Wild Fire (29 page)

“Uh . . . sounds like a crowd-pleaser.”

“Good. And we end with an exploration of chocolate.”

“Perfect ending.”

“With a sauterne, of course.”

“Goes without saying. Okay—”

“Will you and your wife be joining us for lunch?”

“No, we have to be at a chipmunk race. Thanks for—”

“Well, I must pack for you a picnic lunch. When are you leaving?”

“Twenty minutes. Don’t bother—”

“I insist. You will find a picnic hamper in your car.” He extended his hand, we shook, and he said, “We may have our differences, but we can remain amis. Yes?”

Well, jeez, I was really feeling bad now about my anti-French attitude, so I said, “Together, we can kick some Iraqi ass. Right?”

Henry wasn’t sure about that, but he smiled. “Perhaps.”

“Can do. See you later.”

As I made my way out of the kitchen, I heard Henry barking orders for a picnic lunch. Hold the snails, Henry.

I got back to the room and said to Kate, who was in front of the vanity fussing with makeup, “We have to move fast. State police H.Q. at eight.”

“Breakfast is on the table. What did Major Schaeffer say?”

“I’ll tell you on the way. Where’s your briefcase?”

“Under the bed.”

I reached under the bed, pulled out her briefcase, and began flipping through the stack of Enterprise rental agreements as I stood at the table and uncovered the basket of hot biscuits.

“What are you looking for?”

“Butter.”

“John—”

“Ah, here it is.”

“What?”

“The Enterprise rental agreement with the plate number of the car we saw at the Custer Hill Club.” I put the agreement on the table and buttered a biscuit.

“Who rented the car?”

“This may be interesting . . .”

“What?”

“This guy’s name. It’s Russian. Mikhail Putyov.”

She thought about that. “Doesn’t sound like a member of the club to me.”

“Me, neither. Maybe Madox invites old Cold War enemies to the club to reminisce.” Still standing, I dug into the omelet and asked Kate, “Do you want breakfast, or do you want to keep painting?”

No reply.

“We have to get going.”

No reply.

“Sweetheart, can I bring you your juice, coffee, and a piece of toast?”

“Yes, please.”

I’m not that well trained yet, but I’m learning. I brought her juice, buttered toast, and coffee to the vanity table and asked, “Do you have cell service?”

“No.”

“I need to make another call from the kitchen.”

“Who are you calling?”

“Someone who can get a make on this Russian guy.”

“Call our office.”

“I’d rather not.”

She informed me, “We’re already in trouble, John. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Here’s the way the world works. Information is power. If you give away your information, you give away your power to negotiate the trouble you’re in.”

“Here’s the way
my
world works,” Kate replied. “Stay out of trouble.”

“I think it’s too late for that, sweetheart.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

I
went back into the Great Hall, where about a dozen people, including Cindy and Sonny, were now scattered around the two tables having breakfast. Cindy smiled and waved. Sonny was looking for Kate.

I re-entered the kitchen, and the same kid was on the phone again, placing another order. I said to him, “Henry wants to see you. Now.”

“Huh?”

“I need the phone. Now.”

He got sulky on me but hung up, then stomped off. Young people need to learn patience and respect for others.

I got the number I needed from my cell-phone directory and dialed.

A familiar voice answered, “Kearns Investigative Service.”

I said, “I think my dog is an Iraqi spy. Can you do a background check on him?”

“Who is—? Corey?”

“Hey, Dick. I got this French poodle who every Friday night turns toward Mecca and starts howling.”

He laughed and said, “Shoot the dog. Hey, how you been?”

“Great. You?”

“Terrific. Where’re you calling from? What’s The Point?”

“The point of what? Oh, it’s the place I’m staying at. Saranac Lake.”

“Vacation?”

“Job. How’s Mo?”

“Crazy as ever. How’s Kate?”

“Great. We’re working this together.”

We made polite small talk for a minute. Dick Kearns is former NYPD homicide, part of my Blue Network, which I noticed was getting smaller every year as guys retired and moved, or died natural deaths—or, like Dom Fanelli and six other guys I knew, died in the line of duty on 9/11.

Dick was also briefly assigned to the ATTF, where he’d gotten a top secret clearance and learned how the Feds worked, so when he retired he got a gig doing background checks for the FBI on a freelance basis. He’s in a growth industry since 9/11, and he’s making more money than he ever did as a cop with half the stress. Good for Dick.

The small talk out of the way, I said to him, “Dick, I need some info on a guy.”

“Okay, but I’m up to my ears in work. I’ll do what I can. When do you need it?”

“Noon.”

He laughed. “I have ten background checks I’m doing for the FBI, and they’re all late.”

“Give them all top secret clearances and send the bill. Look, for now, I just need some public-record stuff and maybe a few phone calls to follow up.”

“Noon?”

I noticed that some of the staff seemed interested in my conversation, so I lowered my voice and said to Dick, “It may be a matter of national security.”

“And you’re calling
me
? Why don’t you have your own office do it?”

“I asked, and they referred me to you. You’re the best.”

“John, are you sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong again?”

Apparently, Dick remembered that he’d helped me, unofficially, with the TWA 800 case, and now he thought I was up to my old tricks again. I was, but why trouble him with that? I said, “I’ll owe you a big favor.”

“You owe me from the last time. Hey, whatever happened with that TWA 800 thing?”

“Nothing. You ready to copy?”

“John, I do this for a living. If I help you, I could go broke, get fired, or get arrested.”

“First name, Mikhail.” I spelled it.

He sighed, spelled it back to me, and asked, “Russki?”

“Probably. Last name, Putyov.” I spelled it, and he confirmed.

“I hope you’ve got more than that.”

“I’m going to make this easy for you. I’ve got a car-rental agreement, and unless this guy used false ID, I’ve got all you need.”

“Good. Let’s have it.”

I read him all the pertinent information from the Enterprise rental agreement, including Putyov’s address, which was Cambridge, Massachusetts. Dick said, “Okay, this should be easy. What’s this guy up to? What is your area of interest?”

“I don’t know what he’s up to, but I think I need to know what he does for a living.”

“That comes with the basic package. Where do I send my bill?”

“To my ex-wife.” Dick didn’t need any more reason to do this other than to help a former brother in blue, but to make sure he was motivated beyond the national security angle, I said to him, “Do you remember a guy I work with at 26 Fed—Harry Muller?”

“Yeah . . . retired from the job . . . you mentioned him.”

“Right. Well, he’s dead. Died up here, around Saranac Lake. You may see an obit or a piece in the papers, and the story may say he was killed in a hunting accident. But he was murdered.”

“Jeez . . . Harry Muller? What happened?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.”

“And this Russian guy is involved?”

“He’s involved with the guy who I think did the murder.”

“Okay . . . so . . . noon, right? How do I reach you?”

“Bad cell reception here. I’ll call you. Be reachable.”

“Absolutely.”

“Thanks. Best to Mo.”

“Hello to Kate.”

I hung up and left the kitchen. I needed to find a better place to run this operation.

I made my way out of the Great Hall, into the rotunda, then out the door, where I saw my car with Kate at the wheel.

I jumped in the passenger seat and said, “Okay, we’ll know something about Mikhail Putyov by noon.”

She put the Taurus in gear and off we went.

I looked at the dashboard clock. “Do you think we can get there in thirty minutes?”

“That’s why I’m driving, John.”

“Do I need to remind you of your sheer panic in Manhattan traffic?”

“I don’t panic . . . I practice tactical evasion techniques.”

“So does everyone around you.”

“Very funny. Hey, what’s in the backseat?”

I glanced over my shoulder. “Oh, I thought ahead and had the chef pack us a picnic lunch.”

“Good thinking. Did you meet him?”

“I did. Henry. Henri. Whatever.”

“Were you awful?”

“Of course not. He’s doing pigs-in-the-blanket during cocktails. Just for me.”

I don’t think she believed me.

We passed through the gates, down the narrow, tree-lined lane, and turned onto the road. Kate gassed it, and we were off to see the state police unless they saw us first and pulled us over for reckless driving.

Kate inquired, “Anything new with Major Schaeffer?”

“There is. He took my advice and began surveillance on the Custer Hill property.”

“And?”

“And, that Enterprise rental car we saw there, which was Putyov’s, was returned last night to the airport.”

“So, Putyov’s gone?”

“If he is, he didn’t leave last night from the airport. He . . . or maybe it was someone else driving his car . . . went back to the Custer Hill Club in a van.” As she drove, I filled her in, then took the rental agreement from my pocket and perused it. I said, “This guy Putyov rented the car Sunday morning. That means he flew in that day on the flight from Boston or Albany—”

“Boston,” she said. “I checked the flight manifests. Mikhail Putyov arrived at Adirondack Regional Airport, Lake Saranac, at nine twenty-five A.M. Sunday.”

“Right. He lives in Cambridge.” I glanced at the rental agreement. “Putyov rented the car for two days, so he was supposed to turn it in today. Instead, it was returned to the airport parking lot last night.” I asked her, “Did you check the flight reservations we got from Betty?”

“I did. Putyov is scheduled to depart today on the twelve forty-five to Boston.”

“Okay. We’ll check that out.” I thought a moment, then said, “I’m wondering why Putyov came in for this gathering later than the others, and why he is apparently still there after everyone else has left.”

“That depends on why he’s there. Maybe he has oil business with Madox.”

“Mr. Madox is a busy man. And a multi-tasker. A social weekend with old and powerful friends, then he murders a Federal agent, then he winds up the weekend with a Russian from Cambridge, Massachusetts. I don’t know how he fit us into his schedule.”

Kate commented, “I don’t think Harry was part of his weekend plans.”

But he may have been.

We headed east on Route 86, and Kate seemed to be having fun passing in the oncoming lane as huge trucks hurtled toward us. I said, “Slow down.”

“I can’t. The gas pedal’s stuck, and the brakes are gone. So just close your eyes and get some sleep.”

Kate, raised in a rural area, has a lot of these stupid on-the-road jokes, none of which I find funny.

I kept my eyes open and stared out the windshield.

Kate said to me, “I need to call John Nasseff. Do you know him?”

“No, but he has a nice first name.”

“He’s NCID, attached to the ATTF.”

I replied, “W-H-A-T?”

“Naval Criminal Investigation Division, John. He’s a commo guy.”

“Ask him about my cell phone.”

She ignored that and continued, “I was thinking about Fred, the Navy veteran. So, if that clue has any relevance at all, then we should ask a Navy commo guy about ELF and see if we hit on something.”

I wasn’t sure I was completely following this line of reasoning, but Kate might be onto something. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be calling 26 Federal Plaza with questions like that. I said, “I’d rather not call our office.”

“Why not? That’s where we work.”

“Yeah, but you know how everyone there gossips.”

“They don’t
gossip
. They exchange and provide information. Information is power. Right?”

“Only when you keep it to yourself. Let’s just go online and learn about ELF.”

“
You
go online. I’m calling the expert.”

“Okay . . . but make it like a parlor game, like, ‘Hey, John, we have this bet going about extremely low frequency radio waves. My sister says they can hard-boil an egg, my husband says they’ll fry your brain.’ Okay?”

“Do you want him to think we’re idiots?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not as good as you are at playing stupid.”

“Then I’ll call him.”

“We’ll both call him.”

We arrived in the hamlet of Ray Brook, and Kate slowed down. About two blinks later, we pulled into the parking lot of the state police headquarters. It was 8:05 A.M.

Kate took her briefcase, and we got out of the Taurus and started walking toward the building, but a car suddenly pulled out of a parking space and stopped right in front of us.

I wasn’t sure what that was about, but I was on my guard.

The driver’s-side window went down, and Hank Schaeffer stuck his head out. “Jump in.”

We got in his car, an unmarked Crown Victoria, I in the front, Kate in the back.

I wondered why he was waiting for us in the parking lot instead of the lobby, but he clarified the situation by saying, “I have company this morning.”

I didn’t need to ask.

He pulled onto the road and said, “Six of them. Three from the New York field office, two from Washington, and one from your shop.”

I said, “They’re from the government, and they’re here to help you.”

“They’re helping themselves to my files.”

Kate, in the back, said, “Excuse me. I’m FBI.”

I turned to her. “We’re not criticizing the FBI, darling.”

No reply.

I asked Schaeffer, “Who’s here from the ATTF?”

“Guy named Liam Griffith. Know him?”

“Indeed. He’s from the Office of Professional Responsibility.”

“What the hell is that?”

“That’s Fed talk for Internal Affairs.”

“Really? Well, he’s looking for both of you.”

I glanced back at Kate, who seemed a little upset.

Some people called Liam Griffith the Enforcer, but the younger guys who’d seen
The Matrix
too many times called him the Agent in Black. I called him a prick.

I recalled that Griffith was supposed to be at that meeting in Windows on the World, but he’d been either late or uninvited. In any case, he’d escaped the fate of everyone who’d been there that morning.

Also, I’d had a few run-ins with Mr. Griffith during the TWA 800 case, and my last words to him in the bar at Ecco’s had been, “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

He took my suggestion, though he didn’t take it well.

Now, he was back.

Kate asked Schaeffer, “What did you tell him?”

“I told him you’d probably stop in today. He said he’d like to see you both when you arrive.” He added, “I figured you’d want to postpone that.”

I said to Schaeffer, “Thanks.”

He didn’t acknowledge that. “Your boss, Tom Walsh, called right after you left. He asked what we discussed, and I referred him to you.”

I replied, “Good. I referred him to
you
. Did you tell him we were staying at The Point?”

“No. Why?”

I glanced back at Kate, then said to Schaeffer, “Well, he left a message for us there.”

Schaeffer reiterated, “I didn’t mention it.”

Maybe, I thought, the FBI guys from the city, or Liam Griffith, had interviewed my friend Max at Hertz. I asked Schaeffer, “Did Walsh say we were assigned to this case?”

“No. But neither did he say that Griffith was here to pull you off the case. But I think he is.”

If Kate and I could speak freely now, we’d probably agree that basically we’d been screwed by Tom Walsh. In fact, I couldn’t keep that in, and I said to Kate, “Tom reneged on our deal.”

She responded, “We don’t know that . . . Maybe Liam Griffith just wants to . . . make us understand the terms of our assignment here.”

I replied, “I don’t think that’s why Walsh called the Office of Professional Responsibility, or why Griffith would fly here.”

She didn’t answer, but Schaeffer said, “Last I heard, you had seven days to crack the case, and until I hear otherwise, you’re the investigating team.”

“Correct,” I said.

Meanwhile, I needed to keep one step ahead of Liam Griffith.