Rising from his chair, the tall silver-haired Englishman strolled over to the picture window overlooking the lush vegetation of the ranch house’s front grounds.
The anomaly of greenery stretched for thirty feet or so, where it ended abruptly at a stone-wall boundary. On the other side of the barricade stretched the southern Utah desert.
The last wisps of day were fading rapidly over the distant sandstone cliffs of Zion Park.
Afternoon’s rain clouds had dissipated by now, and the hazeless crystal blue sky promised chill temperatures tonight.
Across the room, the middle-aged Mexican businessman opened the briefcase sitting on the coffee table and carefully laid the manila envelope inside.
“Muchas gracias, mi compadre,” he thanked the man at the window. “Your information is always worth the price. But are you sure that Señor Menton told you everything he knew before he died?”
“Everything I could get out of him.” Alex Tremayne paced back across the hardwood floor to look at his visitor.
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