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aspens blocked any view of the front door from the street. He heard a truck rumble past. Brandon.
    The log home was constructed of huge timbers, the gaps sealed with toothpaste-white chinking. Walt rapped the pewter cowboy-boot door knocker twice sharply.
    The door opened, revealing a thin man about Walt’s height, with a stubble of closely cropped black hair, black eyebrows, Euro-styled green-framed eyeglasses, and rough skin. He wore crisply pressed black trousers, Italian loafers, and no socks. He had a diamond earring in his left ear. His lips pursed in confusion as his eyes settled on the attaché.
    “Excuse me . . . Sheriff,” he said, reading Walt’s name tag. “I was expecting—”
    “A Mr. Randall Malone,” Walt said.
    It took the man a moment to recover.
    “I believe this is yours.” Walt said.
    “The contents, yes. Not the case.” He leaned to look down the driveway. “And Mr. Malone is . . . ?”
    “Dead,” Walt said, adding, “Sheriff Walt Fleming,” offering his hand.
    The two shook hands—the man’s skin was clammy. “Dead? How?”
    “Looks like a heart attack,” Walt answered. “You are?”
    “Arthur Remy.” He stepped back and gestured for Walt to come inside. “Good God . . . I’m a houseguest here.” He shut the door. “I’m a guest of—”
    “Doug and Ann Christensen,” Walt said.
    “Just so.” Remy sounded impressed.
    “Sun Valley could just as easily be named Small Valley,” Walt said.
    “Dead?” Remy repeated. “But I spoke to him not fifteen—”
    “That was me,” Walt said. “We traced him to the hotel.”
    “But then where? When? Has anyone called the company?”
    The living room smelled of vanilla, and from the cut-flower arrangements to the Chinese silk pillows atop the off-white couch it looked like something straight out of Architectural Digest. A nineteenth-century seven-foot Bösendorfer grand piano was parked in the corner. It cost roughly the same as Walt’s house.
    “Branson Risk? No, not yet. We had concerns about the contents of the case. If a ransom drop, then—”
    “Ransom? Not hardly.”
    The living room led to a stately dining room and through to the restaurant-caliber kitchen, off of which was a family room with hearth, four couches, three coffee tables, and a glassed-in breakfast nook. The interior of the log home was Santa Fe stucco, with hand-worked walls sponged with brick-tinted paint. Remy poured himself a glass of red wine from a bottle on the counter, offering Walt something to drink. Walt declined.
    “I need to view the contents of the case,” Walt stated, “for the sake of the investigation.”
    “What investigation?”
    “The heart attack may be related to an assault and kidnapping.”
    “Jesus Christ.” Remy sat down in an overstuffed chair pulled up to a harvest table beneath a deer-antler chandelier.
    Walt set the attaché onto the table, just out of Remy’s reach. “Malone died at the scene.”
    Remy’s hand shook slightly as he worked the wineglass to his moist lips.
    “I interrupted the assault, what may have been an attempted robbery,” Walt continued. “Because this is now a criminal investigation, Mr. Remy—quite likely a homicide investigation—I need to know the contents of the case.”
    “So you said.”
    “My office will do its best to protect your privacy. That goes for your relationship with Branson Risk as well. But we will investigate.”
    Remy coughed, twisting his face uncomfortably.
    “Jesus.”
    He finished his glass of wine and eyed the bottle on the counter.
    “Go ahead,” Walt said.
    Remy didn’t appreciate being so easy to read, but he wouldn’t deny himself the refill. He returned to his chair with a full glass.
    “You want Andy on the phone?” Remy asked. “I can get Andy for you.” He pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket. “Andy Cohen, Branson’s director?”
    “That can wait. At present, I’m interested only in the contents of this case.”
    Remy seemed to consider