Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  On a side table were coffee and muffins. I poured a cup of black coffee, walked out through the French doors onto the terrace, and took a deep breath of the mountain air.

  It was still dark, but I could see that the sky was clear, and it was going to be another nice day in God’s country.

  There is a belief in law enforcement, reinforced by experience and statistics, that the first forty-eight hours of a criminal investigation are the most critical. Intelligence work and counter-terrorist operations, on the other hand, move at a slower pace. There are good reasons for this, but my instinct and experience as a cop told me that almost everything you need to know, and almost everything you’re going to discover, is going to happen in two days. Maybe three.

  What you do with that time and information is the difference between a successfully concluded case or a muddled cluster-fuck of meddling bosses, brain-dead prosecutors, lawyered-up suspects, and half-witted arraignment judges. If you give all these people time to think, you're into paralysis by analysis.

  As I was having my morning inspirational thoughts, Kate came out on the terrace wearing the guest bathrobe and slippers and carrying a cup of coffee. She yawned, smiled, and said, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Rockefeller.” Married or not, the morning protocol apréès sex was a kiss, a compliment, and a reference to the lovemaking that was romantic without sounding wimpy, and explicit without sounding piggish.

  I managed to pull all this off, and we stood on the terrace, arm in arm, sipping coffee, looking out at the pines and autumn leaves.

  The sun was coming up, and there was a mist lying on the ground, sloping downward toward Upper Saranac Lake, which looked very tranquil. It was quiet, and the air smelled of damp earth and wood smoke. I could see why Harry liked it up here, and I pictured him waking up Saturday morning in his camper to a scene very much like this before he started out for the Custer Hill Club.

  Kate said, “Maybe when we finish here, we’ll take a week off and rent a cabin on a lake. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  I thought that if this case ended badly, we wouldn’t have to take a week off; we’d have lots of free time.

  Kate added, “I think that might be a fitting tribute to Harry.”

  “That would be very nice.”

  Kate was cold, so we went back into the Great Hall. Another couple was on a couch near the fireplace in the sitting area. We refilled our cups and sat on a couch opposite them. My body language clearly indicated that I had no intention of engaging them in conversation. The guy—a bearded, middle-aged gent—gave me the same signals. His wife or girlfriend, however, smiled and said, “Hi. I’m Cindy. This is my fiancé, Sonny.”

  Sonny did not look sunny. In fact, he looked grumpy. Maybe he just got the bill. Cindy, on the other hand, was happy and friendly, and would probably talk to a goldfish in a bowl.

  Kate and Cindy began to chat about The Point, the Adirondacks, and whatever. Grumpy and I stayed silent. The fire felt good.

  Cindy and Grumpy were from Long Island, and he was, according to Cindy, “in the publishing business.” Cindy was in public relations and that’s how they met. Thank God she didn’t tell the story, but I was certain one of them must have been drunk.

  Kate said she was an attorney, which was partly true, and she told them I was a certified social worker, working in the Muslim immigrant community, which was funny, but Grumpy made a little snorting sound of disapproval.

  The subject somehow shifted to shopping, and Cindy informed Kate that there were good shops in the village of Lake Placid. My eyes glazed over, and I thought Grumpy’s eyes would do the same, but I noticed he was looking at Kate, whose robe had opened a little at the top. The man was clearly a pig.

  On that subject, I couldn’t help noticing that Cindy was also very pretty, with long blond hair, hazel eyes, Nordic features, and really great . . . presence, and so forth. She looked about twenty years younger than her so-called fiancé, and I couldn’t imagine what she found attractive about him, except for maybe the bulge in his pants. I mean his wallet.

  Grumpy broke his silence and said to me, “I have a good idea about immigration. Wherever you were born, stay there.” He stood, took a last look at Kate’s cleavage from a better angle, and said to her, not me, “Nice meeting you.”

  Cindy, too, stood and said to us, “We’ll see you at dinner. The chef is doing woodcock tonight.”

  Woodcock? I got to my feet. “I hear that his woodcock is firm and moist.”

  Cindy smiled tightly.

  “John,” Kate said, then turned to our new friends. “Have a good day.”

  Grumpy replied, “I’ve made other plans.”

  And off they went.

  Kate said to me, “A totally mismatched couple.”

  “Us or them?”

  Grumpy had left a New York Times on the couch, and I scanned the front page. One headline read: U.S./FRENCH SPLIT ON IRAQ DEEPENS. I said to Kate, “See? If these people ate real food like the Irish and the English, they’d have some balls. Who eats snails? Here’s another story—a fireworks display at Disneyland outside of Paris caused the nearby French Army garrison to drop their weapons and surrender to a busload of Swedish tourists.”

  “John, it’s really too early for this.”

  “Woodcock.” I read the main headline, which said: BUSH TIES BOMBING AT BALI NIGHTCLUB TO QAEDA NETWORK. I scanned the story and saw that “Some Islamic militants were pressing a theory that the United States had masterminded the Saturday attack as a means to manipulate the Indonesian government and to strengthen its argument for a war against Islam.”

  The Islamic militants had said the same thing about the 9/11 attacks. It was an interesting theory, with just enough plausibility to make some people wonder. I mean, I’m not a conspiracy nut, but I could imagine that there were people in this country, in and out of the government, who wanted an excuse to widen the war against terrorism to include certain Islamic countries. Like Iraq. I thought of something that one of the spookier CIA guys at the ATTF once said: What we need is one more good attack.

  I think I can do without that, thank you, but I got what he was saying.

  Kate said to me, “I’m going to the room to shower. What are you doing?”

  I looked at my cell phone and saw I had no service. “I need to call Schaeffer to set up an appointment to see the crime scene, so I’ll use the kitchen phone. See you in the room.”

  “Be nice to Pierre.”

  “Oui, oui.”

  She left, and I went into the kitchen. The place was bustling, and no one seemed to notice or care that I was there, so I found the phone, which was on the wall, and dialed the state trooper headquarters. I got the desk sergeant, who put me on hold. The kitchen smelled of frying pork products, and my stomach grumbled.

  I opened the Times to the obit page, but I didn’t see Harry Muller. It might be too soon for an obituary, or maybe it wouldn’t run in the Times. I scanned the Metro section to see if there was a story about Harry’s death, but I didn’t see anything. An upstate hunting accident wasn’t exactly news, but the murder of a Federal agent was.

  Therefore, the FBI and local police would issue a joint statement saying the death was an apparent accident but was still under investigation. Any news organization that called for further information would be asked to hold the story so as not to upset the family and/or tip off a possible suspect. You could usually buy a few days with that.

  A waitress walked by, and I said to her, “Do me a favor and check on the breakfast for Corey. Mohawk Room. I could really use a bacon sandwich on rye.”

  “Now?”

  “Please. With coffee.”

  She hurried off, and Major Schaeffer came on the line. “Morning.”

  I could barely hear him over the sounds of the kitchen noise, and I said loudly, “Good morning. What’s a good time to go out to the crime scene?”

  “Be here at eight. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  “Thanks
. Anything new?”

  “I spoke to Dr. Gleason last night.”

  “Nice lady.”

  “She said you went a little beyond identifying the body and paying last respects.”

  “I told you, she showed us the signs of physical abuse.”

  “Yeah? Did you handle any of the personal effects?”

  “Absolutely not.” All of them.

  He asked, “Find anything, Detective?”

  “No.” Just the writing in Harry’s pocket and the cell-phone calls.

  “Remove anything?”

  “No.” Just the map of the Custer Hill property.

  “My troopers say that you and your wife never signed in or out.”

  “Tell you what, Major, why don’t you and I go to the morgue after the crime scene?”

  “Too late. The Feds snatched the body last night.”

  “I told you. You gotta act fast.”

  “Thank you.”

  The waitress put a tray on the counter and said, “Your breakfast will be delivered at seven.”

  “Thanks. Add some of those biscuits that just came out of the oven.”

  Schaeffer asked, “How’s The Point?”

  “Great. All the booze is free. How are we doing with the search warrant and surveillance?” I took a big bite of the bacon sandwich. Heaven.

  “Forget the search warrant for now. But I did begin the surveillance last night.”

  “Anything?”

  “Yeah. At eight-oh-three P.M., two vehicles left the subject property. One was a Ford van registered to the Custer Hill Club. The other was a Ford Taurus registered to Enterprise Rent-A-Car.”

  I washed down the bacon with coffee and asked, “Where’d they go?”

  “They went to Adirondack Regional Airport. The commercial terminal is closed at that hour, and they left the Taurus in an Enterprise spot and put the keys in a drop slot, then both drivers—two males—got in the van and returned to the Custer Hill Club.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “Looks suspiciously like they were returning a rental car. What do you think?”

  Major Schaeffer had a wry sense of humor. I said, “Check the trunk for a body. What was the plate number on the Taurus?”

  “I don’t have it in front of me.” Which was his polite way of saying, “What have you done for me lately?”

  I said, “I saw a blue Enterprise Taurus at the Custer Hill lodge when I was there.” I gave him the plate number from memory and asked, “Is that it?”

  “Sounds like it. I’ll call Enterprise and find out who rented that car.”

  I thought I probably had that information from Kate’s friend Larry at Enterprise, but I said, “Good. Anything else from the surveillance?”

  “No. What are we looking for?”

  “You never know. But I’d like to know that Madox is still on the property.”

  “Okay.”

  “So, someone needs to call me anytime you see any activity—hold on.” Some kid in a dopey psychedelic chef’s outfit was trying to get my attention. I asked him, “What do you need?”

  “I need to use the phone. I have to place an order.”

  “What do you have to order? Woodcock? I’m on top of the woodcocks. How many do you need?”

  “I need the phone, sir.”

  “Hey, I’m trying to save the world here, pal. Hold on.” I said to Schaeffer, “I’m using the kitchen phone. I’ll see you at eight.”

  I hit the cradle and handed the phone to the chef. “If the world comes to an end, it’s your fault.”

  A handsome guy in tailored whites, whom I just knew was the French chef, came up to me and extended his hand. “Good morning,” he said in an accent. We shook. “You are, of course, Mr. Corey.”

  “Oui.”

  “Ah, you speak French.”

  “Oui.”

  “Bon. I am Henri, the head chef, and I must apologize profusely for the pigs-in-the-blanket.”

  He got the pronunciation right, if not the recipe. I said, “Hey, don’t worry about it, Henry.”

  “But I do. So, for you, I have ordered the ingredients, and tonight, we serve the pigs for the cocktail hour.”

  “Terrific. I like the crust a little brown.”

  “Yes, of course.” He leaned toward me and whispered, “I, too, like these little things.”

  I was sure by now that he was pulling my chain, and I said, “I won’t tell. Okay, don’t forget the mustard. See you later.”

  “May I show you my kitchen?”

  I looked around. “Looks good.”

  “You are welcome to place any special order for any meal.”

  “Great. I’ve been thinking about woodcock lately.”

  “Ah, amazing. Tonight is woodcock.”

  “You don’t say? Well, hell, I ought to play the lottery today.”

  “Yes? Oh, I understand.”

  I looked at my watch and said, “Well, I—”

  “A moment . . .” He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and said, “Here is the menu for this evening.” He read, “We begin with a ragout of forest mushrooms, followed by a crisp filet of arctic char, served with peppernade and beurre rouge. I think, perhaps, a California chardonnay with that. Yes? Then, the woodcock, which I will serve with an étuvée of local vegetables, and a port wine jus. I am considering a French cabernet sauvignon with the woodcock. What do you think? Mr. Corey?”

  “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.”

&n
bsp; 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

  Iwent 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.