“No, it was your shoes, actually,” she said.
He laughed. “You just say that—to be perverse.”
Finally she laughed too. “Or maybe humorous?”
“This isn’t funny,” he told her then. It wasn’t. He took over an hour to kill her. And then he used her broom—and not in the usual way, not to sweep, and handle first.
And then, a fabulous parting meal at L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon.
Ahhh, Paris. A miracle city.
Chapter 99
THIS MONTANA CONNECTION was a big break in the case—with any luck, the one we needed. Information on Tyler Bell began to pile up quickly. He was in fact the brother of the late Michael Bell, and actually the more elusive character of the two. While Michael was becoming a minor player in Hollywood circles, Tyler made his living as a river guide and general handyman; he operated out of a Rocky Mountain cabin he had built himself. His reputation around Babb, Montana, population 560, was that of a quiet, nice-enough fellow who wasn’t unsociable but mostly liked to be alone. There was no mention of a steady female companion.
More to the point, Tyler had inherited nearly a million dollars from his brother’s estate, sat on it for six months, then closed the account and received several dozen cashier’s checks in varying amounts on the last day anyone saw him out in Montana. Now what was that all about? And where was Tyler Bell right now?
Bree, Sampson, Anjali, and I had a conference call going with the sheriff’s department in Glacier County, along with a senior agent named Christopher Forrest in the FBI’s Salt Lake City field office. John Abate, a senior agent in charge of DCAK here in Washington, had joined us as well.
“What’s the status of your missing-persons case?” Abate asked into the speakerphone.
“The file’s certainly open but not what I’d call active. This bloke’s either dead or doesn’t want to be found.” The Montana deputy on the case, Steve Mills, had an unexpected English accent. What was with that?
“Forrest, what have you got?” asked Abate in a curt, take-charge voice. “Tell us everything you can about Bell.”
“Far as we can tell, he was pretty much cut off from the world. His Verizon account was prepaid through December, including minutes he hasn’t used, for whatever reason. And there’s one credit card, a Visa, totally dorman
t.”
“Well, he did have a million or so at his disposal,” Sampson said.
“He took only a few things from his place,” Mills contributed. “His phone, wallet, some clothes. Not that there was so much to leave behind. He lived rather simply. Off the grid and all.”
“He doesn’t sound like a cell-phone person to me,” I said.
“Except when the alternative is having wires strung out to your property,” Mills said. “I doubt he ever used the cell much, though.”
“Well, someone used it.” Patel looked down at the phone report in front of her. “Yesterday, two ten p.m.”
“Someone?” Christopher Forrest asked. “Do you have reason to believe it wasn’t him?”
“Not at all. We just don’t have any hard evidence that it was him,” said Bree.
“Mighty big coincidence if it wasn’t,” Mills said. “Don’t you think?”
“Agreed.” Patel sounded a little testy; they weren’t keeping up with her. She’d also been working for more hours than she could count.
“What else about Bell?” Bree asked. “How soon can we get a picture of him?”
“Here you go,” Forrest said. “I just sent it your way.”
With a few keystrokes, Patel brought up an image of Tyler Bell’s Montana driver’s license. She flipped it over to the conference-room screen.
I remembered meeting his brother in California and how my first impression had been lumberjack but in a California rock-and-roll sort of way, like some lost member of the Eagles. Tyler looked like the real thing. His brown hair and full beard were shaggy but not unkempt. The license stats put him at six three, 220 pounds.
“What do you think, Bree? Recognize him? Could he be your AP reporter?”
She squinted at the license and took her time before answering. “The way he can change his looks? Sure, it’s possible. The reporter was a big man. Maybe six three.”