Kate gathered up the printouts and put them in her briefcase.
I asked Betty the standard question. “You notice anything unusual this weekend?”
She swiveled her chair toward us. “Like what?”
Why do they always ask that? “Unusual,” I said. “Like, not usual.”
She shook her head. “Not that I can think of.”
“More people arriving than usual?”
“Well, yeah, you get a lot of people on holiday weekends. Summer and winter are real big up here. But fall is getting big with the leaf watchers. Then, hunting begins, and then you got Thanksgiving weekend, and then Christmas, skiing, and-”
I stopped her before we got to Groundhog Day, and asked, “Did any of the passengers look unusual?”
“No. But you know what?”
“What?”
“Some big shot flew in from Washington.”
“Was he lost?”
She looked at Kate as if to say, Who is this asshole you’re with?
Kate picked up the ball. “Who was he?”
“I don’t remember. Secretary of something. His name should be on the passenger manifest.”
“How did he arrive?”
“CommutAir from Boston. I think it was Saturday. Yes, Saturday. He came in on the eleven o’clock flight, and one of our security guards recognized him.”
Kate inquired, “Did he rent a vehicle?”
“No. I remember he was met by a guy from the Custer Hill Club-that’s a private club about thirty miles from here. There were three other guys on that flight, and they seemed to be together.”
“How,” I asked, “did you know that the guy who met the secretary of something was from this club?”
“The driver had a uniform on that’s from the Custer Hill Club. They come here now and then to pick up passengers.” She added, “All four passengers got their luggage and went outside, where a van from the club was waiting for them.”
I nodded. Very little escaped notice in small places. “Did this van from the Custer Hill Club pick up any more arriving passengers from other flights?”
“I don’t know. I might have been off-duty.”
“Did the van drop off any departing passengers?”
“I don’t know. I can’t always see what’s going on at curbside.”
“Right.” I didn’t want to show any further interest in the Custer Hill Club so I switched gears to a cover story and said, “What we need to know is if you or anyone else saw someone who looked… how can I put this without sounding like I’m engaging in racial profiling…? Anyone who looked, well, like their country of origin may have been someplace where there are lots of camels?”
She nodded in acknowledgment, thought a second, then replied, “No, I think that kind of person would stand out.”
I’ll bet they would. “Can you do us a favor and ask around later?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “I sure can. You want me to call you?”
“I’ll call you, or stop in.”
“Okay. I’ll ask around.” She stood, and stared at us. “What’s this about? Is something going to happen?”
I moved closer to Betty and said in a low tone, “This has to do with the Winter Olympics in Lake Placid. Keep that to yourself.”
Betty processed that for a few seconds, then said, “The Winter Olympics were in 1980.”
I looked at Kate and said, “Damn! We’re too late.” I asked Betty, “Hey, did anything happen?”
Kate gave me a mean look, then said to Betty, “That’s Detective Corey’s way of saying we’re not at liberty to discuss this. But we could use your help.”
Normally, this is when you give the good citizen your card, but we were doing a smoke screen now, and Kate was on top of it, so she asked Betty for her card. “We’ll call you. Thanks for your help.”
“Anything I can do, just ask.” She added, “If those people try anything around here, we know how to handle them.”
I replied in my John Wayne accent, “That’s our job, ma’am. Don’t take the law into your own hands.”
She made a little snorting sound, then said to us, “While you’re here, you might want to look into that Custer Hill Club.”
“Why?”
“Strange things going on up there.”
I felt like I was in a B movie, where the guy from the city gets warned by a local about the creepy place on the hill, then ignores the advice, which was actually what I was going to do in Act II. I responded, noncommittally, “Thanks. How’s the food at the restaurant?”
“Pretty good, but a little pricey. Try the double bacon cheeseburger.”
Betty looked as if she’d tried several.
She showed us out, and I said to Kate in a foreboding tone, “Whatever you do, miss, do not go to the Custer Hill Club.”
She smiled and said, “Do not order the double bacon cheeseburger.”
In fact, that was the first risky thing I was going to do today before going to the Custer Hill Club.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Out in the termInal area, I said to Kate, “I’m going to hit the men’s room.”
“You should. You’re full of shit.”
“Right. I’ll meet you at the car-rental counter.”
We parted company, and I freshened up and was at the car-rental area within four minutes. Women take a bit longer.
There were two car-rental counters-Enterprise and Hertz-one behind the other in a small area off to the side of the terminal. The young guy behind the Enterprise counter was sitting down, reading a book. Standing behind the Hertz counter was a young lady playing with her computer. Her big breast tag read MAX, which I assumed was her name and not her cup size. I said, “Hi, Max. I have a reservation under the name of Corey.”
“Yes, sir.” She found my reservation, and we went through the paperwork, which took only a few minutes. She handed me the keys to a Ford Taurus, and told me how to find the rental lot, then asked me, “Do you need any directions?”
“Do you mean in life?”
She giggled. “No. Driving directions. You want a map?”
“Sure.” I took the map and said, “Actually, I need a place to stay.”
She replied, “There’s a rack of pamphlets over there. Lodging, restaurants, sights, and stuff.”
“Great. What’s the best place around?”
“The Point.”
“What’s The Point?”
She smiled, “I don’t know, John. What’s the point?” She laughed. “I get people with that every time.”
“I’ll bet. Got me. So, where would you recommend to stay?”
“The Point.”
“Okay…”
“It’s, like, really expensive though.”
“Like what? A hundred bucks?”
“No, like a thousand dollars.”
“A year?”
“A night.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, for real. It’s, like, really exclusive.”
“Really.” I didn’t think this was going to get past the accounting office, but I was in a reckless mood. “How do I get to The Point?”
“Stop beating around the bush.” She laughed hard and slapped the counter. “Got ya.”
“Hey, you’re good.” What did I do to deserve this?
Max got herself under control. “Hey, you really going there?”
“Why not? I have a rich uncle.”
“You must. You rich?”
“I’m John.”
She giggled politely. “Good one.”
Max handed me a map, which I noticed had lots of thin, winding roads that ran through open spaces, with very few towns. I thought of Harry, who liked the Adirondacks, and I asked God to do the right thing this time.
Max put an X on the map. “The Point is on Upper Saranac Lake, about there. You should call for directions. Also, you have to call for reservations. They’re, like, always booked.”
“At a thousand bucks a night?”
“Yeah. Can you believe?” She pulled a phone book from under the counter, found the number of The Point, and wrote it on the map, saying to me, “You won’t find a brochure on this place in the wire rack.”
“Really.”
I put the map in my pocket, and Max said to me, “So, you’re from New York City?”
“I am.”
“I love New York. So, what brings you up here?”
“A helicopter.”
She started to smile, then a little light went off in her head, and she said, “Oh, you’re the guy who flew in on the FBI helicopter.”