Wild Fire (25 page)

“Clandestine. Like tree cutters watching the road and the perimeter.”

“Okay . . . but I need to notify and coordinate that with the county police, and I have to tell you, I think Madox has friends in the sheriff’s office.”

I considered that, and it seemed as though Mr. Bain Madox, Lord of the Manor, had his tentacles out into the hinterlands, as witnessed by Rudy’s call to the Custer Hill Club. I asked Schaeffer, “Does Madox also have friends in
this
office?”

He replied without hesitation, “Not under my command.”

“Right.” But how would he know? “If you think someone in the sheriff’s office is too chummy with Madox, it seems to me that you could in good conscience run a surveillance without notifying the sheriff.”

“Nope. I need to solve the problem with the sheriff, not add to the problem.”

“You’re absolutely right.” We weren’t even on the same planet. Major Schaeffer ran a clean, tight ship, which was nice, but not convenient at the moment. “We really need that surveillance.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Great.” I belatedly informed him, “Kate and I went to the morgue before we came here.”

He seemed surprised, then asked, “Did you discover anything new?”

“I spoke to the medical examiner—Dr. Gleason. You should talk to her.”

“I intend to. Meanwhile, what did she say?”

“Well, it appears that Detective Muller was subject to some physical abuse before death.”

He processed that, then asked me, “What sort of physical abuse?”

“I’m not an M.E.” I added, not quite truthfully, “I was just there to make the positive ID and say farewell.”

He nodded. “I’ll speak to her tonight.”

I told him, “She found what appears to be rug fibers and dog hairs.” I explained to him what Dr. Gleason had discovered, then said, “If they don’t match the rug in his camper, they may match a rug at the Custer Hill lodge. Harry didn’t own a dog.”

“All right. If we do get a search warrant, we’ll check that out.”

Major Schaeffer had long-range plans for what was going to be, for him, a short investigation, so I informed him, “You’re going to wind up sharing this case with the FBI, and they don’t like to share, and they don’t play well with others.”

He reminded me, “Murder, even of a Federal agent, is a state crime, not a Federal crime.”

“I know that, Major. And ultimately, there may be a state trial for murder. But the FBI will be investigating an
assault
on a Federal agent, which
is
a Federal crime. The net result is the same—they’re going to be all over this place and this case very soon.”

“It’s still my case,” Major Schaeffer said.

“Right.” This was like the local baron telling the invading army that they were trespassing on his land. I said, “For instance, Dr. Gleason is not doing the autopsy. The body is being transported to New York City.”

“They can’t do that.”

“Major, they can do whatever the hell they want. They have two magic words—national security. And when they use those magic words, the state and local police are turned into . . .” I was going to say puppy dogs, but that would piss him off, so I said, “Stone.”

He stared at me, then said, “We’ll see.”

“Right. Good luck.”

“What is
your
actual status on this case?” he asked.

“I have seven days to crack it.”

“How did you get a whole seven days?”

“I made a bet with Tom Walsh.”

“What’s the bet?”

“I bet my job.”

“And your wife?”

“No, I didn’t bet her.”

“I mean, did she bet her job?”

“No, she’s career FBI. She has to shoot a supervisor before her job is in jeopardy.”

He forced a smile. “I don’t think you’re going to crack this case in seven days, unless someone comes forward.”

“Probably not. Are you hiring?”

He smiled again, then said, “I think you’re past hiring age for the state police. But the local police are always looking for experienced people from the city.” He added, “You’d love it up here.”

“Oh, I know I would. I feel like a new man already.” I changed the subject. “Where’d you go hunting with Madox?”

“On his property.”

“See anything?”

“Yeah. Trees. We met at his house. Big place. Then we went out for deer. Six guys. Me, him, one of my sergeants, and three of his friends from the city.” He added, “Lunch was catered in the woods, drinks back at the lodge.”

“Did you see anything unusual?”

“No. Did you?”

“No,” I replied, “except all that security.” I asked him, “Did you see the perimeter fence?”

“Only got a glimpse of it. It’s surrounded with floodlights, like a prison camp, except these floods are on motion sensors. Also, Madox has his own cellular relay tower.”

“Why?”

“He’s rich.”

“Right. When was this hunting party?” I asked.

“Two seasons back.”

“Like, hunting seasons?”

“Yeah. Up here we have hunting season; ski season; mud, flood, and fly season; then fishing season.”

When I left the city, it was the opera and ballet season. “A guy could really keep busy up here.”

“Yeah, if you like the outdoors.”

“I love the outdoors. By the way, I saw a map of the Custer Hill property, and I saw some outbuildings away from the lodge. What are those buildings?”

He thought a moment, then said, “Well, I know one of them is a bunkhouse. You know, for the guards. There’s also a big barn-like building for all his vehicles. Then there’s a generator building.”

“Electric generator?”

“Yeah. Three diesel generators.”

“What’s that all about?”

“You can lose power in the ice storms. Most people have some sort of generator backup.”

“Right. You’ve seen these generators?”

“No. They’re in a stone building.” He informed me, “The guy in Potsdam who services the emergency generator here also services the ones at the Custer Hill Club.”

I recalled the three heavy cables I saw on the utility poles on Madox’s property. “Why would this lodge need all that juice?”

He thought about that, then replied, “I’m not sure how much power each generator puts out, and I assume one or two are backups if one fails. But you raise an interesting point. I’ll find out how many kilowatts they put out.”

“Okay.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Quite frankly, I don’t know.” But this generator thing led me to ask him, “What is the local gossip about the Custer Hill Club?”

He looked at me. “Are you investigating this homicide, or are you picking up where your friend left off?”

“I’m a homicide cop. But I’m also nosy. I like gossip.”

“Well, there’s the usual gossip. Everything from wild, drunken orgies to an eccentric billionaire sitting around watching his toenails grow.”

“Right. Does Madox ever go into town?”

“Almost never. But now and then you get a Madox sighting in Saranac Lake or Lake Placid.”

“Did anyone ever see the former Mrs. Madox?”

“I don’t know. She’s been out of the picture for a long time.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Boyfriends?”

“He impressed me as a refined gentleman, but he had a macho side to him. What did you think?”

“Same. I think he’s on our team.” I asked him, “Do you know how often he comes out to his club?”

“I have no idea. Usually the local or state police are notified when the residents of a big lodge, or a Great Camp, are away so the police can keep an eye on the place—but Madox has full-time, twenty-four/seven security guards. To the best of my knowledge, that place is never left unattended.”

I’d guessed that from what Madox himself had told me and Kate, and now it was confirmed. “Did anyone ever suggest that the Custer Hill Club was something other than a private hunting and fishing club?”

He sipped his coffee thoughtfully, then replied, “Well, when that place was being built, about twenty years ago—ten years before I got here—I heard that no local contractors were used. And the rumor was that whoever was building this place was putting in a fallout shelter and sixteen miles of fence, which was true, and radio antennas and perimeter security devices, which was also true. And I guess the diesel generators were installed then, too. The word was that strange people were coming and going, delivery trucks were arriving in the middle of the night, and so forth.” He added, “You know, rural people have a lot of time on their hands and good imaginations. But some of this stuff was for real.”

“Right. So, what did people think was going on there?”

“Well, I only got this secondhand . . . but this was during the Cold War, so a lot of people assumed this was a secret government facility.” He added, “I guess that was a logical assumption given the scale of the project, and what was on people’s minds back then.”

“I guess. But didn’t anyone ask?”

“As I understand it, there wasn’t anyone to ask. It was pretty self-contained there. And it wouldn’t have mattered much if anyone from the project absolutely denied that it was a government installation. The locals tend to be patriotic, so as long as they thought that place was a secret government facility, they overcame their nosiness and stayed away.”

I nodded. Interesting observation. I guess if you’re a billionaire looking for security and privacy, you might want to promote the idea that this was a secret government installation disguised to look like a private club. That was as good as sixteen miles of fence. I said, “But now, I assume, everyone understands that this is a private hunting and fishing club.”

“There are still a few people who think it’s a secret government installation.”

I could see the advantage to Madox of keeping the mystique alive.

Major Schaeffer continued, “Look, it’s not illegal to surround your property with a fence and security devices, or to hire private guards, or even to hold a Roman orgy. Rich guys do weirder things than that. Paranoia and weirdness are not illegal.”

I informed Major Schaeffer, “Paranoia and weirdness are never the endgame.”

“I agree. But if Bain Madox is involved in some kind of criminal activity, I don’t know about it.” He stared at me. “If you know more than you’re telling me, now’s the time to tell me.”

“All I was told is that it has to do with oil-price rigging.”

He considered that for a moment, and I could see he was having the same problems with that bullshit that I’d had when I heard it from Walsh. “So,” he said, “you think Bain Madox, an oil billionaire, murdered a Federal agent who was doing a routine surveillance of arriving guests who might be involved in an oil-price-rigging conspiracy?” He pointed out, “That sounds a little extreme, don’t you think?”

“Yeah . . . well, if you put it that way—”

“What other way is there? And what’s the national security angle?”

I was happy to see that he was paying attention, but I was not happy with that question. This guy was hungry and he needed something to chew on, but I certainly wasn’t going to offer up nuclear tidbits, so I dissembled a bit and said, “Look, Major, oil is more than black sticky stuff. I mean, Bain Madox is not in the garment business, you know? When oil is involved, anything and everything is possible. Including murder.”

He didn’t reply but kept looking at me.

I said, “Let’s concentrate on the homicide investigation. If we can implicate Madox, that might lead us to some other things.”

“All right. Anything else? I need to get to work on this.”

I glanced at my watch and said, “I’d like to go out to the crime scene now.”

“It’s too dark. I’ll take you out in the morning.”

“Can we light it up tonight?”

“I have the scene secured, and there aren’t any CSI people there, and there’s no rain or snow in the forecast. Call me here at seven A.M., and we’ll work out a visit.”

“Maybe just a quick look—”

“You’re on overdrive, Detective. Go take your wife to dinner. You got a place to stay?”

“Yeah. The Point.”

“You’re staying at The Point?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

“You guys having trouble spending Federal money? All I got out of Washington were some new radios and a bomb-sniffing dog with allergies.”

I smiled. “Well, I don’t think terrorism is a big issue here.”

“Maybe not Arab terrorism, but we have a few homegrown nuts up here.”

I didn’t respond.

“Is that what your friend was doing here? Checking out right-wing weirdos?”

“I can’t say.”

Schaeffer took that as a yes and belatedly informed me, “About ten years ago, when I first got assigned here, some FBI guys came around asking about Bain Madox.”

That was interesting. “What did they want to know?”

“They said they were doing a background investigation because Mr. Madox might be appointed to a government job.”

That was standard bullshit when you were investigating someone for criminal activity, but it could also be true. In the case of Mr. Bain Madox, I could believe he was being considered for a government appointment, and just as easily believe he was being investigated for criminal activity. These days, one did not necessarily preclude the other. I asked Schaeffer, “Did he get the job?”

“Not that I know of. I think they had something else on their minds.” He asked, “So, what’s this guy up to?”

“I think he’s looking for a presidential appointment to the U.N. commission on global warming.”

“Is he for it or against it?”

I smiled politely and said, “Whatever is good for Bain Madox is good for the planet.”

Major Schaeffer stood and suggested, “Let’s go find your wife.”

I stood, and we left the cafeteria and walked toward the lobby. I had a thought and asked him, “Regarding these old rumors, did anyone ever say exactly what kind of secret government facility was being built there?”

“Are we back to the Custer Hill Club?”

“Just for a moment.”

“And this will help with the murder investigation?”

“Possibly. You never know.”

He went along. “Well, there were lots of wild guesses about what the government was building.”

“Like what?”

“Well, let me think—survival training camp, safe house, missile silo, plus a commo school or listening station.” He added, “That’s because of all the electronics and antennas.”