“I beg to differ. Revenge brings closure.” He added, “Unfortunately, that war ended before I could return to duty and even the score.”
I had the sudden thought that if I could pin Harry’s murder on this guy, his lawyer would plead insanity, and the judge would say, “I agree, Counselor. Your client is out of his fucking mind.”
It occurred to me that this guy had probably been lost in limbo after the Soviets went belly-up, and there were no major-league enemies left that were worth his attention, or who needed to be killed so that Bain Madox could save the nation.
Then came September 11, 2001. And that, I was sure, was what this was all about.
He changed the subject abruptly and asked me, “Have you gotten into the woods at all?”
“A little this morning. Why?”
“I was wondering if you’d seen any bears.”
“Not yet.”
“You should try to see a bear before you go back to the city.”
“Why?”
“It’s an experience. They’re fascinating to watch.”
“They don’t look that interesting on the National Geographic Channel.”
He smiled and said, “You can’t smell them on television. The thrill is being face-to-face with a wild animal that you know can kill you.”
“Right. That’s a thrill.”
“But if you’re armed, that’s cheating. The interesting thing about black bears is that you can actually interact with them. They’re dangerous, but they’re not dangerous. Follow?”
“I think I lost you after the first ‘dangerous.’”
“Well, think of a lion on one hand, and a lamb on the other. With those animals, you know exactly where you stand. Correct?”
“Right.”
“But a bear—a black bear—is more complex. They’re intelligent, they’re curious, and they will often approach a human. Ninety-five percent of the time, they’re just looking for a handout. But five percent of the time—and it’s hard to tell when that is—they’re looking to kill you.” He took a step closer to me and said, “That is what makes it interesting.”
“Right. That’s interesting.”
“You see my point? The potential for death is there, but the likelihood of death is low enough so that you are drawn into the encounter for the thrill. Your heart races, your adrenaline shoots out of your ears, and you’re stuck right there, between fright and flight. You see?”
I mean, I didn’t smell alcohol on his breath, but maybe he was drinking vodka, or snorting something, or he was nuts. Or maybe this was a parable, about John and Bain.
He concluded with, “Now, a brown bear or a polar bear is a different story. You know exactly what’s on their minds.”
“Right. What are those colors again? Brown is . . . ?”
“Bad. Grizzly.”
“So, black is—”
“Not bad.” He added, “The white ones are polar bears. They’ll rip you apart.” He informed me, “We only have black bears here.”
“Good. And they know they’re black?”
He thought that was funny, then looked at his watch. “Well, again, thank you for stopping by. If . . . well, if there’s some sort of . . . fund established for Mr. Miller . . . please let me know.”
I totally lost it, but I took a breath and got myself under control. I really wanted to gut-shoot him, and watch him die slowly as I explained that me shooting him was very personal, and not at all professional and not what I was paid to do.
He seemed to be waiting for me to say good-bye, but I just stood there, and he said to me, “By the way, a mutual friend of ours, Rudy, stopped by last night.”
Or maybe I could explain to him that I shot him for God and country. I didn’t know what he was up to, but I was fairly certain that he had to be stopped, and if I didn’t stop him right now, then whoever tried to stop him later might be too late. Bain Madox would understand that.
He said, “Rudy. From the gas station in South Colton.”
I put both my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket and felt the butt of my Glock in my right hand.
Madox continued, “He seemed confused about something. He was under the impression I’d asked you to let him know that I wanted to see him.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No. Why did you tell him that?”
But if I shot him right here and now, only he would know why. And maybe that was enough.
But maybe I needed to know more. For sure, the police and the FBI would want to know more.
“Detective?”
And maybe, to be honest with myself, I couldn’t just pull my gun and shoot an unarmed man. And to be even more honest, Mr. Bain Madox intrigued me . . . no, he impressed me. And he’d already been shot—he’d survived a war, and he was, or believed he was, a patriot continuing to do his duty, and if I told him he was actually a psychopathic killer, he’d be shocked.
“Mr. Corey? Hello?”
We made eye contact, and I thought he guessed what was on my mind. In fact, his eyes focused on where my right hand was gripping the gun in my pocket.
Neither of us spoke, then he said to me, “Why did you tell him to tell me that you were a good shot?”
“Who?”
“Rudy.”
“Rudy?” I took another breath and brought my hand out of my pocket, empty. I said, “Rudy. Rudy, Rudy. How is Rudy?”
He seemed to sense a pivotal moment had passed, and he dropped the subject of Rudy. “I’ll have Carl show you out.” He walked to his desk, picked up a walkie-talkie, and was about to hit the Send button.
I said, “I’m here to investigate a homicide.”
He hesitated, then put down the walkie-talkie. He looked at me and asked, “What homicide?”
I moved closer to his desk and replied, “The murder of Harry Muller.”
He appeared appropriately surprised and confused. “Oh . . . I was told that it was an accident. The body had been found . . . I’m sorry, I should have expressed my condolences to you. He was a colleague of yours.”
“A friend.”
“Well, I am very sorry. But . . . I had a call from the sheriff’s office, and the person said this man’s body had been found in the woods and that it was ruled a hunting accident.”
“It hasn’t been ruled anything yet.”
“I see . . . so . . . there’s a possibility of foul play.”
“That’s right.”
“And . . . ?”
“I was hoping you could help me.”
“No . . . I’m sorry. What would I know about . . . ?”
I sat in the chair in front of his desk and motioned for him to have a seat.
He hesitated, aware that he didn’t have to sit and talk about this, and that he could ask me to get out of his chair, his house, and his life. But he wasn’t going to do that. He sat. Technically, I had no jurisdiction here to investigate a homicide—that was still the job of the state police. But Madox didn’t seem to know that, and I wasn’t about to give him a lesson in constitutional law.
We did the old eye-lock thing, and the guy never blinked. Amazing. How did he do that? Even guys with glass eyes blink.
He asked me, “How can I help you, Detective?”
“Well, it’s like this, Mr. Madox. Harry Muller, as you may know, was not here to watch birds.”
“You said he was.”
“He wasn’t. Actually, he was here to watch you.”
He didn’t feign shock or surprise. He seemed to think about that, nodded, then said to me, “I understand that the government is interested in me. A man in my position would be surprised if the government wasn’t interested in him.”
“Yeah? Why do you think the government is interested in you?”
“Well . . . because of my dealings with foreign powers. Oil pricing.” He informed me, “I’m a personal friend of the Iraqi oil minister.”
“No kidding? How’s he taking this war thing?”
“I haven’t spoken to h
im recently, but I imagine he’s not very positive about the imminent invasion of his country.”
“I guess not. So, you think the government is interested in you because . . . why?”
“Because my interests and the interests of the United States government don’t always coincide.”
“I see. So, whose interests come first?”
He smiled a little, then answered, “My country always comes first, but my country is not always well represented by my government.”
“Yeah. I can buy that. But let’s say for argument’s sake that the government doesn’t give a rat’s ass about your dealings with foreign powers. That maybe you’re wrong about that. So, why else would they be interested in you?”
“I have no idea, Mr. Corey. Do you?”
“No.”
“And why would Detective Miller from the Anti-Terrorist Task Force be sent to spy on me? Does the government think I’m a terrorist?”
“I don’t know. Who said that Detective Muller was from the Anti-Terrorist Task Force?”
He hesitated a second, then replied, “He’s a colleague of yours. You’re on the Task Force.”
“Right. Good detective work.”
He lit a cigarette, but again blew no smoke rings. “So, what you’re saying is that this man Miller—”
“Muller. Detective Harry Muller.”
“Yes. Detective Harry Muller was sent here to . . . spy on me—”
“And your guests.”
“And my guests, and you don’t know—”
“It’s called surveillance, by the way. Spying is a negative word.”
He leaned toward me. “Who gives a shit what it’s called?” He finally lost his cool, slammed his desk, raised his voice, and said, “If this man—Detective Muller—was sent here to . . . observe me and my guests, then I am damn pissed off about that! The government has no right to intrude on my privacy, or the privacy of my guests, who have lawfully assembled on private property for—”
“Right. Right, right, right. That’s another issue. The issue here is murder.”
“You say it is. The sheriff says it was an accident. And if it was murder, what does that have to do with me?”
If you tell the guy he’s a suspect, then you have to read him his rights, and I didn’t have the damn card with me, and if I did, and I read it, he’d say, “You got the wrong guy, Detective. Excuse me while I call my lawyer.”
So I said, “I didn’t say it had anything to do with you.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To tell you the truth”—which I had no intention of doing—“I think it might have something to do with one of your security people.”
He really wasn’t buying that, but it was good enough so that we could both pretend we were on to something, and continue our cat-and-mouse routine for a while.
He leaned back and said to me, “That’s . . . that’s incredible . . . but . . . I mean, do you have any evidence of this?”
“I can’t discuss that.”
“All right. But do you suspect anyone in particular?”
“I can’t say at this point.” I explained, “If I name a suspect, and I’m wrong, there’s hell to pay.”
“Right. But . . . I’m not sure, then, how I could help.”
“Well, the standard procedure is for the FBI to ask you for all your personnel files, then we begin to question your entire security staff, and also your house staff, to try to determine everyone’s location, movements, and so forth at around the time of the death.”
I went on a bit, and he listened, then said, “I still don’t understand why you think one of my staff may have committed a murder. What would be his or her motivation?”
“Well, I’m not sure. Maybe it was a case of overenthusiasm.”
He didn’t reply.
“Let’s call it going beyond the call of duty. Maybe there was an altercation. Maybe what happened could be ruled involuntary manslaughter, or some other lesser offense, like justifiable homicide.”
He thought about that and said, “I’d hate to think one of my men could do this. They’re well trained, and there’s never been an incident before.” He looked concerned. “Do you think, as an employer, I could be sued for wrongful death?”
“That’s not my area of expertise. You should ask your lawyer.”
“I will.” He reminded me, “As I said yesterday, lawsuits are ruining this country.”
I thought he’d said lawyers, but now that he needed one, they weren’t so bad after all. I suggested helpfully, “I’ll ask Ms. Mayfield about that.”
He didn’t reply but put out his cigarette, then said, “Well, I’ll provide whatever personnel files you or anyone may need.” He asked me, “When do you want all of this?”
“Probably tomorrow.” I informed him, “There’s an FBI Evidence Recovery Team on the way.”
“All right . . . I’m not sure the files are kept here. They may be in my New York office.”
“Let me know.”
“How can I reach you?”
“The Point. How can I reach you?”
“As I said, through my security staff.”
“That may not work out in this case,” I reminded him.
“Then through my New York office.”
“How about your cell phone?”
“My office has a twenty-four-hour operator. They will call my cell phone.”
“Okay. How long will you be staying here?”
“I’m not sure. Why?”
“One day, two days, a year? When are you leaving?”
He obviously wasn’t used to being grilled, and he replied with impatience, “Two or three days. How long will you be staying here?”
“Until the case is solved.” I asked him, “Where are you going when you leave here?”
“I . . . probably New York.”
“Okay. I have to ask you to notify the FBI in New York if you plan to leave the country.”
“Why?”
“You may be a material witness in a homicide investigation.”
He didn’t reply.
“Also, I’ll need you to provide me with a list of your weekend guests.”
“Why?”
“They may also be material witnesses. You know, they may have overheard something, or be able to give us information about security staff or house staff who were acting strangely. Or about the movements of other guests.” I said to him helpfully, “It’s like a murder-mystery weekend in a big country house. You know, like, did Mr. . . . say, Wolf, who was reading in the library, notice that . . . let’s say, Carl the butler was missing for two hours and came home with blood on his clothes. That sort of thing.”
No answer.
I continued, “Also, I’ll need any surveillance tapes that may have been taken on your property, or in this lodge. And I’ll need the security log, which I’m sure you, as a former Army officer, insist be kept. Who was on-duty, when they came on-duty, got off-duty, what security rounds they made, any unusual incidents, and so forth.” I reasserted, “I’m sure that log and those security tapes exist.”
He neither confirmed nor denied the existence of a logbook or security tapes.
I pulled out my notebook and said to him, “I wonder if you could give me the names of your weekend guests off the top of your head.” I reminded him, “I think you said there were about sixteen.”
By now, Mr. Bain Madox was feeling a little hemmed in, like George Custer. There didn’t seem to be any way out of this encirclement, but he found one. “I’m afraid I have to cut you short, Detective.” He explained, “I need to make some important phone calls to the Mideast, and it’s getting late there. And I have other pressing business to take care of.” He reminded me, “I run a business, and today is a workday.”
“I know that. I’m working a homicide.”
“I appreciate that, but . . . I’ll tell you what. I have an idea.”
“Good. What’s your idea?”
“Why don’t you co
me back this evening? We can mix business and pleasure. Let’s say cocktails at seven, and if you’d like to stay for dinner, that would be fine.”
“Well, I don’t know about dinner. Henry is doing woodcock tonight.”
He smiled and said, “I think I can do better than that, and I’ll also have a list of my weekend guests for you.”
“Terrific.” I couldn’t drop my lint roller on the rug without explaining why I was playing with a lint roller, so I slipped off my shoes and rubbed my socks over the fuzzy oriental rug, which is always easy to match.
I really had the strong sense that Harry had been here, and in about two days, I might know. Then, I could come back here with an arrest warrant for Mr. Bain Madox for murder, or better yet, since that charge might not stick, I could, in good conscience, gut-shoot him. Unless, of course, by that time, he was in Iraq or someplace playing poker with the oil minister.
I asked him, “Who’s cooking tonight?”
“I’ll work something out.” He added, “I can do the cocktails. Scotch, correct?”
“Right. Well, that’s very nice of you.”
“And of course bring Ms. Mayfield.”
“I’ll see if she’s back from her yodeling.”
“Good. Dress is casual.” He added with a smile, “No tux.”
“Tux is tomorrow night.”
“That’s right. Wednesdays and Saturdays.” He prompted, “Please talk Ms. Mayfield into coming, and tell her not to worry about how to dress.” He said to me, man-to-man, “You know how women are.”
“I do? When did that happen?”
We both got a little chuckle out of that, and we were bonding again. Great. Meanwhile, I wondered if Kate and I would get out of here alive. “Will anyone be joining us?”
“Uh . . . I’m not sure yet. But you and I can retire to the library if we need to take care of some business.”
“Good. I hate to talk about murder at dinner.” I asked him, “Are any of your weekend guests still here?”
“No. They’ve all left.”
Maybe he forgot about Mikhail Putyov.
He stood and said, “So, seven for cocktails, then some business, then dinner if you can pull yourself away from the woodcock.”
“That’s a tough call.” I slipped on my shoes, stood, and said, “Hey, what’s étuvée of vegetables?”