He’d made a chicken stew he’d learned to cook in Afghanistan, with raisins, coriander, and yogurt, and we did a reasonably good job of putting all our conflicts and worries to one side during the meal. I tried not to mind that Don drank most of the Torgiano—it’s a red wine from the Italian hill country where my mother grew up, and it’s not easy to find in Chicago. If I’d known Don was going to be there guzzling, I would have brought something French that was easier to replace.
37
Where the Buffalo Roam
Don and Morrell left as soon as they’d done the dishes.
I tried to interest myself in a novel, but residual fatigue, or worries about what was happening, maybe even jealousy, kept me from concentrating. I was even less successful with television.
I was pacing restlessly, thinking I’d be more comfortable in my own place, when my cell phone rang. It was Mr. William.
“Howdy,” I said affably, pretending it was a social call.
“Did you tell Grobian that the family had hired you?” he demanded without preamble.
“I cannot tell a lie. And I didn’t. You did hire me two weeks ago.”
“And fired you!”
“Please, Mr. Bysen: I resigned. I sent you a certified letter, and you begged and pleaded with me to keep hunting Billy. When I said no, you hired my pals at Carnifice.”
“Be that as it may—”
“Be that as it is!” I snapped, affability forgotten.
“Be that as it may,” he repeated as if I hadn’t spoken, “we need to talk to you. My wife and mother insist on being part of any conversation about Billy, so you need to come out to Barrington Hills at once.”
“You guys are truly amazing,” I said. “If you need to see me that badly, you can come down to my office in the morning. All ten of you. Bring your butler, too—I don’t care.”
“That’s a stupid suggestion,” he said coldly. “We have a company to run. Tonight is the one time—”
“You’ve been living with underemployed women too long, Bysen: I, too, have a company to run. And a life to live. I don’t need to placate you to keep on going, so I don’t need to jump every time you have a whim at a weird time of day or night.”
I heard some kind of agitated consultation in the background and then a woman came on the line. “Ms. Warashki? This is Mrs. Bysen. We’re all so worried about young Billy that we don’t always remember to say things the right way, but I hope you’ll disregard that and come out to talk to us. I would really, really appreciate it.”
Seeing all the Bysens together versus pacing restlessly around Morrell’s condo? At least in Barrington Hills, I’d get to see the floor show.
It was a long thirty miles from Morrell’s place to the Bysen compound. No expressway cleaves through the North Shore and I had to make my way on side roads. The one good thing about routes like this is that it’s easier to check for tails. At first, I thought I was clean, but when I’d gone about four miles I realized they were using a couple of different cars, changing places every few blocks. Unless they wanted to kill me, they were more an irritant than anything else, but I still tried to shake them, cutting off the main roads a couple of times into suburban cul-de-sacs. Each time, I’d be on my own for a half mile or so and then they’d be back. By the time I pulled off Dundee Road in Barrington Hills, I realized it didn’t matter—if these were Carnifice people working for the Bysens, they’d just spent a lot of energy tailing me to home base.
Barrington Hills didn’t run to streetlights—it was kind of like a large private nature preserve, with lakes and winding lanes. On a moonless night, it was especially hard to find my way since my trackers meant I couldn’t get out of my car to check for street names. I pulled up to the gate of the compound in an edgy mood. The car that had been ahead of me drove on down the road, but the one behind me stayed on the verge, just out of sight of the guard station.
The estate had a high iron fence around it, sealed in the front with rolling gates. I went directly to the guard station, told the man I was a detective, and said old Mr. Bysen had talked to me about his missing grandson and wanted me to report to him in person. The man phoned into the compound, spoke to several different people, and finally said in amazement that Mr. Bysen actually wanted to see me. He explained how to find Buffalo Bill’s house—not that he called the old man that—and slid the iron gates open for me.
Barrington Hills is dotted with lakes, real ones, not human creations, and the Bysen houses were spread around one big enough to boast a marina and several sailboats. Besides three of the four sons, one of the daughters, their families, and Buffalo Bill, my research had shown that Linus Rankin, the corporate counsel, and two other senior corporate officers also had houses on the estate.
The road had a few discreet lamps so that the families could find their way in the dark; even with such dim light, I could tell that the houses were monstrous, as if everyone needed enough space to house a cruise ship—should one crash on the lake.