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seen.”
    As Fiona continued shooting pictures of the wrecker, Walt reviewed the contents of several evidence bags he’d kept with him. He’d collected a money clip holding one hundred seventy-seven dollars; three receipts, all labeled SUN VALLEY in pen; a Tul pen; a BlackBerry; and a roll of Tums. In a separate bag was the man’s credit-card wallet containing three cards, a California driver’s license, a medical insurance card, a vehicle insurance card, a twenty-four-hour health club membership card that, by the look of him, went unused, and six business cards.
    “So who is he?” she asked.
    “The business card says ‘Branson Risk, LLC.’ I’ve worked with them during the Cutter Conference. Personal security, drivers, surveillance . . .”
    “Private eye?” she asked.
    “They don’t call themselves that, but, yes, essentially.”
    “That makes the briefcase, or what’s in it, all the more interesting.”
    “Doesn’t it, though? I’d like to have a look inside before Branson Risk puts their attorneys to work.”
    “Can you do that?”
    “I can try.”
    They moved to the Taurus. Walt used a pair of bolt cutters from the Cherokee to liberate the bag.
    “Boys and their toys,” Fiona said. “Looks like something from Sharper Image.”
    “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.”

8
    T he 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