CHAPTER 47

Over Colorado

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, MAHONEY and I flew west on a Delta nonstop to Salt Lake City, the only seats we could find on short notice that would get us anywhere close to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I was signed into the plane’s Wi-Fi and kept checking my texts and emails, hoping to see something from Bree or Sampson.

“Anything?” Ned asked.

“Nothing,” I said, growing increasingly concerned.

“Salmon, Idaho, is pretty remote. Cell service can’t be great.”

“Granted, but Bree specifically told me yesterday morning that she would call me at eleven p.m. DC time. We’re many hours past that.”

“I hear you,” Mahoney said, then paused. “You said they rented a Jeep, right? What company did Bree rent it from?”

“She usually uses Hertz, I think,” I said. “But I don’t know for sure.”

“After we land, I’ll put in a request to have Hertz ping their car’s GPS locator.”

“That will help,” I said. “At least we’ll know where they are.”

We landed at two p.m. mountain time, picked up a Chevy Tahoe with snow tires, and headed north. I still hadn’t heard from either my wife or my best friend, so I accessed Bree’s credit card accounts on my laptop and found payments for her airline ticket, a room in Reno, a room in Hailey, Idaho, and gas in Sun Valley the morning before.

“Looks like Sampson must have rented the Jeep,” I said. “I have no idea who he gets points with.”

“We’ll start with Hertz and Avis,” Mahoney said. “And we can contact Verizon, see where their towers last picked them up.”

“Good idea,” I said. “I’m going to call the Idaho state police, find out if there’s been an accident.”

It began to snow shortly after we crossed into Wyoming. Cell service became spotty, but Mahoney managed to get through to Hertz, Avis, Sixt, and Verizon. Neither Hertz nor Avis had any record of Bree or John renting a Jeep. Sixt said they’d get back to us. Verizon agreed to look for Bree’s cell data but said it would take several hours to gather.

We reached the bustling town of Jackson at six thirty p.m. after a hair-raising drive through a whiteout. After we checked into an overpriced motel, we decided there was no time like the present and drove to Alcott’s spread on the east side of the broad valley of Jackson Hole, up against the Gros Ventre Wilderness.

As we approached the Double Diamond Ranch, a steel barrier rose up out of the snow, blocking the road. A ball camera rose from the steel barrier and looked at us.

Mahoney got out, walked up to the camera, and showed his FBI credentials.

A male voice said, “What is this about?”

“The judicial appointment advisory panel Mrs. Alcott serves on for the president-elect.”

“Can you come back in the morning?”

“No. This is a federal murder investigation. It’s urgent.”

After a long pause, he said, “Come past the barns and the stable. Park below the big house near the riding ring.” The ball camera retracted into the steel barrier, which dropped below the grade of the road.

We went up a windy, snowy drive, past barns, a large stable, and an exterior riding ring, and finally spotted the house up on a knoll.

We parked and climbed heated stairs to the front porch of the sprawling log and stone structure. On the double doors was a carving of a bull elk fighting a grizzly bear. One of the doors opened before we knocked.

A big Polynesian guy in shorts, sandals, and a Las Vegas Raiders hoodie took a step back to let us in. “I’m Arthur,” he said. “I work for Mrs. Alcott. If you don’t mind, I’d like to make a copy of your identification materials before we go further.”

We handed them to him. Arthur returned a few minutes later.

“Mrs. Alcott will see you now,” he said. “But do me a favor?”

“If we can,” I said.

“Take it easy on her,” Arthur said. “Mrs. A. has been through a hell of a lot the past few weeks. She has no family left now, and it is crushing her.”