it an hour.”
“The five o’clock was my meeting. Mine and O’Brien’s. You have no say in this.”
“Apparently I do,” Jerry said.
“Your father brought us intel that First Rights is planning to protest the conference.” Adam Dryer made every attempt to make this sound of the utmost importance. “I left you a message on your cell phone about the meeting being advanced.”
Walt gave him a look.
“Careful, son,” Jerry Fleming said.
“You stay out of this,” Walt said.
“Wish that I could. My company’s going to have people at the cocktail party, and the five o’clock didn’t give me and my team time to get in place. A conference like this is fluid, son. You know that.”
His father was a fount of security clichés.
“You want fluid? Try piss and vinegar.”
“The presence of First Rights requires additional planning,” Dryer said.
“The WTO in Seattle? That First Rights?” Walt asked.
“The same,” Dryer said.
Walt now stepped forward and placed the Salt Lake photos in front of Dryer, who gravely flipped through the stack, passing each photograph on to Jerry Fleming.
“Son of a bitch,” Jerry said, meeting eyes with his son. “This is Salt Lake?” He scrutinized the photographs. “Organized mind. Experienced with a knife. Late twenties, early thirties. Single.”
“It isn’t a serial killer, Dad. It’s a hit man.”
“I’ve hunted them, son,” Jerry said. “All you’ve done is study them.”
“The upside,” Dryer said, raising his voice and making a conscious effort to separate father and son, “is that clearly our intel was wrong. When and if this dead guy’s ever IDed, what do you want to bet his initials come back AG? We got all worked up over nothing.”
“And this ‘hit,’” Walt said, drawing the quotes, “just happens to occur a couple hundred miles south of where AG Shaler is giving a speech? Give me a break! The intel’s solid. The planning for the body bag is the kicker. That should bother us, because it’s an indication of premeditation.” He paused, allowing that to sink in. “This kill confirms the intel. We need to know the victim’s identity—fast—and his role in this, because the man behind that knife is on his way here, or is here already.”
“You’re entitled to your opinions, Sheriff,” Dryer said. “But until we have the identification, until we have any kind of evidence connecting this kill to the conference, it would be irresponsible to initiate hysteria over what might be nothing.”
“‘Initiate hysteria’?” Walt asked. “You want another look at those photos? This guy is a pro—whoever he is, whatever his purpose—and he’s within three hundred miles of here. All I’m saying is we’d better sit up and take notice.”
Jerry interrupted the debate, saying, “There’s a cocktail party in a little over two hours, and First Rights intends to march on this conference. Where’s our focus? On a city three hundred miles south of here, in another state , or on the business at hand?”
“I need route clearance and a two-vehicle escort from the AG’s residence to Patrick Cutter’s residence, on or about six forty-five P.M. ,” Dryer informed Walt.
“It’s already on the itinerary. You’ll have your escort.” Walt stepped up onto the dais to collect the photographs. “I want to show these to Liz Shaler.”
“Out of the question,” Dryer barked out quickly.
“She deserves to understand the degree of the threat.”
“The AG is my responsibility,” Dryer reminded.
“She’s speaking at the conference and that puts her with me. Are we really going to get into this?”
“If you want a few minutes with her, I’ll arrange it. But no photographs. No one should see these who doesn’t have to.”
Walt took this as a minor victory. “Thank you,” he said.
Jerry Fleming made a show of checking his watch. “I’ve got to get moving. Walt, let’s do this at the party.”
“Cutter doesn’t want
“The five o’clock was my meeting. Mine and O’Brien’s. You have no say in this.”
“Apparently I do,” Jerry said.
“Your father brought us intel that First Rights is planning to protest the conference.” Adam Dryer made every attempt to make this sound of the utmost importance. “I left you a message on your cell phone about the meeting being advanced.”
Walt gave him a look.
“Careful, son,” Jerry Fleming said.
“You stay out of this,” Walt said.
“Wish that I could. My company’s going to have people at the cocktail party, and the five o’clock didn’t give me and my team time to get in place. A conference like this is fluid, son. You know that.”
His father was a fount of security clichés.
“You want fluid? Try piss and vinegar.”
“The presence of First Rights requires additional planning,” Dryer said.
“The WTO in Seattle? That First Rights?” Walt asked.
“The same,” Dryer said.
Walt now stepped forward and placed the Salt Lake photos in front of Dryer, who gravely flipped through the stack, passing each photograph on to Jerry Fleming.
“Son of a bitch,” Jerry said, meeting eyes with his son. “This is Salt Lake?” He scrutinized the photographs. “Organized mind. Experienced with a knife. Late twenties, early thirties. Single.”
“It isn’t a serial killer, Dad. It’s a hit man.”
“I’ve hunted them, son,” Jerry said. “All you’ve done is study them.”
“The upside,” Dryer said, raising his voice and making a conscious effort to separate father and son, “is that clearly our intel was wrong. When and if this dead guy’s ever IDed, what do you want to bet his initials come back AG? We got all worked up over nothing.”
“And this ‘hit,’” Walt said, drawing the quotes, “just happens to occur a couple hundred miles south of where AG Shaler is giving a speech? Give me a break! The intel’s solid. The planning for the body bag is the kicker. That should bother us, because it’s an indication of premeditation.” He paused, allowing that to sink in. “This kill confirms the intel. We need to know the victim’s identity—fast—and his role in this, because the man behind that knife is on his way here, or is here already.”
“You’re entitled to your opinions, Sheriff,” Dryer said. “But until we have the identification, until we have any kind of evidence connecting this kill to the conference, it would be irresponsible to initiate hysteria over what might be nothing.”
“‘Initiate hysteria’?” Walt asked. “You want another look at those photos? This guy is a pro—whoever he is, whatever his purpose—and he’s within three hundred miles of here. All I’m saying is we’d better sit up and take notice.”
Jerry interrupted the debate, saying, “There’s a cocktail party in a little over two hours, and First Rights intends to march on this conference. Where’s our focus? On a city three hundred miles south of here, in another state , or on the business at hand?”
“I need route clearance and a two-vehicle escort from the AG’s residence to Patrick Cutter’s residence, on or about six forty-five P.M. ,” Dryer informed Walt.
“It’s already on the itinerary. You’ll have your escort.” Walt stepped up onto the dais to collect the photographs. “I want to show these to Liz Shaler.”
“Out of the question,” Dryer barked out quickly.
“She deserves to understand the degree of the threat.”
“The AG is my responsibility,” Dryer reminded.
“She’s speaking at the conference and that puts her with me. Are we really going to get into this?”
“If you want a few minutes with her, I’ll arrange it. But no photographs. No one should see these who doesn’t have to.”
Walt took this as a minor victory. “Thank you,” he said.
Jerry Fleming made a show of checking his watch. “I’ve got to get moving. Walt, let’s do this at the party.”
“Cutter doesn’t want
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