“If you try to do to Sun Valley what you did to Seattle,” Walt warned, “you’ll be met with a show of overwhelming force.”

“Shock and awe?” he said sarcastically. “Let me tell you something, Sheriff. You’re limited to tear gas and rubber bullets, and we’ve seen them both.”

“I have National Guard Reserves on call. If you start something, I will finish it.”

“And whom do I see if I’m threatened by the sheriff?”

“That would be me,” Walt said, trading ironic smiles with the man. He reached for the missing door handle, then knocked loudly on the glass for Brandon to let him out.

Walt stood up out of the car to find himself face-to-face with his deputy. Bartholomew slid across the seat and also got out. He headed across Sun Valley Road back toward the demonstration.

“Sheriff?” Brandon said, when Walt failed to move. Brandon was nearly a head taller.

Walt hesitated, his head spinning, his fists clenched. “You two could have waited for the paperwork to come through.”

Brandon ’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. He stiffened his posture, standing at rigid attention.

Walt opened his mouth to say more, but then reconsidered, shook his head, and walked away. He didn’t look back to check, as he crossed the road, but he sensed the man was still standing there staring straight ahead, and it gave him a much needed sense of satisfaction.

“Asshole,” he mumbled under his breath.

Thirteen

T revalian worked out hard before an operation, believing it mitigated the adrenaline rushes. Late Friday night he spent forty minutes on a treadmill and an elliptical, and another twenty with light weights-half his typical daily routine. With the edge burned off his nerves, he found his response time was quicker, his thinking clearer.

As he returned from the late night workout, his mind on the Suds Tub laundry and not the hallway’s wall of fame-photos of Gary Cooper, Ernest Hemingway, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Clint Eastwood-he spotted a scuffle ahead.

It appeared to be a feud between a husband and wife. The man had hold of her upper arms. He raised his voice drunkenly. The woman wore a clinging formal dress, her bare back to Trevalian. With each step she took to distance herself, the man moved with her-an awkward and dangerous dance.

She broke away from him with a sudden jerk, turning toward Trevalian. It was the jazz singer from the night before. The man was not her husband, but some lech of a hotel guest. Trevalian quickened his step. The singer spotted him, locked onto him. Her eyes cried for help.

He knew better than to get involved in this. But as the elevator bell dinged and the doors drew open, he saw an opportunity. The slobbering fool called out, “Hey, there! You come back here! We’re not done!” He looked about sixty, though fit for his age.

Trevalian moved toward her with deliberate speed. Her purse thumped against her flank. Trevalian hooked her elbow with his sweat-soaked arm, spun her around on her high heels, and escorted her into the elevator.

The elevator car lifted past the second floor sounding a bell. They met eyes; hers were bright with appreciation.

“I hope that wasn’t your husband,” Trevalian said.

She held up her left hand: no ring.

The elevator arrived at the third floor. He held the door and let her pass. She opened her mouth to thank him. He said, “No charge.” The elevator doors closed and they turned in opposite directions. Then the violent cursing of a man’s angry voice rose up the stairway.

She turned back toward him. “Hide me, please. Just for a minute.”

On the job, Trevalian did not get involved; he did not womanize.

“Five minutes,” he said. He took her by the elbow and led her down the hallway.

They walked briskly. As the man’s voice became clearer, far behind them, Trevalian broke into a light jog. The woman stopped, foisted her purse onto Trevalian, kicked off her heels, squatted down to scoop them up, hoisted her dress, and took off at a run. At the sight of him holding her purse she broke into a nervous laugh.

With the door to Meisner’s room locked behind them, and the jamb loop in place, he said, “You know where the phone is.” He indicated his own sodden athletic wear and, gathering a fresh change of clothes into his arms from the closet, said, “I’m going to shower. I am not going to spring out naked and attack you,” he said. “I’m sure you have someplace to go.”

“And if I stay?” she asked in her husky, singer’s voice. The lace of her bra showed. She adjusted the low-cut dress. “Could we make it ten minutes instead of five?”

“I’m heading out.” He was also about to dress in all black, although that was enough in fashion not to be a problem.

When he came back out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, he found her sitting at the desk, a hotel bottle of liquor uncapped. She was drinking from a coffee mug. She’d applied some fresh lipstick.

“They probably charge a fortune for these, and I’m sorry, but I needed it.”

“Did you call someone?” he asked.

“I didn’t.”

“Because?”

She shrugged. “Fine line. I’m not supposed to offend the guests. But I don’t have to put up with that bullshit either. If I bring security into it-especially this, of all weekends-it’ll make it into more than it was…is…whatever.”

“He was hurting you.”

“He’s an asshole. But on a weekend like this the place is full of them.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but you can’t stay.”

“No problem.” She rose, adjusted her dress again, and slipped on her shoes. “I owe you a drink.”

“Rain check?” he said.

“This is Sun Valley. It snows here, but it doesn’t rain.”

“My loss.”

“Can you walk me out?” she asked.

“I can get you down to the lobby.”

“That’ll do.” She extended her hand. “Lilly.”

“Peter,” he said, providing Meisner’s first name.

They reached the lobby without incident.

Scouting the area, she said, “I meant it about the rain check.”

She turned. She saw only his back, heading down the same hallway from which he’d first appeared.

Fourteen

J ust before midnight, with the summer sky ripped in two by a vivid Milky Way, Walt entered Friedman Memorial Airport, still reeling over his brief encounter with Dick O’Brien.

With O’Brien attending a dessert function at Trail Creek Cabin, where the commissioner of the FCC was giving an informal talk on the Politics of Policy to forty-five special ticket holders, he’d suggested meeting Walt at the Hemingway Memorial. A well-trodden path less than a mile from the cabin. Walt had worked his way down through the dark, flashlight in hand, to Hemingway’s bust. The famous writer overheard everything they said.

O’Brien, defensive from the start, lit a cigarette, its red ember traveling up and down like a firefly.

“So?” the big man said. “I heard you spoke to Bartholomew. You might have told me you had him under surveillance.”

“I might have, but I didn’t.”

“Hell of a view from up there,” O’Brien said.

“I’m not telling Patrick Cutter his business-”

“Wouldn’t be any point,” O’Brien said, sounding exasperated.

“Making that kind of offer…it wouldn’t hurt if I knew about it.”

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

“Did Bartholomew tell you about the hundred K?” Walt asked.

“He did. It wasn’t us.”

“Then who?”

“That’s the hundred-thousand-dollar question,” O’Brien said.

“Let me run this by you: If you’ve been planning to assassinate Elizabeth Shaler, if you’ve paid out maybe half a million in fees, and a good chunk in expenses and advance work, wouldn’t the arrival of First Rights scare you just a little?”

“The protesters get nasty,” O’Brien speculated. “It shuts down the conference, and you lose your shot at her.”

“The hundred grand serves as an insurance policy-to make sure nothing upsets the conference.”