Ridley Pearson - Killer Summer

“Were you notified the case was off route?”

“I was,” Remy said. “It went west of Hailey.”

“That’s correct. Branson’s reaction?”

“I assume they attempted to contact the courier.”

“You didn’t hear from them again?”

“There were several calls back and forth,” Remy said. “A good deal of concern.”

“So, in theory, Branson has photographs that could prove helpful to the investigation.” Walt couldn’t take his eyes off the case.

“If they exist, I will have them make them available to you.” Remy caught Walt staring. “Go ahead, Sheriff. Be my guest. They’re a piece of history.”

Walt opened the lid.

Inside, packed in custom-molded gray foam, were three dark green bottles of wine.

Cantell’s team boarded Sun Valley’s River Run high-speed quad chairlift at five-minute intervals so as not to be seen sitting together. The views behind them were spectacular: the town of Ketchum in the foreground, then, farther east, the Sun Valley resort, with its hotels and golf course. A second chairlift carried them to the very top, from which one could see for a hundred miles in all directions: craggy mountaintops north, east, and west, and, to the south, a vast expanse of high-altitude desert.

Cantell avoided the busy mountaintop ski lodge. Mountain bikers and parasailors prepared for descent, while day hikers huddled in groups, trail maps in hand. The grid of Ketchum’s streets spread out three thousand feet below, the buildings and vehicles looking like toy models.

Cantell’s team hiked down to a location that offered a view both east and south. In late July, the ski slopes were a vivid green broken by flecks of yellow columbine and red Indian paintbrush that swayed in the constant breeze.

The four hoisted binoculars as Cantell spoke.

“First: the bridge,” he said. Highway 75’s only bridge was a formed-concrete, three-lane span crossing the Big Wood River. “Roger, placement is everything.”

“No problem.”

“Salvo,” Cantell said, “the power pole, to the east, will block the bike path.”

“Sure,” Matt said, “got it.”

“Roger,” Cantell said, “you can make out the roof of the new symphony pavilion behind the lodge.”

“Yeah.”

“The golf course is just to the north,” Cantell said, “the row of golf carts.”

“Okay.”

“That’s you… before the truck. It should look like an overcharged battery or a short. Nothing too spectacular.”

Roger smirked. “Can do.”

“After setting the charge, you’ll meet up with Matt and we enter phase two. You guys will be picked up on the other side by Lorraine, and we’ll meet in the Albertson’s parking lot north of Hailey.”

“Sounds good.”

“Lorraine, you’ll pick them up in the Starweather subdivision. There’s a private bridge there that crosses to a ranch. That’s the rendezvous.”

Lorraine nodded.

Cantell trained his binoculars well south to his prize, the asphalt shimmering in the heat. “Any questions?”

“What if I can’t get the keys?” Lorraine asked. “Has that been considered?”

“Then you need to get yourself invited back to his room,” Cantell explained. “Matt will shadow you, as planned. He’ll call Roger in if necessary. We need that key, and nothing, no way, can raise suspicion.”

Cantell addressed the three. “Remember Fort Lauderdale,” he warned. “Timing is everything. These wine bottles fell into our lap. We’ve done what’s necessary. We chummed the water.”

“But we screwed it up,” Salvo said.

“We can live with that,” Cantell said. “It may actually play to our advantage.” He considered his next words carefully. “A word of caution to each of you.” He looked directly at Salvo. “No screw-ups. Matt, if I hear you’re hanging around the hotel pools or trolling the skate parks, I’ll cut you out.

“Our success depends on our anonymity,” he continued. “None of us can afford to be remembered. And Matt, just for your information, sixteen- and seventeen-year-old girls remember everything.”

“It’s not a problem.” Salvo’s eyes hardened and his jaw muscles knotted.

Addressing Lorraine, Cantell said, “Makeup and wig aside, you can’t be remembered either. And we can’t drug him because that’ll set them onto us. So it’s tricky.”

“I know,” she said. “Trust me, I’ll be careful. I’ll have tattoos in all the right places-temporary, but he won’t know that. And, trust me, he’ll remember them.”

Salvo started to chuckle, but she stared him down.

“You want to switch jobs, Matt?” she asked hotly. “Maybe he’s into boys. Who knows? That would get me off the hook.”

Salvo tried to look confident-a losing effort. “Hey,” he said, “I’m going to be the most exposed of anyone. You want to switch? I’ll switch!”

“Shut up, Matt,” Cantell said. “The risks and responsibilities are as equally distributed as possible.”

“I’m just saying-”

“Well, don’t !” Cantell said. “You take care of yourself. That’s enough.”

He looked south of the mountain. “People like this…” he said, his voice drifting.

Salvo looked ready to brawl. McGuiness patted him on the back. “We cool?” McGuiness said.

“Cool,” said Salvo. He was anything but.

Lorraine Duisit recognized the man from the photo Cantell had showed her, another of those surprises that made Christopher Cantell such an enigma. It was as if he were two people, one of them so deeply buried even a lover could not penetrate. That was part of what attracted her to him, this mysterious quality that constantly surprised her, but it also put her off, worried her. He could be so difficult to read. How could she ever commit to that?

Michel’s Christiania and Olympic Bar and restaurant dated back forty years. It buzzed with conversation and the melodies of a piano man. The split-level layout was divided into a lower-level dining room and upstairs bar. A pair of antique wooden skis was crossed on a wall that rose to a balcony used for private parties. If walls could talk, she thought, as she occupied a banquette in the bar close to the piano, with a view of the crowded dining room and out the open French doors to a small patio beyond.

A man belonging to the face in the photo entered and immediately sized up the room, his eyes finding the single women, including Lorraine. She didn’t make eye contact-not yet. He took one of two open stools at the baby grand- exactly as Cantell had told her he would. It took several inquisitive glances, three songs, and a white wine until she felt the timing was right. She signaled for the check, and took a moment to pull on a sweater that partially covered her metallic-knit halter top. She left her cleavage showing.

“Not leaving so soon?” he said, materializing in front of her.

“The wine gave me an appetite. I’m famished,” she explained.

“Then let me buy you dinner,” he said. “I have a table for one that’s horribly imbalanced.”

“No,” she said, blatantly cautious. “It’s tempting, but no thank you.”

“Because?”

“Again, the wine. I tend to… to get myself into trouble.”

“That doesn’t sound so terrible.”

“Not for you.” She had a guttural, melodious laugh, and she used it to her advantage. “I have to live with myself in the morning.” She looked him directly in the eye.

“I’d love the company,” he said. “But I won’t push you.”

“You just did.”

“I’m William. No strings, I promise.”

“But it’s the strings,” she said softly, “that make it interesting. Why brush and saddle the horse if you’re not going to ride it?” She paused. “Do you like to ride, William?”