Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  “Right. Me, too. You understand that beneath my Federal credentials, I’m just a cop at heart.”

  “Yeah, but let me tell you, the NYPD I’ve worked with are no treat either.”

  My loyal wife smiled and said, “John and I are actually married, so I’ll second that.”

  Schaeffer almost smiled back. “So, tell me what Harry Muller was supposed to be doing on the Custer Hill property.”

  I replied, “Surveillance. There was a gathering there this weekend, and he was supposed to photograph arriving guests and get plate numbers.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. But I can tell you that the Justice Department is interested in Mr. Madox and his friends. Didn’t anyone tell you any of this?”

  “Not much. I got the national security baloney.”

  Baloney? Was that like “bullshit”? Maybe this guy didn’t swear. I made a mental note to watch my language. I said, “The Feds are full of baloney, and they’re great at snow jobs, but between you and me, there may actually be a national security angle here.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “I have no idea. And to be honest, this is what we call sensitive material, and unless you have a need to know, I can’t tell you.”

  I wasn’t sure if he appreciated the honesty or not, so I blew a little snow at him and said, “I fully understand that your troop has a huge area to patrol—like eight thousand square miles—and that you’re pretty self-reliant and you need . . . minimum assistance from the outside—”

  Kate kicked me under the table as I went on with my snow job, concluding, “We’re here to help if you need our help, which I don’t think you do. But we really need your help, your expertise, and your resources.”

  I had more bullshit if I needed it, but Major Schaeffer seemed to sense that I was snowing him. Nevertheless, he said, “Okay. Coffee?”

  “Sounds good.”

  He motioned for us to stay seated and went off to the coffee bar.

  Kate said to me, “You are so full of bs.”

  “That’s not true. I speak from the heart.”

  “You speak from a public-relations handout that I just read to you, and that you made fun of.”

  “Oh . . . is that where I heard that?”

  She rolled her eyes, then said to me, “He doesn’t seem to know much, and if he does, he’s not sharing.”

  “He’s just a little irritated because the FBI is snowing him. And by the way, he doesn’t swear, so watch your language.”

  “My language?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t swear in front of women. I have an idea—he might open up more without a lady FBI agent present. Why don’t you excuse yourself?”

  “Why don’t you excuse yourself?”

  “Come on—”

  Schaeffer returned to the table with a coffee tray and sat.

  Kate stood reluctantly and said, “I need to make some calls. Be back in ten minutes.” She left.

  Schaeffer poured two coffees from a steel pitcher into porcelain mugs. He said to me, “Okay, tell me why you think Bain Madox, a solid citizen with a billion bucks in the bank, and who is probably a registered Republican, killed a Federal agent.”

  I sensed that Major Schaeffer did not share my suspicion. “Well, it’s just a hunch.”

  “Can you do better than that?”

  Not really. “I’m basing this suspicion on the fact that I believe Madox was the last person to see Harry alive.”

  He informed me, “I was the last person to see my mother-in-law alive before she slipped on the ice and fractured her skull.”

  I wanted to question him further about that, but I said, “I was a homicide detective, and you just develop a sense for these things.” I told him, “Kate and I went to the Custer Hill Club and spoke to this guy Madox.”

  “Yeah? And?”

  “He’s slick. Have you met him?”

  “A few times. I actually went hunting with him once.”

  “No kidding?”

  “He wants to keep a good relationship with the state and local police. Like a lot of the rich people up here. Makes their lives easier and safer.”

  “Right. But this guy’s got his own army.”

  “Yeah. And he doesn’t hire any moonlighting or retired cops, which is what most of the rich do. His men are not local, and not involved in law enforcement, and this is a little unusual for somebody who wants to stay tight with the police.”

  I nodded and said, “That whole place seems a little unusual.”

  “Yeah . . . but they don’t cause us any problems and they keep to themselves. The local police get a few calls a year to pick up a trespasser or poacher who’s cut through the fence and been detained. But Madox has never pressed charges.”

  “Nice guy.” Apropos of Harry, I said, “Maybe he kills people who see something they’re not supposed to see. Any missing persons? Suspicious accidents?”

  “Are those serious questions?”

  “Yeah.”

  He considered his reply, then said, “Well, there are always missing persons, and hunting accidents that seem like they could have been something else . . . but nothing I know about to link to Madox or his club. I’ll have somebody check that.”

  “Good.” I asked, “Did you get a search warrant for the Custer Hill property?”

  “I did.”

  “Let’s execute the warrant.”

  “Not possible. The warrant was for a missing-person search. The missing person has been found off the subject property.”

  “Does Madox know that?”

  “How would he even know there was a warrant? Or that someone might be missing on his property?” He paused, then said, “I was about to call him and ask for his voluntary cooperation, but then that anonymous call came in that led us to the body. Did you tell him about the missing person?”

  “I did. So let’s execute the warrant.”

  Major Schaeffer reminded me, “The person has been found.”

  I thought he might buy into my philosophy, so I said, “The law sometimes gets in the way of truth and justice.”

  “Not under my command, Detective.” He added, “Now that you told him about the missing person, I’ll have someone call to inform him that the person has been found.”

  I was sure this guy had once been an Eagle Scout, and I didn’t want to highlight the differences between a New York City cop and a state trooper, so I said, “Well, we need to think of something to take to a judge for a new search warrant.”

  “What we need is a link between the body found in the state park and the Custer Hill Club. Without such a link, I can’t ask the D.A. to ask a judge for a search warrant.” He inquired, “Do you have any proof that Detective Muller had actually been on the property?”

  “Uh . . . not conclusive—”

  “Well, then, there’s no link.”

  “Well, we have the anonymous phone call about the body. Anonymous is suspicious. Also, there’s strong circumstantial evidence that Harry was on the property.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, that was his assignment.” I explained about the phone call at 7:48 A.M. on Saturday, Harry’s proximity to the property, the suspiciously distant location of his camper from the subject property, and other circumstances that I stretched a little.

  Schaeffer listened, then shrugged. “Not enough to place Bain Madox under suspicion and not enough for me to ask for a search warrant.”

  “Think about it.” I had no doubt that the FBI would eventually get a Federal judge to issue a warrant, but that might come too late. It appeared that I’d have to issue myself a Midnight Warrant, meaning breaking and entering. I hadn’t done that in a while, and it could be fun, except for Madox’s private army, electronic security, and guard dogs.

  Schaeffer asked me, “What do you think you’d find on that property?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Judges don’t like fishing expeditions. Think of something you’re looking for. Did you
see anything on his property or in his house that I can take to the D.A.?”

  “I saw more security than the president has at his ranch.”

  “That’s not illegal.”

  “Right. Well . . . I think we just need to work the case.” I suggested, “Why don’t you stake out the property?”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “People coming and going, including Madox.” I reminded him, “You don’t need permission to do a surveillance—only suspicion.”

  “Thanks for the tip. Yeah, well, the only suspicion I have is what you’re telling me.” He thought a moment, then asked, “Do you want to spook this guy? I mean, you want an open surveillance or a clandestine surveillance?”

  “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 t
own?”

  “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.”