Killer Weekend

“A million bucks,” Je

“I hope you’re wrong,” Liz said, “because we need a hell of a lot more than that just to get out of the starting gate.”

Eighteen

S tanding on the U-shaped wraparound balcony that overlooked the living room of his nineteen-thousand-square-foot home, Patrick Cutter surveyed the cocktail party he’d thrown for 125 early arrivals to C3. Below him, the elite of America ’s communications industry comingled and made merry, fortified by the best champagne, liquor, and wines served in crystal flutes and heavy cut-glass tumblers. The appetizers had been created by a chef from a small Provençal gîte located two kilometers south of Gorde. Many of the guests knew one another, contributing to the lively hum of conversation that hit Patrick Cutter’s ears like music.

His wife, Trish, glanced up from a tightly knit group on the floor below. In February, she’d spent thirty thousand dollars on her face, so this was her coming-out party of sorts. She offered him no wink, no nod, no subtle smile. But the sparkle in her laser-corrected eyes said enough: a success. The conference was off to a good start.

He hoped it would shape the direction of the communications industry in the months to come. Still these changes were subtle. Sometimes they reached the front page of the Wall Street Journal. This sense of history, and his place in it as a leader, thrilled him. In three days’ time, Liz Shaler was to a

His gaze swept the crowd. He caught a voyeuristic glimpse down the dress of the lead violinist in the classical quartet.

Where the hell was Liz Shaler?

He spotted and tracked the unmistakable red plumage of Ailia Holms as she and her husband, Stuart, stopped and chatted to friends. He made a mental note to keep Stu away from Liz Shaler. No need for a scene. A waitress took drink orders. The group erupted in laughter. He watched as Ailia gave Stu a subtle tug, and then led him over to the head of the world’s leading manufacturer of fiber optic cable. Ailia never missed a beat.

As Stu engaged in small talk, Ailia rose to her toes seeking out their next obligation. But when she lingered a little too long in one direction, Patrick followed her gaze to its target: Da

Patrick sought out the nearest staircase-there were six in this house-and made his move to intervene.

Nineteen

W alt parked the Sheriff’s Office Cherokee at the end of a long line of vehicles hugging the shoulder of Adam’s Gulch Road and headed on foot down the curving driveway, adorned with twenty-foot blue spruces and a gorgeous array of flowers, which like so much of residential Ketchum and Sun Valley had been built in the past ten years. That meant each of the towering trees had been purchased mature and transplanted. At a cost of fifteen thousand dollars per tree, it was a most conspicuous display of wealth. But nothing compared to the house itself. Fashioned from five antique New England barns, each dismantled and transported and reassembled into an interco

“The glass is compliments of Mr. Cutter,” the blonde informed Walt.

Walt had worn a freshly pressed button-down shirt and his best pair of chinos, but knew how out of place he looked compared to the linen, poplin, and silk on display.

The front door, cut within the enormous barn door, opened into a vast space of weathered wood and glass broken into several smaller rooms. The living room’s most prominent feature was a dry stack fireplace with a six-foot-high open hearth that currently held an opulent arrangement of cut flowers and cattails. A balcony surrounded the second floor looking out onto a massive chandelier made of interco

Walt tried not to stare at the women, the jewelry, the sheer blouses, the tempting necklines. Tried not to succumb to the swirl of French perfumes, the gleaming white teeth of flashing smiles, and the heady rush from the champagne. He retired the half-filled glass on a passing tray and spotted a few faces he knew, all of whom were private security, keeping to the walls or behind one of the dozen hand-hewn timber posts, allowing their employers free rein. All told, he counted four, one hovering near Bill Gates, another close to Sumner Redstone. He expected to find most of the guys out back with the rest of the help-the drivers, chefs, and personal assistants.

He looked for Liz Shaler, expecting he’d find Dryer within an arm’s length, and caught sight of Patrick Cutter coming down a staircase, looking very much like a man in a hurry attempting to look casual. In less than a minute, Walt declined offerings from four different hors d’oeuvres trays.

He watched as Cutter reached the bottom of the stairs and seemed to change directions, heading straight to the front door. Some faces turned in that direction. The buzz of conversation briefly diminished.

Walt glanced back over his shoulder. New York State Attorney General Elizabeth Shaler had arrived.

Cutter succeeded in reaching her first, though nearly out of breath.

Conversation slowly resumed. Shaler’s name echoed around the room.

Flanked by two men in blue jeans and blue blazers, one of whom was Adam Dryer, she looked right past Cutter and spotted Walt and waved. Walt wasn’t sure of etiquette. He returned a small wave, feeling the eyes of a hundred envious strangers bearing down on him.

Twenty

D a

There had been a time when Da

Chasing sobriety was about as terrifying as being chased by a cougar. And though Da

Concerned that Ailia was looking for him, and knowing how easy it was to get caught up in her web, he kept moving. With her husband as a potential investor, he wanted to avoid complication and succeed or fail on his own.

Finding the powder room occupied, he headed up one of the many staircases. The second of the five co