TURTLE DOVE (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 7)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Sure. But I told him I was working on a case in Long Island involving some empty lots near the old nuclear power plant in East Shoreham. Then he said something interesting. He wanted to know if my readings were ground level, which they were. He said if someone dug down the readings would probably be much higher from water seepage and the like.”

  “Like if a developer built townhouses,” Mundy said.

  “Be like living inside an MRI machine full-time,” I said. “But I haven’t gotten to the good part, yet.”

  “Jesus,” one of the other lawyers said.

  “Thanks to Abby, here, who researched the history of the site, it was originally owned by the Archer Daniels Heartland Corporation.”

  “Deep pockets,” one of the lawyers murmured.

  “So, I don’t think you will have any problem stopping the development. And the guard, bless his soul, complained that kids from the neighborhood often went into the lot.”

  “My God,” Mundy said.

  “Personally, I hope the kids didn’t pick up too much radiation just walking through.” I paused. “But that’s for a jury to decide.”

  “We want to see all your research, Abby,” Mundy said.

  “I’ll put it all together for you,” she said.

  “It might be helpful if you led us through it.” Mundy looked at me. “We might have to borrow her for a while.”

  “Is this a good time to talk about our rent?” Abby said, sweetly.

  CHAPTER 16 - PESTO

  Cormac called me Thursday morning.

  “Heard back from the crime lab.”

  “That was fast.”

  “My forensic pal didn’t buy the Lindbergh baby story, but he does want me to buy him lunch. Which means you will buy us both lunch. And I don’t mean Ray’s Pizza. I’m meeting him in Howard Beach at 12:30. Place called Bruno’s. Says it’s his favorite restaurant in the city. Al rates his own Zip code, so the portions must be huge.”

  “You’re no slacker at the feed trough, Mack.”

  “He puts me to shame.”

  This, I had to see.

  “Pick you up at 11:30.”

  After I hung up, I Googled Bruno’s. I like to know what I’m in for. TripAdvisor ranked it No. 1 out of 2,832 restaurants in Queens. Sometimes my profession has unexpected perks, even when I’m paying the tab.

  Traffic on the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge was heavy and got worse when we hit the Belt Parkway in Brooklyn. After a few miles of stop and go, mainly stop, Mack put a flashing light on the roof and hit the siren. It is not wise to stand between Cormac Levine and his lunch. It was a bit bumpy when we had to drive on the shoulder or around the accidents that were causing the delays, but we arrived at Bruno’s on Cross Bay Blvd., across from a small inlet and boat basin with 10 minutes to spare.

  Mack spotted his forensics buddy almost immediately. Even in a restaurant crowded with oversize patrons, some of whom looked like extras on the Sopranos, the man stood out. Or, rather, sat out. He was already eating. As we got closer, I saw he had a huge platter of fried calamari in front of him. There were two carafes of red wine on the table. One was half full. I was pretty sure it didn’t start out that way. On the chair next to him was a small shopping bag, under which was a manila folder.

  “Alton, this Detective Al Pesto.”

  My hand disappeared into his and I momentarily braced myself, but his grip was gentle.

  “Nice to meet you at last, Rhode. Mac tells me nice things about you.”

  Pesto was huge, with a fleshy face dominated by a huge nose, but surprisingly he did not look obese. He had a full head of hair and was tall as well as broad. I didn’t see him running in the New York Marathon, but I wouldn’t want him to corner me in an alley.

  “You like calamari? Best in the city. I’ll order you guys some. And help yourself to the wine. It’s the house Chianti, but pretty good.”

  I had assumed the platter was for the table. Mack went for the calamari. I settled for a green salad. I knew what was coming. I poured some wine for Mack and myself.

  Pesto reached for the envelope on the chair next to him and handed it to me.

  “You probably should look at this before the food comes and we get red sauce all over it. I’ll talk while you read. The books are in the shopping bag. ”

  I started leafing through the material.

  “The signatures are forgeries. Not even close. As you surmised, they were written by someone who is right-handed. They each differ in minute ways, as if the writer was trying too hard to get it right, or, I should say, correct. Because she got it right, when it should have been left, right?”

  I looked at Pesto.

  “That’s a handwriting joke,” he said, with a mouth full of fried squid.

  “First one I’ve heard,” I said.

  And, hopefully, the last.

  “The dunce even crossed out part of one signature, and I think I know why. She started to write her own first name by mistake!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ll get to that. Meanwhile, one of our interns from Pace dug up an old newspaper photo of Ashleigh Harper at some function signing her first books about 40 years ago. Left-handed.”

  “Sometimes photos in newspapers are reversed,” Mack said. “I read someplace that in the movie Pride of the Yankees they reversed the film to show right-handed Gary Cooper batting left-handed, like the real Lou Gehrig.”

  Pesto smiled at him.

  “Gee, Levine, why didn’t I think of that? Me having a Doctorate in Forensic Science and all. Of course, if the photo was reversed, we would have had a hard time reading the titles of the books they had stacked up on the table. But we didn’t.”

  “Sorry,” Mack said.

  “And for the record, the Gary Cooper story is bunk. He wasn’t much of an athlete, but they taught him to swing lefty. Next time you see the movie, check out his fly.”

  “His fly? Like a fly ball?”

  “No. On his pants. Some scientist compared the fly of Cooper and Gehrig’s road uniform pants. They lay the same way, left flap over right, proving that the film wasn’t flipped.”

  “We have scientists who look at Gary Cooper’s zipper?”

  “Is there a chance” I interrupted, before things got out of hand, “that as the woman got older she changed the way she writes? Switched from left to right? Phil Mickelson, the golfer, is right-handed, but plays lefty. I could give you plenty of other examples. And what about people who are ambidextrous? Maybe something happened to her left arm and it’s just easier to use the other hand.”

  “Maybe she has Lou Gehrig’s Disease,” Mack offered, hopefully.

  We both looked at him after that one.

  “Anything is possible,” Pesto said, “including the possibility that I will starve to death before we get our lunch.” His calamari plate was empty. In fact, it looked as if it had been washed. “But you mentioned that this old broad smoked right-handed, too. And no one has mentioned that she had a bum left wing. I hear you are a pretty good detective, Rhode. Did you happen to notice that?”

  “Her left arm looked perfectly fine. She held the book in her left when she signed. Even handed it back from that hand, as I remember.”

  Our waiter finally appeared with our appetizer and salad. Pesto said he wanted to order. He did and the waiter started to leave.

  “Hey! Aren’t you going to ask these gentlemen what they want?”

  The man looked startled, and then took our orders.

  “And bring more wine and bread,” Pesto said.

  The stunned waiter left.

  “He’s new,” Pesto said. “The regulars know I have a big appetite.”

  There was a black-and-white mug shot of a nice-looking woman in the folder. I picked it up and read the name.

  “Bessie Magruder?”

  “Yeah,” Pesto said. “We eliminated the prints from you and your girlfriend. There were matching prints from two other people on both books. They aren’t in the system. Probab
ly belong to whoever took the books out of the box. But two sets did match and were in the system. Bessie Magruder. Arrested years ago in Manhattan. Minor stuff, mostly. It’s all in there. Shoplifting, solicitation, passing bum checks. Gave her occupation as an actress and, of course, waitress. Notice the first three letters of her first name?”

  “They look like the three letters crossed out in the book.”

  “Yeah. Poor Bessie slipped up. It must be hard to sign someone else’s name when you don’t expect to. I take it you took her by surprise.”

  “We did.”

  There was a vague resemblance, but the photo was of a much-younger woman. I looked at Pesto.

  “You have sketch artists and computer people who can ‘age’ a photo, don’t you?”

  “Of course. But let’s wait on that. Mac and I have used up most of our favors. But don’t despair. If you want to see what Bessie Magruder looks like now, you might also want to see if she’s done any recent theater work. Once an actress always an actress. And if someone is running a scam, they probably didn’t just find her on the street or waiting tables.”

  Detective Pesto was certainly earning his lunch. Which came shortly. In waves. Two hours later I paid the tab, which looked like I’d hosted a retirement party. I lost count after the Spaghetti Bolognese, Veal Parmigiana, Chicken Capricciosa, Filetto di Pomodoro and Sausage with Peppers. I kept a copy of the bill to frame.

  ***

  “I never thought I’d find anyone who could eat you under the table, Mack,” I said, as we got to the car. “That was impressive.”

  “Al could out-eat the New England Patriots. I can’t believe he skipped dessert. He’s probably trying to lose weight.”

  “Even his name is connected to food.”

  “Hell of a forensic scientist, though.”

  “That’s a fact,” I said. “And he gave me a great idea.”

  I called Wayne Miller’s cell phone and told him what Pesto said about the possibility that Bessie Magruder might have acted recently in New York. Wayne said he was in Manhattan, directing an off-Broadway play, but had some free time to look her up. Could I meet him at his theater?

  “Feel like driving me into Manhattan, Mack?”

  “After that lunch, I’d drive you to Saskatchewan.”

  CHAPTER 17 - TALENT

  Mack dropped me off at the Classic Stage Company Theater on East 13th Street in the Village for my meeting with Wayne.

  “I seem to be spending a lot of time in Greenwich Village these days,” I commented.

  “Doesn’t Alice live near here?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, what are you complaining about?”

  “It was just an observation.”

  “Then go observe something else. I have to get back to the office. I want to beat the traffic.”

  We fist bumped.

  “Thanks, Mack.”

  The poster on the wall outside the theater advertised Peer Gynt, identifying it as Ibsen’s play about “a childhood renegade, outcast, adventurer, industrialist and provocateur who searches for a life that will live up to his impossible and irrepressible expectations”. It sounded like half the people running for President.

  When I walked into the theater, Wayne was standing below the stage talking to some actors. I took a seat until he finished and saw me.

  “Let’s go into my office,” he said.

  I’ve known Wayne Miller a long time. He’s a fine actor who has run small theater groups on Staten Island and recently graduated to the bigger leagues. Everyone expects him to eventually direct a Broadway show. Wayne lives near me and I’ve often imposed on him to come by my house and feed Scar when he was between squirrels and the occasional opossum who was not faking it.

  “I appreciate your help on this, Wayne,” I said when we sat in his office.

  “Glad to help you out on anything that doesn’t include taking care of that thing you call a cat. He belongs on the Serengeti.”

  “I’ve made other arrangements. Kid on the block. I think he’s training to be a lion tamer.”

  “And Gunner puts up with Scar?”

  “I think it’s the other way around. How’s the play going?”

  “It’s a challenge. Ibsen is considered the most important playwright since Shakespeare. So, the bar is set pretty high. And Peer Gynt is the most surreal of his plays. Their weather being what it is, Norwegians have a lot of time to sit around and think. But it’s coming together. I have a great group of actors, although I just lost one of them to a broken leg.”

  “I thought that was good luck.”

  “Not when we open in three weeks. It’s a small part but the girl was stunning, which is what the part needs, as politically incorrect as that sounds. Oh, well, we’ll manage. And speaking of actors, I haven’t been able to locate your Bessie Magruder. I’ve made a few calls but you will have to take it from here.”

  Wayne passed me a sheet of paper.

  “These are the major talent agencies in the city. I’ve crossed out the ones I’ve called.”

  I looked at the printout. There were 15 agencies, of which five were crossed off.

  “There is no Actors Equity database?”

  “No. That would be too easy. The industry is still fragmented. The union does not keep a data base of current photos, but casting agents do.” He pointed at the list in my hand. “Those are only the ones in Manhattan. There are a few in Brooklyn. But you should start with these names. The odds are that if she worked within the last few years, she’s represented by one of those, and they may have a current photo. If you strike out, one of them can probably get you a list of agents outside Manhattan. Then, of course, there are a slew of casting agents in Hollywood. But you have to start somewhere. Has she been murdered, or something?”

  “I hope not. But she may be involved in something pretty screwy.”

  “Well, good hunting. I have to get back to work, but you can use this office if you like to make your calls. And you can use my name if you have to. How’s Alice? She lives near here, doesn’t she?”

  “On Christopher.”

  “Great. Just call ahead and I’ll leave two tickets for you at the box office when we open.”

  “The last play you invited me involved a bunch of actors sitting on caskets screaming at the audience.”

  Wayne laughed.

  “I remember that piece of avant-garde crap. I was forced to put it on at Snug Harbor to keep our cultural grant. I believe you dubbed it ‘Musical Coffins’ because every now and then they jumped up and switched places.”

  “I called it a lot of things. I assumed it was payback for Scar.”

  “You also insulted the playwright.”

  “He insulted me and everyone else in the audience.”

  “No argument, here. Well, this is Ibsen. Alice will love it. She’ll see a lot of you in it.”

  After Wayne left, I took the list and started calling. The ten names not crossed off were: Ameristage, Borden Casting, Comer Casting, Donna DeSoto Casting, Lori Westside Casting Inc., Sylvia Geneck & Associates, Herman Lipton Casting, Saul Kaufman, McGonnigle Casting, Ltd. and Barbara Polito Casting.

  I hate lists. I never know where to start. On the assumption that nothing is ever easy and I probably wouldn’t get a hit, if I did, until near the end of the list, I started at the end, with the Barbara Polito agency. Most of the agents, or their assistants, were helpful. After all, their job is to get work for their clients. And the couple who were reticent to confirm Magruder’s name over the phone reacted to Wayne Miller’s name. My start-at-the-end strategy had a predictable result. Ameristage, the first name on Wayne’s list, and the last one I called, represented Bessie.

  “Do you have a current photo of Ms. Magruder?”

  “I’m sure we do,” the assistant, whose name was Tanya, said. “Hold on, please.”

  I held on. I was annoyed about all the wasted calls, but consoled myself with the thought that when all was said and done, I probably was pretty l
ucky.

  “We have a photo,” Tanya said when she came back on the line. “But it is almost two years old. Ms. Magruder should really get us a more recent shot. I’ll have to call her.”

  “Hold that thought,” I said. “Don’t call anyone. I’ll be right over.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.”

  ***

  The Ameristage agency was on West 38th Street, between 7th and 8th Avenues. Close enough to Broadway to get the heart of every star-struck ingénue pumping a little faster.

  Tanya turned out to be a tall willowy receptionist, with flowing brown hair and gray eyes. She dazzled me with a smile of perfect teeth.

  “I hope the folks here at Ameristage are representing you,” I said.

  I knew it sounded like a pickup line, and I’m spoken for, but I meant it. She was a knockout.

  “They are. I am an actress. This job is better than being a waitress, although I have done that. The agency represents me, and has my most recent photo. Unlike Ms. Magruder. You are the gentlemen I spoke to on the phone, no? Mr. Rhode.”

  Tanya had a slight and sexy Russian accent. New York seems to be overrun by pretty Russian girls, which is not a bad thing. She looked a lot like the lady detective in the TV show, Castle. Some people say that Russian women don't age well. Maks Kalugin insists that once they hit 50 or so, they start “spreading out like a pregnant yak". His words, not mine. Maybe he’s right, but I bet a lot of Russian men die happy before that happens.

  “I’d like to see the most recent photo of Bessie Magruder, and get her contact information.”

  “Why?”

  It was a reasonable question. I thought about trying to bamboozle her, but she did not look like the type who could be bamboozled. I’ve had some experience with Russian actresses, and it usually works the other way around.

  I took out my license.

  “I’m working on a missing-persons case, a young girl, and Magruder may be involved. If she is, she may also be in danger.”

  I didn’t know that. But I also didn’t not know it.

  “You probably should come back, when the Brubackers are here. They own the agency. They do not like to give out client information.”