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his situation. He looked down at the case, then back up at Walt. He nodded.
    “Yes. All right. You will wait one minute, please.”
    He left the room, returning with a plastic card that fit into the slot underneath the handle and turned the red LED green.
    “I’ve never seen a case like this before,” Walt admitted.
    “A Branson original,” Remy explained. “When locked, the internal GPS is constantly broadcasting its location. If the case is jimmied or violated in any way, a hidden camera transmits photographs continuously. Branson predetermines the route the case will take. The camera also engages if the GPS track varies from that route.”
    “Were you notified the case was off route?”
    “I was,” Remy said. “It went west of Hailey.”
    “That’s correct. Branson’s reaction?”
    “I assume they attempted to contact the courier.”
    “You didn’t hear from them again?”
    “There were several calls back and forth,” Remy said. “A good deal of concern.”
    “So, in theory, Branson has photographs that could prove helpful to the investigation.” Walt couldn’t take his eyes off the case.
    “If they exist, I will have them make them available to you.” Remy caught Walt staring. “Go ahead, Sheriff. Be my guest. They’re a piece of history.”
    Walt opened the lid.
    Inside, packed in custom-molded gray foam, were three dark green bottles of wine.

11

    C antell’s team boarded Sun Valley’s River Run high-speed quad chairlift at five-minute intervals so as not to be seen sitting together. The views behind them were spectacular: the town of Ketchum in the foreground, then, farther east, the Sun Valley resort, with its hotels and golf course. A second chairlift carried them to the very top, from which one could see for a hundred miles in all directions: craggy mountaintops north, east, and west, and, to the south, a vast expanse of high-altitude desert.
    Cantell avoided the busy mountaintop ski lodge. Mountain bikers and parasailors prepared for descent, while day hikers huddled in groups, trail maps in hand. The grid of Ketchum’s streets spread out three thousand feet below, the buildings and vehicles looking like toy models.
    Cantell’s team hiked down to a location that offered a view both east and south. In late July, the ski slopes were a vivid green broken by flecks of yellow columbine and red Indian paintbrush that swayed in the constant breeze.
    The four hoisted binoculars as Cantell spoke.
    “First: the bridge,” he said. Highway 75’s only bridge was a formed-concrete, three-lane span crossing the Big Wood River. “Roger, placement is everything.”
    “No problem.”
    “Salvo,” Cantell said, “the power pole, to the east, will block the bike path.”
    “Sure,” Matt said, “got it.”
    “Roger,” Cantell said, “you can make out the roof of the new symphony pavilion behind the lodge.”
    “Yeah.”
    “The golf course is just to the north,” Cantell said, “the row of golf carts.”
    “Okay.”
    “That’s you . . . before the truck. It should look like an overcharged battery or a short. Nothing too spectacular.”
    Roger smirked. “Can do.”
    “After setting the charge, you’ll meet up with Matt and we enter phase two. You guys will be picked up on the other side by Lorraine, and we’ll meet in the Albertson’s parking lot north of Hailey.”
    “Sounds good.”
    “Lorraine, you’ll pick them up in the Starweather subdivision. There’s a private bridge there that crosses to a ranch. That’s the rendezvous.”
    Lorraine nodded.
    Cantell trained his binoculars well south to his prize, the asphalt shimmering in the heat. “Any questions?”
    “What if I can’t get the keys?” Lorraine asked. “Has that been considered?”
    “Then you need to get yourself invited back to his room,” Cantell explained. “Matt will shadow you, as planned. He’ll call Roger in if necessary. We need that key, and nothing, no way, can raise suspicion.”
    Cantell