“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 him 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 come 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?”
“I’m not sure.” He gave me some advice. “Don’t eat anything you can’t pronounce, and never eat anything whose name has an accent mark over any of the letters.”
“Great advice.”
“Again, sorry about Detective Muller. I hope to God it had nothing to do with any of my staff, but if it did, you can be assured of my complete cooperation.” He added, “I’ll see about the information you asked for.”
“Thanks. Meanwhile, mum’s the word. We don’t want to spook anyone.”
“I understand.”
We shook, I left his office, and there was Carl standing a few feet from the door. He said to me, “I’ll show you out.”
“Thanks. You could get lost in this place.”
“That’s why I’m showing you out.”
“Right.” Asshole.
We descended the stairs, and I asked Carl, “Where’s the restroom?”
He motioned to a door off the hallway. I went in and took the hand towel from a ring and wiped some surfaces, collecting hair, skin cells, and whatever other DNA the forensic people liked to play around with. I wished I could have gotten Madox’s cigarette, but short of asking him if I could keep his butt for a souvenir, that wasn’t possible.
I stuffed the hand towel in the small of my back and exited.
Carl showed me to the front door.
I said to him, “See you at six.”
“Seven.”
Not too bright. But loyal. And dangerous.