I wasn’t expecting any funny business while we were in motion—also, I figured that Madox wanted to at least say hello and size up the situation before he made a move.
On that subject, I wondered if he would opt for a macho move, like an armed confrontation. Or, would he take the less confrontational approach, like a Mickey Finn in our drinks, followed by a short trip through the wood chipper?
If Madox was going to go military on us, then I was playing the odds that not all of his security guards were trusted killers, so maybe we’d have to deal with only Madox, Carl, and two or three other guys.
A more positive but probably unrealistic thought was that there wasn’t going to be a poisoning or shoot-out at the Custer Hill Club, and that Bain Madox, when confronted with our evidence and placed under arrest, would realize that the game was up and admit to murdering Federal Agent Harry Muller, then lead us to the ELF transmitter. Case closed.
I glanced at Kate, who looked calm and composed. We made eye contact, and I smiled and winked at her.
I also got a look at Carl’s face. Usually, you can tell by the face and body language if a guy knows that something unpleasant is about to happen. Carl didn’t seem tense, but neither was he relaxed.
Carl stopped in front of a set of double doors, one of which had a brass plate that said BAR ROOM. He knocked, opened one door, and said to us, “After you.”
“No,” I said, “after you.”
He hesitated, then entered and motioned to the left, where Mr. Bain Madox stood behind a mahogany bar, smoking and listening on the phone, which I noticed was a landline, not a cell.
Across the dimly lit room was a burning fireplace, to the right of which was a set of drawn drapes that may have covered a window, or a set of double doors leading outside.
I heard Madox say, “All right. I have company. Call me later.” He hung up, smiled, and said, “Welcome. Come in.”
Kate and I gave the place a quick look, then took different paths around the furniture to the bar. I heard the door close behind us.
Madox put out his cigarette. “I wasn’t sure you’d gotten Carl’s message at The Point, and I hoped you hadn’t forgotten.”
Kate and I reached the bar, and I said, “We’ve been looking forward to the evening.”
Kate added, “Thank you for inviting us.”
We all shook hands, and Madox asked, “What can I get you?”
I was glad he didn’t say, “Name your poison,” and I inquired, “What are you drinking?”
He indicated a bottle on the bar and replied, “My private-label single malt, which you enjoyed yesterday.”
“Good. I’ll take it straight up.” In case you drugged the soda water or ice cubes.
Kate said, “Make it two.”
Madox poured two scotches into crystal glasses, then refreshed his own drink from the same bottle, which may have been his polite way of showing us that the scotch wasn’t going to kill us.
True to his word, Madox was dressed casually in the same outfit he’d worn this afternoon—blue blazer, white golf shirt, and jeans. So Kate and I would feel comfortable when we arrested him.
He raised his glass and said, “Not a happy occasion, but to happier times.”
We clinked glasses and drank. He swallowed. I swallowed. Kate swallowed.
I could see the darkened room in the bar mirror, and there was another set of open doors at the far end of the room that led into what appeared to be a card room or game room.
Also, behind the bar, to the left of the liquor shelves, was a small door that probably led to a storage area or wine cellar. In fact, there were too many doors in this place, plus drapes drawn across what could be doors leading outside. And I don’t like standing at the bar with my back to a room, with a guy behind the bar who could suddenly drop out of sight. So I suggested, “Why don’t we sit by the fire?”
Madox said, “Good idea.” He came around the bar as Kate and I walked to a grouping of four leather club chairs near the fireplace.
Before he could seat us, Kate and I took the chairs facing each other, leaving Madox to take one of the chairs facing the fireplace, with his back to the closed double doors. From where I sat, I could see the open doors to the card room, and Kate could see the bar where the small side door was.
Having claimed my seat, I stood and went to the drapes to the right of the fireplace and said, “Do you mind?” as I pulled them open. There was indeed a set of French doors there, which led to a dark terrace.
I came back to my chair, sat, and noted, “That’s a nice view.”
Madox did not comment.
Basically, all bases were covered, and I was sure that Bain Madox—ex–infantry officer—appreciated our concern about fields of fire.
Madox asked us, “Would you like to take your jackets off?”
Kate replied, “No, thanks. I’m still a little cold.”
I didn’t answer, and I noticed he wasn’t taking off his blazer, probably for the same reason we weren’t taking off our jackets. I didn’t see a bulge, but I knew he was packing something, somewhere.
I surveyed the room. It was more in the style of a gentlemen’s club rather than an Adirondack lodge. There was an expensive-looking Persian carpet on the floor, and lots of mahogany, green leather, and polished brass. There was not a dead animal in sight, and I hoped it stayed that way.
Madox said, “This room is an exact replica of the one in my New York apartment, which in turn I copied from a London club.”
I inquired, “Isn’t that a little confusing after you’ve had a few?”
He smiled politely, then said, “So, let’s get rid of some business.” He turned to me. “I have the duty roster of my security staff who were here over the weekend, and I’ll see that you have it before you leave.”
“Good. And your house staff?”
“I have a complete list of the staff who were working on the weekend.”
“And the security log and the security tapes?”
He nodded. “All copied for you.”
“Terrific.” And this left the sticky question of his rich-and-famous weekend guests. “How about the list of your houseguests?”
“I need to think about that.”
“What’s to think about?”
“Well, obviously, the names of these people are not everyone’s business.” He added, “Which I guess was why the government sent Mr. Muller here to get these names by . . . devious means. And now you want me to give you these names, voluntarily.”
I reminded him, “Harry Muller is dead, and this is now an investigation into his death.” I added, “You said this afternoon that you’d have those names for us.”
“I’m very aware of that, and I’ve called my attorney, who will get back to me tonight. If he tells me to turn over those names, I will give them to you tonight.”
Kate said, “If he doesn’t, we could subpoena that information.”
Madox replied, “That may be the best way for me to give you those names.” He explained, “That would take me off the hook with my guests.”
Basically, this was all bullshit to make us think he had some serious issues to consider. Meanwhile, all he was really thinking about was his ELF signal to Sandland, and how best to get Corey and Mayfield into the wood chipper.
He informed us, “My attorney tells me that the Federal government has no jurisdiction in a state homicide case.”
I let Kate handle that one, and she said, “Any murder charges that come out of this investigation will be brought by New York State. In the meantime, we’re investigating the disappearance of a Federal agent, and his possible kidnapping, which is a Federal crime, as well as a possible criminal assault on the deceased agent.” She asked Madox, “Would you like me to speak to your attorney?”
“No. I’m sure the United States government can find a Federal law to fit any crime these days, including jaywalking.”
Special Agent Mayfield replied, “I think this is a bit more serious than th
at.”
Madox let that slide, so I changed the subject to put everyone at ease. “Good scotch.”
“Thank you. Remind me to give you a bottle before you leave.” He said to Kate, “Not many women are single malt drinkers.”
“Around 26 Fed, I’m just one of the boys.”
He smiled at her, and responded, “I think they need eyeglasses at 26 Fed.”
Good old Bain. A man’s man, and a ladies’ man. A real sociopathic charmer.
Anyway, Madox figured we were finished with business and continued to charm Ms. Mayfield. “So, how was your yodeling class?”
Kate seemed a little confused by the question, so I said helpfully, “Yoga class.”
“Oh . . .” said Mr. Madox. “I thought you said yodeling class.” He chuckled and admitted to Kate, “My hearing is not what it used to be.”
Kate glanced at me. “It was a good class.”
Madox asked her, “How are you enjoying The Point?”
“It’s very nice.”
“I hope you’re staying for dinner. I promised Mr. Corey I could do better than Henri.”
Kate replied, “We’d planned to stay for dinner.”
“Good. In fact, since there’s no one here, and no one would know, you’re welcome to stay overnight.”
I didn’t know if that included me, but I replied, “We may take you up on that.”
“Good. It’s a long trip back to The Point—especially if you’ve been drinking, which you’re not doing enough of.” He smiled at me and expanded on the subject by saying, “Also, you’re not driving a vehicle that you’re familiar with.”
I didn’t reply.
He continued, “Let’s see—yesterday, you had a Taurus; this morning, you had a Hyundai; and tonight, you have Rudy’s van. Have you found something you like?”
I hate wiseasses, unless they’re me. I said to him, “I was just about to ask you to loan me a Jeep.”
He didn’t respond to that but inquired, “Why are you changing vehicles so often?”
To confuse him with the truth, I replied, “We’re on the run from the law.”
He grinned.
Kate said, “We’ve had problems with our two rental vehicles.”
“Ah. Well, I’m sure they would have given you another one—but that was good of Rudy to loan you his van.” He returned to the investigation. “I’ve made some inquiries, and this suspected homicide hasn’t even come to the attention of the sheriff’s office.” He informed us, “They’re still ruling it an accident.”
I noted, “This investigation is Federal and state, not local. What’s your point?”
“No point. Just an observation.”
“I think you should leave the jurisdictional aspects of this case to the law.”
He didn’t answer, and neither did he seem annoyed at the rebuke. Obviously, he wanted us to know that he knew more than he should know—including, possibly, that Detective Corey and FBI Agent Mayfield were not in close contact with their colleagues, and wanted to stay that way by switching vehicles every twelve hours.
I didn’t know if Bain Madox knew that for sure, but he definitely knew that we hadn’t made a cell-phone call within ten or fifteen miles of here.
So we sat in neutral for a minute—logs blazing, scotch and crystal glistening in the fire—then Madox said to Kate, “I expressed my condolences to Mr. Corey, and I’d like to do the same to you. Was Mr. Muller a friend of yours, also?”
Kate replied, “He was a close colleague.”
“Well, I’m truly sorry. And I’m very upset that Mr. Corey believes that one of my security staff may have been involved in Mr. Muller’s death.”
“I also believe that. And on the subject of upset, you can imagine how upset Detective Muller’s children are to learn that their father is not only dead but was probably murdered.” She stared at our host.
Madox returned the stare but did not respond.
Kate continued, “And the rest of his family, and his friends and colleagues. When it’s murder, the grief turns to anger very quickly.” She informed our host, “I’m damned angry.”
Madox nodded slowly. “I can understand that. And I sincerely hope that none of my security people were involved, but if they were, I also want to see this person brought to justice.”
Kate said, “He will be.”
I opened a new possibility and said, “It could even have been one of your house staff . . . or your houseguests.”
He reminded me, “You thought it was one of my security guards. Now, it sounds as though you’re on a fishing expedition.”
“A hunting expedition.”
“Whatever.” He asked me, “Can you be more specific about why you think one of my staff—or houseguests—was involved in what you believe is a homicide?”
I think we all knew that we really meant Bain Madox—and somehow, I didn’t think he really gave a shit.
Nevertheless, I thought that some inside information about the case might shake him up, so I said to him, “Okay, one, I have solid evidence that Detective Muller was actually on your property.”
I looked at Madox, but he had no reaction.
I continued, “Two, we believe through forensic evidence that Detective Muller was actually in this house.”
Again, no reaction.
Okay, asshole. “Three, we have to assume that Detective Muller was detained by your security people. We also have evidence that his camper was originally close to your property, then moved.” I explained all of that in detail.
Still no reaction, except a nod, as though this were interesting.
I outlined some of the case to Mr. Bain Madox, describing how the murder was done by at least two persons—one driving the victim’s camper, the other in a separate vehicle that I said could have been a Jeep, or an all-terrain vehicle, based on two separate sets of tire marks, which we actually didn’t find, but he wouldn’t know that for sure.
I lied that the initial toxicology report showed strong sedatives in the victim’s blood, then I described how I thought the actual murder took place with the victim drugged, and held in a kneeling position with the binocular strap, and so forth.
Madox again nodded as though this were still interesting but somehow abstract.
If I expected some reaction—like shock, disbelief, discomfort, or amazement—then I was going to be disappointed.
I took a sip of scotch and stared at him.
The room was silent, except for the crackling fire, then Madox said, “I’m impressed that you could gather so much evidence in so short a time.”
I informed him, “The first forty-eight hours is the critical period.”
“Yes. I’ve heard that.” He asked me, “How did forensic evidence point back to this lodge?”
“If you really want to know, I collected rug fibers, plus human and dog hairs when I was here, and they matched what was found on Detective Muller’s clothes and body.”
“Did they?” He looked at me and said, “I don’t recall giving you permission to do that.”
“But you would have.”
He let that alone, and said to me, “That was very quick lab work.”
“This is a homicide investigation. The victim was a Federal agent.”
“All right . . . so, from these fibers . . . ?”
I gave him a quick course in fiber analysis. “The fibers on the victim match the ones I found here. The dog hairs will probably match the hairs on your dog, what’s-his-name—”
“Kaiser Wilhelm.”
“Whatever. And the human hairs found on Detective Muller’s body, plus whatever other DNA turns up on the victim’s clothes or body, will lead us to the killer or killers.”
We made eye contact, and he still wasn’t blinking, so I said, “With your help, we can make a list of everyone who was here over the weekend, then get hair and DNA samples from them, and some fibers from clothing, such as those camouflage uniforms your security people wear. Understand?”
He nodded.
“Speaking of your army, where and how did you recruit these guys?”
“They’re all former military.”
“I see. So, we have to assume they’re all well trained in the use of weapons, and other types of force.”
He informed me, “More important, they’re all well disciplined. And as any military man will tell you, I’d rather have ten disciplined and well-trained men than ten thousand untrained and undisciplined troops.”
“Don’t forget loyal, and motivated by a noble cause.”
“Goes without saying.”
Kate asked our host, “How many security guards are actually here this evening?”
He seemed to read the subtext, and smiled slightly, the way Count Dracula would do if his dinner guest inquired, “So, what time does the sun rise around here?”
Madox answered, “I think there are ten men on-duty tonight.”
There was a knock on the door, and it opened, revealing Carl wheeling in a cart, atop which was a large covered tray.
Carl carried the tray to the coffee table, set it down, and removed the cover.
And there, on a silver tray, were dozens of pigs-in-the-blanket, the crust slightly brown, just the way I like it. In the center of the tray were two crystal bowls—one holding a thick, dark deli-style mustard, and the other, a thin, pukey yellow mustard.
Our host said to us, “I have a confession to make. I called Henri and asked him if either of you had expressed any food preference, and—voilá!” He smiled.
That wasn’t the confession I was hoping for, and he knew that, but this wasn’t bad either.
Carl asked, “Is there anything else?”
Madox replied, “No, but”—he looked at his watch—“see how dinner is coming along.”
“Yes, sir.” Carl left, and Madox said, “No woodcock tonight—just plain steak and potatoes.” He turned to me. “Have one of these.”
I caught Kate’s eye, and clearly she didn’t think I could resist a little piggy, drugged or not. And she was right. I could smell the aroma of the crust and the fatty beef hot dogs.
They all had toothpicks stuck in them—red, blue, and yellow—so all I had to do was guess which color marked the safe piggies. I chose blue, my favorite color, and picked one up, then dipped it in the deli mustard.