Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  “I’m your boss.”

  “Right. Best boss I’ve ever had. Okay, so, the FAA—”

  The phone rang, and I said to Kate, “You expecting a call?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe it’s Wilma. Your husband is on the way.”

  She hesitated, then answered the phone. “Hello?” She listened, then said, “Thank you. Yes . . . I’ll tell him. Thanks.”

  She hung up. “It was Wilma. Duct tape is outside our door. She says my friend should move his van.”

  We both laughed, but clearly we were on edge. I went to the window, checked out the terrain, then opened the door and retrieved a big roll of duct tape.

  I sat at the kitchen table and began wrapping the makeshift evidence bags, as per rules and regulations. I said to her, “Tell me about the FAA.”

  She didn’t reply and instead asked me, “Why don’t we just get the Hyundai back from Rudy, take those evidence bags, and drive to New York?”

  “Do you have a pen? I need to sign this tape.”

  “We could be at 26 Fed at about . . .” She looked at her watch and said, “About three or four in the morning.”

  “You can go. I’m staying here. This is where it’s happening, and this is where I need to be. Pen, please.”

  She handed me a pen from her bag. “What is happening?”

  “I don’t know, but when it happens, I’ll be here.” I signed the tape and said, “Actually, we should split up in case . . . Okay, you drive Rudy’s van to Massena, rent another car, and drive to New York.”

  She sat on the chair beside me, took my hand, and said, “Let me finish telling you what I’ve learned, then we’ll decide what to do.”

  This sounded like she had an ace up her sleeve, which was probably the bad news. Whatever it was, it was pressing on her mind.

  I said, “The FAA. Bad news?”

  “The good news is that I was able to get some information. The bad news is the information.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The FAA,” Kate began. “As you predicted, this was a challenge. But, finally, someone at the FAA clued me in to call the regional Flight Service Station—the FSS—in Kansas City, where these two GOCO aircraft arrived Sunday afternoon from Adirondack Regional Airport.”

  “Good. What did the FSS in KC say?”

  “Well, they said these two aircraft landed, refueled, and filed continuing flight plans, then departed.” She glanced at her notes. “One Cessna Citation, piloted by Captain Tim Black, with tail number N2730G, flew to Los Angeles. The other, piloted by Captain Elwood Bellman, with tail number N2731G, flew to San Francisco.”

  “Really?” That sort of surprised me. I was sure that one or both of Madox’s jets would fly back here to Adirondack Regional Airport, where Madox could hop aboard and go wherever he needed to go in a hurry. “And those were their final destinations?”

  “As of about an hour ago. I called the FSS in LA and San Francisco, and no new flight plans have been filed.”

  “Okay . . . but why did they fly to Los Angeles and San Francisco?”

  “That’s what we need to find out.”

  “Right. We also should find out where the pilots are staying in these cities so we can talk to them.”

  “I had the same thought, and I discovered that private aircraft use what’s called Fixed Base Operations—FBOs—to take care of arriving and departing aircraft. At LAX, I discovered that GOCO aircraft use Garrett Aviation Service as their FBO, and at SFO, GOCO aircraft use a company called Signature Flight Support. So, I called these FBOs and asked if they knew where the GOCO pilots and co-pilots might be. I was told that sometimes a pilot leaves a local number, usually a hotel, where they can be contacted if needed, or their cell-phone numbers. But not this time. The only contact information that these FBOs had on the pilots was the GOCO flight department at Stewart International Airport in Newburgh, New York, where GOCO has its base operations, maintenance hangar, and dispatch office.”

  “And? You called these people?”

  “Yes, I called the GOCO dispatch office at Stewart, but, for obvious reasons, I did not identify myself as FBI, and no one would give me any information on the two crews.”

  “Did you tell them you were a doctor and that both pilots and co-pilots are legally blind?”

  “No, but I’ll let you call and see what you can find out.”

  “Maybe later.” I asked, “What are the names of the co-pilots?”

  “Oddly, the flight plans don’t ask for the name of the co-pilot.”

  I could see that the Federal Aviation Administration hadn’t tightened up its act regarding private aviation since 9/11. But I already knew that.

  Kate said, “The flight plan does show the number of persons on board, and both aircraft had two. Pilot and co-pilot.”

  “Okay . . . so these aircraft landed at LAX and SFO, no passengers, and they’ve been parked there since Sunday night, and there are no new flight plans filed, and I assume Captain Black and Captain Bellman and their unidentified co-pilots are enjoying the sights of LA and San Francisco as they await further instructions.”

  “It would seem so.”

  I thought about all of this and concluded that maybe it had no meaning, and was perfectly normal. Just four pilots jetting across the continent without passengers, burning jet fuel at the rate of several hundred gallons per hour, while their boss transported more fuel into the country in his tankers. I asked Kate, “Does this seem strange to you?”

  “In and of itself, maybe yes. But we don’t know this world.” She informed me, “One of the FBO employees in San Francisco, for instance, suggested that maybe these aircraft had been chartered by someone for a pickup in San Francisco.”

  “Do you think a man like Madox charters his personal jets to make a few bucks?”

  “Apparently some rich people do. But there’s more.”

  “I hoped there was.”

  Kate continued, “I spoke to a Ms. Carol Ascrizzi, who works for Signature Flight Support in San Francisco, and she told me she was asked to transport the pilot and co-pilot in the courtesy van to the taxi line at the main terminal.”

  This didn’t seem unusual or important, but I could tell by Ms. Mayfield’s tone of voice that it was. “And?”

  “And, Ms. Ascrizzi said that GOCO, like most bigger companies, almost always books a car and driver ahead of time to take the flight crew wherever they need to go. Therefore, she found it odd that this pilot and co-pilot needed to take a taxi from the main terminal. So, Ms. Ascrizzi, wanting to be nice to good customers, told me she offered to drive the two guys to their hotel.” Kate informed me, “Apparently, these crews usually stay in some place with corporate rates near the airport. But the co-pilot told her, thanks, but they were going downtown, and they’d take a taxi.”

  “Okay . . . did she know where they were going?”

  “No, they didn’t say.”

  Which, I thought, could be why they were taking a taxi and not the offered courtesy van, and why there was no livery car waiting for them. “All right. Anything else?”

  “Yes, she told me that these two guys—pilot and co-pilot—had two large black leather trunks with them. The trunks were padlocked, and they were on wheels, and they were very heavy, and it took both men to get each trunk into the van.”

  “Okay. Big and heavy. Padlock and wheels.” I said, “I guess that was the cargo that Chad saw at the airport here. Now, it’s been off-loaded in San Francisco, and I assume LA also.” Kate wasn’t bringing this information to any point, so I mentioned helpfully, “Maybe the men had their wives or girlfriends on board as stowaways, and these big, heavy trunks held two days of clothes for the ladies.”

  She inquired, “How did you manage to get a sexist remark into a conversation about aircraft cargo?”

  “Sorry.” It wasn’t easy. “I was just speculating.” I further speculated, “So . . . gold? Two dead bodies? What?”

  “You should think about it.”


  “Okay. What did Carol Ascrizzi say? Was she suspicious? Did the pilot and co-pilot act suspicious or nervous?”

  “The pilot and co-pilot, according to Ms. Ascrizzi, were perfectly normal, and joked about the weight of the trunks and the fact that GOCO hadn’t booked a car and driver for them. The co-pilot flirted with Ms. Ascrizzi and told her he hoped he’d see her Wednesday when they returned to the airport for their departure.”

  “Okay . . . departure to where?”

  “The co-pilot said their final destination was LaGuardia, but he didn’t say what stops they’d make en route. The pilot left instructions at Signature Flight Support to have the aircraft ready for a noon departure on Wednesday with full fuel.”

  “All right . . . so, the pilot and co-pilot, according to Ms. Ascrizzi, seemed normal, but the cargo did not.” I thought about that and said, “So, the cargo was flown to LA and San Francisco in two private jets, rather than one jet, making two stops in those nearby cities.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And there was no car and driver to take the crew and this cargo to where they needed to go.”

  “Correct.”

  “And the pilot instructed Signature Flight Support in San Francisco to have the aircraft ready for a noon Wednesday departure with the final destination of LaGuardia, but from what you said, they hadn’t yet filed a flight plan with the FAA.”

  “Correct. But that’s not unusual. Flight plans, I discovered, need to be filed near the time of departure, to take into account current weather, airport traffic, and so forth.”

  “That’s logical.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t feed your paranoia.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. I got more where that came from. In fact, here’s one—the pilot and co-pilot’s secret destination in San Francisco.”

  “Why secret?”

  “Well, there was no hired car and driver, which would leave a paper trail, plus they passed up the opportunity to take the courtesy van into town after loading these trunks full of bricks or something into the van, which then had to be off-loaded at the taxi line, then loaded into two taxis, because of the size of the trunks, for the trip into town. Does that make sense?”

  “No. So, I called Garrett Aviation Service at LAX and got a guy named Scott on the phone who asked around while I was on hold, and he got back to me with pretty much the same story—two big black trunks, and the courtesy van only to the taxi line.”

  “Ah. So, apparently these four guys had the same instructions—to take taxis to wherever they were going with those trunks.”

  “It would seem that way.”

  “So, quite obviously, these two flight crews had a secret destination or destinations in LA and San Francisco, and that’s why they each took a taxi, which would take a lot of luck to trace. Now, the question is, Does this have anything to do with Bain Madox’s insane plan to become Emperor of North America, or whatever the hell he’s up to? Or, is it not relevant?”

  “I think it’s relevant.”

  “Is this the bad news?”

  She replied, “We need more context. Now, you tell me about your conversation with Madox.”

  “Okay. Then I get the bad news?”

  “Yes. Unless you can figure it out yourself before we’re finished with the other items on the agenda.”

  “That’s a challenge. Okay, do I have everything I need to figure out the bad news?”

  “You’re at the point where I was when I figured it out. Then I found one more piece of information that confirmed what I was afraid of.”

  “Okay. Wow.”

  I thought about that, and there was something coming together in my brain, but before it fell into place, Kate said, “You’re on. Custer Hill. Bain Madox.”

  All roads lead back to Custer Hill and Bain Madox.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Isat back on the couch, and Kate sat in an easy chair. I said, “All right. First, Bain Madox was half expecting me.” I added, “Great minds think alike.”

  I love it when she rolls her eyes. It’s so cute. I continued, “The house staff seems to be gone, but the security guards are there, and so is Carl.”

  I gave Kate a short briefing of my time with Bain Madox, including the tangential discussions about being wounded in the line of duty, and Madox’s odd obsession with bears. I said to her, “But maybe these topics were not tangential. Madox may have been speaking allegorically.”

  “Sounds more like macho bullshit to me.”

  “Right. That, too. More important, I put Mr. Bain Madox on official notice that he was a material witness in a suspected homicide.” I explained my bogus suspicions about one of his security guards being Harry’s killer. “So, now we have him in a tight spot.”

  Kate reminded me, “Murdering a Federal agent is not a Federal crime.”

  “Well, it should be.”

  “But it’s not.” She informed me, “New York State has the jurisdiction. That means Major Schaeffer.” She asked, “Don’t you teach that in your class at John Jay College of Criminal Justice?”

  “Yes, I teach it. I don’t practice it. Actually, I covered myself by using the word assault, which is a Federal crime.” I added, “Madox is not a lawyer. He’s a suspect.”

  “But he has a lawyer.”

  “Don’t sweat the small stuff.”

  She looked a little exasperated with me, but conceded, “I guess that was a good move. Is that about the time he asked you to dinner?”

  “Actually, it was.” I added, “He’ll have some of the information that I asked for tonight.”

  “Yeah, right. Well, now you need to officially notify Major Schaeffer and Tom Walsh of what you did.”

  “I will.”

  “When?”

  “Later.” I continued to fill in more of what Madox and I spoke about, but I didn’t mention that a moment had come when I considered a classically simple solution to a complex problem. I wanted to say to my wife and partner, “Just as Madox had solved his Harry Muller problem with a half ounce of lead, I could have resolved the entire Madox problem in less time than it took to pick the lint off the rug.” But I didn’t say that.

  I did say, however, “Madox expressed his condolences about Harry, though he couldn’t remember Harry’s name.”

  Kate looked at me.

  I said, “Madox wanted to know if there was a fund he could contribute to.”

  She kept looking at me, and I think she suspected that I’d thought about expedited justice, used now and then in cases of cop killers.

  Kate said to me, “I called Harry’s girlfriend, Lori Bahnik.”

  This took me by surprise, but I realized I should have done that by now. “That was nice of you.”

  “It wasn’t an easy conversation, but I assured her we were doing everything possible to get to the bottom of this.”

  I nodded.

  “Lori said to say hello to you. She’s glad that it’s you on the case.”

  “Did you tell her I wasn’t on the case any longer?”

  “No, I did not.” Kate stared at me and said, “Last I heard, you and I were on the case.”

  We made eye contact and exchanged brief smiles. I switched subjects. “Well, bottom line with Bain Madox is that he is now feeling pressed, and he may do something stupid, desperate, or clever.”

  “I think he’s already done all three by inviting you to dinner.”

  “Us, darling. And I think you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right. So, why don’t you just play right into his hands and show up? Or, do something more clever like don’t show up.” She asked, “May I call Tom Walsh now?”

  I ignored that and continued my briefing. “I also got a good look at Madox’s back lot from his second-story office window.” I informed her, “There’s a barracks there big enough to hold twenty or thirty men, but I imagine not more than half are on duty at any time. Plus, there’s a stone building with three chimneys belching smoke, and a diesel generator service t
ruck parked outside.”

  She nodded and said again, “It may be time to share this information. I’ll call Tom, you call Major Schaeffer.”

  “All right. I’ll call Hank Schaeffer first, so we’ll have more things to chat about with Tom Walsh.”

  I stood and went to the desk phone, and using my phone debit card, I called state police headquarters in Ray Brook.

  Major Schaeffer was in for Detective Corey, and he asked me, “Where are you?”

  I hit the Speaker button and replied, “I’m not sure, but I’m looking at a menu in French.”

  Major Schaeffer wasn’t amused. “Did you get my message that your Hertz car was at The Point?”

  “I did. Thank you.”

  He informed me, “Your friend, Liam Griffith, is not happy with you.”

  “Fuck him.”

  “Should I pass that on?”

  “I’ll do it myself. By the way, I went to the Custer Hill Club, and there was no visible stakeout there.”

  “Well,” he replied, “they were there. I pulled them back to Route 56 because this black Jeep kept snooping around. I have another team on the logging road in case anyone comes in or out from the back roads.”

  “Okay.” I inquired, “Anything new with your surveillance team?”

  “No one has arrived at the Custer Hill Club, except you in a white Enterprise rental Hyundai, and also a diesel service truck.” He gave me the details of my arrival and departure, and asked me, “What the hell were you doing there?”

  “I’ll get to that. Has the diesel service truck left yet?”

  “Not as of five minutes ago. No one else has left the subject property, so I guess this guy Putyov is still there.” He asked me, “Did you see any sign of him there?”

  “No, I didn’t.” I asked him, “Was I followed after I left the Custer Hill Club?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I was called directly by my surveillance car, who told me it was an Enterprise rental, and the renter was a Mr. John Corey, and I told them you were on the job.”

  “Okay.” So, if that was true, then the state police hadn’t seen the vehicle switch at Rudy’s gas station. If it wasn’t true, then I was driving around in a hot van. But that only mattered if I didn’t trust Major Schaeffer, and the jury was out on that. Bottom line, I really think I would have noticed if I’d been followed.