CHAPTER 6

brEE SAT ALONE IN the kitchen, staring at her laptop, reading more coverage of Ryan Malcomb’s death, which was not as extensive as she would have expected, given that his personal wealth was in excess of four billion dollars.

She kept picking up the remote control and changing the channel on the small TV in the kitchen from one financial-news network to another. All of them were giving Malcomb’s death airtime, and the reports all told the same story: a brilliant young man with physical challenges who had managed to build a powerful, ultra-secretive tech company, only to die looking for a ranch in the American West.

Bree knew Mahoney thought getting involved in Malcomb’s death would be a waste of time. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that they did not have the entire story.

After leaving DC Metro, Bree had been almost immediately hired by the Bluestone Group, an international investigative and security firm based in Arlington, Virginia. She no longer had the apparatus and clout of law enforcement behind her, but the move had given her the freedom to pursue leads wherever they took her.

She searched for real estate agents in Elko, Nevada, and took out her phone. On the second ring of Bree’s first call, a woman picked up. “High Desert Realty,” she said in a nasal voice. “Regina Everly speaking.”

“Hi, Regina. I’m Bree Stone with the Bluestone Group here in Washington, DC. We have been hired to independently look into the death of Ryan Malcomb and I am trying to find the real estate agent who signed the nondisclosure agreement with him.”

There was a long pause before Everly answered. In a much quieter voice, she said, “You did not hear this from me, but that would be CeCe Butler over at Nevada Ranch and Land Company.”

“Regina, if I’m ever looking for real estate in Elko, you’ll be the first person I call.”

“Why, thank you, Ms. Stone,” she said, and hung up.

Bree found the number for the Nevada Ranch and Land Company, called, and asked for CeCe Butler. Bree was told Butler wasn’t in at the moment, so she left a vague message asking her to call back.

She figured it was probably common knowledge in Elko that Butler was the real estate agent who had helped Malcomb, which meant reporters knew. Bree feared the woman might not return the call, but to her surprise, twenty minutes later, she did.

“This is CeCe Butler,” she said. “You’re not a reporter, are you?”

“No, ma’am,” Bree said. “I work for a private investigative firm out of Washington, DC. We look into stuff all over the world for our clients.”

“Who hired you to look into Malcomb’s death?”

“That, I am not at liberty to say,” Bree said, knowing she was walking a fine line between truth and fiction.

“Uh-huh,” Butler said. “I suppose the nondisclosure agreement I signed doesn’t matter anymore, but I don’t know what I can tell you that I haven’t told the police already. He contacted me about a month ago. We went back and forth on a couple of ranches, big, big properties. But he liked the look of the Double T Ranch in the Independence Mountains, so we arranged to go see it.”

Bree said, “You drove up in his van?”

“No. We flew there from Elko in a helicopter he rented and piloted.”

“I didn’t know he was a helicopter pilot.”

“Had trouble getting in and out of it, but he was excellent once he was seated.”

Bree asked the woman what Malcomb had thought of the ranch. Butler said they’d flown all over it, and he’d loved certain aspects, like the high alpine meadows and timber. “But he was concerned it had been overgrazed,” Butler added.

“By the current owners? Who are they?” Bree said.

“A big beef conglomerate, own cattle ranches all over the world.”

“Why were they selling?”

“Who knows?” Butler said. “They probably couldn’t use it as a write-down anymore. That’s what usually happens. People come in, hold the land for ten, fifteen years, run cattle hard, take all the depreciation they can, then sell at a profit to wannabe gentlemen ranchers like Malcomb.”

“He went back up in his van,” Bree said. “Why?”

“Honestly, I have no idea,” Butler said. “He sure did not tell me he was going up there alone. I would have told him it was a bad idea in a vehicle like his with tough weather on the horizon. Patty Rogers said it was because he was from back east. You know, oblivious to the dangers out here.”

“Who’s Patty Rogers?”

“Elko County sheriff’s deputy. She was first on the scene.”

Bree thanked the real estate agent and hung up. She called the Elko sheriff’s office and asked for Deputy Rogers.

A few minutes later, a woman with a hoarse voice said, “This is Patty Rogers. How can I help you?”

Bree identified herself as the former DC chief of detectives, named her current employer, and again implied that Bluestone had been hired to look into Ryan Malcomb’s death.

“There’s nothing to look into,” the deputy said firmly. “He was an inexperienced driver on a road that is difficult on the best of days. There was two inches of wet snow on the ground, and black ice from a freeze-thaw we had about a week ago. It’s a tragedy, but he was in over his head and he paid for it.”

“I heard he was up there the day before in a helicopter that he flew himself.”

“True. With Mr. Malcomb’s physical issues and the kind of terrain involved, it’s not surprising that he wanted to view the site from the air. He would have been unable to see large pieces of the ranch otherwise because there was deep snow on the ground at higher elevations.”

“How long after the car crash was he down in the canyon before he was found?”

“Not long at all,” Rogers replied. “A guy from our county roads department was driving a dump truck and backhoe up there to put in a culvert, and he spotted the smoke. He radioed it in. I responded. End of story. Now I need to go. I have to be on patrol in five.”

“You’ve been so helpful, Deputy Rogers,” Bree said. “Two more questions?”

She sighed. “Go on.”

“Is there a ranch manager?”

“They’re between managers, evidently. A caretaker lives up there during the winter, but he was visiting his ailing mother in Denver.”

“And, last question, who are the ranch owners? I heard it’s a beef conglomerate.”

“Correct. O Casado Cattle Company. They’re out of Brazil. They’ve owned the ranch a little over ten years.”

Something about that struck Bree as odd, but she couldn’t figure out what. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“My pleasure. Can I ask who your clients are?”

Bree felt she had to give the woman something, so she said the first thing that came to mind. “Insurance company.”

“Makes sense,” the deputy said. “Good to know. Have a nice day, Ms. Stone.”

“You too, Deputy Rogers.”

They hung up. Bree went over her notes of the conversation, beginning to end, and kept coming back to the ranch owners.

O Casado. A Brazilian beef conglomerate.

She couldn’t shake the sense that there was something important there, and then she saw it. With her pen, she circled the words Brazilian beef and added three exclamation points.