“Did you call Willie?” Walt asked Brandon.
“He’ll have three of his best saddled and waiting for us, a fourth with a pack saddle. We can borrow his Dodge, a dually that can haul an eight-horse, no problem.”
Walt passed a topographical map back to Brandon. “I’ve circled Mitchum’s Creek Ranch. You will figure a route while I speak to Remy. I left Sumner at the office. He’s not going to like my bedside manner of leaving him in the lurch. But it is what it is.”
“And Remy?”
“Is worth a half hour. Maybe we’ll learn something.”
Jerry glanced in his son’s direction. If he had something to say, he kept it to himself. Walt hoped some of his father’s toxic anger might transfer over to Brandon for breaking up his marriage, although that was asking a lot.
“So, Brandon…” Jerry finally said.
“Yes, sir?”
“What if she’d been your wife?”
Walt wished he hadn’t moved the mirror. Sometimes he loved his father.
66
Walt took a seat opposite Remy on the brown velour, horseshoe-shaped bench at the far back of the Mobile Command RV. A collapsible table separated the two, but to Walt it felt as if they were sitting too close. On the table were a digital voice recorder, a legal pad, a stack of Post-its, and two paper cups of Tully’s coffee. There was a black-and-white sticker on the cups advertising KB’S BURRITOS.
Walt spoke into the recorder, providing time, location, and both their names. The formality won Remy’s full attention. He seemed ready to say something but didn’t.
“Do you understand why we’re here, Mr. Remy?” Walt asked.
Remy adjusted his left leg, bound in a straight position by the cast, sticking it out to the point where it rubbed against Walt.
“I’ve been detained. Believe me, it will all be straightened out shortly.”
“My nephew’s gone missing, along with a hotel guest. A plane has been stolen… a private jet.”
Remy cocked his head. If he was acting, he was doing a good job of it: he seemed genuinely surprised to hear any of this.
“Let me just lay it out for you,” Walt said.
“I’m not talking without a lawyer present.”
“So noted. And, yet, here we are…”
“Yes, here we are…”
Walt stared at Remy’s leg, then looked him in the eye.
“Slipped in the shower,” Remy said.
“Yes, I’d heard that. Your possessions were passed along to me by the hospital. I returned them to you, as you’ll recall.”
“And I never thanked you properly.”
“You’re welcome.”
Walt looked down at the man’s cast again.
“Must hurt.”
“Comes and goes.” He winced a grin. “The painkillers help.”
“We’re a sports-oriented community,” Walt said. “Skiing in the winter, all sorts of stuff in the summer: biking, hiking, tennis…”
“So, you’re the Chamber of Commerce, all of a sudden…”
“We see an inordinate number of broken bones here, have some of the best orthopedists in the country… A little town of five thousand… Amazing, really.”
“Guess I was lucky I slipped here,” Remy said, “but sure doesn’t feel that way.”
“We know it wasn’t an accident. Your doctor and your radiologist confirmed that it’s blunt trauma. We know someone did this to you.”
“Not true.”
“And I know you’re lying.”
Remy stared straight at Walt.
“We know the Adams bottles are forgeries… fakes… counterfeit… whatever term applies to wine. You can feign shock, continue to issue denials, but the fact is, we have conclusive scientific proof.”
“Impossible!”
“We conducted tests on the bottles earlier this afternoon.”
Remy grimaced. Perhaps he had known all along. “Ms. Finch…” he began.
Walt didn’t comment.
“She’s a reckless, overly ambitious amateur, Sheriff. I wouldn’t go taking her word-”
“Some kind of sound-wave test can determine the alignment of the fractures in the glass. It wasn’t performed by Ms. Finch.”
Remy didn’t appear to be breathing.
“Fakes,” Walt said. “I’m operating under the assumption you knew as much. That, in fact, you’re responsible. Ms. Finch is evidently quite the researcher. She believes she can help the FBI connect the dots.”
“A graduate student.” Spoken with a convulsive disdain.
“Makes my theory of insurance fraud all the more credible. Which brings us to the death of Mr. Malone and the attempted theft of the bottles, which brings into question one Christopher Cantell and his associates, one Roger McGuiness and one Matthew Salvo. You with me?”
Remy pursed his lips.
“Here’s where it gets a little dodgy for you, Mr. Remy…”
Walt drank half the coffee in two swigs. He was starving, couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.
“Cantell was not only behind stealing the wine, he stole the jet… the missing Learjet with two teenagers aboard, a young girl and my nephew. That means you, Mr. Remy, are in all likelihood not only connected to the death of Mr. Malone but also to the theft of that jet and the kidnapping of those kids. You, Mr. Cantell, and the others are all in serious trouble.”
For a third time, Walt looked down at Remy’s leg.
“Let’s say,” he continued, “ just for speculation’s sake, that you had nothing to do with the jet…”
“I had nothing to do with any of this.”
“When this all comes unraveled-and it’s already started to-you’ll be charged. And you’ll need to dig yourself out.”
“Innocent until proven guilty…”
“Yeah, right. I’m not talking about our legal system.”
Walt bumped his leg into Remy’s cast, and Remy flinched and gasped.
“You’ll need to dig yourself out,” he repeated. “You know the rule of thumb about the first person to confess, the leniency shown by the courts. Which leaves you in that dodgy position I just mentioned. Because when your attorney arrives, he’s going to shut this interview down, shut you down. And he has every reason to do so. Nine times out of ten, it’s the smart move.
“But this isn’t one of those times. In fact, you and I are preciously short on time.”
Walt called out to the front of the bus.
“How long?”
“He’s about five minutes out,” came back the reply.
“See how on top of things we are?” Walt asked Remy, who was struggling to look at ease. “We have only your best interest at heart.”
Walt pulled back his sleeve and looked at his watch.
“Go on…” Remy said. His eyes ticked toward the front of the bus.
“Me? I’ve got nothing more to say. Should I keep the recorder going?” He reached for the device.
Remy glanced toward the front of the bus once again.
“Decisions, decisions,” Walt said. “Maybe they’ll stop with the knee.”
Walt’s hand touched the OFF button.
“Stop… Leave it running.”
Walt sat back. At times he found the work boring and tedious. Then there were times like this.
“I had nothing to do with the theft,” Remy said, “either one. I knew nothing about them.”
Walt kept his face expressionless, but inside he was churning. Remy seemed so self-righteous.
“The bottles will not go to auction,” Walt said. “They’ve been pulled.”
Remy searched the bus as if looking for an escape.
“In that case,” he said, “I need protection… tonight… going forward.”
“We’re not in the protection business.”
“Then arrest me, Sheriff.”
“How can I? You deny being involved with the bottles or the jet.” Walt made it a statement for the recorder. He rapped his knuckles on Remy’s cast.
“The Adams bottles are fakes,” Remy said, head down, “forgeries. My doing, it’s true.”
“You have to convince me, Mr. Remy. You have to provide details that, as an investigator, I can substantiate. I have to bring something to my prosecuting attorney. Facts are often a good place to start.”