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Sloan came out of the foothills and into town. She passed the Louis-Bullat Bridge and turned into the parking lot of the Cedar Creek Inn. When she did, her stomach dropped.
“Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Her car’s gone. She had an older model Mazda and we parked right here. It’s gone.”
Sloan parked in the spot where they’d left Margot’s Mazda and grabbed the keycard from her pocket as she climbed out of the car. She and Eric jogged across the lot, entered the inn, and took the elevator to the third floor. Sloan looked up and down the long hallway as she approached room number 303. She opened the door and entered. The room was empty.
“Margot?”
Eric checked the bathroom. “Empty.”
Sloan walked to the foot of the bed, where the woman had been sitting when Sloan left her.
Margot Gray was gone.
THE PAST
Cedar Creek, Nevada
Sunday, July 2, 1995 2 Days Prior . . .
SANDY STAMOS TURNED DOWN THE LONG DRIVE AND PULLED TO A stop in front of the cabin. He opened the back hatch of the Suburban and grabbed the long, padded bag that contained the rifle he’d taken from the Harrison County Sheriff’s Department. He’d come up with his plan after visiting Tom Quinn in Lake Tahoe, and had made the call on the way home. He opened the door to the cabin and checked the time—4:05 p.m. Company was due to arrive at five, and Sandy was going to make damn sure the man followed directions and came alone.
He’d made a tactical decision by arranging the meeting at his cabin, and there were pros and cons to the choice. The cabin was isolated in the foothills and there was no chance anyone would discover the two men meeting there. Also, the cabin was on his turf, and he knew the lay of the land. If things broke bad, he’d have the advantage. The con, of course, was that he might have invited the enemy into his home, thereby giving away the location of his family’s cabin—a closely kept Stamos secret ever since his father had become sheriff of Harrison County decades earlier.
He grabbed a Gatorade from the fridge and headed upstairs with the rifle slung over his shoulder. He opened the window in the main bedroom, stepped over the sill until his boot gripped the shingles of the roof, and then ducked through. He scaled the A-frame roof and made his way to the chimney. He took his position behind the red brick and surveyed the land. From his vantage point he could see the entirety of the valley, and the town of Cedar Creek off in the distance. He also had a bird’s eye view of the road that cut behind the cabin and ran adjacent to the gorge his property butted up against. From his perch on the cabin’s roof Sandy could also see the wooden bridge that jumped the gorge and arched over the creek below—the lone access point to his cabin.
Sandy pulled the rifle from the soft carrying case and positioned it on a bipod atop the chimney. He checked the site and adjusted the focus so that the reticle was aimed at the beginning of the bridge. Lifting a pair of binoculars that hung from his neck, he trained them on the bridge and waited. Thirty minutes passed before the vehicle came into focus.
The BMW slowly crossed the bridge and turned onto the frontage road. Sandy kept the binoculars focused on the bridge for another minute, waiting for trail vehicles. None came. He turned back to the chimney, twisting the rifle in the process as he placed his eye to the scope. He adjusted the reticle to focus on the long driveway that led from the frontage road. As the car slowed and then turned onto the drive, Sandy set the crosshairs on the driver’s side windshield.
When Preston Margolis climbed from the car, Sandy kept the man in the crosshairs.
Cedar Creek, Nevada
Sunday, July 2, 1995 2 Days Prior . . .
“YOU ALONE?” SANDY YELLED FROM THE ROOFTOP.
It caused Preston to look around for the source.
“Answer the question.”
“Yeah,” Preston yelled. “I’m alone.”
“Stay where you’re at and don’t move. Understand?”
“What’s this about, Sheriff?”
Sandy didn’t answer. He left the rifle on top of the chimney and climbed down the side of the roof to where a shed stood next to the cabin. He jumped onto the roof of the shed and hurried over to the side where he’d set up a ladder earlier. He clambered down to the ground, pulled his Glock from its holster, and hurried to the side of the cabin. When he peeked around the corner he saw Preston Margolis in the same spot on the driveway. With his Glock out in front of him, Sandy emerged.
When Preston saw Sandy, he raised his hands.
“What the hell, Sandy?”
“Open the trunk.”
