Killer Summer

7

Walt walked Kevin to the back of the ambulance.

“I’m going to ask you not to say anything about this,” he said, “not even to Myra. Especially not to Myra.”

“If she’s picking me up at the hospital, it’s going to be kind of obvious, isn’t it? I mean, what do I say?”

“You got dizzy out on the river… I wanted you looked at.”

“Seriously?”

“Whoever did this… attempted to do this… they don’t know the guy died. They don’t know the kind of charges they’re facing. Thieves, an organized robbery like this, they don’t give up easily. They may hang around. That’s in my favor. But Myra, God bless her, loves a good rumor.”

“Got it,” Kevin said. “I’d still rather not go to the hospital.”

“No choice in that.”

“My gear?”

“I’ll get everything together.”

“How come it’s always got to be something?” Kevin asked. “You and me, this family, one crisis after another? What’s with that?”

“It just seems that way.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. When do you and me ever get ten minutes together? I saw a lot more of you when Dad was alive… Is that it? I remind you of him… or something?”

“You’re not so much like your dad,” Walt said. “We can talk about this later.”

“We can, but we never do.”

The paramedic was ready to shut the door.

“Not a word,” Walt reminded.

“I love you too,” said Kevin, climbing down.

Walt called Myra next, relieved to reach her voice mail. Kevin had fainted but appeared to be okay. He was headed to the hospital for tests. Walt would see her at the hospital or he’d drive Kevin home. Then he tried her cell, got through to her, and endured high drama for five minutes.

Fiona Kenshaw’s Subaru crested the small rise. She parked and disembarked, laden with two camera bags. Part-time fishing guide and sometimes wedding and local news photographer, she’d been on her way to Silver Creek for a pleasure fish when located by dispatch. She looked good in her forest green Silver Creek Outfitters polo, the shirt tucked into a pair of brown canvas cargo shorts belted tightly at her waist. Her right knee bore scars, either from an operation or an injury; her left ankle was bruised. A pair of gray Keens kicked up the dusty road. She peered out from under a baseball cap that read KISS MY BASS, several dry flies stuck in the brim. Along with the bags, she carried a grim expression on her face. The sight of the ambulance did that to her-he knew this about her. That, and the latex gloves Walt was wearing. She couldn’t be considered chatty. Thoughtful, maybe. And part turtle: if challenged, she retreated inside herself. He’d known her to spend whole days in the Engletons’ guest cottage that she called home, alone and content, the world shut out. He never asked about these times she spent by herself. She had enough looks and brains to be doing much more than scraping by working three jobs in Ketchum, Idaho, but that was part of the allure and mystique of the place. Ph.D.s worked as waiters, former CEOs played at being ski bums.

“Hey,” Fiona said, tucking an errant sprig of brown hair up under her cap.

“We’ve got a body on the way to Elmer’s,” Walt said. “I know that’s not your favorite, but we’ve got to shoot it. Apart from the body, I need close-ups of the scene. All the details. There are some broken toothpicks on the mat of the driver’s side of the wrecker, strapping and rigging on the wrecker’s undercarriage, some kind of gas canister attached down there near the back. And get a shot of the plastic tubing leading through the grille of the Taurus, plus interior and exterior shots, along with a shot of that black attaché case that’s locked to the passenger’s-seat frame.

“The victim’s carrying a boarding pass for a flight that just landed,” he continued, “so chances are, it came through security, which means it’s not an explosive. We’ve got some shoe and tire impressions. I marked them for you.” He pointed.

“We’re losing light fast,” she said. “I’m on it.”

Fiona Kenshaw’s ability to separate her social self from her work self was one of the qualities he most admired in her.

She worked quickly and methodically against the fading light of the setting sun. Fifteen minutes into it, she added a flash and a light stand that bounced a strobe off a silver umbrella.

“What was his name?” she asked.

“Randall Everest Malone. He was carrying a loaded handgun in a holster at the small of his back. He had two boarding passes in the billfold pocket of his sport coat. No way he flew with that weapon on him. So it was in his checked luggage-all legal-and he took care of it immediately after landing. That tells me something about him, maybe about the contents of the case, which is high-tech like nothing I’ve seen.”

As Fiona continued shooting pictures of the wrecker, Walt reviewed the contents of several evidence bags he’d kept with him. He’d collected a money clip holding one hundred seventy-seven dollars; three receipts, all labeled SUN VALLEY in pen; a Tul pen; a BlackBerry; and a roll of Tums. In a separate bag was the man’s credit-card wallet containing three cards, a California driver’s license, a medical insurance card, a vehicle insurance card, a twenty-four-hour health club membership card that, by the look of him, went unused, and six business cards.

“So who is he?” she asked.

“The business card says ‘Branson Risk, LLC.’ I’ve worked with them during the Cutter Conference. Personal security, drivers, surveillance…”

“Private eye?” she asked.

“They don’t call themselves that, but, yes, essentially.”

“That makes the briefcase, or what’s in it, all the more interesting.”

“Doesn’t it, though? I’d like to have a look inside before Branson Risk puts their attorneys to work.”

“Can you do that?”

“I can try.”

They moved to the Taurus. Walt used a pair of bolt cutters from the Cherokee to liberate the bag.

“Boys and their toys,” Fiona said. “Looks like something from Sharper Image.”

“More like an exhibit at the Spy Museum,” Walt said.

“You think?”

“He’s not a spook, he’s private.”

“I’m done with the front seat,” she said.

Walt unsealed the freezer bag containing the dead man’s wallet and tried each of the four credit cards in the slot beneath the handle. None worked to open it.

He rummaged through Malone’s overnight bag. There were no other cards.

Walt tried every zippered compartment, the toilet kit, the pockets of the clothes.

“Judging by the single change of clothes, he wasn’t planning on staying long,” she said.

“Longer now,” Walt said.

“Can you break it open?”

“I’m tempted to try,” he admitted, “but Malone took the time to arm himself at the airport before getting into the rental. Maybe he was expecting trouble. Given the sophistication of the case, its contents are either valuable or dangerous or both… possibly rigged.”

“You’re frustrated by this, I can hear it in your voice.”

“A private courier delivering something up here? It could be anything. This guy took this job very seriously. That’s worth noting.”

Fiona spent the next few minutes finishing up the photography and then caught back up with Walt. He was behind the wheel of the Cherokee, Malone’s BlackBerry in hand. He was taking notes.

“I’ll e-mail you the pictures within the hour,” she said.

“Sorry to cost you the fishing.”

“Hey, it’s a paycheck. Anything there?” she asked, indicating the BlackBerry.

“A reservation at the Sun Valley Inn. An unspecified appointment at nine.”

“Who calls his family to tell them?” she asked.

“I’ll talk to Branson, and we’ll take it from there. But it’ll likely be me.”

Fiona Kenshaw looked sad and sympathetic at the same time, looked like she wanted to say something more than what she did say. “I’ll get these to you.”