Killer View (20 page)

“Can I think about it, sir?”

“Hell, no. You can pack your bag, and you can thank me later. One of my guys will be in touch shortly to iron out your itinerary. The state picks up the bill for everything, Sheriff. Make the necessary arrangements on your end. You’ll hear back from us by the end of the day.” The line went dead.

“Good news?” McClure asked.

Walt stared back at him, dumbfounded.

“Unexpected,” Walt answered honestly. Unexpected and slightly unbelievable, he thought. In spite of his accomplishments on a state and regional level, there were at least a half-dozen more-senior sheriffs in line for such perks. Whether Mel had dropped out or not, the chiefs of Boise, Pocatello, Coeur d’Alene, and Moscow would typically have been considered first. Should have been considered first. Someone had gotten to the congressman and had convinced him to put Walt’s name in ahead of others.

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.”

“Yeah . . . Okay.” Walt looked into the curiously sad eyes of his children, who understood his tone of voice well enough to know what this call meant to them. “I’ll be right there,” he said into the phone, trying to think of some new way to say what he’d said to his kids too many times before.

INVESTIGATIONS COULD spiral out of control. Walt did his best to keep things simple. But the more threads that were added, the more tangled they became. Randy Aker had been darted and had died, possibly because he was mistaken for Mark. Mark had run away, been found, and then abducted. A test tube had been left on his own back porch—a water sample that tested positive for low-level radiation. A CDC investigation had looked into Danny Cutter’s bottled-water company. Now, after two years of being clean, Danny Cutter was embroiled in a drug bust.

And, in the middle of it all, he’d been invited to a conference twenty-five hundred miles away.

Walt found himself giving Danny the benefit of the doubt as he approached room 223, on the second floor of the lodge. The plush carpet absorbed his footfalls. Framed black-and-white photographs of Gary Cooper, Clark Gable, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Clint Eastwood lined both walls.

Sight of the celebrity photographs reminded him of the two worlds he served: the obscenely affluent residents of Ketchum/Sun Valley and the locals that provided services for them. It was a medieval caste system with him in the middle, keeping the peace. The Sun Valley Lodge was the castle.

He knocked and a moment later was admitted. Danny Cutter lay on his back on a love seat, a pillow under his head, his eyes shut. There was a white smudge on his upper lip; his hair was a mess. He wore blue jeans, penny loafers, and a maroon cashmere sweater. Webb showed Walt the tape job under the sink. The baggie was thick with a white substance.

“Heroin?” Walt suggested.

“But taped under the sink? What is this, the
Rockford Files
?”

“Christ,” Walt said, taking in the room once again. “Happy hour downstairs?”

“Yeah. Macaroni’s playing.” He meant Joe Macarillo’s jazz trio.

“You called Sun Valley?” Walt asked.

“Be here any minute.”

“How much did you tell them?” Walt found himself considering tampering with the evidence, and, having never done anything close to that in his years in law enforcement, he wondered what motivated him. He owed Danny Cutter nothing; he’d given the man a number of breaks.

“I told them I had a guest needed medical attention, that maybe drugs were involved. They’ll be careful about it. Won’t make a big scene.”

“I can’t remove those drugs,” Walt stated, “even if I wanted to.”

“No one said you should.”

Walt met eyes with Webb and stared. And stared. Having not touched his phone, Walt said, “My cell’s got shitty reception in here. I’m going to try the hallway.” He did not break the eye contact. “You’ve helped out guests before, yeah? Covered up an infidelity or two, I would imagine.”

“That’s obstruction,” Webb said, glancing into the bathroom.

Walt said nothing, still staring.

“I had a call girl describe a scene to me one time,” Webb said. “This was in Portland, back when I was on the job. She and her pimp would Mickey a prospective john, get him up to the room, and lift his wallet. While the pimp hit the ATM, the girl pinched the john’s nose and covered his mouth until he was damn-near suffocated. Then she put a deep spoon of coke to his nose and released her fingers. John gasps for air and takes down a huge hit of coke. He’s now going to test positive if he involves the police. Not one of those guys ever fingered her or the pimp. They had a nice little thing going and it just kept on going.”

“So, in case we miss the smudge on his nose, they give us the ounce beneath the sink.”

“I don’t know. That’s an expensive way to do things. Why not a dime bag?”

“Because it’s got to stick. It’s got to be something we can’t ignore. And it’s got to look big—the way Danny Cutter does everything.”

“What if they covered themselves? What if there’s video and we’ve got it wrong?”

“That could do us some serious damage,” Walt agreed.

“Cameras these days—the size of a shirt button.”

“Yeah.”

“His prints are going to be on the bag,” Webb said.

“Yup.”

“He’ll go down for it.”

“Yeah, I think so too,” Walt said.

“And we’re supposed to just stand here and let it happen?”

Walt shrugged. “We could be completely wrong.”

“But we aren’t.” Webb leaned his head in the bathroom. “Thing of it is, when this door’s shut and the light’s off in there, no camera’s going to pick up anything.” He paused. “I thought you had a call to make.”

“I can’t back you up on this,” Walt warned.

“I’m a big boy. Go make your call.”

“Remember, Chuck: if this comes out that Danny’s culpable, he goes away for it, so don’t get your prints on that bag. You hear? And keep it somewhere handy. I may need it.”

“Hurry,” Webb said. “Before I lose my nerve.”

ROY COATS CAME THROUGH THE DOOR OF THE CABIN, LOOKING like Bigfoot. He was wrapped in layers of frost-coated clothing, his beard and mustache were white with globs of snotty ice, his face wind-burned from what had to have been a long snowmobile ride.