Killer Summer

52

Walt couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken to his father. There had been a brief cease-fire a few months back, but neither party had followed up with negotiation. Stagnation had given way to rot, a return to normalcy. He had once hoped that his marriage and the arrival of grandchildren would help heal things between them, had held on to the belief that family was a bond that transcended petty problems that cluttered other relationships. But hope could not compete with reality, the ideal collapsing under the glare of practicality. He’d begun to doubt they would ever be friends again. In the end, his brother’s death had taken three lives, not just one.

“What are you doing here?” he said to Fiona as he entered his office.

“You said I could use your computer.”

“Did I?”

“Are you all right?”

“No,” he answered. “I have to call my father. He has to be told.”

“I’ve got something for you.” She motioned for him to sit by her, but he remained standing while viewing the screen.

“Ears,” she said.

“Ears,” he repeated.

“As individual as fingerprints.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“You wanted proof it was Cantell.”

Walt moved closer. “Yes…”

“Behold the magic of digital photography.”

From a mug shot of Cantell taken from a scanned image of his OneDOJ sheet, she cropped the right ear, then enlarged it, made it transparent, and laid it over a video still from Sun Valley Aviation’s security camera. It matched Cantell’s ear exactly.

“I can do the same thing with Roger McGuiness,” she said, “although the angle is not as absolutely perfect as this.”

“So we’ve got them dead to rights,” Walt said.

“You don’t have to sound so excited,” she snapped sarcastically.

Walt snatched up the phone and barked out an order to arrest Arthur Remy “on suspicion of fraud.” He added, “Three-quarters of my deputies and every cop in the valley are up there. Find Remy and hold him for questioning.”

Hanging up, he explained himself to Fiona. “We know the bottles are fakes. We can tie Cantell to the attempted theft of the bottles and Remy, by association, to the theft of the jet and the kidnapping of two teenagers. It gives us someone to question, an actual suspect. You gave us that someone. Maybe we can catch a break.”

“Then I’ll save my work?” she said.

“By all means.” He glanced at the phone.

“Just take the punches, if he throws them,” she said.

“Oh, he’ll throw them all right.”

“It’s all in how you respond.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Jeez,” Fiona said, coming out of the chair-his chair, “you’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry,” he called out after her. Too late.

Walt sat down, let out a long breath, and reached for the phone. He started punching in the numbers he knew by heart. But he did it more slowly than usual, his index finger hovering over the final button, refusing to punch.

He then sat up straight, elbows on his desk, and pressed the button.

“Well, look what the dog drug in,” Jerry Fleming said.

“Been a while.”

“Has it? Hadn’t noticed.”

“I’ve got a situation here. Kevin may be involved, may be in way over his head. I need your contacts at Air Force.”

“Kev? What kind of situation?”

Walt talked him through the attempted theft of the wine, the explosion at the auction, the blocking of the bridge. Chuck Webb’s seeing Kevin’s car behind the lodge and the theft of the jet he saved for last. When he brought up the engine fire, his father cut him off.

“Kevin’s on board?”

“We haven’t verified that, but that’s what I believe, yes.”

“Jesus H. Christ, what kind of Mickey Mouse outfit are you running over there?”

“I’m told the Air Force may have radar that reaches up here. The FAA believes they do. Since you have friends over there, I thought-”

“You’d get me to bail you out.”

“Not exactly how I saw it.”

“I’ll make the call.”

Walt outlined the window of opportunity as he understood it, impressing upon him that they needed to make every effort to locate the Learjet.

“You’re in over your head.”

“Thankfully, your opinion doesn’t matter. By now, they’re likely well beyond my county, well out of my reach.”

“Not if that second engine was burning out. Any pilot with a beating heart would put that jet down in a matter of minutes if one engine had been lost and they were losing the second. It couldn’t have flown very far.”

“We’re on it. We’re contacting every airfield.”

“Takes a good deal of runway to land a jet.”

“We’re on it,” Walt repeated.

“The right kind of satellite might pick up a flare out. I can check on that as well.”

“Anything you can do… The sooner we can track that jet-”

“I’m coming over there.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Did I ask? I said I’m coming over there. If you find Kevin, then call me. Otherwise, plan to pick me up in… ninety minutes. I’ll call you from the plane.”

“The company jet?”

“You could have had this, Walt. This was your choice, not mine. I’ll call from the jet and give you a number where you can reach me. See you shortly.”

Cringing, Walt hung up the phone. He had ninety minutes to save himself from certain hell.