I thought of the cop in the squad room who was chopping ice when I arrived.
“Well,” I said. “You are going away.”
“Fucking New York hotshot.”
“Sticks and stones may hurt my bones.”
“You couldn’t leave it alone. My sister must have been some lay. She was always so high and mighty. Turned out she was like every other gash.”
He was angry, but still not quite yet where I wanted.
“Who was John Tyrone? Somebody else you murdered?”
He moved the box on the desk to the side. His hands momentarily were out of sight behind it. I tensed and heard Noyce suck in her breath. My shoulders ached from strain and a trickle of sweat ran down my back. I glanced at his holster. The snap holding the gun was now undone. Smooth. I wondered if Noyce noticed. I couldn’t worry about her. It was my play. I didn’t even want to shrug my shoulders to relieve the tension. It wouldn’t be long.
“Tyrone? Can’t lay that one on me. He died before I was born.”
“How did you steal his identity?”
“Piece of cake. I was an M.P. sergeant in Iraq. They arrested me because I had a little fun with some towel heads. If you ask me, they all should get a stick shoved up their ass.”
“Jesus,” Noyce whispered.
“Army pussies didn’t see it that way. Took my stripes and sent me back to the states. While I was awaiting my court martial they put me to work reconstructing the files of some dead soldiers from the Korean War. There had been a big fire at some records building in Kansas City. I came across Tyrone. He was killed when the Chinks came in. His body was never found. Orphan. No family. But he had an active Social Security number. I got six months and a Dishonorable Discharge that I knew would follow me around forever. So after I got out, I sent away for a duplicate of Tyrone’s Social Security card. Then I dummied up some discharge papers and a fake service record to fit the years I was in. You can dummy up anything, from a Medal of Honor citation on down. Veterans get a lot of breaks from cops. Once I got on one shit-heel police force, none of the others even checked. And here I am.”
“But I’m sure you still have your old Social Security card and other I.D.,” I said, “to convince the lawyer in Vegas you are entitled to your father’s money. You’d show up, maybe cry some crocodile tears about your father and your sister, and waltz off into the sunset with $5 million. It was a great set-up. I’m almost sorry I ruined it.”
His right cheek twitched again. I was getting close.
“You were right, hotshot. I ran into my father in a casino. Man, I was surprised he was even alive. The son of a bitch didn’t even want to talk to me. His own son. The great Harry Frost. Still acting like a big shot. Still pickling his liver. Told me to get lost. I hated the old bastard. I asked around about him. Found out he was loaded. So I sucked it up and told him I wanted to reconcile. He laughed in my face. Said he knew what I really wanted but I’d never get a cent of his money. That’s when I decided to kill him.”
“What I don’t get,” I said, “was why you killed him before Ronnie. It would make more sense if she were dead before anyone could contact her.”
“You think I’m dumb? I planned to kill her before the old man. But then I found out he was going on this gambling trip around the world for almost a year. Screwed up my schedule. I had to get to him before he left. I told myself it didn’t really matter if the lawyer in Vegas could still be convinced she was just a victim of a serial killer. That’s why I called him. I didn’t count on you finding out about him.”
“It’s amazing that a twisted psychopath like you got past the Army psychiatrists to begin with. When they put the straight jacket on you in the loony bin they’ll be doing case studies for years. Matthew Frost. Killer of helpless cats and nuns.”
Some spittle appeared at the side of his mouth.
“I think he’s rabid, too,” I said.
“Shut up, Rhode,” Noyce said, nervously.
“Nobody is putting me away, you motherfucker.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Noyce said, sensing what was going to come next. “I have officers at every exit.”
“I’m sorry I spoiled your retirement party, Matt,” I said. “But I’ll send some cake to you in the psych ward. I’m afraid I’ll have to leave the ice pick out of it, though. Your days of handling sharp objects are over. What am I talking about? They’ll have you in a rubber room in a straitjacket, sucking baby food through a straw.”
That did it. Frost’s mouth opened and he howled like a wild animal as he went for his gun, just like I hoped and expected. I drew my .38 Taurus revolver, which because it only has five rounds in the cylinder makes it light and fast out of the holster. I put all five into his chest before he got his first shot off, which went harmlessly into the ceiling as he fell backwards into his chair and toppled over. Some plaster rained down and his right foot wound up on his desk, where it hit the box he had been filling. It fell to the floor and its contents rattled across the floor, including a couple of medals.
“Jesus Christ!”
It was Noyce. Her Glock was only half out of her holster.
“I’m a New York hotshot,” I said. “He was right about that.”
The smell of cordite was strong. I could hear cops running in the hallway.
“Sarge, you all right!”
“I would prefer not to get shot to pieces,” I told her.
“I’m fine,” she yelled. “It’s all over. Put your weapons away. We’re coming out. Call an ambulance.”
CHAPTER 25 - BIT OF A STIR
The ambulance wasn’t needed. Matthew Frost was effectively dead when he hit the floor.
I said my goodbyes, went out, got a cheeseburger and flew home.
Well, not exactly.
Even with the best of intentions, one can’t shoot a police detective five times in his own station house during his retirement party without creating something of a stir. Or, as the local prosecutor and the state police captain who interviewed me both put it, “a world-class shit storm.”
I wasn’t held in custody. In fact, the D.A.’s office paid for a motel room and kept a patrol car outside my room to keep the media away from me. And to make sure I stuck around.
As with all police investigations, there was a lot of down time, which I put to good use.
I called Broderson in Worcester.
“Son of a bitch,” he said after I filled him in. Then he laughed. “I bet you thought it was one of us, didn’t you?”
“If it’s any consolation, I was hoping it was Huntley.”
“I can’t wait to tell him that,” Broderson said.
Next on the list were Delaney in Denver and Loccisano in Chicago.
“I can’t believe it was a cop,” Delaney said. “Jesus. I even spoke to Tyrone and traded notes on our murders after you left.”
“I bet he was delighted to talk about a serial killer.”
“Every other word, the son of a bitch.”
Loccisano was annoyed.
“You should have come to us with it right away,” he said.
“Next time.”
I called Principato, gave him Rosenberg’s phone number and told him to sit tight. I also told him that the Vegas cops might want to look more closely at how Harry Frost died.
“He had cirrhosis,” he said.
“His liver had help.”
I reluctantly called Rosenberg on Staten Island because he knew who Harry’s bilked clients were. I told him he would be hearing from Principato and that the victims probably could be made whole. I could almost hear Rosenberg salivating over the phone, so I also told him that I would be keeping an eye on him. He mentioned that a finder’s fee on $5 million would be considerable and he certainly would be amenable to sending some of it my way.
“Are you trying to bribe me, Sam?”
“Just having a conversation, Alton.”
Now, I was Alton. Well, it was certainly better than the “you rotten son of a bitch” from
our last conversation.
Finally, I called Alice and told her everything.
“The poor girl. What a family. It’s to her credit that she rose above everything and devoted her life to helping others. Are you all right?”
“I think so.”
“You killed her brother.”
“Somebody should have done it a long time ago.”
We were quiet for a moment.
“Why did you fly to California? Couldn’t you have just called the police or the F.B.I.?”
“I needed one more flight to get platinum status on my frequent flier card.”
“I’m serious, Alton.”
“I was hunting a shadow for two weeks. I still wasn’t a hundred percent sure. I wanted to be there at the end, if there was an end.”
An even longer pause.
“You wanted to make sure there was an end.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I’m coming back early,” Alice said. “Don’t try to talk me out of it this time.”
“I won’t. I need you.”
***
It was a week before Noyce said I was in the clear for shooting Matthew Frost. It didn’t hurt that she, the commanding officer, witnessed the whole thing, and that I probably saved her life. Or that Frost as Tyrone wasn’t a beloved figure among his colleagues. The fact that I quickly proved he had murdered five other people, including a local priest, was icing on the cake. By the time some Special Agents from the F.B.I.’s San Francisco office showed up to take most of the credit, everyone was pretty anxious for me to leave town. I was getting a lot of media attention everyone else thought were rightfully theirs. I got my gun back, promised to return for any legal proceedings, which I suspected would never happen, and drove to San Francisco, where I caught a red-eye to Boston.
I slept the entire way. No dreams.
EPILOGUE
I was alone in my office, staring out the window. The sun was going down but New York Harbor was still busy. I suppose it is always busy. Two big Moran tugs were easing a container ship around the bend into the Kill Van Kull, the tidal strait between Staten Island and New Jersey. It looked like an impossible feat of navigation, but Bayonne was still in one piece, so all those tug captains obviously knew their jobs.
A Staten Island Ferry was just passing the Statue of Liberty on its way to Lower Manhattan’s South Ferry Terminal, only recently restored after Hurricane Sandy. A Navy destroyer, or frigate, I forget the difference now, was just gliding under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. It looked so small compared to some of the freighters and tankers it passed, although I knew it probably had firepower equivalent to an entire World War II fleet. A huge seagoing yacht, almost as large, passed the warship in the opposite direction. It was undoubtedly owned by a hedge-fund bigwig who probably avoided enough taxes to pay for one of the destroyers protecting his private jet, house in the Hamptons and offshore bank accounts.
I looked down at a 185-foot-long wreck whose prow jutted halfway into Front Street, courtesy of Sandy. I could just barely make out its name on the port side: John B. Caddell. The ancient single-hull tanker had been moored at a pier in Rosebank waterfront until the tidal surge sent it on its last voyage. There had been a story about it in the papers. A Staten Island judge had declared the rusting hulk abandoned and it was sold at auction. The Caddell was built at the beginning of World War II and saw service as a fueler for warships. After the war, the tanker, named after the owner of the Caddell Dry Dock Company that still is in business, plied New York Harbor delivering gasoline. A workhorse, it was on its last sea legs before Sandy, but I thought the $25,000 price it brought at auction was a sad end for a vessel that had survived the U-Boats. It would be broken up for scrap and probably wind up as rebar in some highway.
Sic Transit Gloria.
I heard the door to my reception area open, and a moment later Arman Rahm and Maks Kalugin walked into my office. As long as I had known them they always walked into whatever room they wanted to without asking. I smiled at the thought of someone telling them to knock first.
I turned from the window. Arman, who was carrying a small tote bag, took a client chair and I went behind my desk and sat. Maks leaned up against the wall by the window I’d just left. I half expected the wall to give way, but it didn’t.
“What happened to the cactus?” he asked.
He was standing in the spot the plant, given to me by Nancy Robart at the Staten Island Botanical Garden, had formerly occupied.
“It died.”
“Hard to kill a cactus.”
“I guess I didn’t water it enough.”
He shook his head and then switched his gaze to the doorway. I wasn’t expecting any more visitors but Maks always expected trouble, which is why everyone he wasn’t planning to kill always felt safer in his presence.
“How’s the Rahm Institute of Medical Malpractice doing, boys?”
“I’m beginning to understand why Golovanov and the others were able to steal so much,” Arnan said. “I’m making more money from the clinic run honestly than from some of my less-distinguished enterprises. Did you know that doctors charge Americans $5,000 for a colonoscopy that costs $400 in Iceland? And Medicare picks up most of the tab?”
“They shit icicles in Iceland,” Kalugin said.
“What did you finally name the place, Arman?”
He smiled.
“The Carmichael Clinic. Porgie is thrilled. I installed his wife as Nursing Supervisor. She’s a hell of a nurse and a very capable administrator. Possibly the most-scrupulous woman I’ve ever met.”
Porgie Carmichael was once a small-time hood with a long-suffering wife and a couple of nice kids. He was never a shooter. When the Carluccis ordered him to kill me he refused and they beat him to a pulp. I asked the Rahms to find him a place in one of their legitimate enterprises and Porgie, who had augmented his hood income by working on fishing boats, was now running their marina operations.
“I like it,” I said. “Sounds classy.”
Arman opened the tote bag and brought out a bottle of 23-year-old Pappy Van Winkle's bourbon, which the last time I looked — and only looked — went for $300 a bottle. I reached into my drawer for some paper cups.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said and pulled three heavy crystal rocks glasses out of the tote. “This is the finest bourbon on the planet.”
“I thought you stuck to vodka.”
Recently, Rahm had regaled — and bored — me with the qualities of his latest discovery, Versailles Vodka, made from “pristine Norman spring water and filtered six times.”
“I’m feeling very American tonight,” he said.
“You are American,” I said.
“And the vodka I like is French, Alton. Please don’t ruin the moment.”
“I’m not sure about the ice in my fridge. It probably smells like the meatball sub that’s been in there since Christmas.”
“No matter. If you tried to put ice in this fine bourbon I would have Maks shoot you many times.”
He cracked the seal on the bottle and poured three drinks. Even from where I sat I could smell the rich aroma of the aged whiskey. He slid my glass across the desk to me and then brought one over to Kalugin. Maks looked at it cautiously. I knew his taste in liquor ran to vodka filtered, maybe once, through canvas.
“You know, I knew him back then,” Rahm said. “Matthew, the brother. He was a warped son of a bitch. Always figured there was something wrong with him.”
“Right to the end,” I said.
“Rosenberg tells me that you were also able to recover much of the money Harry Frost stole,” Arman said.
“So, you hired Sam.”
“If he was good enough for Nando, he’s good enough for me. I gave him some work. I try not to overburden all my lawyers. And as shysters go, he’s not bad. Totally greedy and amoral. My kind of counselor.”
Perhaps only on Staten Island could the lawyer for a mobster who tried to kill you wind up as your attor
ney.
“It would be nice if the families Frost bilked saw most of the money,” I said. “I told Rosenberg I would keep an eye on him.”
“I’ll have Maks have a heart-to-heart with him. I think that will be more effective.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
“Rosenberg also said you turned down a substantial portion of the finder’s fee, Alton.”
“Not exactly. I gave it to the school where Ronnie taught. Ave Maria. In her name.”
Kalugin grunted. He had several grunts. This was his grunt of approval.
“Why didn’t you at least use some of it to cover your expenses?’
“It didn’t seem right. I got plenty of frequent flier miles out of it, though.”
“When is Alice coming home?”
“Next week.”
“Good.”
Arman stood up. So did I. We walked over to the window together and stared at the harbor.
“This never gets old,” he said, “does it?”
Russians like harbors.
“Never.”
“One thing I don’t understand,” Rahm said. “Why did Frost go for his gun inside a police station? He must have known he couldn’t get away. It was suicide. Especially against you.”
“Rhode goaded him,” Kalugin said. “He wanted to kill him.”
Rahm looked at me closely.
“Is that true, Alton? You went in there to kill him.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Benn Donn,” Kalugin murmured. “Like a Russian.”
SISTER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 4) Page 16