“I’m no legal scholar,” Dryer said.

“We have Trevalian’s use of one of my deputies’ cell phone-he stole it at the hospital-that may be able to be connected to an incoming call he received. If we can confirm that call was from Guyot, then we have a substantially stronger case against them, and we took a cell phone off Guyot. Cloned or not, that could be the smoking gun we need.”

“I can hear in your voice that you’re doubting all this,” Dryer said.

“Holms is a shrewd businessman. You hear words like ‘tenacious’ and ‘ruthless.’ I have to think that if Guyot’s involved, and I believe he is, that Holms has promised him the moon if anything ever went wrong. Now it has. You can bet the two of them have coached each other, rehearsed, and worked through all possibilities, including this one: arrest. They’re following a plan that’s been in place for at least six weeks-we know that from the Shaler seating plan. Maybe six months. They’re too well prepared on the Shaler front. They know what to expect, what’s coming. My one hope is to end-run them before the attorneys get involved.”

“Fucking attorneys.”

“How are your acting skills?” Walt asked.

“With a baby face like this?” Dryer asked. Even a weary smile did nothing to improve his gangster looks.

Two

I ’m not speaking until I have representation,” Stuart Holms announced from the far side of the conference table. He looked at home, as if this were another of his boardrooms.

“You just spoke,” Dryer said, “but I get what you mean.” He sat across from Holms, who’d been given time back at the estate to lose the terrycloth robe and don a pair of slacks and a plaid shirt. He wore loafers with no socks. He looked old.

Dryer’s chair fronted a corkboard where Walt had had the Shaler seating plan hung prior to Holms’s arrival. The man had been facing it now for the past ten minutes.

“The thing about businessmen like you: They’re always trying to save money, conserve resources.”

A tape recorder ran on the corner of the table. Stuart Holms could barely take his eyes off it. He said nothing. He seemed to be working hard to keep contempt off his face, but it was a losing battle.

“The sheriff has an interesting theory. You want to hear it? I’ll take that as a yes. It’s a little far-out for me-his theory. But he’s convinced Mr. Guyot has a lot more to lose than you, and so he’s starting there. With Mr. Guyot. Down the hall. The point being that one of you will deal. You think you won’t, but of course you will. Everyone goes into this thinking they won’t deal. And whoever deals first rolls on the other guy, and then that other guy is…pardon my French…fucked.”

Dryer sipped from his tea, and gave it that same look of disgust. “If you spend the night here, don’t ask for the tea.”

“I’ll be home within the hour,” Holms said.

“A Sunday night, early Monday actually, in July? You think? You could be right, I suppose.” He sampled the tea again; same result. He said, “So here’s the thing. Have you had a chance to look at this seating plan behind me?”

Holms looked up and gave the impression this was the first time he’d paid any attention to it.

“You know why we got that out to take a look at it? Because we wondered if any of Cutter’s invited guests had missed the Shaler brunch. Because there could be two reasons for that: Someone was sick, or had a scheduling conflict; or someone wanted to avoid being present when the bomb they’d arranged to kill Shaler went off. And, as you can see by the Xs, only two people missed the talk: you and your late wife.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“This is the sheriff we’re talking about, but your point is taken. Anyway…the sheriff said something about a guy named Raphael. Your chef, I believe?”

Holms did a very good imitation of being bored by all this. Dryer knew differently-he had his eye on a vein in the man’s neck. His pulse was elevated, his eyes dilated, and he was growing increasingly restless. Walt’s emphasis had been on taking away the man’s sense of control. It seemed to be working, Dryer thought.

“He said how you don’t eat anything that isn’t prepared by this guy Raphael. And I suppose that’s a personal thing, and I’ve got no comment, although my personal chef is a guy named McDonald, but I doubt the two know each other. So, anyway, the problem for the sheriff is this seating chart, prepared back in June, that has you down for the regular meal. No Raphael. And I’ve got to admit, he has a point: It seems to suggest you knew back in June that you wouldn’t be attending the Shaler brunch.”

Holms glanced up at the seating chart. Then his eyes darted to meet Dryer’s before once more landing on the chart. Wisely, he chose not to comment. The blue bead on his neck was growing, and beating wildly. His Adam’s apple jumped as he tried to swallow.

“I figure-or rather the sheriff does-that you wanted to save Raphael in case the bomb took out the kitchen help. So you didn’t book him. Why lose a good chef? Here’s where it gets a little extreme, even for me,” Dryer continued. “The sheriff believes not only that you killed your wife-or had her killed-but that you planned it far enough in advance to make sure it gave you the ultimate excuse not to attend the Shaler brunch. Who was going to question a grieving widower? But that’s where the irony comes in: because here I am questioning you. So maybe that part didn’t work so well.”

Holms blinked rapidly but still managed to say nothing. Dryer smiled openly, well aware that when contrasted with his acne-scarred cheeks, he looked menacing when doing so.

“Here’s what may interest you, Mr. Holms. It did me. The sheriff has no intention of pursuing Trevalian and you for the attempted assassination of Elizabeth Shaler. That’s why I’m here-I’m federal, he’s state. He’s leaving all that to my office and the AUSA to sort out. He’s focused on one thing and one thing only: the murder of your wife. That was done on his turf. He says you’re good for it-something about a fingerprint developed on a contact lens-and who am I to argue? It’s his show. If he wants to make an ass out of himself, who am I to interfere?”

Holms endeavored to stay calm, but it was a battle he was quickly losing.

Three

E mil Guyot, in his Tommy Bahama Hawaiian shirt and what had once been cream-colored trousers, looked like he belonged on South Beach. Walt perused a copy of the man’s California handgun registration, learning what little he could from it.

“So, Emil, you understand that possession of an automatic weapon carries a minimum sentence. Idaho has very liberal gun laws, but on that one we’re kinda strict.” He added, “Be advised that I’m running a recording device”-pointing to his iPod-“just so we don’t get into who said what.”

Emil mugged for Walt but didn’t speak. He was, no doubt, on orders to wait for Holms’s attorneys.

“The only hope for you on the gun charge is to have it dropped altogether. There’s no such thing as a lesser charge when it comes to customizing a weapon. Not in this state.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you. I’m waiting for my attorney.”

“We’re all waiting for something,” Walt said, pleased that the man had started talking. “For one thing, I can’t drop the charges without an attorney present.”

“You’re not dropping any charges.”

“No, you’re right. I’m adding to them,” Walt said. “How’s capital murder suit you?” He had to give it to the guy: He wouldn’t want to play poker against Emil Guyot. “A guy like Stuart Holms? Amazing businessman. A legend, I hear. Probably a pretty lousy husband. His love is for money and power, and since women love both of those, too, it comes down to control, and that can get nasty. I’m recently divorced-or about to be. Something of an expert. He’s probably a good guy to work for though, right? You must make five, six times what I do-”