Nelson Demille - Wild fire

“And?”

“And, that Enterprise rental car we saw there, which was Putyov’s, was returned last night to the airport.”

“So, Putyov’s gone?”

“If he is, he didn’t leave last night from the airport. He… or maybe it was someone else driving his car… went back to the Custer Hill Club in a van.” As she drove, I filled her in, then took the rental agreement from my pocket and perused it. I said, “This guy Putyov rented the car Sunday morning. That means he flew in that day on the flight from Boston or Albany-”

“Boston,” she said. “I checked the flight manifests. Mikhail Putyov arrived at Adirondack Regional Airport, Lake Saranac, at nine twenty-five A.M. Sunday.”

“Right. He lives in Cambridge.” I glanced at the rental agreement. “Putyov rented the car for two days, so he was supposed to turn it in today. Instead, it was returned to the airport parking lot last night.” I asked her, “Did you check the flight reservations we got from Betty?”

“I did. Putyov is scheduled to depart today on the twelve forty-five to Boston.”

“Okay. We’ll check that out.” I thought a moment, then said, “I’m wondering why Putyov came in for this gathering later than the others, and why he is apparently still there after everyone else has left.”

“That depends on why he’s there. Maybe he has oil business with Madox.”

“Mr. Madox is a busy man. And a multi-tasker. A social weekend with old and powerful friends, then he murders a Federal agent, then he winds up the weekend with a Russian from Cambridge, Massachusetts. I don’t know how he fit us into his schedule.”

Kate commented, “I don’t think Harry was part of his weekend plans.”

But he may have been.

We headed east on Route 86, and Kate seemed to be having fun passing in the oncoming lane as huge trucks hurtled toward us. I said, “Slow down.”

“I can’t. The gas pedal’s stuck, and the brakes are gone. So just close your eyes and get some sleep.”

Kate, raised in a rural area, has a lot of these stupid on-the-road jokes, none of which I find funny.

I kept my eyes open and stared out the windshield.

Kate said to me, “I need to call John Nasseff. Do you know him?”

“No, but he has a nice first name.”

“He’s NCID, attached to the ATTF.”

I replied, “W-H-A-T?”

“Naval Criminal Investigation Division, John. He’s a commo guy.”

“Ask him about my cell phone.”

She ignored that and continued, “I was thinking about Fred, the Navy veteran. So, if that clue has any relevance at all, then we should ask a Navy commo guy about ELF and see if we hit on something.”

I wasn’t sure I was completely following this line of reasoning, but Kate might be onto something. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be calling 26 Federal Plaza with questions like that. I said, “I’d rather not call our office.”

“Why not? That’s where we work.”

“Yeah, but you know how everyone there gossips.”

“They don’t gossip . They exchange and provide information. Information is power. Right?”

“Only when you keep it to yourself. Let’s just go online and learn about ELF.”

“ You go online. I’m calling the expert.”

“Okay… but make it like a parlor game, like, ‘Hey, John, we have this bet going about extremely low frequency radio waves. My sister says they can hard-boil an egg, my husband says they’ll fry your brain.’ Okay?”

“Do you want him to think we’re idiots?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not as good as you are at playing stupid.”

“Then I’ll call him.”

“We’ll both call him.”

We arrived in the hamlet of Ray Brook, and Kate slowed down. About two blinks later, we pulled into the parking lot of the state police headquarters. It was 8:05 A.M.

Kate took her briefcase, and we got out of the Taurus and started walking toward the building, but a car suddenly pulled out of a parking space and stopped right in front of us.

I wasn’t sure what that was about, but I was on my guard.

The driver’s-side window went down, and Hank Schaeffer stuck his head out. “Jump in.”

We got in his car, an unmarked Crown Victoria, I in the front, Kate in the back.

I wondered why he was waiting for us in the parking lot instead of the lobby, but he clarified the situation by saying, “I have company this morning.”

I didn’t need to ask.

He pulled onto the road and said, “Six of them. Three from the New York field office, two from Washington, and one from your shop.”

I said, “They’re from the government, and they’re here to help you.”

“They’re helping themselves to my files.”

Kate, in the back, said, “Excuse me. I’m FBI.”

I turned to her. “We’re not criticizing the FBI, darling.”

No reply.

I asked Schaeffer, “Who’s here from the ATTF?”

“Guy named Liam Griffith. Know him?”

“Indeed. He’s from the Office of Professional Responsibility.”

“What the hell is that?”

“That’s Fed talk for Internal Affairs.”

“Really? Well, he’s looking for both of you.”

I glanced back at Kate, who seemed a little upset.

Some people called Liam Griffith the Enforcer, but the younger guys who’d seen The Matrix too many times called him the Agent in Black. I called him a prick.

I recalled that Griffith was supposed to be at that meeting in Windows on the World, but he’d been either late or uninvited. In any case, he’d escaped the fate of everyone who’d been there that morning.

Also, I’d had a few run-ins with Mr. Griffith during the TWA 800 case, and my last words to him in the bar at Ecco’s had been, “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

He took my suggestion, though he didn’t take it well.

Now, he was back.

Kate asked Schaeffer, “What did you tell him?”

“I told him you’d probably stop in today. He said he’d like to see you both when you arrive.” He added, “I figured you’d want to postpone that.”

I said to Schaeffer, “Thanks.”

He didn’t acknowledge that. “Your boss, Tom Walsh, called right after you left. He asked what we discussed, and I referred him to you.”

I replied, “Good. I referred him to you . Did you tell him we were staying at The Point?”

“No. Why?”

I glanced back at Kate, then said to Schaeffer, “Well, he left a message for us there.”

Schaeffer reiterated, “I didn’t mention it.”

Maybe, I thought, the FBI guys from the city, or Liam Griffith, had interviewed my friend Max at Hertz. I asked Schaeffer, “Did Walsh say we were assigned to this case?”

“No. But neither did he say that Griffith was here to pull you off the case. But I think he is.”

If Kate and I could speak freely now, we’d probably agree that basically we’d been screwed by Tom Walsh. In fact, I couldn’t keep that in, and I said to Kate, “Tom reneged on our deal.”

She responded, “We don’t know that… Maybe Liam Griffith just wants to… make us understand the terms of our assignment here.”

I replied, “I don’t think that’s why Walsh called the Office of Professional Responsibility, or why Griffith would fly here.”

She didn’t answer, but Schaeffer said, “Last I heard, you had seven days to crack the case, and until I hear otherwise, you’re the investigating team.”

“Correct,” I said.

Meanwhile, I needed to keep one step ahead of Liam Griffith.

Less than an hour after we’d left Ray Brook, we turned off Route 56 at Stark Road.

Our cell phones and beepers had been unusually quiet all morning, which would have been a real treat if it wasn’t so ominous.