“Patrick Cutter knows how to throw a party,” Walt confirmed.

“The Journal called it the most influential three days to the communications business,” Nagler said.

“Sounds right.”

“Called Patrick Cutter a kingmaker. Disney bought ABC as a result of this conference. Brighton Distilleries acquired a film studio and changed its entire business plan.”

“And you are?”

“A dreary professor invited to bore the executives for an hour on Saturday.”

“I doubt that.”

Walt pulled open and held the door, the air-conditioning catching in his throat, a welcome relief. He eagerly scanned the interior. Brandon was nowhere to be seen.

“Do you see Ricky’s kennel?” Nagler asked.

“Oversized items are delivered at the far end.”

“I’m good now, Sheriff, thank you.” Nagler extended his cane and gently broke Walt’s grip.

He negotiated his way through a minefield of pulled luggage and impatient passengers.

Walt rose to his toes and saw Brandon standing alone. No suspect. Anxiety flooded him. This was the perfect place to identify and arrest a possible hit man arriving to kill Shaler. Right here and now. The contrarian in him wanted to believe that the murder victim in Salt Lake City had been the intended target, that the job was over and done. That the feds had gotten it wrong. That he and O’Brien and Dryer had nothing more to worry about. This was how Cutter would spin it. Possibly Dryer along with him.

Time worked against him. Baggage arrived, sliding down the short, stainless steel chute with a jarring bang. Like cows at a feeding trough, the passengers approached and nudged one another aside.

The crowded space became more chaotic with passengers wielding bags. The terminal’s automatic doors clapped open and shut. Walt spun a full circle, his frustration mounting. Another few minutes and the terminal would be all but empty.

He signaled Brandon and caught his attention. The two men stepped outside in concert, each through a different door. Together they inspected the parking lot for anyone who’d managed to slip past unnoticed.

Brandon stood by the taxi stand and hotel/van pickup. He leaned his head into several of the vehicles, scanning the boarding passengers.

Over Walt’s radio came Brandon ’s voice. “I’ve got zilch.”

“Ditto,” Walt replied.

“Hang on…we’ve got a situation inside,” Brandon announced.

Walt turned and hurried back into the terminal.

A wall of onlookers blocked Walt’s view. He crossed the room and forced his way through the small crowd that had gathered. At the same time, Brandon reached the center of the huddle.

It was Nagler, the blind man again, kneeling on the floor in front of a cream-colored kennel. He was crying, or cursing, patting the floor violently, feeling for his cane. Catching it with his right hand, he lifted it roughly as if to whip the confused baggage handler. Walt jumped forward and grabbed the man’s forearm and peeled the cane from his fingers.

“Hold it!” Walt said sternly.

“Sheriff?” Nagler’s face was flushed and splotchy. The sunglasses had slipped down his nose, giving Walt a fleeting glimpse of a milky eye with no iris, no pupil. Only a sickening, yellow-white bulb.

“There’s been a tragic accident,” the baggage handler said.

“Bullshit!” Nagler said. “They killed my dog. They killed Ricky!”

“The heat,” the handler said. She fingered a large neon orange tag attached to the kennel’s metal grate door. “The release spells it all out.”

“You think I read your stupid release?” Nagler shouted. “Is it in Braille? Give me a break! They said it was a formality, an insurance thing. That it was a short flight-an hour-and that people flew their pets all the time.”

“It’s true, they do,” the baggage handler said. “But it’s the middle of the day, sir. And a hot one at that. And-”

“My dog is dead,” he wailed. “Do you have any idea-”

“There’s nothing more to be gained here,” Walt said. “We’re sorry for your loss. Let’s get you to where you’re going. Get you settled.”

“Settled? I’m not leaving Ricky.”

“We’ll get him to the local vet. You can decide how you want to…handle things from there. Didn’t you say someone was meeting you?”

“That would be me.” A twenty-something woman with a fresh face and freckles stepped out of the small crowd. “Karen Platt. I’m a greeter for C³. I’m Mr. Nagler’s greeter. His driver.” She turned toward Nagler. “I am, like, so sorry about the dog. Ohmygod, I can’t imagine…”

Nagler came to his feet. Walt placed the cane back into the man’s hand.

“Promise me you won’t hit anyone with that,” Walt said.

“Ricky and I…,” Nagler said but was unable to finish. He threw his head back, looked to the ceiling, and took a deep breath. “You have no idea.”

“We’ll see if we can’t do something. Maybe we can find a dog for the weekend.”

“It doesn’t work like that. Ricky and I have been together six years.”

“Maybe we can do something.”

“Did you check any luggage, sir?” Brandon spoke up, his low voice drawing Nagler’s attention. Ever the practical one; always thinking ahead.

Nagler fumbled in his back pocket and pulled out a ticket sleeve. Stapled to the inside of the sleeve was a bag tag. He handed it in Brandon ’s direction. Brandon took it and passed it to Nagler’s driver. She went down the line of the few remaining bags and, checking baggage strips, pulled out a hard-shelled Samsonite.

“No one read me the release,” Nagler muttered. He swung his cane out in front of him, but without the energy that had fed his initial anger. “Where’s the car? Ricky could have gotten me out of here just fine.” He tested the area with the cane and made his way slowly, Karen Platt dragging his suitcase.

Brandon shut the wire door and hoisted the dog kennel like it was a loaf of bread. “Tough break,” he said to Walt.

Walt glanced around, having almost forgotten about their suspect. He felt the weight of defeat.

Elton John’s “ Goodbye Yellow Brick Road ” leaked out of speakers in the ceiling.

Shit, he thought: He’d have that tune stuck in his head the rest of the day.

R afe Nagler pulled himself out of the Volvo, his white cane at his side. A voice summoned in a thick Eastern European accent. The man sounded big. He grabbed Nagler firmly by the arm.

“Welcome to the Sun Valley Lodge.”

“Thank you.” Nagler swung his cane. The bellman took him by the arm. “Lodge or inn?” he asked, as he was led up some stairs. “I thought the conference is at the Sun Valley Inn.”

“Actually, we offer the two hotels: the lodge, which is where you are now-more upscale and geared for entertainment; and the inn, just across the pond, that provides additional rooms and houses our conference and banquet facilities.”

Karen Platt, his driver, called out that she’d take care of his bag. She sounded both anxious and nervous, as she had been for the twenty-minute ride from the airport, and the half hour spent at the vet making arrangements for Ricky’s cremation.

“Would you describe the lobby to me, please, with twelve o’clock straight ahead?” Nagler said to the bellman as they entered the hotel.

“Of course. It’s a big room, almost two rooms connected by a hall-way running nine o’clock to three o’clock. It’s large. Grand. There’s an alcove immediately to our right-registration desk. Concierge is ahead-one o’clock-at a large desk, mahogany or cherry with a leather top. There are some columns between here and there. Square; wood-paneled. Eleven o’clock, two more columns. Double doors at twelve o’clock far at the end of the lobby that lead outside to the patio. Down the hallway I mentioned are some wonderful photographs, historic photographs of the lodge and its famous guests: Marilyn Monroe, Bobby Kennedy, Jimmy Stewart, some presidents. Perhaps I can describe some of them to you during your stay.”