Killer Summer (15 page)

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Authors: Ridley Pearson

BOOK: Killer Summer
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He had taken the high ground, attempting to drive her back on her heels.
She resisted the urge to defend herself. “I appreciate your time, Mr. Remy. I’m delighted you called.”
“You are aware of the due diligence a find like this is put through?” he said. “The rigors of research and testing involved in verification? I remind you: these bottles were discovered nearly eleven months ago, shortly after the Jeffersons, and have been undergoing authentication and verification ever since. The best experts have examined, reviewed, and analyzed this find, and yet you, a graduate student who originally majored in animal husbandry, believe the experts got it all wrong. Don’t you find that the slightest bit presumptuous?”
She took a deep breath. “I may have given you the wrong impression, Mr. Remy. Yes, I have some questions for you, it’s true. And, yes, they are of a scholarly bent and for my doctoral thesis. I did not, do not, expect to be compared in the same breath with such experts as Shilling, Partuuk, and Hamlin. I was hoping, however presumptuous it may be of me, to help you, not to challenge you; to prevent you from making what I believe would be a horrible mistake and thereby safeguard your incredible reputation . . . a mistake that would be bad not only for you but for our industry.”
He studied her, squinting suspiciously through his thick glasses. She felt violated, and crossed her arms high on her chest.
“That would presume I give your claims any credence,” he said.
“Indeed.”
“And I assure you, I do not. We have documentation and certification confirming the authenticity of this find. What is more problematic is the damage your dogged determination to prove me wrong can inflict on the auction price. If you are trying to make a name for yourself, Ms. Finch, you may want to rethink your strategy. I promise you, it’s not my reputation that’s going to suffer if you persist, it’s yours.”
Again, she fought the urge to do battle with him. “Ha! I see you figured me out,” she said sarcastically. “How clever you are, Mr. Remy.” She stood up from the couch. “Believe it or not, I didn’t come here to entertain you. If at some point you’re interested in keeping yourself out of the tabloids and maybe out of jail, you might study microfractures, especially as they pertain to glass of a wood-ash composition. You have my number.”
He came out of the chair with a remarkable agility, a catlike quickness that surprised her. He had her by the upper arm, his strength considerable. “I’ve insulted you,” he said. “How foolish of me.”
“You are a legend, sir. A broker that has put his name in the history books multiple times. You must have plenty of money. So I just don’t see the point of this . . . charade. You may believe me out of my element, and you’re entitled to your opinion, but in fact this is my element. I am a student of the very experts you’ve used in your verification. My interest is to complete the research necessary to finish writing my thesis.”
“Microfractures?” he said.
“Glass is a supercooled liquid,” she said. “As a result, there is no order to the molecules. They’ve been caught in a state between liquid and solid, and won’t achieve a solid state for aeons. Because of this random distribution of molecules, glass, when it is cut with an engraving tool or ground with a grinder, produces microfractures aligning away from the tool or grinder. Modern engraving is done with diamond tips spinning at phenomenal speeds, far faster than the tools of two centuries ago. Today’s tools produce microfractures aligning
into
the glass, not away from the tool.
“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.
27
W
alt 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.
“Well, hey, I ought to notify Ketchum and Sun Valley.” Brandon was blocking the doorway.
“Yeah,” Walt said, “go.”
28
A
rthur Remy stepped out of the shower and reached for the monogrammed towel. The initials on it belonged to his hosts, currently hiking a trail on the ski mountain.
His hand swiped the air where the towel should have been.
“Jesus!”
he barked, his voice ringing off the imported Spanish tile. He quickly covered his groin.
“What were you thinking?” the man asked.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Talking to the police, initiating inquiries within Branson Risk.”
“Oh, Christ!”
“Did it not occur to you we would be keeping an eye on our investment? That we would be watching you? Did it not occur to you that if you started turning over rocks, something vile would come out from underneath?” He indicated himself. “Voilà!”
“The sheriff came to me, not the other way around.”
“And this theft? An attempt at insurance money?”
“That wasn’t me.”
“Lying won’t help you, believe me.”
“It wasn’t me!”
“Insurance adjusters . . . is there a lower life-form? Like a dog with a bone. You get them involved . . . And now, thanks to you, they
are
involved. What if they decide to look at this more carefully?”

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