Wilson Fielder powered the SUV through drifting snow to Sun Valley’s city hall and police station, determined to confront the officer who’d charged his father with murder. An hour earlier, he had arrived at the airport and headed straight to the hospital, where his father was lying in a coma. After consulting with the neurosurgeon and attempting to comfort his mother and sister, Wilson had called the Sun Valley police, insisting on a meeting with whoever was in charge of his father’s case.
Once inside the police station Wilson gave his name to a young female constable stationed behind the reception window. His tall athletic body, deep hazel-green eyes, and thick dark hair were the cause of girlish giggles and whispered comments between the young constable and two other women working behind the counter as he took a seat in the waiting area. He was oblivious.
Within moments, Assistant Police Chief John Zemke leaned over the counter. “Fielder?” he said in a loud, brusque voice.
Wilson’s body tensed as he stood up and walked toward the stocky, sunburned detective.
“Come on in,” Zemke said, brushing back his thick, wiry gray-white hair. The fifty-something former LAPD homicide captain, turned Sun Valley detective and ski fanatic, wore elk-skin boots, navy-blue ski pants, and a red sweater. Zemke relished what he did for a living, but valued where he did it even more.
Wilson followed Zemke through the western-style swinging doors into an empty office at the rear of the building. He sat down in front of the detective’s desk, attempting to control his emotions.
“As far as we’re concerned, this case is murder and attempted suicide. We found powder burns on your father’s right hand. His fingerprints were on the murder weapon. A dozen witnesses put him and the two women together during the evening. What else do you want to know?”
“Who were the two women?”
“Probably high-end hookers. We get a lot of them this time of year. They look like sisters: same blood type, same physical features, same expensive jewelry. We don’t know their names yet. They were carrying phony IDs. But we’ll know soon enough.”
Wilson decided to ignore the “hookers” comment for the moment. Zemke might be a jaded macho throwback, but he was nobody’s fool. Wilson could see that from his eyes. “What kind of gun was it?”
Zemke leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t care much for Wilson’s father, or any of the other wealthy landowners in the area who acted as if Sun Valley was their private playground. “Smith & Wesson Sportsman .22 LR caliber automatic, stainless steel, ten cartridge clip, six-inch barrel, thirty-nine ounces, designed for concealment. Five bullets were discharged. Each woman was shot in the back of the head while sitting in matching chairs in your father’s chalet. Both were fully clothed. Blood-soaked. They died instantly. No evidence of a struggle except for a few broken fingernails. These women obviously knew they were going to die. But they didn’t have time or were too scared to do anything but grab the arms of their chairs.”
“And my father?”
“We found his body lying on the floor next to where the women were executed. Blood from at least one of the women was on his hands and face. Bullet entered his head just below the right ear. Gun was lying next to his right hand. That’s about it,” Zemke said, anxious to end the interchange.
“What about the other bullets?”
“Embedded in the ceiling beams. Either threatening or torturing shots,” he said while turning his attention to a file he’d picked up from his desk.
Wilson didn’t say anything. There was a momentary twinge of uncertainty about his father’s innocence, but he refused to believe that his father killed anyone. He knew his father. Of course he could never know all the details or secrets of his father’s life, but he was well acquainted with his father’s character—and it had nothing to do with corruption. His father’s life had been devoted to enlightenment and liberation, for himself, his family, his clients, and anyone else he could influence. Wilson had questioned and tested his father’s soul for long enough to know.
Zemke looked up from the file, “Unless there’s something else, son, I’ve got work to do.”
“A few things you should know, detective,” Wilson said with measured delivery as he stood up. “My father abhorred guns and he never used his right hand for anything requiring mechanical precision or applied pressure because of an old injury. He would never have used his right hand to pull the trigger of a gun. As to your explanation of the bullets in the ceiling beams—threatening or torturing shots is how you put it. Strikes me as predisposed, which brings me to my last point.” Wilson paused, his emotions rising. “The comment you made about the two women being hookers not only represents gross speculation on your part, but piss-poor police work. Seems the only whore here is you, detective. My father didn’t kill anyone.”
At first, Zemke was stunned, his eyes blazing, but he held his tongue. He slowly surveyed Wilson with biting anger, then genuine curiosity. He hadn’t expected such a tongue-lashing from Charles Fielder’s privileged son. The open file on his desk was no longer a distraction.
“I understand your point of view, Mr. Fielder,” he said in a calm, almost respectful voice. “We haven’t established a motive yet. Until we do, this case will remain open.”
“Thank you,” Wilson said, feeling slightly better for having vented at least some of his anger. He needed Zemke, and anyone else who might get involved, including reporters, to seriously investigate the possibility that someone other than his father had murdered those women. Otherwise, I’ll be doing this on my own, he thought.
“Has your father shown any signs of regaining consciousness?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m sorry. Let us know if his condition changes.”
“Sure,” Wilson said, knowing that Zemke had his own channels of information. At least he’s expressing some level of concern, Wilson thought. “One more thing detective, I want access to the family chalet.”
“Can’t do that. It’s a crime scene,” Zemke said, his hard-bitten demeanor returning.
Wilson wheeled around. In a deceptively mild tone he asked, “You know what my father’s done for this community. Who would you like me to call?”
Zemke’s eyes were suddenly on fire again, but he knew Wilson would eventually get what he wanted. Besides, everything had been gone over multiple times. “Fine,” he conceded, “but we’ll be watching.”
Wilson left the detective’s office and returned to the hospital and his father’s ICU room, where he joined his mother and sister. They looked so much alike—the expressive eyes, elegant noses, and slender frames—it was not uncommon for them to be mistaken for sisters. Seeing the pain on their twin faces made his father’s comatose state even more agonizing. They seem so helpless… we all are… but not for long if I can help it, Wilson said to himself. He told his mother and sister about his meeting with Detective Zemke. They both seemed relieved that Wilson was taking care of such matters but expressed new concerns about keeping his father in Sun Valley. Wilson had already come to the same conclusion. His father needed better care than the Wood River Medical Center staff could provide.
When the neurosurgeon who’d operated on his father returned to the room, Wilson asked him to step into the corridor for a private word. “I want my father prepared for an immediate airlift to Massachusetts General in Boston.”
“The risks of transferring him in his current condition are very high, unless you have medical personnel…”
“That’s why I’d like you to go with him. I’ll make sure you have a flying ICU by this evening.”
“I can’t just…”
“You’ll have the opportunity to personally turn him over to a group of highly respected neurologists and neurosurgeons at Mass General. I think you know Dr. Joseph Malek. One of your mentors, I believe. He’s also a personal friend of my father’s. He will be looking forward to reconnecting with you when you arrive. I don’t think I need to tell you that every step of how you handle this is going to be scrutinized by the press.”
“You’re right, I have worked with Dr. Joseph Malek,” the neurosurgeon rejoined, his voice rising. “And we both know he would never condone such coercion.”
“He would if he thought one of his dearest friends was in harm’s way and being framed for murder,” Wilson said sternly.
“I can’t promise anything until I have arranged for my other patients. What are you going to do about the police?”
“I’ll handle them; just get my father ready to fly. I want to leave tonight.”
After the neurosurgeon left to make his preparations, Wilson remained in the corridor pacing back and forth while talking on his phone and sending emails to arrange for his father’s flight to Boston.
Forty-five minutes later, his father’s attorney, Daniel Redd, called to announce that he’d just arrived in Sun Valley. The timing couldn’t have been better for what Wilson needed next.
“There’s been a change of plans. We’re moving my father to Mass General tonight,” Wilson said over the phone.
Daniel immediately concurred with the decision, just as Wilson expected he would. He’d known Daniel for several years but had never really dealt with him one-on-one. What Daniel said next both surprised and pleased Wilson: “I’ll take care of the legalities,” Daniel said. “The Sun Valley Police won’t want your father to leave their jurisdiction, but we won’t give them a choice. Just make sure his doctor supports your decision and is willing to make the trip with your father.”
“Already arranged. Do you anticipate anything we can’t overcome?”
“Not if we can demonstrate medical need. I’m licensed to practice law in Idaho and my firm knows a few judges in town. If we run into serious problems, we’ll have the FBI claim jurisdiction; they owe us a few favors. But that’s a last resort. Don’t worry, Wilson. One way or another, I’ll make sure your father can leave Idaho. Need any help arranging for a medical airlift?”
“Air Ambulance is a client. The CEO promised me that he’d have one of their jets at the Sun Valley airport by eight tonight,” Wilson said.
“I’ll have all the legal issues relating to medical transport resolved by five o’clock. Can we find somewhere to meet privately after that? There are a few things I need to discuss with you face-to-face.”
Wilson hesitated a moment, wondering why Daniel needed private face time before leaving Sun Valley. Then he dismissed it as nothing more than overly cautious, analretentive behavior from a first-rate attorney in difficult circumstances. “I want to spend some time at the chalet before we leave. Why don’t we meet there?”
“See you there,” Daniel said.
Wayland Tate simmered with boredom as he listened to his client ramble on about a recent
Business Week
article that had criticized his company’s management practices. Clients who’d become overly dependent upon him were the only aspect Tate despised about his chosen place in the world. His pale blue eyes roamed restlessly across the wall of plasma screens at the back of his office, where the news channels showed clips of Charles Fielder every half hour. The pictures make Charles look older than he is, he thought.
Tate stood up, walked to the closet behind his desk, and retrieved a bottle of moisturizing lotion from the top shelf. “I know what you mean, Jim,” he said absentmindedly, reassuring his client that he was still listening even though his thoughts were focused on more pressing matters: if Charles regains consciousness, we’ll have to extract him from the hospital immediately. But there was nothing to worry about; preparations had already been made. He removed his gold cuff links and carefully rolled up the starched sleeves of his monogrammed shirt. While interjecting an occasional “uh-huh” into his client’s soporific litany of woes, Tate rubbed the lotion into his tanned arms and elbows in slow rhythmic motions.
Caring for his physical appearance and personal magnetism had always been a priority for Wayland Tate, making him one of corporate America’s more interviewed and photographed executives. GQ magazine had recently included him in its
100 Most Influential People in the World
issue, touting “his gorgeous, gray head of hair … an intensity behind the eyes that makes you wonder what he’s going to do next,” and the fact that he was “sporting a six-pack at age fifty-six.” But those closest to Tate knew that his high visibility had more to do with shrewd publicity management than with good looks or charisma. Almost half of the firms on
Fortune’s
500 were either current or former clients of Tate Waterhouse, one of the fastest-growing international advertising agencies in the world, and he made sure everyone knew about it. The only criticism his new European and Asian investors had expressed pertained to his prominent presence in the media. Fortunately, their criticism came at a time when Tate no longer craved attention like he had in his younger days. Promising to tone things down was a fair
quid pro quo
for access to their limitless resources.
Tate’s boredom was beginning to burn calories when one of his administrative assistants interrupted with an urgent message that David Quinn, CEO of the J. B. Musselman Company, was on the phone—for the fourth time that day. Excusing himself from his client, Tate disappeared into a narrow corridor that ran along a wall of windows overlooking the East River and the South Street Seaport near Wall Street. He unlocked the door to his private quarters and took his time walking through the luxurious space, which looked more like an exclusive bar than an apartment. Picasso, Pollock, and Kandinsky originals filled the walls. The two de Koonings, one above each fireplace, were Tate’s favorites.
He climbed the spiral staircase that led to his silk-walled bedroom and marble bathroom. Pausing in front of the bathroom’s gilded mirror between two freestanding water basins, he rolled down his sleeves, and replaced the cuff links. Then he reached for a small tube of eye ointment, squeezing out a miniscule amount and applying it under his eyes and along his eyebrows with his left index finger. Although the anti-wrinkle ointment cost seven hundred dollars an ounce, it was worth every penny—he could easily pass for a man ten to fifteen years his junior.