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.”
“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.”