"Sure." She looked at me and said, "You're a lucky guy to have a wife like this."

My mouth was full of burger, and I grunted.

Max left, and I swallowed. "You put her up to that."

"What are you talking about?"

I shoved some Freedom Fries in my mouth, stood, and said, "Okay, let's go."

Kate put the papers in her briefcase, I put twenty bucks on the table, and we left the cafe. I said, "If you're not coming with me, go to Hertz and get yourself another car. The state police headquarters is in someplace called Ray Brook, not far from here. Ask for Major Schaeffer. I'll call you later."

She stood there, wavering between following Walsh's orders and her recently expressed opinion to him that the world had changed.

Finally, she said, "I'll go with you to the Custer Hill Club. Then, we go to the state police headquarters."

We exited the terminal, walked to the car-rental lot, and found the blue Taurus. I drove to the side of the terminal building where the general aviation operations were and parked the car. "I want to see if GOCO has a corporate jet and if they use this airport." I handed her the road map and said, "Call the county police and see if you can get directions to the Custer Hill Club."

I went into the building, where a guy sat at a desk behind the counter playing with his computer.

I asked him, "Can I get a ticket to Paris here?"

He looked up from his computer and replied, "You can go anywhere you want if you own, lease, or charter a plane big enough. And you don't even need a ticket."

"I think I'm in the right place." I held up my credentials and said, "John Corey, Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force. I need to ask you a few questions."

He stood, came to the counter, and checked out the creds. "What's up?" he asked.

"Who am I talking to?"

"I'm Chad Rickman, operations officer."

"Okay, Chad, I need to know if there's a private jet that uses this airport, registered to the Global Oil Corporation. GOCO."

"Yeah, two Cessna Citations, new models. Any problem?"

"Are either of the jets here?"

"No ... in fact they both came in yesterday morning, about an hour apart, fueled up, then a few hours later they took off."

"How many passengers got off?"

"I don't think there were any. We usually send a car out to the aircraft, and I'm pretty sure it was just the flight crew."

"Did any passengers get on after they refueled?"

"I don't think so. They came in, topped off, and a few hours later they flew out."

"All right ... where did they go?"

"They don't have to tell me where they're going-they have to tell the FAA."

"Okay ... how do they tell the FAA? Radio?"

"No, phone. From here. Actually, I overheard both pilots filing a flight plan to Kansas City, departing thirty minutes apart."

I thought about that, then asked, "Why would they be going to Kansas City with no one on board?"

"Maybe they only had cargo," Chad replied. "I remember two Jeeps met them here and put some stuff on board."

"What did they put on board?"

"I didn't see."

"These are passenger planes, right? Not cargo?"

"Right. But they'll hold a little cargo in the cabin."

"I still don't understand why two jets flew in empty and flew out with a few pieces of cargo, both of them going to the same place."

"Hey, this guy who owns the planes-Bain Madox-owns the fucking oil wells. He can burn all the jet fuel he wants."

"This is true." I asked, "Was Kansas City their final destination?"

"I don't know. That's the flight plan I heard them file on the telephone. That's probably about their cruising range, so maybe they're going on from there. Or maybe they're coming back here."

"I see ... so I can call the FAA to get their flight plans?"

"Yeah, if you're authorized, and if you have their tail registration numbers."

"Well, I'm authorized, Chad." I pulled out the sheet of paper that Randy had fetched from this office and put it on the desk. "Which are the GOCO aircraft?"

He studied the sheet and checked off two numbers: N2730G and N2731G. Chad informed me, "Sequential registration numbers. A lot of companies that fly their own airplanes do that."

"I know that."

"Yeah? What's up?"

"Typical tax crap. The rich are different from you and me."

"No kidding?"

"Okay, thanks, Chad. Think more about this. Ask around for me and see if anyone else remembers anything. You got a cell-phone number?"

"Sure." He wrote it on his business card and asked me, "What exactly are you looking for?"

"I told you-tax evasion. Bags of money." I said to him, "Don't mention anything to anyone about a Federal investigation."

"Mum's the word."