Killer Weekend (23 page)

   "A ninja?"

   "You know, a ski mask. Black clothes. Over in the bags of laundry."

   "A worker? A ski mask? Didn't you say the alarm went off when you kicked in the door?"

   "It beeped and went off. Yeah."

   There'd been no report of a manager or employee being inside the laundry at the time. "What was the guy doing?"

   "Scaring the shit out of us."

   Walt suppressed a grin, then sobered to what he was hearing. "Eric went for the window because of this guy."

"Yeah." Kevin sounded regretful.

"You were, or were not, trying to steal clothes?" Walt pressed.

"Dry cleaners use a solvent . . . ," Kevin said softly.

"Meth," Walt said, closing his eyes tightly. "For cooking meth."

Kevin let out a slow, ragged breath. "Yeah."

"Who?"

"Crab."

"Taylor Crabtree. He put you up to this?"

   "Yeah. Said if we were caught, on account we don't have records, criminal records, we'd get off a lot easier than him."

   Walt fought valiantly to control his temper. "And this other guy— your age, or what?"

   "Didn't seem like it."

   Walt found himself hung up on the alarm having sounded with someone else already inside. "Give me a minute."

   He stepped into the hall to use his cell phone and called Trident Security, the valley's only security firm. He identified himself and asked to pull up the entry log for the Suds Tub on the previous night, marveling at how quickly he was provided the information.

   "There was a log-on at six-forty p.m.," he was told. "Log-out at oneoh-seven a.m. Another log-on, one-oh-eight. We received an alarm at one-nineteen; called the establishment at one-nineteen, and passed it on to KPD at one-twenty-one a.m."

   Walt clarified that a log-on meant logging on to the security system, an act that would suggest someone leaving the laundry, and that a logoff implied a return.

   "Yes, sir. Once we caught that alarm, we called the client in case it was a false. Owner's supposed to pick up and give us a password. That didn't happen. No one picked up, so we dispatched KPD."

   Walt asked for a hard copy to be faxed to him. He thanked the guy and hung up, and returned to Kevin. The obvious explanation was an owner or employee—someone who knew the access code. But part of Kevin's story didn't add up.

   "A ski mask over his head? You're sure about that? It was dark, right?" This was not the description of an employee hitting the cash register.

   "I saw him. He helped Eric. Put Eric's fingers on his neck to stop the bleeding."

   "The ninja helped Eric?" Walt felt confused.

   "You said he saved his life."

   "The doctor said that," Walt corrected. "He helped Eric?"

   "And then, when he turned toward me . . ." Kevin's face bunched and Walt could see it was painful. "And I . . . I just ran."

   Walt helped him to sit. The boy blew his nose and sipped some water through a straw.

   "You did the right thing telling me, Kev. We're going to work this out."

   "I fucked up. I'm so sorry."

   "Couple of things," Walt said. "One, you've got to clean up your language. Two, you say nothing to Eric and, above all, nothing to Crabtree about any of this. I don't want you talking to these guys. Not a word. Do we understand each other?"

   "I got it."

   A nurse cleared her throat. She stood inside the door. Walt had no idea how long she'd been there.

   "Need to change a dressing, Sheriff," she said.

   Walt nodded. Kevin reached out and grabbed Walt's arm. "Can you stay while she does this? It kinda hurts."

   "Sure," Walt said. He held Kevin's clenched fist as the nurse removed the bloodied bandage and replaced it with a new one. That side of his face had taken a beating.

   "The doctor's going to come look at this," the nurse informed the patient. "He may want to take one or two more stitches." Among the bandages and disinfectant, Walt noticed the sealed needles and suture.

   "That's some small suture," Walt said to the nurse.

   "Five-zero. Very small. Used for face, eyes, ears, nose."

   "You mind?" Walt said, letting go of Kevin's hand.

   She passed him one of the sealed plastic bags. It contained a slightly curved needle and a coil of very fine suture. Walt thought back to the contents of the carry-on bag found at the airport. "This is point-zerozero-five," he said, just to clarify.

   "We call it five-zero, yes," she said, "five one-thousandths of an inch."

   "What about three? Plain old three? Just the number three?"

   "As suture? Number three suture?" She sounded surprised. "Not in people. Vets, maybe—big-animal work. There's a joke when you're studying this stuff: Number five suture is used for towing cars. That's the joke," she said, when Walt failed to smile.

   "I've got to make another call," Walt said.

   "I understand," Kevin said.

   "Remember what we talked about."

   "I've got it."

   He left at close to a run. His first call was to Fiona. He asked to see any crime-scene photos of Suds Tub.

   "And I was wondering if you could get copies of the contents of that carry-on bag to Mark Aker. I realize it's a Saturday. I could have a deputy—"

   "It's no problem, Walt. I'll meet you there."

W
alt didn't bother to call ahead to the vet's to check if Mark was in. Given the break-in and the now countywide effort to retrieve the missing pets, Mark wasn't going anywhere.

   Walt entered Aker's vet clinic with his cell phone glued to his ear. Both of the Cutter brothers' passports had been delivered to his office. Dr. McClure was consulting an optometrist to verify the prescription of the contact lens found in Cutter's Land Cruiser.

   Fiona entered only minutes behind him. "Got them," she declared, holding up an envelope.

   The receptionist indicated a door below the sign marked dogs.

   Mark Aker needed sleep and his beard held cracker crumbs.

   Walt spread the photos out on the counter, as he said, "Suture, needles, bandaging, hypodermic needles. What's that add up to?"

   Aker studied the photos. "Closing an incision."

   "Anesthesia, or some kind of painkiller—is any of that missing from your meds closet?"

   "We won't know for at least a couple days," Aker answered. "We're still missing nine dogs, seventeen cats, and a handful of house pets including a pair of Peruvian rabbits, confiscated by Fish and Game. Of those nine dogs, two are my own—Search and Rescue training. Ten, fifteen thousand each. One I'd sold already."

   Walt tapped the enlargement of the packaged suture in the photographs. "Number three suture," he said. "Not three-zero. Just plain three." He looked to Aker for some kind of reaction.

   "Number three is strictly large animal," Aker said. "Horse, or cow, or sheep. Rarely used, even around here."

   "Not people," Walt said. "That's what a nurse told me at the hospital."

   "No. Never."

   "When I first saw this bag and its contents I was thinking: an assassin's first aid kit. But now, I don't know what to think."

   "Maybe some vet lost it," Fiona suggested. "Left it on the flight."

   Aker rearranged the photographs.

   Walt could feel him trying to make sense of it.

   "You still could be right," Aker said. "It's a stretch, but if you take all these collectively, they could be to close a human wound. The large suture simply means it's not going to reopen."

   "Exactly."

   "And you're right about the anesthesia and/or pain meds. With those this makes a fine kit."

   "A mobile emergency room," Walt said.

   "I wouldn't go that far, Walt. It's a field kit, not first aid." Again, he studied the photographs. "There is one other possibility . . ." He took a moment to collect the same instruments and he laid them out on the stainless steel along with several packets of suture. They looked like a particularly horrific place setting. He nodded to himself and said, "Throw in a very sharp knife or scalpel . . ." Now he met eyes with Walt. "And you have everything you need for minor surgery."

T
revalian understood the endgame. These final hours of preparation—much of it mental—were for him like an athlete's last night before the competition. Time slowed, but he didn't fight it. He used what felt like extra hours to double-check the plan and prepare for his escape. Extra clothes, sleeping bag, water bottles, handheld GPS, hunting knife, dry foods. He was ready for the backcountry.

   He anticipated the valley's only road—Highway 75—would be roadblocked both south and north. The airport would be closed. For these reasons he had packed for the wilderness, his supplies already in the trunk of the rental.

   From Meisner's room he dialed an 800 number and a woman answered. "Steel Birds Excursions. This is Laura. How can I help you?"

   "It's Ralph Lewis," Trevalian said, "Mr. Bloggett's assistant."

   "Oh, yes. Hello."

   "I'm reconfirming Mr. Bloggett's pickup. He'll have been in the backcountry a week, and I know he'll be looking forward to seeing you all."

   She recited the time and the coordinates: 8 p.m. Sunday evening. 43° 44' 27.04" N by 114° 10' 18.27" W. Trevalian had the location memorized and approved it.

"Eight a.m. Monday morning if weather prevents."

"And every twelve hours thereafter," he said.

"That's correct."

He thanked her and hung up the call.

   Typically unruffled, Trevalian jolted with surprise at the sound of a knock—not from the door, but from
behind
him. He turned to see a woman's shapely form out on the balcony. Although he'd pulled his privacy drapes, he had no doubt she could identify him as well as he could identify her: Lilly, the jazz singer.

   He wanted to hide. He wanted to pull the blackout drapes, and he chastised himself for not having done so earlier. The back balcony was shared by a dozen rooms and overlooked the outdoor skating rink.

   She knocked again. "Please?"

   He didn't need attention drawn to the room. Who knew how many of the people gathered for an early dinner three stories below might hear her? He could make this quick. He parted the gauze curtains, unlocked the sliding door.

   "Hello," she said.

   She'd done well with the makeup. He saw no bruises or cuts, and though she looked tired, there was no self-pity in her face.

   "I'm sorry, but I'm busy, Lilly."

   She did not take this well.

   "Sorry to hear about your . . . ordeal."

   "Please? May I come in, just for a minute?"

   "Tomorrow would be better," he said.

   "Checking out, are you?" Sarcastic. Nasty.

   "No . . ."

   "How could you be so spineless?" She pushed past him.

   Sympathy was not in his emotional range. She'd come to the wrong place. He slid the door shut behind her.

   "All I needed was a description," she complained, now patrolling the room slowly, her back to him. "And don't tell me you didn't see him," she added accusingly.

   "I was looking at you," he lied. "I would have helped if I could have. Now . . . at the moment I'm busy."

   "Oh, I can see that," she snapped. "Did he buy you off?"

   "What?" he fired back indignantly.

   "Anything for the right price?" she asked.

   "I helped you," he protested. "I took a chance doing that. I had
no
idea
what I was getting into at the time—other than I'd seen you on stage, and I liked your voice." He hoped flattery would calm her long enough to get her out the door.

   "I'm singing here again tonight."

   "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

   She shrugged, and caught his reflection in the desk mirror, making sure he was still watching her. "He hit me," she said. "He touched me inappropriately."

   "I'm sorry."

   "All I wanted was to make sure he was never coming back. Too much to ask?"

   "If we could deal with this tomorrow?"

   "What's so damn pressing, Mr. Meisner? That's right: I know your name. So sue me. I want an explanation. You seemed so nice. All they needed was a physical description."

   "I think you should go now."

   "What? You're going to call security or something?"

   "Or something," he said. He wanted to tell her to stop wandering around the room. This, above all else, worked devilishly against his nerves.

   "I just don't understand it," she whined. "How difficult is it?" She stopped at the connecting door to Nagler's room.

   He focused on the dead bolt: unlocked. The door connecting was ever-so-slightly ajar. He watched as her fingers slipped into the opening and pulled. "You didn't tell me you had a suite," she said.

   He moved to shut the door—to cut her off. But she was already in.

   "A dog?" she asked. "Whose room is this?" She turned around, looking bewildered. When their eyes met, hers were filled with fright.

   "What's going on here? Who are you?"

   "Lilly," he said. "Oh, Lilly," the weight of disappointment and betrayal impossible to miss.

N
ear closing time, Walt caught up to his father at the Sawtooth Club, a Main Street restaurant and bar in Ketchum that serviced a more subdued clientele than the two rock clubs a few doors down. The ground-floor bar was open to a surround balcony for upstairs dining. A canoe hung where a chandelier belonged. The wait staff was women and men in shorts and T-shirts.