James Prescott couldn’t quite figure it either. “She brought us to the very spot where Frank—Jansen’s nephew—was killed,” he said, “and she implicated Battaglia in his death.”
“Long way to come to do that,” I said. “My bet is that she’s trying to take your eye off the ball.”
“What ball?”
“Something going on back in New York.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Nothing that I would suggest without telling Mike first. I was thinking about ghosts, about why Paul Battaglia wouldn’t have wanted the name of his hunting partner to go public yet. And I was keenly aware that if James Prescott had picked up anything on this trip, he would not have confided the fact of it to me. I did the same.
Chidra was walking back into the dining room, where we were lingering over coffee.
“I don’t have everything you need, but perhaps this is a start.”
She had copied several sheets of paper and given a set to each of us.
“You wanted names and addresses of guests who’ve stayed at the preserve,” she said. “Here you go.”
I skimmed the names, but nothing stood out to me.
“This is the note with Paul Battaglia’s request for a cabin starting November first, for the hunt, and a reservation for an adjacent cabin for a friend he wanted to bring.”
“But you haven’t listed a name here,” I said.
“Sorry, but he hadn’t given me one yet.”
“How often were you in touch with him?”
“As he needed me, Alex. I had little reason to call him,” she said. “In fact, most of our contact went through Charles Swenson.”
I took a last drag on my coffee cup. “Did he ever tell you that he thought his life was in danger?”
Chidra Persaud almost laughed. “Quite the opposite. Paul Battaglia seemed to think he was immortal. Talked about things ten years out, like it was nothing. Like he could control the future for as long as he could see it.”
I sat back in my chair. She had spent enough time with the man to know that about him. It was part of the syndrome that allowed him to think he’d been elected DA for life.
“If the two of you are about ready, we should get going,” she said. “I’ve got a fresh crew at the airstrip and if we take off by three—remember, it’s five in New York—you’ll be home in time to sleep in your own beds.”
“Ready to go,” Prescott said.
We traveled back to Mission Field the same way we had arrived. As we walked to the steps of the plane, I slowed down to talk to Prescott.
“You get to sleep in your own bed,” I said. “Your incentive for hurrying home, James. May I just remind you that even murderers up at Dannemora get conjugal visits?”
“No way.”
“I know it doesn’t happen in federal prisons, but New York State allows it.”
“Seriously?” he asked.
“Clean sheets and towels. Soap. Toothpaste,” I said. “In a trailer outside the prison walls, for anywhere from twelve to twenty-four hours. Oh, and the state provides condoms, too.”
“What’s this? A plea for Chapman?”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday. If you’re not going to parole me, you can at least let me have a shot at enjoying myself. The Sunday Times crossword puzzle and a date.”
Prescott removed his phone and handed it to me.
“Thanks, James,” I said, dialing Mike’s number. It rang twice and Mike picked it up. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Heading home.”
“Anything good come out of this?” Mike said.
“I’m not quite sure, but I’ve got happy news for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Mr. Prescott has allowed me to invite you to spend the night at Three Sisters.”
“Are you serious? You have a debrief for me?” Mike asked.
“Save that thought till we’re alone,” I said.
Prescott looked over at me. I knew I didn’t want to tell Mike about the day until I was out of the presence of the US attorney. I could see Prescott didn’t want me to talk to him about it at all.
“Just be sure and bring me a turkey sandwich on rye from P J Bernstein’s, okay? Extra Russian dressing,” I said. “We’re due to land at ten fifteen, unless we get a good tailwind. See you at the airport.”
“Roger that.”
“You’ll make me,” I said. “I’m the one who smells like I’ve been stepping in sheep scat all day.”
I handed the phone back to Prescott. “Thanks. I appreciate the gesture.”
“I can’t tell you not to talk to him, but I hope you let us absorb what we’ve got—let my guys check out these names, and maybe we’ll have a team meet up at Three Sisters on Monday.”
“I’m good with that,” I said.
I wasn’t ready to tell Prescott that I had phoned Mike earlier, to start putting facts together. Twenty-four hours would buy us both time.
“I say we get on top of all the names before we meet, and then I’ll call Charles Swenson on Monday morning,” Prescott said. “I want to insist on a more substantive meeting with Chidra, in case you’re right on her efforts to take my eyes off the ball. I can be up to your place by nine and back in my office to take her on by one.”
“Toss her in the grand jury,” I said. “Get her under oath.”
“Maybe.”
We had stopped on the tarmac before boarding, letting Chidra and her assistant settle in while we finished talking.
“Think of it, James,” I said. “Paul was killed by a sharpshooter.”
He raised his head to look at me.
“Who knew, between the preserve in Texas where Scalia died and this trip—or these trips—to Montana,” I said, “that he was hanging around so many people who were capable of killing with such deadly accuracy?”
“That’s certainly one way to think of it,” Prescott said.
“I’m telling you. You want sworn testimony from this woman,” I said. “Try locking her in on Monday.”
I knew we had different prosecutorial approaches, but I thought he needed to take a hard line with Chidra Persaud, sooner rather than later.
Once airborne and heading east, Prescott continued asking Chidra questions. He was getting stonewalled, most politely, on just about everything that would have been helpful to us.
When she sidestepped the subjects that were of interest to us and went on to discuss the new tariff plans, I felt myself nodding off. The attendant covered me with a cashmere blanket, and I reclined my seat and closed my eyes, telling her that I would skip the meal service.
Rough air bounced us most of the way home, so I slept in fits and starts.
We touched down at 10:05 and taxied to a stop at the private aviation section of the airport.
The attendant opened the door and lowered the steps. The two agents were first out, and I could see them shaking hands with Mike as they walked off the field onto the pathway.
I went down next, followed by Prescott. He reached the bottom and held up his hand for Chidra’s assistant. Then we waited for Chidra herself to come down.
She stood in the doorway and cupped her hands over her mouth. “Give me five minutes, James. I’ll pick up my things and meet you inside the terminal.”
Mike had his arm around my shoulders and we were walking, against the wind, toward the door.