Wild Fire (44 page)

Still no reaction, except a nod, as though this were interesting.

I outlined some of the case to Mr. Bain Madox, describing how the murder was done by at least two persons—one driving the victim’s camper, the other in a separate vehicle that I said could have been a Jeep, or an all-terrain vehicle, based on two separate sets of tire marks, which we actually didn’t find, but he wouldn’t know that for sure.

I lied that the initial toxicology report showed strong sedatives in the victim’s blood, then I described how I thought the actual murder took place with the victim drugged, and held in a kneeling position with the binocular strap, and so forth.

Madox again nodded as though this were still interesting but somehow abstract.

If I expected some reaction—like shock, disbelief, discomfort, or amazement—then I was going to be disappointed.

I took a sip of scotch and stared at him.

The room was silent, except for the crackling fire, then Madox said, “I’m impressed that you could gather so much evidence in so short a time.”

I informed him, “The first forty-eight hours is the critical period.”

“Yes. I’ve heard that.” He asked me, “How did forensic evidence point back to this lodge?”

“If you really want to know, I collected rug fibers, plus human and dog hairs when I was here, and they matched what was found on Detective Muller’s clothes and body.”

“Did they?” He looked at me and said, “I don’t recall giving you permission to do that.”

“But you would have.”

He let that alone, and said to me, “That was very quick lab work.”

“This is a
homicide
investigation. The victim was a Federal agent.”

“All right . . . so, from these fibers . . . ?”

I gave him a quick course in fiber analysis. “The fibers on the victim match the ones I found here. The dog hairs will probably match the hairs on your dog, what’s-his-name—”

“Kaiser Wilhelm.”

“Whatever. And the human hairs found on Detective Muller’s body, plus whatever other DNA turns up on the victim’s clothes or body, will lead us to the killer or killers.”

We made eye contact, and he still wasn’t blinking, so I said, “With your help, we can make a list of everyone who was here over the weekend, then get hair and DNA samples from them, and some fibers from clothing, such as those camouflage uniforms your security people wear. Understand?”

He nodded.

“Speaking of your army, where and how did you recruit these guys?”

“They’re all former military.”

“I see. So, we have to assume they’re all well trained in the use of weapons, and other types of force.”

He informed me, “More important, they’re all well disciplined. And as any military man will tell you, I’d rather have ten disciplined and well-trained men than ten thousand untrained and undisciplined troops.”

“Don’t forget loyal, and motivated by a noble cause.”

“Goes without saying.”

Kate asked our host, “How many security guards are actually here this evening?”

He seemed to read the subtext, and smiled slightly, the way Count Dracula would do if his dinner guest inquired, “So, what time does the sun rise around here?”

Madox answered, “I think there are ten men on-duty tonight.”

There was a knock on the door, and it opened, revealing Carl wheeling in a cart, atop which was a large covered tray.

Carl carried the tray to the coffee table, set it down, and removed the cover.

And there, on a silver tray, were dozens of pigs-in-the-blanket, the crust slightly brown, just the way I like it. In the center of the tray were two crystal bowls—one holding a thick, dark deli-style mustard, and the other, a thin, pukey yellow mustard.

Our host said to us, “I have a confession to make. I called Henri and asked him if either of you had expressed any food preference, and—voilá!” He smiled.

That wasn’t the confession I was hoping for, and he knew that, but this wasn’t bad either.

Carl asked, “Is there anything else?”

Madox replied, “No, but”—he looked at his watch—“see how dinner is coming along.”

“Yes, sir.” Carl left, and Madox said, “No woodcock tonight—just plain steak and potatoes.” He turned to me. “Have one of these.”

I caught Kate’s eye, and clearly she didn’t think I could resist a little piggy, drugged or not. And she was right. I could
smell
the aroma of the crust and the fatty beef hot dogs.

They all had toothpicks stuck in them—red, blue, and yellow—so all I had to do was guess which color marked the safe piggies. I chose blue, my favorite color, and picked one up, then dipped it in the deli mustard.

Kate said, “John, you should save your appetite for dinner.”

“I’ll just have a few.” I popped the pig in my mouth. It tasted great—hot, firm crust, spicy mustard.

Madox said to Kate, “Please help yourself.”

“No, thank you.” She shot me a concerned look and said to him, “You go ahead.”

Madox also picked a pig with a blue toothpick, but chose the yellow mustard. So maybe I picked the wrong mustard.

Actually, I felt fine and had another, this one with the yellow mustard, just to be on the safe side.

Madox chewed, swallowed, and said, “Not bad.” He chose a red toothpick and offered the piggy to Kate. “Are you sure?”

“No, thank you.”

He ate it himself, this time with deli mustard. So I had another.

Hot dogs made me think of Kaiser Wilhelm. His absence at his master’s side was a case of The Dog That Did Not Fart in the Night.

Dogs alert their masters, and everyone else, that someone is approaching—and I had the strong feeling that Madox did not want Kate and I to know if anyone was outside those doors.

Also, if Kaiser Wilhelm was here, I’d feed him about twenty pigs to see if he keeled over, or if Madox stopped me.

On the other hand, maybe I was over-analyzing this, as I tend to do when my bloodhound instincts are aroused.

I thought it was time to increase the discomfort level, so I said to Madox, “I, too, have a confession to make. You know about the Borgias. Right?”

He nodded.

“Well, after you invited us here, we got this toxicology report on Harry Muller showing high levels of sedatives in his blood. And, Kate has been . . . well, concerned about . . . you know.”

Madox looked at me, then Kate, then back at me, and said, “No. I don’t know.” He added in a curt tone, “And perhaps I don’t want to know.”

I continued, “I guess this comes under the category of being bad dinner guests, but Kate . . . and I guess I . . . are a little concerned that you may have . . . a staff member who has access to powerful sedatives, and this could be the person who used them on the deceased victim.”

Mr. Madox did not comment on that, but he did light a cigarette without asking if anyone minded.

I made eye contact with Kate, and she seemed more uncomfortable than Bain, who actually appeared offended.

To make him feel better, I took another pig-in-the-blanket—blue toothpick, yellow mustard—and popped it in my mouth. “On the other hand,” I went on, “it appears that Detective Muller was sedated by means of a tranquilizer dart, followed by two hypodermic injections to keep him sedated.” I looked at Madox, but there was no reaction. “So, maybe we can rule out a Mickey Finn in the scotch or knockout drops in the mustard tonight.”

Madox sipped his scotch, drew on his cigarette, then asked me, “Are you suggesting that someone here is trying to . . . sedate you?”

“Well,” I replied, “I’m just extrapolating from the evidence at hand.” I made a little joke to lighten the moment. “A lot of people say I need sedating, and maybe it would do me some good—if it wasn’t followed by a bullet in my back.”

Madox sat quietly in his nice green leather chair, blowing smoke rings, then he glanced at Kate and pointed out to her, “I think if you believe that, then dinner is not going to be much fun.”

Good one, Bain. I really liked this guy. Too bad he had to die, or if he was lucky, spend the rest of his life in a place less comfortable than this.

Kate decided to take the offensive. “I’m interested in Carl.”

Madox stared at her, then said, “Carl is my oldest and most trusted employee and friend.”

“That’s why I’m interested in him.”

Madox replied sharply, “That’s almost the same as an accusation against me.”

“Perhaps Detective Corey and I should have informed you that no one who was on this property this weekend is above suspicion. And that includes you.”

At this point, Madox should have told us to forget dinner and asked us to leave his house. But he wasn’t doing that because he was no more through with us than we were with him.

In fact, this is the point where you’ve crossed the threshold, and now you begin the transition from the unknown suspect to the person you’re speaking to. Hopefully, the suspect has already said something incriminating, or will when you start to bully him. Lacking that, you need to rely on the existing evidence and good hunches. It all ends with me saying something like, “Mr. Madox, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Federal Agent Harry Muller. Please come with us.”

Then, you take the guy downtown and book him. Or, in this case, I’d have to take him to state police headquarters, which would make Major Schaeffer happy.

On that subject, I was starting to think that Schaeffer’s surveillance team hadn’t seen us going to the Custer Hill Club, or if they had, and reported it, Schaeffer was not doing anything about it. And why would he? More important, I pictured Tom Walsh having dinner or watching TV instead of reading Kate’s e-mail to him. Actually, I had the feeling that the cavalry would not be arriving soon, or ever. So, it was up to us to make the arrest.

This case, however, had some unique problems, like the suspect’s private army, and some familiar problems, like the suspect’s status as a rich and powerful man.

And, of course, aside from the homicide, there was the suspicion that the suspect was involved in a conspiracy to nuke the planet. And that was my more immediate concern, and my and Kate’s jurisdiction.

So, with that in mind, it was time to go nuclear, and I said to Bain Madox, “Speaking of houseguests, you had a guest who arrived Sunday, and has apparently not left yet. Will he be joining us for dinner?”

Madox stood suddenly, then walked to the bar. As he poured a short one, he remarked, “I’m not sure what—or who—you’re talking about.”

I didn’t like him being behind me, so I, too, stood, and motioned for Kate to stand. As I turned toward the bar, I said to Madox, “Dr. Mikhail Putyov. Nuclear physicist.”

“Oh. Michael. He’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“I have no idea. Why?”

“Well, if he’s not here,” I said, “then he seems to be missing.”

“Missing from where?”

“Home and office.” I informed him, “Putyov’s not supposed to leave home without telling the FBI where he’s going.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“I think it’s in his contract.” I asked, “Is he a friend of yours?”

Madox leaned back against the bar with his glass in his hand, and seemed to be in deep thought.

I asked, “Was that a tough question?”

He smiled, then said, “No. I’m considering my reply.” He looked at me, then at Kate. “Dr. Putyov and I have a professional relationship.”

It sort of surprised me that he’d say that, but I guess we all realized that it was time to be honest, open, and sensitive to one another’s needs and feelings. Then we could all hug and have a good cry together, before I arrested or shot him.

I inquired, “What
kind
of professional relationship?”

He waved his hand in dismissal. “Oh, John—can I call you John?”

“Sure, Bain.”

“Good. So, what
kind
of professional relationship? Is that the question? Okay, how can I describe this . . . ?”

I suggested, “Start with nuclear weapons miniaturization.”

He looked at me, nodded, and said, “Well, that’s a good start.”

“Okay. Can I also say suitcase nukes?”

He smiled and nodded again.

Well, this was easier than I expected, which might not actually be a good sign, but I continued, “Two more houseguests—Paul Dunn, adviser to the president on matters of national security, and Edward Wolffer, deputy secretary of defense.”

“What about them?”

“They were here—correct?”

“They were.” He added, “You can see why I don’t want people snooping around.”

“You’re allowed to have famous and powerful friends over for the weekend, Bain.”

“Thank you. The point is, it’s no one’s business.”

“But in this case, it might be my business.”

“Actually, John, you may be right.”

“I
am
right. Also, James Hawkins, Air Force general and member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He was here, too. Right?”

“Right.”

“Who else?”

“Oh, about a dozen other men, none of them important to the business at hand. Except Scott Landsdale. He’s the CIA liaison to the White House.” He added, “That’s secret information, so it can’t leave this room.”

“Okay . . .” I didn’t have that name, but I’d be disappointed if there wasn’t a CIA guy involved in . . . whatever. I said, “Your secret’s safe with us, Bain.”

Madox explained to Kate and me, “Those four men make up my Executive Board.”

“What Executive Board?”

“Of this club.”

“Right. So, what did you guys talk about?” I asked.

“Project Green and Wild Fire.”

“Right. So, how’s that going?”

“Fine.” He looked at his watch, so I looked at mine. It was 7:33, and hopefully Walsh was getting around to reading his personal e-mail. Hopefully, too, the state troopers would be arriving soon. But I wasn’t counting on that.

Madox said, “Well, now I have some questions for
you
. Are you alone tonight?”

I did a good imitation of a laugh. “Sure.”

“Well,” he said, “it doesn’t matter at this point.”

I didn’t want to hear that.

He asked, “How did you figure this out?”

I was happy to reply, “Harry Muller. He wrote us a note on the lining of his pants pocket.”