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coffins. Of course you can’t actually handle the remains, but you’ll get an idea of what’s there. And I’ll have an answer for you tomorrow morning. How’s that?”
    “That would be great! Thank you!”
    Chief Morris beamed. “And just between you and me, I think you can depend on that answer being positive.”
    And as they stood up, Corrie had to actually restrain herself from hugging the man.

5
    C orrie slid into the passenger seat of the squad car, next to the chief, who apparently eschewed a driver and drove himself about. Instead of the usual Crown Vic, the vehicle was a Jeep Cherokee, done up in the traditional cop-car two-tone, with the city symbol of Roaring Fork—an aspen leaf—painted on the side, surrounded by a six-pointed sheriff’s star.
    Corrie realized she had lucked out, big-time. The chief appeared to be a decent, well-meaning man, and although he seemed to lack spine he was both reasonable and intelligent.
    “Have you been to Roaring Fork before?” Morris asked as he turned the key, the vehicle roaring to life.
    “Never. Don’t even ski.”
    “Good gracious. You need to learn. We’re in the high season here—Christmas approaching and all—so you’re seeing it at its finest.”
    The Jeep eased down East Main Street and the chief began pointing out some of the historic sights—City Hall, the historic Hotel Sebastian, various famous Victorian mansions. Everything was done up in festive lights and garlands of fir, the snow lying on the roofs, frosting the windows, and hanging on the boughs of the trees. It was like something out of a Currier & Ives print. They passed through a shopping district, the streets thicker with upscale boutiques than even the gold mile of Fifth Avenue. It was amazing, the sidewalks thronging with shoppers decked out in furs and diamonds or sleek ski outfits, packing shopping bags. The traffic moved at a glacial pace, and they found themselves creeping down the street sandwiched among stretch Hummers, Mercedes Geländewagens, Range Rovers, Porsche Cayennes—and snowmobiles.
    “Sorry about the traffic,” the chief said.
    “Are you kidding? This is amazing,” Corrie said, almost hanging out the window as she watched the parade of stores slide by: Ralph Lauren, Tiffany, Dior, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Gucci, Rolex, Fendi, Bulgari, Burberry, Brioni, the windows stuffed with expensive merchandise. They never seemed to end.
    “The amount of money in this town is off the charts,” said the chief. “And frankly, from a law enforcement point of view, that can be a problem. A lot of these people think the rules don’t apply to them. But in the Roaring Fork Police Department, we treat everyone—and I mean everyone —the same.”
    “Good policy.”
    “It’s the only policy in a town like this,” he said, not without a touch of pomposity, “where just about everyone is a celebrity, a billionaire, or both.”
    “Must be a magnet for thieves,” Corrie said, still staring at the expensive stores.
    “Oh, no. The crime rate here is almost nil. We’re so isolated, you see. There’s only one road in—Route 82, which can be an obstacle course in the winter and is frequently closed due to snow—and our airport is only used by private jets. Then there’s the cost of actually staying here—well beyond the means of any petty thief. We’re too expensive for thieves!” He laughed merrily.
    Tell me about it , Corrie thought.
    They were now passing a few blocks of what looked like a re-creation of a western boomtown: bars with swinging doors, assay offices, general goods stores, even a few apparent bordellos with gaudily painted windows. Everything was spotlessly neat and clean, from the gleaming cuspidors on the raised wooden sidewalks to the tall false fronts of the buildings.
    “What’s all that?” Corrie asked, pointing at a family getting their picture taken in front of the Ideal Saloon.
    “That’s Old Town,” the chief replied. “What remains of the