I sat there for a minute, waiting for a surveillance guy to pop out of a bush. But I was definitely alone. So, what’s up with Schaeffer? Hank? Buddy? Hello?
Well… time was wasting, so I turned onto McCuen Pond Road and headed for the gatehouse.
I slowed down, as per the sign, then stopped at the speed bump and pulled my Glock and stuck it in my jacket pocket.
The gate slid open, and a guy in camouflage fatigues walked toward me. As he got closer, I saw he was the same storm trooper I’d dealt with the last time, which was good. Or maybe not. I tried to remember if I’d pissed him off. Kate always remembers who I pissed off, and she briefs me.
I rolled down my window, and the guy seemed to recognize me, notwithstanding my new car. He had the same line as last time: “How can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Madox.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Look, Junior, let’s not go through all this shit again. You know who I am, and you know he’s not expecting me. Open the fucking gate.”
He definitely seemed to remember me now-maybe because I was wearing the same clothes, but more likely because I’m an arrogant prick. He said to me, unexpectedly, “Proceed to the gatehouse.” He added, “He
Well, that was nice. But it wasn’t really a
The gate slid open, and as I drove through, another guy in the gatehouse stepped out and put up his hand. I returned his greeting with an Italian salute, and accelerated up the winding road toward the lodge.
I noticed again the telephone poles and the three heavy wires running between them-and what had looked a little odd yesterday now looked suspiciously like an ELF antenna. Unless, of course, I was totally wrong. I needed a dose of Bain Madox to give me confidence in my suspicions and conclusions.
Coming toward me was a black Jeep, and the driver was waving to me, which was nice, so I waved back and honked my horn as he veered off into the drainage ditch.
Up ahead was the flagpole, flying the Stars and Stripes with the yellow Seventh Cavalry pennant below. I knew, from something I’d read, that the pennant meant the commander was on the premises, so El Supremo was definitely in.
I went around the flagpole, stopped under the portico, got out, locked my car, then stepped up to the porch. The front door was unlocked, and I went into the atrium foyer and glanced up at the balcony.
There was no one around, and I recalled that the house staff was on a break after the three-day weekend, which showed Mr. Madox to be an enlightened employer, or a man who wanted to be alone.
On the wall, General Custer was still making his last stand, and I noticed now, on the paneling above the painting, a fiber-optic fish eye that could see the whole room. In fact, I may have subconsciously noticed it the first time, and maybe that’s where my stupid Holy Mackerel joke had come from. Maybe not.
I moved closer to the painting as though studying it, then closer until I was too near the wall for the eye to see me.
I glanced up at the balcony again, then I pulled my little lint roller out of my jacket, peeled the paper off, and dropped it on the carpet and rolled it with my foot. Then I retrieved it and put it back in my pocket. If that stupid dog was around, I’d have lint-rolled him, too.
I like forensic evidence when other people collect it, analyze it, and report the results to me. But sometimes you have to do this stuff yourself. I didn’t think there was much time left to wait for forensics tests, but maybe someone would find the lint roller in my pocket if I wound up having a hunting accident.
I heard a sound behind me and turned to see Carl coming down the staircase. We made eye contact, and I couldn’t tell if he’d seen me lint-rolling the rug.
Carl stopped on the last step, stared at me, and asked, “Are you here to see Mr. Madox?”
“I’m not here to see you, Carl.”
He didn’t respond to that. “You need to be escorted
“Yeah. I know. Insurance. Should I try again?”
I don’t think he liked me, and he was probably still pissed off about having to make me cafe au lait.
He said, “Fortunately, Mr. Madox is receiving.”
“Receiving what? Cosmic messages?”
“Receiving visitors.”
I looked at Carl, who, as I’d noticed on my earlier visit, was a big fellow. He was no kid, but he looked fit, and what he lacked in youth, I was sure he more than made up for in experience. In fact, I could picture him twisting the binocular strap around Harry’s neck and holding him upright on his knees while his boss put a bullet through Harry’s spine.
I’ve known a number of tough old combat veterans, and you’d expect them to still be tough, and probably they are, someplace inside. But most of them that I’ve known have a sort of gentleness about them, as if to say, “I’ve killed. But I don’t want to kill again.”
Carl, on the other hand, gave me the impression that he’d add a P.S. to that. “Unless ordered to kill.”
He said, “Mr. Madox is in his office. Follow me.”
I followed him up the sweeping staircase to a foyer that overlooked the lobby below.
Carl led me to a paneled door and said, “Mr. Madox has fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll give him longer than that.” Unless I kill him before my time is up.
Carl knocked, opened the door, and announced, “Colonel, Mr. Corey to see you.”
He looked really pissed, and I thought about asking him for a mocha freezie, but he announced, “
Colonel Madox said, “Thank you, Carl.”
I entered the office, and the door shut behind me. I expected to see Colonel Madox all decked out in his beribboned dress uniform, but he was standing behind his desk, wearing jeans, a white polo shirt, and a blue blazer. He said to me, “This is an unexpected pleasure… detective.”
I replied, “I had the impression at the gate that I had an open invitation.”
He smiled and said, “Yes, actually, I did mention to the security staff that you might drop by again in connection with the missing person-which, I understand, has become moot.”
I didn’t comment on that, so Madox extended his hand, we shook, and he said, “Welcome.”
He motioned me to a chair in front of his desk, and I sat, wondering if Harry had ever been here.
Madox asked me, “Where is Ms. Mayfield?”
“She’s at a yodeling class.”
He grinned. “So, are you both enjoying your room at The Point?”
I didn’t reply.
He said, “I’ve actually stayed there a few times for a change of pace. I like the lake, which I don’t have here. It’s a good property, but I find the food too… well, Continental for my taste. I prefer simple American food.”
I didn’t respond, and he asked me, “Do they still have that French chef there? Henri?”
“They do.”
“He’s a real prima donna, like all of them. But if you talk to him, he’ll make you a simple beefsteak, sans mystery sauce, and a baked potato.”
Was this asshole trying to tell me something? I knew not to mention that Kate and I were married, but I had broken one of the other cardinal rules when I told him where we were staying, and now he was possibly playing a head game with me.
He seemed to be in a chatty mood, the way a lot of suspects are when the fuzz is talking to them, and he said, “Speaking of the French, what is their problem?”
“They’re French.”
He laughed. “That’s it.” He tapped the newspaper on his desk, which I saw was the
