“More like an exhibit at the Spy Museum,” Walt said.

“You think?”

“He’s not a spook, he’s private.”

“I’m done with the front seat,” she said.

Walt unsealed the freezer bag containing the dead man’s wallet and tried each of the four credit cards in the slot beneath the handle. None worked to open it.

He rummaged through Malone’s overnight bag. There were no other cards.

Walt tried every zippered compartment, the toilet kit, the pockets of the clothes.

“Judging by the single change of clothes, he wasn’t planning on staying long,” she said.

“Longer now,” Walt said.

“Can you break it open?”

“I’m tempted to try,” he admitted, “but Malone took the time to arm himself at the airport before getting into the rental. Maybe he was expecting trouble. Given the sophistication of the case, its contents are either valuable or dangerous or both… possibly rigged.”

“You’re frustrated by this, I can hear it in your voice.”

“A private courier delivering something up here? It could be anything. This guy took this job very seriously. That’s worth noting.”

Fiona spent the next few minutes finishing up the photography and then caught back up with Walt. He was behind the wheel of the Cherokee, Malone’s BlackBerry in hand. He was taking notes.

“I’ll e-mail you the pictures within the hour,” she said.

“Sorry to cost you the fishing.”

“Hey, it’s a paycheck. Anything there?” she asked, indicating the BlackBerry.

“A reservation at the Sun Valley Inn. An unspecified appointment at nine.”

“Who calls his family to tell them?” she asked.

“I’ll talk to Branson, and we’ll take it from there. But it’ll likely be me.”

Fiona Kenshaw looked sad and sympathetic at the same time, looked like she wanted to say something more than what she did say. “I’ll get these to you.”

The Sun Valley resort, with its two hotels, outdoor mall, condominiums, golf course, year-round outdoor skating rink, and a two-thousand-seat amphitheater, was situated at the mouth of Trail Creek, a canyon that narrowed as it headed east toward the Copper Basin.

The mile-high air was so clean, it was almost drinkable. Window down, Walt inhaled, savoring his choice of lifestyle. A red-tailed hawk patrolled overhead-predators seldom rested. SUVs bearing bikes, kayaks, and canoes were stacked up at one of the town’s five traffic lights.

A bustling porte-cochere fronted the Sun Valley Lodge, a newly redecorated version of the grand hotel that had once hosted Marilyn Monroe, Gary Cooper, and the Kennedys. Ernest Hemingway had written part of For Whom the Bell Tolls in Suite 206. Walt drove across the packed five-acre parking lot and borrowed a space reserved for deliveries in front of the modest Sun Valley Post Office. He carried the carbon-fiber attaché case with him, its cut chain dangling like a dog collar. He passed a golf shop, a jewelry store, a bank, and a bookstore on his way to the slightly less prestigious but equally luxurious Sun Valley Inn.

The dark beauty behind the registration desk wore a soft-gray suit, starched white blouse, and a bronze name tag that read SLADANA, and, beneath the name, CROATIA. She had an appealing, provocative accent that also made her difficult to understand. Her eyes so dark, he couldn’t see her pupils.

Walt was three inches shorter than she, his eyes level with her mouth. She had nice teeth.

“A Mr. Malone was scheduled to be your guest,” he said, his uniform introducing his authority. “I’d like to see the room, if I may. Any messages or packages. Anything at all you may have for him.”

Short, dark purple-polished nails tapped the keyboard.

“Randall Malone?” she asked.

Walt nodded.

“I am show voice mail for Mr. Malone… You like?”

“Yes, please.”

“House phone across from restrooms, down hall to left. Room two-sixteen.”

He had been hoping for a FedEx package containing a card that might unlock the attaché case. His disappointment was somewhat abated by the existence of the voice mail.

He worked his way past designer-label hotel guests crowding the lobby bar-pearl-white teeth and breast implants, golf tans, loafers without socks.

He connected with the hotel operator. The man on the voice mail did not identify himself. He recited a phone number and a time-“nine o’clock”-and hung up. The time matched Malone’s unnamed appointment in the BlackBerry.

Walt checked his watch: forty-five minutes late. He had little patience for the cloak-and-dagger that private security firms often embraced. They were wannabe spooks. He doubted the call originated from Malone’s office; they’d have phoned his BlackBerry. So maybe the phone number had to do with the attaché. A ransom payment? Was it time-sensitive? Life or death? A kidnapped journalist in Iraq? An oil company employee in Venezuela? Not much would surprise him, given the residents of Sun Valley.

Whom to call first: Branson Risk or the number left on the voice mail? If the person answering the call failed to hear Malone’s voice, would that have consequences? Convinced the attaché would disappear behind a wall of attorneys, he decided to hold off contacting the security company until he’d returned the call left in the voice mail.

Concerned that the person on the receiving end of the call might be expecting to see the hotel’s caller ID, Walt first picked up the hotel phone and connected to the operator. But he quickly hung up. What if the caller ID from Malone’s BlackBerry had been supplied and was part of the verification procedure?

Walt returned to the Cherokee, retrieved Malone’s phone, and searched its contact list for the phone number that had been left on the voice mail. It wasn’t stored.

He contemplated his options, dialed the number left on the voice mail, and impatiently awaited an answer.

Summer Sumner spotted her mark as the black Escalade rolled to a stop in front of the Sun Valley Lodge. The boy’s lanky frame wasn’t well served by the gray bellboy uniform: the collar was too big, the pants an inch short. But he had an agreeable face that was currently caught in a faraway stare that resonated with her. She doubted he was of drinking age, which put them pretty much in the same boat.

Her father was on the phone-surprise!-his face overcome with anguish, the money problems continuing. She sneaked the second button of her shirt open, a crass but necessary step. A boy like that… If her father had taught her anything, it was to take what you want.

“You don’t get ahead by waiting for handouts.”

An older bellhop helped her from the Escalade. This wouldn’t do. She worked to make eye contact with the boy her age, hoping to provoke him enough to come to her rescue. Instead, he moved toward the doors and pulled one open. She fired off a coy smile that she’d borrowed from a Beyoncé music video. He didn’t seem to react, which left her hunting for another easy mark. There was no time to waste. She had to put her plan in motion.

They entered the sumptuous lobby of dark wood and brass fixtures, alabaster chandeliers bathing the space in honey-colored light. Foreign-accented voices of the receptionists mingled with small talk coming from the couches and chairs directly ahead. Beyond the couches was a second set of double doors that she saw led to a patio and an outdoor ice-skating rink.

Her father handed her an envelope with a card key in it and joined the bellman in the elevator.

“Don’t lose it,” he said, ever the voice of confidence.

The last phone call had obviously not gone well.

“Gee, I’ll try not to,” she said. “Tell you what: I’ll meet you up there.”

They remained fixed in a staring contest until the elevator doors closed.