Our breakfast plates were served. Smoked salmon with capers, fresh cream, and toast points. It was better than starting my day at Three Sisters.
“I guess what surprises me,” I said, trying to infuse my voice with some sincerity, “is that on both ends of your issues—taxes and possible theft by your cohorts—well, they seem to fall exactly into the purview of the United States attorney. Don’t you think these were matters for your office, James? Not for ours?”
He was chewing on a large chunk of salmon when I turned to him. I appreciated how difficult it was to criticize one’s hostess while cruising in her jet at thirty-six thousand feet and nibbling on her well-catered snacks.
“But Swenson said you had no comparable tax problems here?” Prescott asked her.
“So far as he could tell,” Persaud said. “That’s correct.”
“How about Chidra’s victimization, too?” I said to Prescott. “Not my bailiwick, of course, but the long arm of the law reaches so much further with federal powers than what we’ve got. Wouldn’t you think?”
James was washing down his meal with some freshly squeezed orange juice. “It depends on so many factors, and Battaglia was very creative that way, as you know.”
I was sure James Prescott could read this situation exactly as I did. It was as blatantly transparent as a pane of glass. Charles Swenson, sensing some tax liability in his client’s case, had gone for the preemptive strike. Make Chidra Persaud a victim of a crime before she’s outed in England—and perhaps in the United States—as a perp. Wrap her in the respectable embrace of Paul Battaglia, who was Swenson’s longtime friend, in the office where Swenson could help control the narrative.
“I hate to suggest this in front of Chidra,” I said to Prescott, “but since all cards need to be on the table at this point, I guess it also makes sense for Swenson to walk it into our office, knowing how Battaglia would enjoy sticking a shiv in your back, too, if he could make a case for her.”
Prescott blushed and looked at Chidra to see if she seemed to get what I was saying. But she was stone-faced, checking her iPad for mail as we bickered.
“Don’t speak ill of the dead,” Prescott said to me.
“That’s not speaking ill at all. Battaglia prided himself on being able to do that to you,” I said. “He’d rather like knowing I could say it to your face.”
A second round of coffee was offered.
“What trading company do you use for getting your company’s goods to market?” I asked Persaud.
“Different ones in different parts of the world.”
“Did Battaglia assign someone—a lawyer from our Frauds Bureau—to work on your case? Were you interviewed by one of my colleagues?”
“I’m scheduled for an interview in December,” Persaud said.
“He let it go until then?”
“My fault entirely,” she said, making eye contact again. “He tried to have me sit down with someone, but I was abroad through most of the last few months. I spent a lot of time at home in India, and some in London. I didn’t get the meeting done.”
I guessed there was no urgency to Chidra’s claims of foul play. Swenson had set her up for exactly the reasons I suspected.
“Charles will know the name of the young prosecutor I’m supposed to meet with,” she added. “I neglected to add him to my contacts.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I can call Charles tomorrow.”
“I have some questions, too,” Prescott said.
“If I may finish with a few,” I continued, leaning in toward Persaud. “Do you know a man named George Kwan?”
Chidra Persaud’s brow furrowed. “I know his name. I’m aware of his business holdings,” she said. “Kwan Enterprises, isn’t it? But I’ve never met the man.”
“Do you use his company—his trading company—for any of your shipping or marketing needs?”
“No. No, I’ve never had dealings with him,” she said. “I know at one time his associates in the London office were pressuring me to use their services, to hire them to ship our products, but we never did.”
“Did Kwan’s people—his associates—ever tell you about his interest in wildlife conservation?”
“Maybe so,” Persaud said. “But so do lots of people I meet.”
“Did you and Paul Battaglia ever discuss Mr. Kwan?” I asked.
The furrow deepened. “No. Not that I remember.”
“Think hard,” I said. “That sounds like exactly the kind of connection the DA would like to know about.”
“For any particular reason?” she asked.
“My boss is dead, Chidra,” I said. “Murdered. And no one—so far as James and I can tell—no one in Paul’s professional world knew anything about this piece of his life. This interest in hunting wild animals.”
“But you knew he was interested in wildlife conservation too, didn’t you?” she asked. “You knew he’d won a major award for a case he handled. Operation Crash, I think it was named.”
“Conserving the endangered species and killing them as well,” I said. “Seems pretty oxymoronic to me. I can’t manage to reconcile the two.”
“I’ll help you with that,” she said. “You’ll see.”
“Didn’t you meet George Kwan at the Metropolitan Museum on Monday night?” I asked. “Weren’t you at the gala that honored Wolf Savage?”
“Don’t mistake me for stupid, Alex.”
“That’s the last thing I would do.”
“You planted the fact of my presence in your question,” she said. “Did you think I’d walk into that trap?”
I sat back. “I apologize to you. I thought there was a good chance you would have attended, owning an international sportswear company of your own.”
“Tiger Tail has a royal warrant in the UK, Alex,” she said. “Do you know what that means?”
“I don’t.”
“It’s granted to tradespeople by the queen, allowing us to advertise that we supply our goods to the royal family,” Persaud said. “Wolf Savage created a fine business thirty years ago, but it’s a bit dated—and very much in trouble, in terms of financial stability. I didn’t want to be seen at his show, to be mixed up in his branding.”
“George Kwan was there Monday night. He was trying to buy a piece of the Savage business,” I said. “I was thinking, if you’d been at the Met, you might have met him.”
“Apology accepted,” she said with a nod and a smile.
“Of course, that’s where Paul went when he left his home so abruptly,” I said, ready to take my chance with Chidra. “I understand now that you didn’t attend, but it had crossed my mind for a minute that maybe it was you Paul saw on the late news—that maybe he rushed out to meet you to discuss something of importance to you both, or just to rendezvous.”
Chidra Persaud was not amused. “I Googled you on my way to the airport, Alex. One might say the same of you, isn’t that true? That Paul Battaglia had some professional matter of great urgency to discuss at that late hour on Monday—or could it have been personal?”
There was daylight outside the window now. We were somewhere over one of the Great Lakes, with hours of flying still to go.
“It must have been about a case,” I said, “about a crime or an investigation I knew nothing of. But no, we didn’t have that kind of personal relationship.”
“Don’t be afraid to ask the direct question, Alex.”
“What would that be?” I said.
“Paul Battaglia and I didn’t have ‘that kind of personal relationship’ either. I think those were your words.”
“It wouldn’t have been out of the question,” I said. I hadn’t meant the idea as an insult. “I know his taste.”
“You certainly don’t know mine.”
“That’s true, Chidra,” I said, aware that I had crossed another line. “
I’d never heard of you until James showed up at three this morning.”
“I’m in a long-term relationship, and I’m monogamous, if that’s where you were going.”
“I didn’t mean to pry,” I said. “It might well have been relevant if things were otherwise.”
Chidra Persaud summoned the attendant to clear our tables.
“I’m gay, Alex. Paul Battaglia didn’t get it at first,” she said. “But I made it clear to him. My partner lives in London, if that’s of any concern.”
“Thanks for your candor,” I said.
I felt like I’d been beating into the wind. I knew it was time to change course, to turn my sails in another direction.
“I’m sure James told you that I know nothing about hunting,” I said.
“Apparently you managed to put Battaglia together with the Order of Saint Hubertus, didn’t you?” Persaud said.
“I had some help. But that’s an all-male society, isn’t it?”
“For centuries. Yes, it is.”
“I’m told you were the only woman on the hunt out here two weeks ago, when Battaglia was present,” I said.
“I was.”
“So this club—is it called Diana?” I asked. “This club obviously admits women.”
“It does,” she said. “Someday you’ll have to tell me how you came to know about us. Or maybe it was James who made the discovery?”
“Will James and I be able to get a list of members?”
Chidra Persaud shrugged. “I suppose we can ask Charles Swenson. There are rules, you know, and one mustn’t violate them.”
“Was Battaglia a member?” I asked.
“He’d been accepted,” she said. “He would have been inducted at our next meeting, early next year. I guess there’s no need for secrecy now that he’s dead.”
“Accepted by whom?”
“That’s part of the point, Alex,” Persaud said. “The rest of the committee—the other members—need to be consulted before I give you their names.”
I turned to James Prescott. “Have you explained to Chidra that you’re able to subpoena whatever information you need? That you’ve opened this matter before a grand jury?”
“Before I got on this plane, Alex,” Persaud said, flipping her tray closed, “Charles Swenson assured me he’d be talking to James, laying out the ground rules for my cooperation. The club is headquartered in the UK. I’m not sure an American subpoena will stretch that far.”
What the hell good was it to take this trip with Chidra Persaud? Ground rules—for what? James Prescott knew something he hadn’t yet confided to me. Amy Battaglia had told him that the reason for her husband’s trip involved a case he was working on. James must now have an idea what that case was. I was right not to trust him entirely.
“Tell me, James,” I said, “is this a wild-goose chase of some sort?”
“Keep your cool, Alex,” he said.
“What the hell is this about? What does all of this have to do with Battaglia’s murder?” I asked. “What did the DA think I possibly knew about Diana, and more to the point—what did he know?”
“For one thing, Alex, Paul Battaglia knew that Diana is me,” Chidra Persaud said. “That I am Diana. What I’m not sure about is whether he was ready for anyone else to know that, too.”
THIRTY-SIX
I reset my watch when we landed on Mission Field in Livingston, Montana. It was still only 6:37 A.M. local time.
A silver GMC Sierra was waiting at the end of the airstrip, and a black government car had been rustled up from some local agency. The pickup was driven by Chidra Persaud’s caretaker. She got in the front seat and left the rear for Prescott and me. Her assistant rode with the two agents in the other car.
James had asked more questions throughout the flight than I did. On the personal side, we learned that Diana’s ties to the British royals had started in early childhood, connected to their seasonal visits because of her grandfather’s legendary prowess as a hunting guide for the rich.
A lesser royal—an earl from Devonshire—had nicknamed the young Chidra “Diana” when he saw her kill a tiger that was mauling a villager with a single shot. She was thereafter invited to accompany the earl’s hunting party, which previously had been all adults, year after year. It was eventually that Englishman who sponsored the young woman for her education in London and at Oxford, and who gave her the seed money to start her company.
“Where are we going?” I asked. “To your ranch?”
“No,” Persaud said. “I thought you wanted to see the preserve the club uses, the one where Battaglia stayed two weeks ago.”
“We do,” James said. “Also the site where one of your hunters was killed. You said a couple of the men would talk to us but wouldn’t leave Montana to do it.”
“We’re going to the mountain,” she said. “Literally, I guess I’m bringing Muhammad to the mountain, since they wouldn’t go to you. Bowing to the inevitable, as I was taught that expression to mean.”
The landscape in the valley was spectacular. I had never seen such vast wide-open spaces, with a richness and variance of topography. There were acres of land, green with grasses or alfalfa—kept colorful by irrigation—and there were huge patches of brown earth. All around were mountains, the northern end of the Absaroka Range, which were capped in snow and made a dazzling backdrop for our vista.
Along the way we saw herds of pronghorn antelope grazing by the side of the road, and every now and then a couple of deer would dart across the highway.
The driver went off-road at one point and began to wind around a hill on a dirt path that didn’t look as though it could handle traffic coming from the opposite direction.
“The location isn’t marked?” I asked.
“That’s the way we like it around here,” Persaud said.
“Do you own the land?”
“I do. It’s about seven hundred acres, some of it on the Yellowstone River. It backs onto a national forest, so there can’t be any development in the future,” she said. “Hunters like remote. And we like privacy.”
“This isn’t your home?” I asked.
“No, no. McLeod’s about ninety minutes away. My partner doesn’t like to hunt, nor does she enjoy the company of strangers.”
When the pickup finally came to a stop, near the top of the mountain, James and I stepped out to stretch.
“That’s the main lodge,” Persaud said.
Straight ahead of us was a modern-day log cabin. It was enormous—probably eight thousand square feet—built on prime hilltop.
She walked toward it, looking back, expecting us to follow.
“You’re welcome to freshen up,” she said. “There are four bedrooms down that hallway, all for guests. Mine is to the left. I’ll be right back and then we can get started.”
The front of the lodge—a long wall of timber interrupted by a front door and several small windows—had been deceptive. The living areas, I saw once we were inside, faced out over the valley and nearby mountains through a wall of glass. There was nothing to disturb the view out over the river and for as far as one could see.
The interior looked as though Ralph Lauren had curated the space himself. There were stone fireplaces at each end of the room, and sofas covered in subtle plaids placed at regular intervals. The sconces on the wall were gaslights, and the folk-art antiques that sat on tables or stood against the wainscoting were perfect accents.
There were no stuffed heads and horns—to my delight—although there was an array of vintage hunting rifles hung on the walls that might have chilled even Boone and Crockett.
I went to one of the guest rooms to freshen up. There was nothing personal in any of them, but enough decorative art to keep a warm feeling in the house—collections of old game boards, vintage bottles from local dairy farms, egg crates and cartons that a
dded a cozy, local touch to the tastefully done lodge.
There was a telephone on the night table. I picked it up and waited for a dial tone. When I heard it, I dialed Catherine Dashfer’s cell.
“Alex? Are you okay?” she said. “Dead or alive? I hope you’re not calling me from the other side.”
“Think Mark Twain,” I said. “Rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated. Please tell me there wasn’t an obit.”
“Nope. Just that people who know you might have leaped to the wrong conclusion,” Catherine said. “I was hoping you’d left me those sapphire earrings. Otherwise, I’m glad you’re not blown to bits.”
“They’re yours. Any time you want them,” I said.
“I was told not to try to reach you,” she said. “We all were.”
“You couldn’t, and you shouldn’t. Who’s your best buddy in the Frauds Bureau?” I asked.
“Mimi Hershenson.”
“Do you trust her?”
“She’s solid. We went to law school together.”
“Call her. Try the computer case file system first, but I doubt it’s in there. Make a call and see who was assigned to work with Battaglia on an investigation involving a company called Tiger Tail, owned by Chidra Persaud, that came in sometime earlier this year,” I said. “When you get the name, call and give it to Mike.”
“When am I going to see you?” she asked.
“Next week. They can’t keep me cooped up much longer,” I said. “Gotta go. Thanks for this.”
I pressed the buttons down and waited for a dial tone again. I called Mike but was sent right to voice mail.
“Miss you. Flight was fine. Weird dynamic among the people—look up the name Chidra Persaud as soon as you can, and run a background check on her. She’s Diana—I’m not kidding. Goddess of the hunt—just ask her, especially about the goddess part,” I said. “Her club is based—I guess incorporated—in the UK, so dig for that, too, if you can. Nothing else of value so far.”
I paused. “Check in with Catherine about an investigation Battaglia was doing with this Persaud woman. I just called and asked her to snoop around the DANY white-collar crew,” I said. “See if you come up with anything that corresponds on the NYPD side. And spring me from the nunnery as soon as you can. I want you, and I want to be home.”
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