Killer Weekend

“Give me whatever description you’ve got,” Walt said, waiting to launch the siren until the phone call concluded.

It was twenty minutes to the airport, on a good day.

Four

S even minutes later-eight minutes before wheels down-BCS dispatch had rallied three of its eight cruisers. Two had sealed Friedman Airport. The third, driven by deputy Tom Brandon, pulled up to the terminal only seconds behind Walt.

“We’ve got six minutes,” Walt told Brandon, a big-boned, thick man in his later twenties. A pair of aviator glasses hid his dark eyes. Tommy Brandon had been ski patrol on the mountain for six years before applying to the Sheriff’s Office. His star had risen quickly, and with it, Walt’s reliance on him. “Suspect is average to tall, dark hair, black T-shirt, jeans or black jeans.”

“Sheriff?” Other deputies often addressed Walt informally by his first name. Brandon never had, and Walt appreciated it. “That description fits half of the guys in this valley.”

“It’s all we’ve got.”

“And Pete?”

Pete Wood ran security at the small airport. His guys were trained to unzip bags and stare at X-ray machines.

“I briefed him on the way in. His guys will keep their distance. This guy killed a man in Salt Lake,” Walt said. “Keep alert, Tommy. Sounds like he’s pretty good with a knife.”

“At least he’s coming off a plane, he should be clean.”

“Should be,” Walt said ominously. “If he’s got checked luggage, he could have a piece in there. So if and when we get a twenty, we keep him away from baggage claim. We do not want a hostage situation.”

“Got it.”

The Friedman terminal looked bland-like a one-story brown shoebox-when compared with its extraordinary backdrop: a string of foothills rising a thousand feet off the valley floor. This midsection of the valley, the town of Hailey, eleven miles south of Ketchum/Sun Valley, qualified as the transition point between high desert to the south and alpine to the north, leaving the south-facing slopes of the foothills barren, covered in nothing but knee-high wax weed and sagebrush. The north slopes, holding snow longer in the springtime, and the moisture it contained, were covered in evergreen.

The sound of a plane on approach caused both men to turn and look up.

“Showtime,” Walt said.

Brandon raised his voice above the roar of the turboprop. “What about shoes?”

“Shoes?” Walt nearly had to shout.

“Suspects change their hair, their face, but just as often leave on the same pair of shoes. Do we have a photo?”

“No photo. Shoes,” Walt said, sounding impressed.

“You aren’t careful, Sheriff, I’ll run against you in the next primary.”

Walt studied his deputy for the crack of a smile or any sign that he was kidding. But Brandon maintained a poker face.

From the other side of the small terminal came the sudden winding down of the turboprops. The plane had landed.

Five

T he forward door of the Brasilia EMB-120 was lowered, and as the gate-checked hand luggage was wheeled around on a trolley, Walt watched from inside the glass of Gate 2, a well-lit space shared with three car rental agencies along the back wall. Baggage claim was accessed by three garage doors.

The trolley was stacked with roller bags, fly rod tubes, duffel bags, and a wicker gift basket. Passengers descended the steep stairs, picked over the trolley’s contents, and headed toward the terminal.

“Waiting for someone?”

Walt turned and recognized the woman behind the Hertz counter from a fund-raiser the week before.

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“Has the divorce gone through? I haven’t seen it in the paper. Sorry to hear about that.” She didn’t sound so sorry.

“Yeah.” Walt briefly took his eyes off the line of arriving passengers. “Julie, right? The wildlife di

“I did the door. Wearing the elk antlers? How humiliating was that? I had to endure endless comments about my ‘nice rack.’”

Walt avoided checking out her rack by returning his attention to the arrival. The first few passengers were retirement age; then came two families with young kids; then several men who looked like the Cutter conference prototypes, CEOs dressing down in blue blazers, button-down shirts, and khaki pants. A silver-haired golfer and his wife wearing matching St. Andrews sun visors followed the four executives.

“I’m bothering you,” Julie said.

“Busy at the moment,” Walt said.

“On the job? Seriously? What’s up?”

“Just a meet-and-greet. Maybe we could do this later,” he suggested, still not taking his eyes off the arriving passengers.

“Sure,” she said. Walt didn’t like letting her icy tone go uncorrected, but he had no choice.

He checked over with Brandon, who shrugged: still no suspect.

The arriving passengers began to mill about, blocking his view of the plane. Walt moved closer to the arrivals door in order to get a better view. A snarl had formed around the baggage trolley. Two female baggage handlers were arguing with a guy, his back to Walt.

He caught Brandon ’s eye once more and signaled that he was headed outside. The dry, hot air slapped him in the face. He hurried toward the commotion, holding his weapon in the holster as he jogged.

A baggage handler spoke up. “You ca

Walt felt a surge of adrenaline. Someone’s trying to breach security. He couldn’t make out what the man said but it made the woman even angrier.

Walt involuntarily unsnapped his holster.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, grabbing the man by the shoulders and spi

He wore wraparound sunglasses and carried a white cane in his right hand.

He pulled away, stumbled, and nearly fell over a loose bag. Walt steadied him, apologizing and introducing himself in alternating strokes.

The man was blind.

“What’s the problem here?” he asked finally.

The passenger composed himself. “I asked to see my dog. He’s a service dog. I shouldn’t be made to wait.”

“I’ve explained to him, Sheriff,” the woman said, “that no one besides us can go back there, sir.”

“Your dog’s back there?”

He nodded vigorously. “They required me to ke

“We can do that,” Walt said. “But we’re going to have to do it inside at baggage claim. She’s just doing her job: No one’s allowed back there.”

Walt glanced over his shoulder, wondering how many passengers he’d missed during this encounter. He hoped Brandon had gotten a good look.

“You’re the sheriff? Seriously?” The blind man sounded amused. A wry smile overcame him.

“ Blaine County sheriff. Yes. Let’s take this inside. Okay?”

“Rafe Nagler.” He switched hands with the cane and stuck his right hand out into space. Walt took hold and they shook hands. “I’m here for the Cutter conference. There’s supposed to be someone here to pick me up.”

“We’ll get it sorted out. Can I offer you…?” Walt took him by the elbow.

The blind man allowed himself to be led. “Thank you, Sheriff.”

“I’m sorry for the confusion,” he said. “Your first time here?”

“Yes. I’ve heard wonderful things. Did you know there’s a ski program for the visually impaired?”

“Not this time of year,” Walt said.

“No.” Nagler smiled. “Maybe not. But kayaking, and rock climbing.”

“Kayaking? Seriously?”

Nagler leaned his head back and laughed, showing his teeth. “I’m bullshitting you,” he said. “But the rock climbing’s for real.”

Walt gri

“I’ve never attended the Cutter conference, but it’s said to be the single most important such meeting in the country.”