Twenty-four

W alt had spent the last hour in the Mobile Command Center writing up a summary of events. His eyes strayed to a seating chart thumbtacked to a corkboard.

It was a large sheet, showing tables and seating arrangements for the Shaler brunch. Of all the seats, one was marked with an X.

Dryer felt his presence. “What?”

“That’s the seating plan for Liz Shaler’s talk,” Walt suggested.

“Yes it is,” Dryer agreed.

“Why the X on Stuart Holms?” Walt asked.

“We were reaching. On the off chance the contract on the AG came from someone attending the conference, we looked at who failed to attend. His was the only empty seat.”

“And the initials by his name?” Walt asked. “Explain it to me.”

“Exactly what it says: meal preference. Do you want a regular meal, vegetarian meal, do you have your own personal chef, are you allergic to wheat…You know how these people are.”

Walt referred to his notebook and flipped back through the pages. He asked, “And what’s that date printed down there by the file name? Bottom of the sheet?”

Dryer leaned closer. “Six-six. June sixth. What is it, Sheriff?”

“Stuart Holms uses a personal chef. Name of Raphael,” he said, consulting his notebook. “Won’t eat a bite if it’s not prepared by Raphael. He’s fanatic about it.”

“Well, that’s Stuart Holms’s seat, and he’s down for a regular meal. What’s it matter? I think you need some rest.”

“What it means, I think, is that six weeks ago-on June sixth-Holms already knew he wouldn’t be attending Liz Shaler’s talk.”

“And so, why bother with meal preference if he’s not going to be there?”

Walt nodded. “Maybe. Yeah.”

Dryer did a double-take, first looking at the seating plan, then back at Walt. His brow creased, tightening his eyes. “Naa…” But he didn’t sound as convinced as a minute earlier.

A knock on the coach’s door was followed by the big head of Dick O’Brien. “Sheriff, you got a minute?”