Deadfall

by Linda Fairstein

  “Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia?” I said, puzzled by the mention of a name that was entirely extraneous to last night’s events. “That Scalia?”

  “Exactly.”

  Mike and Mercer both looked at me for an answer. “He died in February 2016. I think he was almost eighty years old, and he was at some ranch in Texas,” I said.

  “Not a ranch,” Mercer said. “More like a luxury hunting resort.”

  “That’s right. Hunting. Last thing I would have guessed about the man—being a big-game hunter,” I said. “I want to say he had refused his normal security detail, right?”

  “Yeah,” Mercer said. “US Marshals guard the Supremes, but Scalia went to Texas without protection.”

  Paul Battaglia had ordered his bodyguard to wait in the car. Was I supposed to be drawing similarities between them on that basis alone?

  “What did Scalia die of?” Mike asked.

  “Natural causes,” I said. “He must have had a heart attack. Went to dinner at the ranch but never woke up the next morning.”

  “Some conspiracy theorists claim the justice was murdered,” Mercer said.

  “But why?” I asked. “I get the no-marshals bit.”

  “And no medical examiner either. No autopsy was performed, even though Scalia was alone when he died—and there was a pillow found on his face.”

  “On his face?” I said. “That’s crazy.”

  “Well, it’s probably crazy and it’s certainly Texas for you,” Mercer said. “A local justice of the peace got the news by phone, and she made the decision that there wouldn’t have to be an autopsy.”

  “His family was okay with that?” Mike asked.

  “Seemed to be very okay with it,” Mercer said. “They had his body cremated, so even when the conspiracy stories first made the rounds, there was nothing to be done to confirm the manner of death.”

  “No one checked for petechial hemorrhaging in his eyes?” I said, referring to one of the hallmarks of an asphyxia death. “No mention of an odor on his breath for signs of possible poisoning?”

  “None of the above.”

  “Why was Scalia there in the first place?” Mike asked.

  “Way to go, Mike,” Mercer said, pointing his finger at his friend. “What do you know about the Venerable Order of Saint Hubertus?”

  “The what of who?”

  “Saint Hubertus,” Mercer said. “Either of you ever hear of him?”

  We both shook our heads.

  “Vickee’s been doing the research on it.”

  “What’s the connection?” I said.

  Mercer held out his arm to me, palm outward, telling me to wait. “Hubert was the patron saint of hunters—archers, trappers, fur hunters. When the Hapsburgs ruled the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Count Anton von Sporck—”

  “Spock?” Mike said.

  “Sporck,” Mercer repeated. “Von Sporck.”

  “No matter. The Trekkies will buy right into this conspiracy.”

  “Sporck gathered the greatest noblemen—hunters, of course—of the seventeenth century,” Mercer said, reading from his notepad. “Created this kind of knighthood of the rich and famous, related to hunting wild animals.”

  “Three hundred plus years ago, and it’s still a thriving order?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Mercer said. “It was put on a temporary hold by Hitler, because the group didn’t allow any Nazis in.”

  “Those bastards weren’t exactly hunting wild animals,” Mike said. “But the order is alive and well today? And Antonin Scalia was a member?”

  “Member or guest,” Mercer said. “Valerie’s got to nail that down before Commissioner Scully gets his public grilling from the hungry media. This much is clear: Justice Scalia died at Cibolo Creek Ranch. Thirty thousand acres of a private hunting preserve—stocked with deer and elk, buffalo and mountain lions. A really secretive fraternity of men with a boatload of expensive guns at their disposal.”

  “I think the plot’s about to thicken,” Mike said.

  “Paul Battaglia,” Mercer said, “was a member of the Order of Saint Hubertus.”

  “That’s not possible,” I said, pressing my fingers against the crown of my head, which felt like it was about to split in two. “He was such an activist about gun control. He’s on—he was on the board of the Wildlife Conservation Society. There’s no way he would hunt and kill wild animals.”

  “I’m telling you, Alex,” Mercer said. “You want to hear conspiracy chatter? The network has one assassination for sure, out in plain sight, with you as an unimpeachable witness. Maybe Scalia makes two.”

  “It just can’t be,” I said. “What’s the link, besides this Saint Hubertus nonsense?”

  “You won’t think it’s nonsense at all when I tell you that Paul Battaglia was at Cibolo Creek the night Justice Scalia died.”

  TWELVE

  “I’m just not buying into any conspiracy theories,” I said. “We’ve got to make sense of Battaglia’s murder before we do anything else. His politics were totally different from Scalia’s.”

  “We’ve still got to find out why the DA was at Cibolo Creek,” Mercer said.

  “Sure we do,” I said. “There may be a common thread here—I mean, I know that they were acquaintances, through the law, but let’s not jump in bed with the conspiracy faction.”

  The three of us were sitting at a round table in the corner at the Beach Café on Second Avenue. It had been my favorite neighborhood joint since I’d moved into my apartment, and Dave, the owner, treated us with kid gloves. They served the best burgers in the city, but somehow the idea of animal hunting had steered me to a really good salad for my lunch.

  “Wet work,” Mike said. “I bet that’s the angle the media bites at when they find out.”

  “No question,” Mercer agreed.

  “‘Wet work’ is a covert ops term for an assassination, Coop,” Mike said. “You know, spilling blood.”

  “I’m all too familiar with the term.” I put down my fork. My flashbacks were all about spilled blood. “They can run with some bullshit theory all they want, but we need to separate that crap from the truth.”

  “Professional killers,” Mercer said. “For certain, whoever shot Battaglia was an expert. That’s a more important connection to a game preserve in Texas—the sharpshooters the DA would have come in contact with.”

  “How did Vickee find out that Battaglia was a member of Saint Hubertus?” I asked.

  “It came in on the TIPS hotline,” Mercer said.

  “An anonymous caller, then,” I said.

  “So far, but they’re trying to up the amount of the reward to get more specifics.”

  “Did he tell us how we can confirm about Battaglia?”

  “It’s a she, Alex,” Mercer said. “The caller is a she.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Are there any women in the order?”

  “No, ma’am,” Mercer said.

  “Did you hear the man say it’s a knighthood, Coop? A secret fraternity?”

  “Things change,” I said.

  “Vickee has a hunch,” Mercer said.

  “Tell me it was a hooker,” Mike said, sinking his teeth into a cheeseburger piled high with onions and pickles. “Every hunter needs a hooker.”

  “I hope Vickee has a better guess than that,” I said.

  “The caller made a reference to taking Battaglia to the ranch,” Mercer continued. “Now, you can drive into that place. It’s a very long ride—actually miles and miles. But there’s a private jet landing strip, too, and a helicopter pad.”

  “So we’re looking at a flight attendant on some NetJets thing that Battaglia might have used, out of Teterboro or Westchester,” Mike said.

  I took the bottle of ketchup and covered his fries till they were lost beneath a damp mound of re
d mush. “She might have been the pilot, Detective. Like I said, things change.”

  “The woman who called also said that photographs exist,” Mercer went on. “That every time these men get together, they take a formal photograph of the group before the new investitures.”

  “Did she have one?” Mike asked.

  “No, but we found an old one online.”

  “With Battaglia?” I asked.

  “No such luck,” Mercer said, reaching for his iPad and Googling the Saint Hubertus name. “No Battaglia and no Scalia. But the shot is five years old.”

  He turned the machine around so that Mike and I could view the image. My jaw dropped.

  The photograph had been taken in Madrid, in front of El Escorial, the royal palace of the king of Spain.

  “Grown men playing dress-up!” I said, in utter disbelief of the picture before us.

  “The order is run by former King Juan Carlos of Spain,” Mercer said. “He’s the old guy in the middle of the front row. The others next to him are grand masters.”

  “They call them that? Grand masters?” I asked. “All they’re missing are white hoods.”

  Each of the men was dressed in a charcoal-gray suit and tie, but over their clothing, each wore a full-length cape. The material appeared to be a dark green velvet—forest green, as a designer might have dubbed it, or even more appropriately, hunter green. The capes were flung back on one side so that they draped over the right shoulder of every knight, exposing a bright red silk lining.

  “What the hell was a justice of the Supreme Court doing with these clowns?” Mike asked. “And how could the DA keep this a secret?”

  On the chest of each man’s cape, large and bold, was an insignia the size of a dessert plate. Against a background of embroidered gold thread was a dark green cross.

  “Can you enlarge it?” I asked. “Can you read the motto sewn into the insignia?”

  Mercer clicked on the screen.

  “Damn it,” I said. “Latin gets me every time.”

  I relied on Mike and his parochial school education, but even as he squinted, it appeared to be too difficult for him.

  “Looks like Deum diligite animalia diligentes,” Mike said. “But I have no idea what it means.”

  “You’re still sure about dead men not biting, aren’t you?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “I mean, we’re going into Battaglia’s secret territory now, and he wouldn’t take kindly to that.”

  Mercer was checking the Hubertus motto online. “That translates to ‘Honor God by honoring his creatures.’ Sound about right, Mike?”

  “That may be the meaning of the words, Mercer,” he said, “but it feels more like these assholes are honoring God’s creatures by blowing their brains out.”

  THIRTEEN

  “It doesn’t fit,” I said. “You’ll never convince me that Paul Battaglia is part of this group.”

  I was having another cup of coffee.

  “Stubborn doesn’t always work for you,” Mike said.

  “Two years ago, he was honored by Animals Without Borders, an offshoot of the great Wildlife Conservation Society,” I said. “Man of the year and all that goes with it. The whole executive staff had to fill seats at the black-tie dinner.”

  “Maybe they made a mistake,” Mike said. “Maybe Battaglia left his green robe at home in the bathroom.”

  “What does the society do?” Mercer asked.

  “Wonderful work,” I said. “Everywhere on the planet. They save endangered species all over the world. They keep places wild and free, when they can. They’re about conserving animal populations, not killing them.”

  “Why did they honor Battaglia?” Mike said.

  “He launched a really clever investigation in the White Collar Crimes Unit,” I said, referring to the prosecutors who handled commercial litigation and racketeering. Special Victims was part of the Trial Division, the group that specialized in violent street crime. “That’s why I don’t know all the details. But it grew out of the Lacey Act.”

  “What’s that about?” Mercer asked. “A new conservation law?”

  “It dates from 1900, actually,” I said. “A congressional act, designed more than a century ago because so many game species here at home were threatened with extinction. The laws have been updated and modified scores of times, to try to shut down international suppliers who find such a huge market in this country.”

  “What made the DA a hero?” Mike asked.

  “Operation Crash,” I said.

  “Crash?”

  “A herd of rhinos is called a crash,” I said. “Like a murder of crows.”

  I was actually thinking of a murder of a prosecutor when that phrase came to mind.

  “Some of the government agencies were working with US attorneys across the country to investigate the black market trade in rhino horns and other protected species,” I said.

  “What’s the deal with rhino horns?” Mike asked.

  “They’re a big deal in many of the Asian nations,” I said. “Vietnam, for instance. As a medicinal cure-all and as an aphrodisiac. A three-kilogram horn is worth three hundred thousand dollars. They’re more valuable per ounce than diamonds—or cocaine.”

  “We don’t have rhinos here,” Mike said.

  “Of course not,” I said. “But they’re protected by our laws as well as by international laws, because of the potential for smugglers.”

  “How did Battaglia get into the act?” Mike asked.

  “There’s a guy in Texas who used some day laborers to buy a couple of horns at an Austin auction house. Then he came here to sell them for a quarter of a million dollars,” I said. “It was Battaglia who ran the sting.”

  Mike was eating a slice of apple pie. “But it’s a federal law that was violated, right?”

  “Well done, Detective,” I said. “But James Prescott was too busy with Wall Street predators to worry about a crash of rhinos. He told the Department of Justice honchos that he couldn’t spare the manpower for undercovers to sit in a hotel room waiting for a bunch of bad guys to show up with the horns.”

  “So Paul Battaglia jumped right on it,” Mike said.

  “Sure he did.”

  “The crime was federal,” Mercer said. “So how did the local DA prosecute it?”

  “Same way as always,” I said, “by being creative. I think he nailed them for presenting fraudulent bills of sale and forged documents, all well within his jurisdictional limits. Paul did the legwork himself and stood on the podium at the presser with the two big rhino horns—quite a sight—and when the spotlight went off, he quietly turned over the underlying Lacey Act violations to Prescott to carry over the finish line.”

  “Ouch,” Mike said. “That must have been a sticky day between the two of them.”

  “One of many,” I said. “I bet Prescott goes berserk when this Hubertus stuff hits the airwaves. He’s likely to be so tempted to point out Battaglia’s hypocrisy.”

  Reporters would quickly uncover the animus that had surfaced during Operation Crash, when Battaglia presented himself as a wildlife champion and pointed the finger at Prescott, who hadn’t gotten off the mark on the issue. Now, the worm seemed to have turned, and the press would be trying every which way to find out about the Saint Hubertus lifestyle.

  “First the tabloids will try to put the district attorney in a green velvet robe,” I said, “and then they’ll drill down on Prescott.”

  “What’s to find?” Mercer asked.

  “I told you he was a southerner. A good ole boy from Middleburg, Virginia,” I said. “If I remember correctly, Skeeter specialized in game birds—pheasants, quail, partridges. And occasionally rode to the hounds for foxes.”

  Mike’s phone rang. “Chapman here.”

  The caller spoke to him.

  “Hey, Vinny. What’s up?”
Mike said. “You’re right, she left home an hour ago. I’ll give him a call. Thanks.”

  “Vinny, the doorman? What did he want?”

  “The US attorney sent two agents to your apartment to fetch you,” Mike said.

  “Unfetchable. That’s what I am.”

  “Why don’t you step outside for a few minutes,” Mike said.

  “Why?”

  “That way when I call Prescott back, I can tell him we’re not together right now,” Mike said. “I can tell him I’m not really sure where you are.”

  Mercer nodded at me. He and I got up and strolled out the door, leaving Mike with the bill and a chance to get to James Prescott.

  We were standing on Second Avenue, next to the new subway entrance that had finally opened. I put on my sunglasses to avoid the glare of the one P.M. brightness.

  “What’s the sport in shooting living things?” Mercer asked. “I’ve never understood it.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Mike followed us out a few minutes later. “Prescott’s getting steamed up, Coop.”

  “What now?”

  “I told him we ran together this morning—just in case anyone spotted us in the park—but I couldn’t be sure where you were right now.”

  “You’re living dangerously, Detective.”

  “He wants me to find you and take you to buy a phone,” Mike said. “And he wants me to tell you to call him, when I see you.”

  “Mission accomplished,” I said. “You’ve done your bit.”

  “And he wants you to be in his office first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Mike offered me his phone.

  I shook my head. “I’ll be sure to tell him I got the message to call, but I’ve got other things to do first.”

  “Like what?” Mike asked.

  “Prescott told me yesterday that I had an assignment, actually. He told me I had to figure out two things—who Diana is, and which person was the mutual friend of Battaglia’s and mine who was at the Met Monday night.”

  “So?”

  “I say we start with the WCS. I say we jump all over this Saint Hubertus mystery before I meet with Prescott tomorrow, so I go in ahead of the game.”