“So far, but they’re trying to up the amount of the reward to get more specifics.”
“Did he tell us how we can confirm about Battaglia?”
“It’s a she, Alex,” Mercer said. “The caller is a she.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Are there any women in the order?”
“No, ma’am,” Mercer said.
“Did you hear the man say it’s a knighthood, Coop? A secret fraternity?”
“Things change,” I said.
“Vickee has a hunch,” Mercer said.
“Tell me it was a hooker,” Mike said, sinking his teeth into a cheeseburger piled high with onions and pickles. “Every hunter needs a hooker.”
“I hope Vickee has a better guess than that,” I said.
“The caller made a reference to taking Battaglia to the ranch,” Mercer continued. “Now, you can drive into that place. It’s a very long ride—actually miles and miles. But there’s a private jet landing strip, too, and a helicopter pad.”
“So we’re looking at a flight attendant on some NetJets thing that Battaglia might have used, out of Teterboro or Westchester,” Mike said.
I took the bottle of ketchup and covered his fries till they were lost beneath a damp mound of red mush. “She might have been the pilot, Detective. Like I said, things change.”
“The woman who called also said that photographs exist,” Mercer went on. “That every time these men get together, they take a formal photograph of the group before the new investitures.”
“Did she have one?” Mike asked.
“No, but we found an old one online.”
“With Battaglia?” I asked.
“No such luck,” Mercer said, reaching for his iPad and Googling the Saint Hubertus name. “No Battaglia and no Scalia. But the shot is five years old.”
He turned the machine around so that Mike and I could view the image. My jaw dropped.
The photograph had been taken in Madrid, in front of El Escorial, the royal palace of the king of Spain.
“Grown men playing dress-up!” I said, in utter disbelief of the picture before us.
“The order is run by former King Juan Carlos of Spain,” Mercer said. “He’s the old guy in the middle of the front row. The others next to him are grand masters.”
“They call them that? Grand masters?” I asked. “All they’re missing are white hoods.”
Each of the men was dressed in a charcoal-gray suit and tie, but over their clothing, each wore a full-length cape. The material appeared to be a dark green velvet—forest green, as a designer might have dubbed it, or even more appropriately, hunter green. The capes were flung back on one side so that they draped over the right shoulder of every knight, exposing a bright red silk lining.
“What the hell was a justice of the Supreme Court doing with these clowns?” Mike asked. “And how could the DA keep this a secret?”
On the chest of each man’s cape, large and bold, was an insignia the size of a dessert plate. Against a background of embroidered gold thread was a dark green cross.
“Can you enlarge it?” I asked. “Can you read the motto sewn into the insignia?”
Mercer clicked on the screen.
“Damn it,” I said. “Latin gets me every time.”
I relied on Mike and his parochial school education, but even as he squinted, it appeared to be too difficult for him.
“Looks like Deum diligite animalia diligentes,” Mike said. “But I have no idea what it means.”
“You’re still sure about dead men not biting, aren’t you?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “I mean, we’re going into Battaglia’s secret territory now, and he wouldn’t take kindly to that.”
Mercer was checking the Hubertus motto online. “That translates to ‘Honor God by honoring his creatures.’ Sound about right, Mike?”
“That may be the meaning of the words, Mercer,” he said, “but it feels more like these assholes are honoring God’s creatures by blowing their brains out.”
THIRTEEN
“It doesn’t fit,” I said. “You’ll never convince me that Paul Battaglia is part of this group.”
I was having another cup of coffee.
“Stubborn doesn’t always work for you,” Mike said.
“Two years ago, he was honored by Animals Without Borders, an offshoot of the great Wildlife Conservation Society,” I said. “Man of the year and all that goes with it. The whole executive staff had to fill seats at the black-tie dinner.”
“Maybe they made a mistake,” Mike said. “Maybe Battaglia left his green robe at home in the bathroom.”
“What does the society do?” Mercer asked.
“Wonderful work,” I said. “Everywhere on the planet. They save endangered species all over the world. They keep places wild and free, when they can. They’re about conserving animal populations, not killing them.”
“Why did they honor Battaglia?” Mike said.
“He launched a really clever investigation in the White Collar Crimes Unit,” I said, referring to the prosecutors who handled commercial litigation and racketeering. Special Victims was part of the Trial Division, the group that specialized in violent street crime. “That’s why I don’t know all the details. But it grew out of the Lacey Act.”
“What’s that about?” Mercer asked. “A new conservation law?”
“It dates from 1900, actually,” I said. “A congressional act, designed more than a century ago because so many game species here at home were threatened with extinction. The laws have been updated and modified scores of times, to try to shut down international suppliers who find such a huge market in this country.”
“What made the DA a hero?” Mike asked.
“Operation Crash,” I said.
“Crash?”
“A herd of rhinos is called a crash,” I said. “Like a murder of crows.”
I was actually thinking of a murder of a prosecutor when that phrase came to mind.
“Some of the government agencies were working with US attorneys across the country to investigate the black market trade in rhino horns and other protected species,” I said.
“What’s the deal with rhino horns?” Mike asked.
“They’re a big deal in many of the Asian nations,” I said. “Vietnam, for instance. As a medicinal cure-all and as an aphrodisiac. A three-kilogram horn is worth three hundred thousand dollars. They’re more valuable per ounce than diamonds—or cocaine.”
“We don’t have rhinos here,” Mike said.
“Of course not,” I said. “But they’re protected by our laws as well as by international laws, because of the potential for smugglers.”
“How did Battaglia get into the act?” Mike asked.
“There’s a guy in Texas who used some day laborers to buy a couple of horns at an Austin auction house. Then he came here to sell them for a quarter of a million dollars,” I said. “It was Battaglia who ran the sting.”
Mike was eating a slice of apple pie. “But it’s a federal law that was violated, right?”
“Well done, Detective,” I said. “But James Prescott was too busy with Wall Street predators to worry about a crash of rhinos. He told the Department of Justice honchos that he couldn’t spare the manpower for undercovers to sit in a hotel room waiting for a bunch of bad guys to show up with the horns.”
“So Paul Battaglia jumped right on it,” Mike said.