Authors: Nelson DeMille
Wild Fire (37 page)
He asked me, “How can I help you, Detective?”
“Well, it’s like this, Mr. Madox. Harry Muller, as you may know, was not here to watch birds.”
“You said he was.”
“He wasn’t. Actually, he was here to watch
you
.”
He didn’t feign shock or surprise. He seemed to think about that, nodded, then said to me, “I understand that the government is interested in me. A man in my position would be surprised if the government
wasn’t
interested in him.”
“Yeah? Why do you think the government is interested in you?”
“Well . . . because of my dealings with foreign powers. Oil pricing.” He informed me, “I’m a personal friend of the Iraqi oil minister.”
“No kidding? How’s he taking this war thing?”
“I haven’t spoken to him recently, but I imagine he’s not very positive about the imminent invasion of his country.”
“I guess not. So, you think the government is interested in you because . . . why?”
“Because my interests and the interests of the United States government don’t always coincide.”
“I see. So, whose interests come first?”
He smiled a little, then answered, “My country always comes first, but my country is not always well represented by my government.”
“Yeah. I can buy that. But let’s say for argument’s sake that the government doesn’t give a rat’s ass about your dealings with foreign powers. That maybe you’re wrong about that. So, why else would they be interested in you?”
“I have no idea, Mr. Corey. Do you?”
“No.”
“And why would Detective Miller from the Anti-Terrorist Task Force be sent to spy on me? Does the government think I’m a terrorist?”
“I don’t know. Who said that Detective Muller was from the Anti-Terrorist Task Force?”
He hesitated a second, then replied, “He’s a colleague of yours. You’re on the Task Force.”
“Right. Good detective work.”
He lit a cigarette, but again blew no smoke rings. “So, what you’re saying is that this man Miller—”
“
Muller
. Detective Harry Muller.”
“Yes. Detective Harry Muller was sent here to . . . spy on me—”
“And your guests.”
“
And
my guests, and you don’t know—”
“It’s called surveillance, by the way. Spying is a negative word.”
He leaned toward me. “Who gives a shit what it’s called?” He finally lost his cool, slammed his desk, raised his voice, and said, “If this man—Detective
Muller
—was sent here to . . .
observe
me and my guests, then I am damn pissed off about that! The government has no right to intrude on my privacy, or the privacy of my guests, who have lawfully assembled on private property for—”
“Right. Right, right, right. That’s another issue. The issue here is murder.”
“
You
say it is. The sheriff says it was an accident. And if it
was
murder, what does that have to do with me?”
If you tell the guy he’s a suspect, then you have to read him his rights, and I didn’t have the damn card with me, and if I did, and I read it, he’d say, “You got the wrong guy, Detective. Excuse me while I call my lawyer.”
So I said, “I didn’t say it had anything to do with you.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To tell you the truth”—which I had no intention of doing—“I think it might have something to do with one of your security people.”
He really wasn’t buying that, but it was good enough so that we could both pretend we were on to something, and continue our cat-and-mouse routine for a while.
He leaned back and said to me, “That’s . . . that’s incredible . . . but . . . I mean, do you have any evidence of this?”
“I can’t discuss that.”
“All right. But do you suspect anyone in particular?”
“I can’t say at this point.” I explained, “If I name a suspect, and I’m wrong, there’s hell to pay.”
“Right. But . . . I’m not sure, then, how I could help.”
“Well, the standard procedure is for the FBI to ask you for all your personnel files, then we begin to question your entire security staff, and also your house staff, to try to determine everyone’s location, movements, and so forth at around the time of the death.”
I went on a bit, and he listened, then said, “I still don’t understand why you think one of my staff may have committed a murder. What would be his or her motivation?”
“Well, I’m not sure. Maybe it was a case of overenthusiasm.”
He didn’t reply.
“Let’s call it going beyond the call of duty. Maybe there was an altercation. Maybe what happened could be ruled involuntary manslaughter, or some other lesser offense, like justifiable homicide.”
He thought about that and said, “I’d hate to think one of my men could do this. They’re well trained, and there’s never been an incident before.” He looked concerned. “Do you think, as an employer, I could be sued for wrongful death?”
“That’s not my area of expertise. You should ask your lawyer.”
“I will.” He reminded me, “As I said yesterday, lawsuits are ruining this country.”
I thought he’d said
lawyers,
but now that he needed one, they weren’t so bad after all. I suggested helpfully, “I’ll ask Ms. Mayfield about that.”
He didn’t reply but put out his cigarette, then said, “Well, I’ll provide whatever personnel files you or anyone may need.” He asked me, “When do you want all of this?”
“Probably tomorrow.” I informed him, “There’s an FBI Evidence Recovery Team on the way.”
“All right . . . I’m not sure the files are kept here. They may be in my New York office.”
“Let me know.”
“How can I reach you?”
“The Point. How can I reach
you
?”
“As I said, through my security staff.”
“That may not work out in this case,” I reminded him.
“Then through my New York office.”
“How about your cell phone?”
“My office has a twenty-four-hour operator.
They
will call my cell phone.”
“Okay. How long will you be staying here?”
“I’m not sure. Why?”
“One day, two days, a year? When are you leaving?”
He obviously wasn’t used to being grilled, and he replied with impatience, “Two or three days. How long will
you
be staying here?”
“Until the case is solved.” I asked him, “Where are you going when you leave here?”
“I . . . probably New York.”
“Okay. I have to ask you to notify the FBI in New York if you plan to leave the country.”
“Why?”
“You may be a material witness in a homicide investigation.”
He didn’t reply.
“Also, I’ll need you to provide me with a list of your weekend guests.”
“Why?”
“They may also be material witnesses. You know, they may have overheard something, or be able to give us information about security staff or house staff who were acting strangely. Or about the movements of other guests.” I said to him helpfully, “It’s like a murder-mystery weekend in a big country house. You know, like, did Mr. . . . say, Wolf, who was reading in the library, notice that . . . let’s say, Carl the butler was missing for two hours and came home with blood on his clothes. That sort of thing.”
No answer.
I continued, “Also, I’ll need any surveillance tapes that may have been taken on your property, or in this lodge. And I’ll need the security log, which I’m sure you, as a former Army officer, insist be kept. Who was on-duty, when they came on-duty, got off-duty, what security rounds they made, any unusual incidents, and so forth.” I reasserted, “I’m sure that log and those security tapes exist.”
He neither confirmed nor denied the existence of a logbook or security tapes.
I pulled out my notebook and said to him, “I wonder if you could give me the names of your weekend guests off the top of your head.” I reminded him, “I think you said there were about sixteen.”
By now, Mr. Bain Madox was feeling a little hemmed in, like George Custer. There didn’t seem to be any way out of this encirclement, but he found one. “I’m afraid I have to cut you short, Detective.” He explained, “I need to make some important phone calls to the Mideast, and it’s getting late there. And I have other pressing business to take care of.” He reminded me, “I run a business, and today is a workday.”
“I know that. I’m working a homicide.”
“I appreciate that, but . . . I’ll tell you what. I have an idea.”
“Good. What’s your idea?”
“Why don’t you come back this evening? We can mix business and pleasure. Let’s say cocktails at seven, and if you’d like to stay for dinner, that would be fine.”
“Well, I don’t know about dinner. Henry is doing woodcock tonight.”
He smiled and said, “I think I can do better than that, and I’ll also have a list of my weekend guests for you.”
“Terrific.” I couldn’t drop my lint roller on the rug without explaining why I was playing with a lint roller, so I slipped off my shoes and rubbed my socks over the fuzzy oriental rug, which is always easy to match.
I really had the strong sense that Harry had been here, and in about two days, I might know. Then, I could come back here with an arrest warrant for Mr. Bain Madox for murder, or better yet, since that charge might not stick, I could, in good conscience, gut-shoot him. Unless, of course, by that time, he was in Iraq or someplace playing poker with the oil minister.
I asked him, “Who’s cooking tonight?”
“I’ll work something out.” He added, “I can do the cocktails. Scotch, correct?”
“Right. Well, that’s very nice of you.”
“And of course bring Ms. Mayfield.”
“I’ll see if she’s back from her yodeling.”
“Good. Dress is casual.” He added with a smile, “No tux.”
“Tux is tomorrow night.”
“That’s right. Wednesdays and Saturdays.” He prompted, “Please talk Ms. Mayfield into coming, and tell her not to worry about how to dress.” He said to me, man-to-man, “You know how women are.”
“I do? When did that happen?”
We both got a little chuckle out of that, and we were bonding again. Great. Meanwhile, I wondered if Kate and I would get out of here alive. “Will anyone be joining us?”
“Uh . . . I’m not sure yet. But you and I can retire to the library if we need to take care of some business.”
“Good. I hate to talk about murder at dinner.” I asked him, “Are any of your weekend guests still here?”
“No. They’ve all left.”
Maybe he forgot about Mikhail Putyov.
He stood and said, “So, seven for cocktails, then some business, then dinner if you can pull yourself away from the woodcock.”
“That’s a tough call.” I slipped on my shoes, stood, and said, “Hey, what’s étuvée of vegetables?”
“I’m not sure.” He gave me some advice. “Don’t eat anything you can’t pronounce, and never eat anything whose name has an accent mark over any of the letters.”
“Great advice.”
“Again, sorry about Detective Muller. I hope to God it had nothing to do with any of my staff, but if it did, you can be assured of my complete cooperation.” He added, “I’ll see about the information you asked for.”
“Thanks. Meanwhile, mum’s the word. We don’t want to spook anyone.”
“I understand.”
We shook, I left his office, and there was Carl standing a few feet from the door. He said to me, “I’ll show you out.”
“Thanks. You could get lost in this place.”
“That’s why I’m showing you out.”
“Right.”
Asshole
.
We descended the stairs, and I asked Carl, “Where’s the restroom?”
He motioned to a door off the hallway. I went in and took the hand towel from a ring and wiped some surfaces, collecting hair, skin cells, and whatever other DNA the forensic people liked to play around with. I wished I could have gotten Madox’s cigarette, but short of asking him if I could keep his butt for a souvenir, that wasn’t possible.
I stuffed the hand towel in the small of my back and exited.
Carl showed me to the front door.
I said to him, “See you at six.”
“Seven.”
Not too bright. But loyal. And dangerous.
U
p ahead, the steel gate wasn’t opening as I approached the gatehouse, and I started honking.
The gate began to slide open, and as I reached the gatehouse, the two storm troopers gave me mean stares as they stood there with their thumbs hooked into their gun belts. If that was the best they could do, I wouldn’t bother to flip them the bird, but I did accelerate, veer close to them, then cut the wheel, and squeezed the Hyundai through the half-opened gate.
In my side-view mirror, I saw them kicking the gravel and stomping the ground. I think they were pissed off.
Maybe I didn’t have to be such a prick. But you need to establish who the alpha male is right up front. People like knowing their place in the pecking order.
Also, I had no doubt that one or both of these guys had grabbed Harry on the property. And if not them, then some guys wearing the same uniform. Right, Bain?
There was still no surveillance team visible, and I wondered what the hell Schaeffer was up to.
I drove out to Route 56 and headed north.
I replayed my conversation with Bain Madox, which made for some interesting side thoughts. Bottom line on that, Bain and John knew that Bain and John were playing head chess with each other.
Anyway, Madox asked me to dinner, and, of course, Ms. Mayfield was invited. And Madox deduced from my unchanged clothes that Ms. Mayfield and I had come here on short notice. So he went out of his way to make sure Ms. Mayfield would feel comfortable at the club in whatever she was wearing. That was very thoughtful of him—not to mention observant. Bain Madox would make a good detective.
I knew Kate was worried about me, and you can get away with a three-minute cell-phone call before it’s traced, so I turned on my phone and dialed the Pond House number. Kate answered, “Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Thank God. I was starting to worry—”
“I’m fine. I can only talk for a minute. I need to run some errands, and I’ll be back in about an hour.”
“Okay. How did it go?”
“Good. I’ll fill you in when I get back. Did you get some of those things accomplished?”
“Yes, I—”
“Did you speak to Schaeffer?”
“I couldn’t reach him.”
“Okay . . . hey, did you get a pizza?”
“No. You can pick up something.”
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Famished.”
“Good. I swung an invitation for us for dinner at the Custer Hill Club.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you about it when I see you.” I informed her, “Dress is casual.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. It’s casual. Seven for cocktails.”
“I mean—”
“I have to hang up, see you later.”
“John—”
“Bye. Love you.” I hung up and shut off my phone. Did I say we were going to dinner at the Custer Hill Club? Am I crazy?
Anyway, I was approaching Rudy’s gas station, and there was Rudy, talking to another self-service customer. I pulled in and called out, “Rudy!”
He saw me, ambled over, and said, “You back?”
“From where?”
“From . . . ? I don’t know. Where’d you go?”
“I tried to smooth things over for you with Mr. Madox.”
“Yeah . . . ? I told you, I talked to him. He’s okay.”
“No, he was still pissed at you. Well, I got good news and bad news. What do you want first?”
“Uh . . . the good news.”
“The good news is that he’s not pissed at you anymore. The bad news is that he’s opening a GOCO gas station across the street.”
“Huh? He’s
what
? Oh, jeez. He can’t do that.”
“He can and he is.”
Rudy looked across the street at the empty field, and I’m sure he could picture it: eight gleaming new pumps, clean restrooms, and maps of the park.
I said to him, “Competition is good. It’s American.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Hey, I need a favor. Rudy?”
“Huh . . . ?”
“I gotta go pick up a deer carcass. You got something bigger I could swap for this Korean lawn mower?”
“Huh?”
“Just for tonight. And I’ll throw in a hundred bucks for your trouble.”
“Huh?”
“And I’ll fill your tank.”
“You need gas?”
I drove the Hyundai around the back of his station, out of view, and within five minutes I did a deal with Rudy, who was still acting like he’d been kicked in the head by a mule. In fact, he didn’t notice that the Hyundai keys were not in the ignition as I said they were.
My parting words to him were, “Don’t call Madox about this. That’ll make it worse. I’ll talk to him.”
“He can’t do that. I’ll go to court.”
Anyway, Rudy’s bigger vehicle turned out to be a beat-up Dodge van whose interior looked like it had suffered a fuel explosion during a food fight. But it ran like a champ.
I continued on, and in Colton, I passed up the turn for Canton and took the long route, via Potsdam.
When you’re running from the posse, you need to change horses often, shoot your last horse, and never ride the same trail twice.
I reached Canton and found Scheinthal’s Sporting Goods, where I bought a box of .40-caliber rounds for Kate and a box of 9mm for myself. Everyone in law enforcement should be using the same caliber handgun, like in the military, but that’s another story. I also got us four spare Glock magazines. The proprietor, Ms. Leslie Scheinthal, needed ID for the ammo purchase, and I showed her my driver’s license, not my Fed creds.
I needed to change my socks, which had recently become forensic evidence, so I bought a pair of wool socks that would be good for collecting more rug fibers and hairs in Mr. Madox’s dining room and library.
Of course, all this investigative technique stuff would become moot if Madox slipped a Mickey Finn in our drinks, or shot us with a tranquilizer dart, and we woke up dead, like Harry. Also, there was the possibility of good, old-fashioned gunplay.
On that subject, I had the thought that a situation could arise where Kate and I might be relieved of our weapons. I had no intention of letting that happen without a fight, but the fact was, we were walking into an armed camp, and it’s hard to argue with ten guys who have assault rifles pointed at you. I was sure that Harry had encountered a similar situation.
So I looked around the sporting-goods store for something that wouldn’t set off a metal detector and might pass a frisk, and at the same time would be more useful in a tight situation than, say, a pair of wool socks.
Ms. Scheinthal, who was a pretty young lady—though I didn’t notice—asked me, “Can I help you with anything?”
“Well . . . this is kind of a long story . . .” I mean, I really didn’t want to get into the whole thing about my dinner host and his private army holding me up at gunpoint and taking my pistols, then me needing a hidden weapon to kill them, and so forth. So I said, “I’m . . . I need some survival gear.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, Leslie. What do you have?”
She walked me to an aisle and said, “Well, here’s some stuff. But all camping gear is really survival gear.”
“Not the way my ex-wife camped, with a house trailer and a cleaning lady.”
Leslie smiled.
I looked over the stuff and tried to figure out what the hell I could smuggle into the lodge that wouldn’t set off a metal detector. Stun grenades have almost no metal, so I asked her, “Do you have stun grenades?”
She laughed. “No. Why would I carry stun grenades?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to fish. You know, like dynamite fishing.”
She informed me, “That’s illegal.”
“No kidding? I do it all the time in Central Park.”
“Come on, John.”
She seemed to want to help, but I wasn’t being very helpful myself. She said, “So, you’re camping out. Right?”
“Right.”
“So, do you have winter gear?”
“What’s that?”
She laughed. “It gets
cold
out there at night, John. This isn’t New York City.”
“Right. That’s why I bought these wool socks.”
She thought that was funny, then said, “Well, you need winter camping gear.”
“I really don’t have a lot of cash, and my ex-wife stole my credit card.”
“You got a rifle, at least?”
“Nope.”
“Well, you need to watch out for the bears. They’re unpredictable this time of year.”
“So am I.”
“And don’t think you’re safe with those peashooters you got. Last guy I knew who tried to drop a bear with a pistol is now a rug in a bear den.”
“Right. Funny.”
“Yeah.
Not
funny. Well, if a bear comes around your camp, looking for food, you have to bang pots and pans—”
“I don’t have pots and pans.
That’s
why I need stun grenades.”
“No. You know what you need?”
“No, what?”
“You need a compressed gas horn.”
She took a tin canister off the shelf, and I asked her, “Is that a can of chili?”
“No—”
“Compressed gas. You know?”
“John—
jeez
. No, this is like . . . an air horn.” She explained, “This usually scares them off, and you can also use it to signal you’re in trouble. Two longs and a short. Okay? Only six bucks.”
“Yeah?”
“And this . . .” She took a box off the shelf and said, “This is a BearBanger kit.”
“Huh?”
“This is like a signal flare launcher with cartridges. Okay? See, here, it says the flare fires one hundred thirty feet high and can be seen nine miles away during the day, and eighteen miles at night.”
“Right . . .” A little flare went off in my head, and I said, “Yeah . . . that could do it.”
“Right. Okay, when you fire this cartridge, it puts out a one-hundred-fifteen-decibel report. That’ll scare the you-know-what out of the bear.”
“Right. So the bear will make doo-doo in the woods.”
She chuckled. “Yeah. Here.” She handed me the box, and I opened it. It seemed to consist of a launcher, not much bigger than a penlight and similar in appearance, plus six BearBanger flares, the size of AA batteries. This little thing packed a wallop.
Leslie said, “You just put the cartridge in here, then push the pen-like button, and the flare fires. Okay? But try not to point it at your face.” She laughed.
Actually, it wasn’t
my
face that it was going to be pointed at if and when I needed to fire this thing.
She continued, “And don’t point it
at
the bear. Okay? You could hurt the bear or start a forest fire. You don’t want to do that.”
“No?”
“No. Okay, you’ll get a bright light, equal to . . . what’s this say? About fifteen thousand candlepower.” She smiled. “If I see it, or hear it, I’ll come looking for you.” She added, “This is thirty bucks. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“So, take the air horn and take the BearBanger. Right?”
“Right . . . actually, I’ll take two BearBangers.”
“You got company?”
“No, but this would make a nice birthday gift for my five-year-old nephew.”
“No, John. No. This is not a toy. This is a big flash bang for adults only. In fact, you need to sign an ATF form to buy this.”
“Adult-in-training form?”
“No. Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.”
“Really?” I took another BearBanger kit, and as we walked to the checkout counter, I silently thanked the fucking bears for helping me solve a problem.
Leslie gave me a form from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, in which I stated that I hereby certified that the BearBangers were to be used for legitimate wildlife pest control purposes only.
Well, that was very close to my intended use, so I signed the form.
There was a box of energy bars on the counter, and I took one for Kate. I would have taken two, but I wanted to keep her hungry for dinner.
Leslie asked me, “Is that it?”
“Yup.”
She rang up the ammunition, air horn, socks, energy bar, and two BearBanger kits.
I paid her with the last of my cash, and I was two bucks short, so I was going to give up the energy bar, but Leslie said, “Owe it to me.” She gave me her business card and suggested, “Stop back tomorrow and let me know what else you need. I’ll take a check, or there’s a few ATMs in town.”
“Thanks, Leslie, see you tomorrow.”
“I hope.”
Me, too.
I got back in Rudy’s van and headed toward Wilma’s B&B.
Bears. Madox. Nuke. ELF. Putyov. Griffith.
Asad Khalil, the Libyan terrorist with a sniper rifle, was looking good right now.