“You never know. But I’d like to know that Madox is still on the property.”
“Okay.”
“So, someone needs to call me anytime you see any activity-hold on.” Some kid in a dopey psychedelic chef’s outfit was trying to get my attention. I asked him, “What do you need?”
“I need to use the phone. I have to place an order.”
“What do you have to order? Woodcock? I’m on top of the woodcocks. How many do you need?”
“I need the phone, sir.”
“Hey, I’m trying to save the world here, pal. Hold on.” I said to Schaeffer, “I’m using the kitchen phone. I’ll see you at eight.”
I hit the cradle and handed the phone to the chef. “If the world comes to an end, it’s your fault.”
A handsome guy in tailored whites, whom I just knew was the French chef, came up to me and extended his hand. “Good morning,” he said in an accent. We shook. “You are, of course, Mr. Corey.”
“Oui.”
“Ah, you speak French.”
“Oui.”
“Bon. I am Henri, the head chef, and I must apologize profusely for the pigs-in-the-blanket.”
He got the pronunciation right, if not the recipe. I said, “Hey, don’t worry about it, Henry.”
“But I do. So, for you, I have ordered the ingredients, and tonight, we serve the pigs for the cocktail hour.”
“Terrific. I like the crust a little brown.”
“Yes, of course.” He leaned toward me and whispered, “I, too, like these little things.”
I was sure by now that he was pulling my chain, and I said, “I won’t tell. Okay, don’t forget the mustard. See you later.”
“May I show you my kitchen?”
I looked around. “Looks good.”
“You are welcome to place any special order for any meal.”
“Great. I’ve been thinking about woodcock lately.”
“Ah, amazing. Tonight is woodcock.”
“You don’t say? Well, hell, I ought to play the lottery today.”
“Yes? Oh, I understand.”
I looked at my watch and said, “Well, I-”
“A moment…” He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and said, “Here is the menu for this evening.” He read, “We begin with a ragout of forest mushrooms, followed by a crisp filet of arctic char, served with peppernade and beurre rouge. I think, perhaps, a California chardonnay with that. Yes? Then, the woodcock, which I will serve with an étuvée of local vegetables, and a port wine jus. I am considering a French cabernet sauvignon with the woodcock. What do you think? Mr. Corey?”
“Uh… sounds like a crowd-pleaser.”
“Good. And we end with an exploration of chocolate.”
“Perfect ending.”
“With a sauterne, of course.”
“Goes without saying. Okay-”
“Will you and your wife be joining us for lunch?”
“No, we have to be at a chipmunk race. Thanks for-”
“Well, I must pack for you a picnic lunch. When are you leaving?”
“Twenty minutes. Don’t bother-”
“I insist. You will find a picnic hamper in your car.” He extended his hand, we shook, and he said, “We may have our differences, but we can remain amis. Yes?”
Well, jeez, I was really feeling bad now about my anti-French attitude, so I said, “Together, we can kick some Iraqi ass. Right?”
Henry wasn’t sure about that, but he smiled. “Perhaps.”
“Can do. See you later.”
As I made my way out of the kitchen, I heard Henry barking orders for a picnic lunch. Hold the snails, Henry.
I got back to the room and said to Kate, who was in front of the vanity fussing with makeup, “We have to move fast. State police H.Q. at eight.”
“Breakfast is on the table. What did Major Schaeffer say?”
“I’ll tell you on the way. Where’s your briefcase?”
“Under the bed.”
I reached under the bed, pulled out her briefcase, and began flipping through the stack of Enterprise rental agreements as I stood at the table and uncovered the basket of hot biscuits.
“What are you looking for?”
“Butter.”
“John-”
“Ah, here it is.”
“What?”
“The Enterprise rental agreement with the plate number of the car we saw at the Custer Hill Club.” I put the agreement on the table and buttered a biscuit.
“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.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
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?”