Nelson Demille - Wild fire

“Who rented the car?”

“This may be interesting…”

“What?”

“This guy’s name. It’s Russian. Mikhail Putyov.”

She thought about that. “Doesn’t sound like a member of the club to me.”

“Me, neither. Maybe Madox invites old Cold War enemies to the club to reminisce.” Still standing, I dug into the omelet and asked Kate, “Do you want breakfast, or do you want to keep painting?”

No reply.

“We have to get going.”

No reply.

“Sweetheart, can I bring you your juice, coffee, and a piece of toast?”

“Yes, please.”

I’m not that well trained yet, but I’m learning. I brought her juice, buttered toast, and coffee to the vanity table and asked, “Do you have cell service?”

“No.”

“I need to make another call from the kitchen.”

“Who are you calling?”

“Someone who can get a make on this Russian guy.”

“Call our office.”

“I’d rather not.”

She informed me, “We’re already in trouble, John. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Here’s the way the world works. Information is power. If you give away your information, you give away your power to negotiate the trouble you’re in.”

“Here’s the way my world works,” Kate replied. “Stay out of trouble.”

“I think it’s too late for that, sweetheart.”

Iwent back into the Great Hall, where about a dozen people, including Cindy and Sonny, were now scattered around the two tables having breakfast. Cindy smiled and waved. Sonny was looking for Kate.

I re-entered the kitchen, and the same kid was on the phone again, placing another order. I said to him, “Henry wants to see you. Now.”

“Huh?”

“I need the phone. Now.”

He got sulky on me but hung up, then stomped off. Young people need to learn patience and respect for others.

I got the number I needed from my cell-phone directory and dialed.

A familiar voice answered, “Kearns Investigative Service.”

I said, “I think my dog is an Iraqi spy. Can you do a background check on him?”

“Who is-? Corey?”

“Hey, Dick. I got this French poodle who every Friday night turns toward Mecca and starts howling.”

He laughed and said, “Shoot the dog. Hey, how you been?”

“Great. You?”

“Terrific. Where’re you calling from? What’s The Point?”

“The point of what? Oh, it’s the place I’m staying at. Saranac Lake.”

“Vacation?”

“Job. How’s Mo?”

“Crazy as ever. How’s Kate?”

“Great. We’re working this together.”

We made polite small talk for a minute. Dick Kearns is former NYPD homicide, part of my Blue Network, which I noticed was getting smaller every year as guys retired and moved, or died natural deaths-or, like Dom Fanelli and six other guys I knew, died in the line of duty on 9/11.

Dick was also briefly assigned to the ATTF, where he’d gotten a top secret clearance and learned how the Feds worked, so when he retired he got a gig doing background checks for the FBI on a freelance basis. He’s in a growth industry since 9/11, and he’s making more money than he ever did as a cop with half the stress. Good for Dick.

The small talk out of the way, I said to him, “Dick, I need some info on a guy.”

“Okay, but I’m up to my ears in work. I’ll do what I can. When do you need it?”

“Noon.”

He laughed. “I have ten background checks I’m doing for the FBI, and they’re all late.”

“Give them all top secret clearances and send the bill. Look, for now, I just need some public-record stuff and maybe a few phone calls to follow up.”

“Noon?”

I noticed that some of the staff seemed interested in my conversation, so I lowered my voice and said to Dick, “It may be a matter of national security.”

“And you’re calling me ? Why don’t you have your own office do it?”

“I asked, and they referred me to you. You’re the best.”

“John, are you sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong again?”

Apparently, Dick remembered that he’d helped me, unofficially, with the TWA 800 case, and now he thought I was up to my old tricks again. I was, but why trouble him with that? I said, “I’ll owe you a big favor.”

“You owe me from the last time. Hey, whatever happened with that TWA 800 thing?”

“Nothing. You ready to copy?”

“John, I do this for a living. If I help you, I could go broke, get fired, or get arrested.”

“First name, Mikhail.” I spelled it.

He sighed, spelled it back to me, and asked, “Russki?”

“Probably. Last name, Putyov.” I spelled it, and he confirmed.

“I hope you’ve got more than that.”

“I’m going to make this easy for you. I’ve got a car-rental agreement, and unless this guy used false ID, I’ve got all you need.”

“Good. Let’s have it.”

I read him all the pertinent information from the Enterprise rental agreement, including Putyov’s address, which was Cambridge, Massachusetts. Dick said, “Okay, this should be easy. What’s this guy up to? What is your area of interest?”

“I don’t know what he’s up to, but I think I need to know what he does for a living.”

“That comes with the basic package. Where do I send my bill?”

“To my ex-wife.” Dick didn’t need any more reason to do this other than to help a former brother in blue, but to make sure he was motivated beyond the national security angle, I said to him, “Do you remember a guy I work with at 26 Fed-Harry Muller?”

“Yeah… retired from the job… you mentioned him.”

“Right. Well, he’s dead. Died up here, around Saranac Lake. You may see an obit or a piece in the papers, and the story may say he was killed in a hunting accident. But he was murdered.”

“Jeez… Harry Muller? What happened?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.”

“And this Russian guy is involved?”

“He’s involved with the guy who I think did the murder.”

“Okay… so… noon, right? How do I reach you?”

“Bad cell reception here. I’ll call you. Be reachable.”

“Absolutely.”

“Thanks. Best to Mo.”

“Hello to Kate.”

I hung up and left the kitchen. I needed to find a better place to run this operation.

I made my way out of the Great Hall, into the rotunda, then out the door, where I saw my car with Kate at the wheel.

I jumped in the passenger seat and said, “Okay, we’ll know something about Mikhail Putyov by noon.”

She put the Taurus in gear and off we went.

I looked at the dashboard clock. “Do you think we can get there in thirty minutes?”

“That’s why I’m driving, John.”

“Do I need to remind you of your sheer panic in Manhattan traffic?”

“I don’t panic… I practice tactical evasion techniques.”

“So does everyone around you.”

“Very funny. Hey, what’s in the backseat?”

I glanced over my shoulder. “Oh, I thought ahead and had the chef pack us a picnic lunch.”

“Good thinking. Did you meet him?”

“I did. Henry. Henri. Whatever.”

“Were you awful?”

“Of course not. He’s doing pigs-in-the-blanket during cocktails. Just for me.”

I don’t think she believed me.

We passed through the gates, down the narrow, tree-lined lane, and turned onto the road. Kate gassed it, and we were off to see the state police unless they saw us first and pulled us over for reckless driving.

Kate inquired, “Anything new with Major Schaeffer?”

“There is. He took my advice and began surveillance on the Custer Hill property.”