Read Online Killer Weekend by Ridley Pearson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ridley Pearson
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what’s the alternative?”
“I could be a ski bum,” Liz suggested.
“Or sit, bored, on a dozen boards.”
“You made your point,” Liz chided. She’d heard this often from her advisers: nowhere to go but up. “How’s this?” she asked, turning to show her face.
“A million bucks,” Jenna said.
“I hope you’re wrong,” Liz said, “because we need a hell of a lot more than that just to get out of the starting gate.”
Eighteen
S tanding on the U-shaped wraparound balcony that overlooked the living room of his nineteen-thousand-square-foot home, Patrick Cutter surveyed the cocktail party he’d thrown for 125 early arrivals to C 3 . Below him, the elite of America’s communications industry comingled and made merry, fortified by the best champagne, liquor, and wines served in crystal flutes and heavy cut-glass tumblers. The appetizers had been created by a chef from a small Provençal gîte located two kilometers south of Gorde. Many of the guests knew one another, contributing to the lively hum of conversation that hit Patrick Cutter’s ears like music.
His wife, Trish, glanced up from a tightly knit group on the floor below. In February, she’d spent thirty thousand dollars on her face, so this was her coming-out party of sorts. She offered him no wink, no nod, no subtle smile. But the sparkle in her laser-corrected eyes said enough: a success. The conference was off to a good start.
He hoped it would shape the direction of the communications industry in the months to come. Still these changes were subtle. Sometimes they reached the front page of the Wall Street Journal. This sense of history, and his place in it as a leader, thrilled him. In three days’ time, Liz Shaler was to announce her candidacy for president at his conference. How could pride be a sin when it felt so good? Who would not forgive him that little indulgence? This conference was all about indulgence.
His gaze swept the crowd. He caught a voyeuristic glimpse down the dress of the lead violinist in the classical quartet.
Where the hell was Liz Shaler?
He spotted and tracked the unmistakable red plumage of Ailia Holms as she and her husband, Stuart, stopped and chatted to friends. He made a mental note to keep Stu away from Liz Shaler. No need for a scene. A waitress took drink orders. The group erupted in laughter. He watched as Ailia gave Stu a subtle tug, and then led him over to the head of the world’s leading manufacturer of fiber optic cable. Ailia never missed a beat.
As Stu engaged in small talk, Ailia rose to her toes seeking out their next obligation. But when she lingered a little too long in one direction, Patrick followed her gaze to its target: Danny. Alarms sounded in his head: If Ailia wanted Danny, it was for only one reason.
Patrick sought out the nearest staircase—there were six in this house—and made his move to intervene.
Nineteen
W alt parked the Sheriff’s Office Cherokee at the end of a long line of vehicles hugging the shoulder of Adam’s Gulch Road and headed on foot down the curving driveway, adorned with twenty-foot blue spruces and a gorgeous array of flowers, which like so much of residential Ketchum and Sun Valley had been built in the past ten years. That meant each of the towering trees had been purchased mature and transplanted. At a cost of fifteen thousand dollars per tree, it was a most conspicuous display of wealth. But nothing compared to the house itself. Fashioned from five antique New England barns, each dismantled and transported and reassembled into an interconnecting village, the compound looked like a small New England village. Two well-dressed hostesses, both wearing C 3 badges, greeted Walt and offered an Orrefors crystal champagne flute bearing a frosted C 3 logo. The flute bubbled with a 1990 Krug, judging by the chilled bottles just inside the front door.
“The glass is compliments of Mr. Cutter,” the blonde informed Walt.
Walt had worn a freshly pressed
“I could be a ski bum,” Liz suggested.
“Or sit, bored, on a dozen boards.”
“You made your point,” Liz chided. She’d heard this often from her advisers: nowhere to go but up. “How’s this?” she asked, turning to show her face.
“A million bucks,” Jenna said.
“I hope you’re wrong,” Liz said, “because we need a hell of a lot more than that just to get out of the starting gate.”
Eighteen
S tanding on the U-shaped wraparound balcony that overlooked the living room of his nineteen-thousand-square-foot home, Patrick Cutter surveyed the cocktail party he’d thrown for 125 early arrivals to C 3 . Below him, the elite of America’s communications industry comingled and made merry, fortified by the best champagne, liquor, and wines served in crystal flutes and heavy cut-glass tumblers. The appetizers had been created by a chef from a small Provençal gîte located two kilometers south of Gorde. Many of the guests knew one another, contributing to the lively hum of conversation that hit Patrick Cutter’s ears like music.
His wife, Trish, glanced up from a tightly knit group on the floor below. In February, she’d spent thirty thousand dollars on her face, so this was her coming-out party of sorts. She offered him no wink, no nod, no subtle smile. But the sparkle in her laser-corrected eyes said enough: a success. The conference was off to a good start.
He hoped it would shape the direction of the communications industry in the months to come. Still these changes were subtle. Sometimes they reached the front page of the Wall Street Journal. This sense of history, and his place in it as a leader, thrilled him. In three days’ time, Liz Shaler was to announce her candidacy for president at his conference. How could pride be a sin when it felt so good? Who would not forgive him that little indulgence? This conference was all about indulgence.
His gaze swept the crowd. He caught a voyeuristic glimpse down the dress of the lead violinist in the classical quartet.
Where the hell was Liz Shaler?
He spotted and tracked the unmistakable red plumage of Ailia Holms as she and her husband, Stuart, stopped and chatted to friends. He made a mental note to keep Stu away from Liz Shaler. No need for a scene. A waitress took drink orders. The group erupted in laughter. He watched as Ailia gave Stu a subtle tug, and then led him over to the head of the world’s leading manufacturer of fiber optic cable. Ailia never missed a beat.
As Stu engaged in small talk, Ailia rose to her toes seeking out their next obligation. But when she lingered a little too long in one direction, Patrick followed her gaze to its target: Danny. Alarms sounded in his head: If Ailia wanted Danny, it was for only one reason.
Patrick sought out the nearest staircase—there were six in this house—and made his move to intervene.
Nineteen
W alt parked the Sheriff’s Office Cherokee at the end of a long line of vehicles hugging the shoulder of Adam’s Gulch Road and headed on foot down the curving driveway, adorned with twenty-foot blue spruces and a gorgeous array of flowers, which like so much of residential Ketchum and Sun Valley had been built in the past ten years. That meant each of the towering trees had been purchased mature and transplanted. At a cost of fifteen thousand dollars per tree, it was a most conspicuous display of wealth. But nothing compared to the house itself. Fashioned from five antique New England barns, each dismantled and transported and reassembled into an interconnecting village, the compound looked like a small New England village. Two well-dressed hostesses, both wearing C 3 badges, greeted Walt and offered an Orrefors crystal champagne flute bearing a frosted C 3 logo. The flute bubbled with a 1990 Krug, judging by the chilled bottles just inside the front door.
“The glass is compliments of Mr. Cutter,” the blonde informed Walt.
Walt had worn a freshly pressed
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