he ran a hand through his hair stubble. “Jesus! You… are… a… piece… of… work.”

“What did you mean by money?”

“What do you think I meant?”

“I think you were offering me a bribe.”

“Nonsense. I was suggesting you wanted a bribe. That’s a far different thing.”

“I have to wonder about the attempt to steal the bottles,” she said, finally finding her way into the line of discussion the sheriff was hoping for.

“That was a horrible thing. A man died.”

“A man-a good man-was killed in Amsterdam as well. These bottles have blood on them.”

“If you’re accusing me of something, just say it.”

“Very well…”

She studied him for a minute. She wanted to make him wait.

“Dr. Weisling’s murder put you in a bind. You expected someone like me would show up. You’re smart enough to know that would happen. Sun Valley was already arranged. If you could have withdrawn the lot, I believe you would have. But that would only focus more attention on Dr. Weisling’s tragedy. However, if the bottles never made it to the auction, having been authenticated and properly insured…”

“If only I was so smart as all that… since you have me as a murderer and a crook already…”

“If not you, then who? An investor? Someone put you up to the Adams bottles? Brought you the idea? Forced it on you maybe? It’s no time to be defending someone like that. Unless you plan on killing me too?”

“I had nothing to do with the attempted theft,” he said. “Would I have profited? I suppose so. The bottles are well insured, it’s true. Do I plan on killing you? Why would I invite you to this meeting if that were the case?”

“To find out just how serious a threat I am.”

He winced and pursed his lips. “You are a graduate student, my dear. The bottles were vetted and authenticated. You value yourself a little too highly, I’m afraid. How should I know who killed Weisling, if it’s as you say? I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” she said.

“The reserve on this lot is seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I have plenty to worry about. If you cost me that reserve, I’ll sue you so that any paycheck you earn for the rest of your life goes to me. I’d consider that, if I were you.”

“No you wouldn’t,” she said. “Not if you were me. I studied under Weisling. I worshipped that man.”

He laughed. “God, you are impossible.”

“Now you’re catching on,” she said. “Think it through: whoever buys these bottles is going to have them vetted by their own people, and you can be sure I will make myself a part of that process. Microfractures, Mr. Remy, it will all come down to microfractures. What you want to be doing is getting yourself out in front of this thing, ahead of it. If it wasn’t you behind Dr. Weisling’s death, then you know who was. Speak up. Say something. Save yourself while there’s time.”

His eyes danced behind the magnification.

“So dramatic,” he whispered harshly. “Perhaps you missed your calling.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

She left, hoping she could find her way back to the front door. She began roaming from room to room.

“ ‘Before God, we are all equally wise,’ ” he called out, “ ‘and equally foolish.’ ”

“Albert Einstein,” she said, turning.

She’d knocked the wind out of him.

“Microfractures,” she said, pulling the door shut behind herself.

Walt sat at his desk, looking at printouts of three e-mails, each a criminal record, while Tommy Brandon tried to look comfortable in the small room’s only other chair. His six-foot-four frame made the chair look like something from Alice in Wonderland.

“You don’t see a sheet like Matthew Salvo anymore,” Walt said. “A second-story man, is what they used to call a guy like this.”

“I guess he’s an ATV man now,” Brandon said.

“He’s a bridesmaid,” Walt said. “All his arrests are as an accomplice. No assaults. Two charges of statutory, both pled out, so he obviously likes them young. Nothing else here to get him more than medium time and a pair of reduced sentences. He’s Matt Damon in those Ocean’s movies.”

“So, who’s George Clooney?” Brandon asked.

Walt wanted to say: “You are.” Because Brandon was undeniably handsome. He had piercing dark eyes, a strong chin, and perfect teeth. It was hard for Walt to look at him and not imagine Gail straddling him. There was nothing to break Walt’s spell, the grim porn movie running through his mind involving his soon-to-be ex-wife and his deputy.

“I doubt it’s this guy,” Walt said, tapping Roger McGuiness’s face. “He’s the wheel man. We can bet he drove the wrecker. One arrest, six years ago, no time served. He’s kept himself clean, which I imagine appealed to Clooney.”

“We issue a BOLO?” Brandon said. Be on lookout.

“Yes, for both. Ketchum and Sun Valley PDs need this. Ask them to walk these sheets around to the bars and hotels and property managers. Where do young girls hang out? The pool at the Y? Tennis courts? I’d put those on the list too. Let’s hope Matthew Salvo has been trolling during his free time.”

“Got it.” Brandon stood.

“Tommy,” Walt said, stopping him halfway to the door.

“Yeah?”

“The girls come home Monday.”

“Yeah.” It wasn’t exactly an I couldn’t care less, but it was close enough that Walt felt a stab in his chest. Brandon would never care about his kids the way he did.

“It’s been two weeks, the longest they’ve ever been away. I was thinking, it might be nice if Gail and I took them out to dinner. You know, just her and me. What do you think?”

“I think you’re asking the wrong person.”

“But you’re okay with it,” Walt said.

“What are you asking?”

Walt hesitated. “You think she’d be good with it?”

Brandon crossed his arms tightly. “Listen, Sheriff…”

“We sign the papers next week.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I imagine that sucks.”

Walt realized he should have kept his mouth shut. What was he doing talking to Brandon about any of this?

Neither man spoke. Walt’s silence was the result of countless sleepless nights spent on the couch or in one of the girls’ empty beds, anywhere but in the bed he and Gail had once shared. He silently suffered such heartache and physical pain that he’d sought a doctor’s opinion, not just once but several times, only to be told it was all in his head. Walt’s silence was the silence of defeat, regret, shame, and disgust.