Risky Undertaking by Mark de Castrique Page B

and Hamilton’s website listed key staff and contact numbers. Darren Cransford’s name wasn’t one of them, but Luther had said he was a junior member. I called the general number.
    â€œWilder and Hamilton.” The woman’s voice was pleasant and, more importantly, she was alive. Not the recorded start of a list of impenetrable menu options to navigate before speaking with a human being.
    â€œGood morning. I’d like to speak with Darren Cransford, please.”
    For a few seconds, the line went silent. “Did Mr. Cransford handle your account?”
    The “did” leaped out of the sentence. I rethought my play.
    â€œYes. Has Darren been transferred elsewhere?”
    â€œI’m sorry. Mr. Cransford is no longer with the firm. If you’ll give me the name of your company, I’ll connect you with someone who can help you.”
    I hung up.

Chapter Six
    There is no easy way to get to Cherokee, North Carolina. The roads leading in and out of the reservation, or Qualla Boundary as it’s officially known, frequently become clogged with tourist traffic. The Boundary borders multiple counties and is gateway to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, the most visited in the entire fifty-eight-park system. I read that more than nine million people visit the Smoky Mountains each year, over twice the number that view the runner-up, a little national park called the Grand Canyon.
    But on a Monday in late September, the roads were clear as Tommy Lee drove the patrol car into the town of Cherokee. The approach was itself a journey back in time. The ramshackle buildings lining the street sported signs hawking tee shirts, moccasins, inflatable rafts and tubes for the river, Indian trinkets, and local gemstones. Mom-and-pop motels were scattered among the national chains.
    â€œI haven’t been here since I was a kid and it looks the same,” I said. “Like Myrtle Beach without the ocean.”
    Tommy Lee braked for a stoplight and a herd of Harleys crossed the intersection in front of us.
    â€œBut with the same bikers,” I added.
    â€œThere’s a difference or two,” Tommy Lee said. “I’m confident that as a trained detective you’ll notice them.”
    He turned right and within a few blocks I saw twin towers rising above the mishmash of shops and gas stations. Behind them lay a complex of glass, stone, and brick that appeared to cover acres. Beside an entrance road, the sign HARRAH’S CHEROKEE CASINO & HOTEL rose several stories above the ground. Cars and buses lined up turning into the parking lot.
    â€œMan,” I said, “this is a far cry from tribal bingo.”
    â€œLas Vegas comes to the Smokies.”
    Tommy Lee turned right again and I leaned forward to catch a closer glimpse of the posh casino. “You ever been inside?”
    â€œNo. I have enough trouble holding onto what little money I do have.”
    â€œDo they have live games or just video?”
    â€œThey’ve got the works: blackjack, craps, roulette, poker. But I doubt if you’ll find James Bond in a tuxedo at the baccarat table. Here Double O Seven going undercover would mean shorts and flip-flops.”
    We left the casino behind and drove into the center of town. On the right, I saw Oconaluftee Islands Park, a strip of land in the Oconaluftee River reachable by a wooden footbridge from the bank. Families with children too young to attend school were wading in the shallow current. A few picnickers enjoyed late lunches at scattered tables. I imagined that in the summer the park would be swarming with tourists both in and out of the water.
    About a hundred yards farther, a large oval sign read “Museum of the Cherokee Indian.” Behind it a well-designed building conveyed a sense of respect for the culture exhibited within its walls.
    â€œImpressive,” I said. “I don’t remember this being here when I was a kid.”
    â€œIt