“I’ll probably never find another Scruffy, but I’ll keep looking. If I do find one, maybe you’ll learn some respect.”
Scar left without replying. Truth was, he looked like he’d handled dogs before. I went back into the house, turned on the oven and opened my freezer. I took out one of the containers of beef bourguignon I had left over from a Williams-Sonoma crock pot mix that has fooled even some Francophiles I occasionally have over for dinner. I do add some extra fresh mushrooms to the pot to lend a proprietary air to the dish. I also took out a frozen French baguette and some ice cubes. Bachelors must have had it pretty easy during the ice age.
After getting the food in the oven, I poured three fingers of Makers Mark over a couple of cubes in a rocks glass. Since I used my fingers vertically, the bourbon almost spilled out.
Unlike Scar, I had no plans for the evening.
CHAPTER 4 – LUNCH AT THE CLUB
I got up at dawn the next morning and needed to work off the bourbon, not to mention the half bottle of claret that had made the beef bourguignon even more memorable. I ran up Forest Avenue past the Silver Lake Golf Course and the reservoir to Victory Boulevard. It was no fun, since it is basically uphill. Then I turned down Victory to Clove Road, sprinted into Clove Lakes Park and circled three of its small lakes before heading back to Forest and home at an easy jog.
I walked the last few blocks and was pleased to note that even though my legs ached a bit, I no longer had even the slightest hint of a limp. Perhaps I could finally say goodbye to the doctors and physical therapists at the Veterans Administration Hospital in Brooklyn. The cute consulting shrink hired by the V.A. to evaluate my mental health had already cut me loose, convinced that my drinking habits and other lifestyle choices had nothing to do with post-traumatic stress. Her final diagnosis – given to me verbally, and gratefully not reflected in my file – was, “It seems that you’ve always been fucked up.”
Once home, I put on a pot of coffee. Then I whisked some eggs, sliced up what remained of the previous night’s baguette, added a touch of Makers Mark and made French toast. Day-old baguette is excellent for French toast. As for the bourbon, it wasn’t a hair-of-the-dog addition. It was from a recipe given to me by a Foreign Legionnaire I once shared a tent with on a combined op. He actually specified bourbon, although he said sour mash would do in a pinch. Either way, whisky does make a difference. So does real maple syrup, the only syrup I allow in my larder.
After breakfast, I showered, put on old clothes and headed to my basement, which I am in the process of finishing. I had finally cleaned the space out after my last case, the end of which found me there tied to a chair with limited prospects. When the people torturing you and your just-in-the-nick-of-time rescuers all comment on how dirty your basement is, it’s time to do something. As it turned out, the blood stains, mostly Carlucci’s, were the easiest part of the cleanup.
The whitewash on the walls had dried, so I started drilling holes to anchor the shelving and wall mounts I planned to install. I almost didn’t hear my cell phone. When I picked it up I was surprised by the name on the display.
“Mr. Rhode, this is Steve Long. I think we’ve met a couple of times at one function or another. I hope you don’t mind my calling on a Saturday.”
“Not at all. What can I do for you, Mr. Long?”
“Please call me Steve. I need an investigator for a case I’m preparing. You come highly recommended by one of my clients. I believe you know him. Arman Rahm.” I almost laughed. Rahm and his personal assassin, Maks Kalugin, had been responsible for most of my basement blood stains, having shot Nando Carlucci in the mouth not five feet from where I was now drilling holes in the wall.
“A Rahm isn’t a client,” I said. “It’s an annuity.”
“Quite so,” Long said, chuckling. “An interesting family. But this has nothing to do with them. You may have heard that I represent Elizabeth Olsen in the Denton incident.”
At least he didn’t say “accident.”
I said I’d heard.
“That’s where I may need your help. If you are interested, I’d like to buy you lunch.”
“I’m a big fan of lunch, Steve. Especially when someone else is buying. But I’m curious. The, ah, incident, occurred quite a while ago. You’ve had months to prepare for trial. Why are you just now getting around to hiring an investigator?”
“Very frankly, because I didn’t think we’d ever get near a courtroom. My client refuses to entertain any kind of plea. Take this as a compliment. I understand you are a man people go to when they are grasping at straws.”
Just over an hour later I drove into the Richmond County Country Club. The weather was good enough to bring out the tennis players. Most of the club’s eight Har-Tru courts were occupied. There was a doubles match going on the nearest court I passed. An elderly woman huffed after a ball that had been lobbed over her head. She never got close but watched it hit and vehemently shouted “out.” Even in a moving car, 50 feet from a court partially obstructed by bushes and a fence, I could see that the ball was clearly inside the baseline.
“Are you sure, Marjorie,” one of her opponents yelled. “It looked awfully close.”
“Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,” Marge replied. “It’s 40-15.”
I’d bet she used that line in a hundred matches.
J. Steven Long was sitting at a table in the corner of the Grill Room by a window overlooking the club’s pool. He stood up when I reached the table.
“Mr. Rhode, thank you for coming,” he said.
“Please call me Alton.” Long looked to be about 60, but I knew he was closer to 70. I’m just six-foot tall and he had me by at least two inches. There was a drink with a lime in front of him. He raised it and pointed it at me. “How about something before we order lunch? They make a great gin and tonic here. Tall, thin glasses are the key.”
“That would be nice.”
He waved over a waiter.
“Two Pinnacles and tonics, Barry. And perhaps some nuts.”
“Pinnacle,” I said.
“Best kept secret in gin. British through and through.”
Long’s hair was brown and slicked back and looked slightly damp. He was wearing navy blue slacks and a clean, fresh pink golf shirt and he had that powdered look men at clubs have after a shower.
“I bet you called me from the golf course,” I said.
“How observant,” he said, laughing. “But then you are a detective. I have a regular Saturday game. In fact, Konrad Olsen, Elizabeth’s father, is in our group. He was in a foursome behind us and is still in the locker room. I’ve asked him to join us. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” I presumed I was to be vetted. “I’ve heard a lot about him.”
“Good. Have you played the course?”
“Once or twice a year, as a guest. And I caddied there in high school, and they let us play on Tuesdays when the club was closed. It’s a wonderful layout. Do you think the city will keep it up when they take it over?”
Richmond County is the only private country club within the five boroughs of New York City. The land making up the clubhouse grounds and its 124-acre, 18-hole golf course, which was just down the road about a mile, represent some of the most valuable property in New York. In the 1980’s the city had raised the assessment on all the land and the club was faced with an astronomical tax bill. Rather than shoulder a huge dues increase, the club sold the golf course to the city, but got the right to lease it back at no cost for 99 years.
“Sure, and I’ll win the fucking Masters,” Long said.
“I guess they had no choice but to cut a deal.”
“They had a choice.” The lawyer waved his arm. “Some of us wanted to sell all this up here. The clubhouse, the tennis courts, the houses we own on the oval, the whole shebang, and relocate to new facilities down on the golf course. We would have had to shorten a couple of holes and maybe have fewer tennis courts, but we’d still have a pool an
d a state-of-the-art clubhouse. We sold the golf course for $4 million. Do you know what this land up here is worth? If we held out a couple of years we would have made a bloody fortune. Hell, each of those tennis courts out there is probably worth $4 million. We would have had enough money to pay taxes forever, on the interest alone.”
“I guess you got outvoted.”
“Wasn’t even close. Do you know this club was started in 1888 as a hunt club? They actually rode to the hounds. Didn’t let the first Jews or Italians in until the 1970’s and then only a sprinkling, for show. No blacks until the 1990’s, same reason. The old W.A.S.P. money still ran the club when they cut the deal with the city. They don’t care what happens in 2088, probably figure Staten Island will be a sewer by then anyway. Most of their kids have moved off the Island, so what the hell?”
Long looked past my shoulder and smiled. He stood. I caught an approaching wisp of cologne and talcum powder. Konrad Olsen had arrived. I got up also.
CHAPTER 5 – THE WRITING ON THE WALL
“Konrad, this is the fellow I spoke about. Alton Rhode.”
Olsen and I shook, and we all sat. The waiter was back.
“Double Black, on the rocks,” Olsen said.
“And another round for us,” Long added. “And bring the menus, please.”
The two men made small talk about their golf games and I murmured appropriate comments. I refrained from bringing up the golf course lease. Olsen money was old money. I was pretty sure how he had voted. And now that his daughter had been accused of murdering her paramour on the club grounds he probably didn’t care if the place was sold to Hezbollah. The drinks and menus came. We took appreciative pulls. My second Pinnacle and tonic was in no way inferior to the first. Long was on his third but didn’t look any the worse for wear. The waiter hovered. We ordered. Long ordered a Caesar salad, with chicken. Olsen another scotch. I opted for the steak frites, which in the old days and in English was called a steak sandwich. I always judge a club’s food by its steak sandwich, except you can’t find it on many club menus anymore. My fallback criteria is now a Reuben, but it’s not the same. I declined another gin and tonic, or wine, and asked for a Diet Coke. This was a job interview of sorts, and money would be involved.
Olsen’s scotch came. He nibbled on some nuts, which was apparently his lunch. While we waited for our orders, he got right to the point.
“Steve tells me you may be able to help my daughter.”
“Steve might be getting a little ahead of himself.”
“I don’t understand.”
Long jumped in quickly.
“Konrad, I need a savvy investigator to help me develop our defense. Mr. Rhode hasn’t agreed to come on board yet. This is a preliminary meeting. I thought I made that clear.”
I liked being called savvy. I wondered if I could put “Savvy Sleuth” on my business card.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Olsen said. He looked at me. “Elizabeth is innocent. Can you help us?”
It was what any father would say, unless he actually saw the murder. And maybe even then.
“I only know what I’ve read in the papers, Mr. Olsen.”
“My daughter is a romantic fool, but not a murderer.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Olsen, but one doesn’t preclude the other.”
He bridled.
“Whose side are you on, Rhode?”
“My own, sir. I haven’t been hired. But if I am, I’ll follow the leads where they take me. It will be up to Mr. Long to decide what to do with the information I provide. If it helps your daughter, I’ll get paid. If it doesn’t, I’ll still get paid.”
“That’s cold.”
“Yes, but you want cold. I don’t manufacture evidence. But if I find something that helps your daughter, you can take it to the bank. Even Denton’s.”
Olsen looked at Long and said, “He’ll do.” Then he knocked back his scotch and stood. So did I. We shook. “Steve will fill you in on everything, and arrange a meeting with Elizabeth.” Then he walked away. Every eye in the room followed him.
“Sorry about that,” Long said. “It’s tough on him. He loves Elizabeth, but she’s caused him a lot of trouble over the years, mostly with men. Nothing like this, of course. He can’t stand talking about it. But it was his idea to meet you here. He’s showing the flag. Same with the golf. He plays more now than he did before the shooting. The Olsens have been members here for two generations. It takes guts, considering that his daughter is accused of murdering another member not a hundred yards from where we’re sitting.”
“Old money may not have too many good qualities,” I said, “but those they do have should be appreciated.”
“Well said, well said. Are you on board?”
I was, especially at the rate he and Olsen were willing to pay. To top it all off, the club chef hit the steak sandwich out of the ballpark. We discussed the case as we ate. When I asked him what his strategy was, he laughed.
“I hope my client comes to her senses, or they legalize murder.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Elizabeth admits that Denton was her lover. He apparently abused her mentally and, on occasion, physically, then threw her over for another woman.”
“Who?”
“She doesn’t know. Elizabeth says she went to Denton’s house to confront him and find out. She says she found him dead in his chair in the den, naked, his face all shot to pieces, blood and brains all over the chair. The lights went out and she heard something and saw someone running out the doorway leading to the rear patio. She panicked and picked up the gun lying next to the chair and fired at whoever it was.”
“If the lights were out, how did she see the gun?”
“She says she saw it before the lights went out and there was a fire going in the fireplace so she still could spot it.”
“If he was already dead, how did she get in?”
“Elizabeth had a key. A lot of women apparently did.”
“Whose gun was it?”
“Denton’s. Family heirloom, apparently. Claimed he needed one for protection from robbers. Lot of burglaries up on the hill a while back.” Long smiled. “Given the economy, bankers are probably worried about the general public, too. Want coffee?”
I nodded and we soon had some. It was strong, and good.
“You said heirloom. Just what kind of gun was it?”
“A Webley something or other.”
“Webley-Fosbery. Six shots, .45 caliber?”
“Yes, that’s it. How did you know?”
“It’s the same type of gun that killed Miles Archer. I don’t suppose there is a missing statue of a bird involved.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Who is Archer? What statue?”
I laughed,
“Sorry. Miles Archer is Sam Spade’s partner in The Maltese Falcon. There can’t be many Webleys around anymore. They only made about 5,000 of them, the last one about 80 years ago. Would Elizabeth Olsen know where he kept his gun?”
Long sighed.
“I heard you knew more about stuff that doesn’t matter than a Jeopardy contestant. Anyway, Denton was proud of the gun. Showed it to anyone and everyone. He usually kept it in the night table by his bed. In a drawer with his condoms. It’s not a stretch that she would have known about it. She sure as hell knew about the condoms.”
“She isn’t making it easy on you, is she counselor? She says she only fired one round?”
“Yes, but claims she pulled the trigger several times until she realized the gun was empty, then ran out the front door, still holding the gun.”
“Right into the arms of the cops.”
“Well, into the arms of a neighborhood security guard, who held her for the cops. He was responding to a report of gunfire.”
“Did the cops find the sixth round?”
“No, but there was a bullet hole in one of the glass panels of one of the double doors leading out to the patio, which is in the opposite direction of the kill shots. Th
e bullet is presumably in the woods somewhere.”
“The doors were closed?”
“One was. The other was open, according to the police first on the scene.”
“Obviously, the cops aren’t buying her story.”
Long smiled.
“I’m her lawyer and I didn’t buy it. The cops argue that she made up the intruder and fired the sixth shot through the door in a lame attempt to feign innocence. The cops love to exaggerate evidence, but here they have a scorned woman leaving her slaughtered lover’s house holding the fucking proverbial smoking gun. Hell, they could still smell the cordite when they entered.”
“Why did you take the case? I heard you don’t like losing.”
Long sat back and tented his fingers.
“I don’t. I assumed Elizabeth would see the writing on the wall and we could plead out. Denton was a sleaze. I could offer any number of mitigating defenses. Shoot a guy five times in the kisser and get a couple of years minimum security, that counts as a victory in my book, and the public’s. But she is adamant. Says it happened just like she said.”
The waiter had left two small pots of coffee on our table. I poured myself another cup.
“I don’t like just going through the motions, even for this kind of dough.”
Long poured himself another cup.
“Alton, I said I didn’t believe her. Past tense. Now I’m not so sure. I want you to talk to her. Let me know what you think. Then find me something I can use. That intruder would be nice, if he exists. But I’ll take anything. A grassy knoll with shell casings. Any fucking thing. And if you draw a blank, maybe I can convince her to take a plea, even if she’s telling the truth. It’s a shitty outcome, but she’s young. I can’t see her throwing her life away because she’s stubborn.”
“Or innocent.”
“That, too.”
CHAPTER 6 – TOO MANY EGGS
“Do you think there is a chance she’s innocent?”
LAURA LEE (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 2) Page 3