“You’re welcome to freshen up,” she said. “There are four bedrooms down that hallway, all for guests. Mine is to the left. I’ll be right back and then we can get started.”
The front of the lodge—a long wall of timber interrupted by a front door and several small windows—had been deceptive. The living areas, I saw once we were inside, faced out over the valley and nearby mountains through a wall of glass. There was nothing to disturb the view out over the river and for as far as one could see.
The interior looked as though Ralph Lauren had curated the space himself. There were stone fireplaces at each end of the room, and sofas covered in subtle plaids placed at regular intervals. The sconces on the wall were gaslights, and the folk-art antiques that sat on tables or stood against the wainscoting were perfect accents.
There were no stuffed heads and horns—to my delight—although there was an array of vintage hunting rifles hung on the walls that might have chilled even Boone and Crockett.
I went to one of the guest rooms to freshen up. There was nothing personal in any of them, but enough decorative art to keep a warm feeling in the house—collections of old game boards, vintage bottles from local dairy farms, egg crates and cartons that added a cozy, local touch to the tastefully done lodge.
There was a telephone on the night table. I picked it up and waited for a dial tone. When I heard it, I dialed Catherine Dashfer’s cell.
“Alex? Are you okay?” she said. “Dead or alive? I hope you’re not calling me from the other side.”
“Think Mark Twain,” I said. “Rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated. Please tell me there wasn’t an obit.”
“Nope. Just that people who know you might have leaped to the wrong conclusion,” Catherine said. “I was hoping you’d left me those sapphire earrings. Otherwise, I’m glad you’re not blown to bits.”
“They’re yours. Any time you want them,” I said.
“I was told not to try to reach you,” she said. “We all were.”
“You couldn’t, and you shouldn’t. Who’s your best buddy in the Frauds Bureau?” I asked.
“Mimi Hershenson.”
“Do you trust her?”
“She’s solid. We went to law school together.”
“Call her. Try the computer case file system first, but I doubt it’s in there. Make a call and see who was assigned to work with Battaglia on an investigation involving a company called Tiger Tail, owned by Chidra Persaud, that came in sometime earlier this year,” I said. “When you get the name, call and give it to Mike.”
“When am I going to see you?” she asked.
“Next week. They can’t keep me cooped up much longer,” I said. “Gotta go. Thanks for this.”
I pressed the buttons down and waited for a dial tone again. I called Mike but was sent right to voice mail.
“Miss you. Flight was fine. Weird dynamic among the people—look up the name Chidra Persaud as soon as you can, and run a background check on her. She’s Diana—I’m not kidding. Goddess of the hunt—just ask her, especially about the goddess part,” I said. “Her club is based—I guess incorporated—in the UK, so dig for that, too, if you can. Nothing else of value so far.”
I paused. “Check in with Catherine about an investigation Battaglia was doing with this Persaud woman. I just called and asked her to snoop around the DANY white-collar crew,” I said. “See if you come up with anything that corresponds on the NYPD side. And spring me from the nunnery as soon as you can. I want you, and I want to be home.”
By the time I returned to the living room, Chidra Persaud had seated herself in a ladder-back chair, next to an older man who was standing sideways to her, staring out the window. He was dressed for an outdoor trek—weathered jeans, hiking boots, a flannel shirt, a beat-up jacket, and a three-day growth of beard. He had a rifle tucked comfortably under his arm, resting on his right hip.
“Alex, that was quick,” Persaud said, getting to her feet. “Did you have trouble with the phone? We sometimes have issues out here in the wild.”
“Phone?” I knew my voice hadn’t been loud enough to carry back to this room.
She pointed to the large telephone on a desk at the end of the room, with a dozen plastic buttons on a panel. “It lights up when in use. I was afraid you needed something.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to act less surprised than I was. “Just checking in with my boyfriend.”
My paranoia was on high alert. I didn’t trust anyone.
“I’d like you to meet Karl—Karl Jansen. Karl runs the preserve for me.”
We shook hands as Prescott entered the room right behind me, and Jansen offered each of us a cool “howdy.”
“Before we go out and look around, I assume you want Karl to talk about what happened the weekend Paul Battaglia was here,” she said.
“We do,” Prescott answered. “Have a seat, Karl.”
“Rather not. I’m fine standing.”
So we all stood.
“How long have you known Mr. Battaglia?” I asked.
“Met him for the first time on a Saturday morning, two weeks ago, ma’am. He left on Sunday evening and I never saw him again.”
“Did he stay here, at the lodge?”
“Nope. There are eight cottages on the property,” Jansen said. “He had one of them, the way I understand it.”
“Did you organize the hunting party?” I asked.
“No, ma’am. That would be my nephew, Frank.”
“I see. Were you along for the hunt?”
“Yeah,” he answered. “I was there.”
“So it was you and Frank, the district attorney and Chidra,” I said, “and two others.”
“Excuse me,” Persaud said. “Paul was my guest for the weekend, as were the other pair of hunters, whom I’d never met before.”
“Never met?” I asked. “But they were your guests?”
“Yes, people pay dearly for the right to shoot here, as Karl will explain,” Persaud said. “But I was not along for the hunt that day. Saturday.”
“I don’t understand. Then why did you arrange it for Paul?”
“I had planned to shoot with him, of course,” she said. “He had a very competitive streak, as you both probably know.”
Prescott smiled. “That’s an understatement.”
“It turns out the club member who was present, Anderson Groves—do you know him?”
“I don’t,” I said, as Prescott shook his head.
“It probably doesn’t matter,” Persaud said. “Anderson owns oil wells in Texas. He was a founding member of the Diana Hunt Club.”
“Not enough endangered species for him to shoot down there?” I asked.
“They certainly don’t have Rocky Mountain bighorn in south Texas. That’s one of our major attractions,” she said, unfazed by my snarky remarks. “Anyway, Anderson’s been doing business in Dubai, and he happened to invite one of the oil royals for the weekend. I’ll have the man’s name for you shortly. I’ve just called the office out here to get all the names and dates, but they’re not answering yet. Unfortunately, that gentleman—the prince from Dubai—refused to shoot with a woman—with me.”
“Because his religion forbids it?” I asked.
“Perhaps that,” she said. “Perhaps he just thought it was bad luck, as many people do.”