LAURA LEE (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 2)

by Lawrence de Maria

  I had picked up Alice at the St. George Ferry Terminal at 6 P.M. As she walked up the ramp to my car I noticed that she was carrying a large overnight bag. I took that as an encouraging sign, although I knew that she occasionally slept over in one of the Wagner College dorms rather than catch a late ferry back to Manhattan. As the coach of the women’s swim team, she often found that convenient for early-morning practices, particularly on weekends. In fact, that’s how we first met. She was prepping the team for a match and I was rehabbing in the same pool. She noticed my bullet holes; I noticed everything about her.

  “If there is one thing I’ve learned recently,” I replied, “it’s that anything is possible. I’ll be able to make a better judgment after I talk with her.”

  Alice had casually thrown her bag in my back seat with an enigmatic smile. At least I hoped it was enigmatic, and not pitying. Now we were making small talk on the way to the Mancuso’s.

  “When will that be?”

  “Her lawyer is setting something up for Monday.”

  “Where is she being held?”

  “Nowhere. She’s at her father’s house. Long managed to swing a million-dollar bail.”

  “Isn’t that unusual in a murder case?”

  ‘She’s never been in any real trouble, has ties to the community and isn’t considered a threat to anyone. She had to give up her passport and is wearing an ankle monitor. Can’t leave the house except in an emergency or legal proceedings, including lawyer visits.”

  “I’ve seen her picture. She’s quite pretty. This is a big case. Even the New York papers are covering it.”

  “My dear Alice. Don’t be a snob. We are in New York.”

  “Don’t be so Staten Island. I mean the Manhattan papers. They usually don’t care what you foreigners out here do to each other.”

  “We like it like that. On a personal note, it’s good for my business. There’s plenty to detect.”

  “It would seem that you have your work cut out for you on this one.” Following Alice’s direction, I drove up Victory Boulevard, the main bus and commuter route from the St. George area. It was a Saturday and there shouldn’t have been much traffic. But there was. The Mancusos lived on Duncan Road on Grymes Hill, not far from Wagner College. “What does her attorney think you can do?”

  “Everyone deserves a vigorous defense,” I said. “I know that sounds lame. There may be mitigating circumstances. He will try to work out the best result for Elizabeth Olsen. The man she’s accused of killing wasn’t exactly a paragon of virtue.”

  “I thought he was a prominent banker.”

  “In this economic climate, that won’t hurt the defense,” I said. “But he apparently had other faults, mostly related to women.”

  “Mostly?”

  “There have been rumors that he swings from both sides of the plate.”

  “So Olsen’s lawyer wants you to dig up stuff to smear him.”

  I caught the tone of disapproval.

  “He hired me to investigate the crime. And that’s all I’ll do.”

  I must have sounded curt because Alice put her hand on my arm.

  “I’m sorry, Alt. I didn’t mean to imply….”

  “It’s OK. If Long has to, he’ll tar Denton to the point where the jury will want to exhume the body to make sure he’s dead. But he’s hoping this case never sees a jury. He wants his client to plead to a lesser charge.”

  “Will she?”

  “Not yet, but she may not have a choice, depending upon what I find out.”

  “And if she’s really innocent but you can’t prove it?”

  I thought about what Long had said about Elizabeth Olsen facing reality even if she hadn’t killed Denton. He was a good lawyer only looking out for his client, but I didn’t like it when he said it, and I still didn’t like it.

  “If she’s innocent, I’ll prove it.”

  ***

  The Mancuso house was the last one on Duncan Road before the entrance to the Staten Island campus of St. John’s University. The heavily treed and hilly campus had once belonged to the prestigious Notre Dame College for Women, which years earlier had been folded into St. John’s by the Archdiocese for financial reasons. It was now a full-service liberal arts institution and no longer restricted to women. Modern structures, including a new glass-walled library, had been added to the existing hundred-year-old Revival mansions that had served as the original school buildings, giving the whole place an awkward charm. I knew all this because Alice told me. She occasionally teaches classes at St. John’s as part of some sort of educational swap among all the colleges on Staten Island. I forget the name of the program but it has the word “Continuum” in it. I think you have to be able to spell it to participate. Regardless, between St. John’s and Wagner College just down the road on Howard Avenue, Staten Island has two of the prettiest college campuses in the country.

  The Mancuso’s driveway was full of cars and there were few spots on the street, but I squeezed my Malibu in between a Lexus and a Mercedes. I thought I heard them both snicker in derision, but it might just have been their engines settling.

  There was no one greeting guests at the door so we walked right in and headed toward a cluster of people standing in the middle of the living room.

  “Alice! I’m so glad you could make it to our party.” A short, plump woman in a tight bright red dress had left the cluster and headed our way. She bussed Alice on both cheeks and then looked at me. “And who is this handsome devil?”

  “Peggy, this is Alton Rhode,” Alice said.

  Peggy Mancuso looked me over head to toe. She did everything but check my withers. I refrained from whinnying as we shook hands. I tried not to look at her ample breasts, not an easy thing to do since they threatened to spill out onto the floor.

  “What can I get you,” Peggy said.

  “Blinkers,” I replied.

  “Is that the new vodka everyone is talking about,” she said as Alice kicked my ankle.

  Our hostess led us to a small bar set up in a corner of the living room and asked the bartender if he had any Blinkers vodka. I settled for an Absolut on the rocks. Alice had a gin and tonic. Peggy Mancuso made a few introductions and then headed off to greet other arrivals. In addition to a bartender, there was a waitress moving among us passing out hors d’oeuvres. In the adjacent dining room, where the table was set up for a hot buffet, a waiter was lighting the little Sterno cans under trays. I looked around and recognized a few people in a kind of “seen you around” way. I spotted two judges and a city councilman among the 20 or so guests. Alice appeared to be having a nice time, so I was, too. It wasn’t that much of a struggle. The appetizers were good, and so was my drink, even if it wasn’t Blinkers. And I liked watching Alice having fun. At one point or another all but one of the men at the party glanced her way. She was a knockout and some did it repeatedly. The only exception was the councilman, who I knew to be gay. He glanced at me and waved. It was purely fraternal. He was in a committed relationship and I’d supported him in his last campaign.

  Peggy’s husband, Joe, came over and introduced himself. He was a tall, thin man, who, I found out almost immediately, sold life insurance. And medical insurance. And annuities. And long-term care policies. And auto insurance. And home and renter insurance.

  I finally asked, “Is there anything you don’t insure?”

  That got me a glance from Alice. I hadn’t even known she was paying attention, but I expected that she was always alert to my social skills, or lack thereof.

  “The Higgs boson,” Mancuso replied laughing, “but, hell, they just discovered it.”

  He gave me his card and asked for mine.

  “Wow! A private eye. I bet you meet all kinds. Had any interesting cases lately?”

  “Just solved an insurance scam,” I said.

  I could see Alice take a deep breath. Not that my remark bothered Joe Mancuso, who I was beginning to like.

  “Well, I don’t know if there’s private dick
insurance,” he said, then chuckled, giving me a man-to-man look. “I mean private investigator insurance. The other kind is probably covered under medical.” He really whooped at that and punched my arm. Some people looked our way. “But I can check it out.”

  “Sure,” I said, and he went off happy.

  I saw him collar two other men and I could tell he was regaling them with his dick insurance line. Several more couples had arrived, including Michael and Sharon Sullivan. They soon joined our little group, which grew larger as more men drifted into our orbit, which now included both Alice and Sharon.

  The Sullivans ordered their drinks. A Diet Coke for the D.A. and a Beefeater martini, straight up, for his wife. When she had settled into a conversation with Alice and the other women, he turned to me.

  “I hear you are working the Olsen case, Alton. I’m glad.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “We’ve had our differences, but I know you’re good. And honest. You won’t find anything to hurt our case and you won’t manufacture anything. Not that Steve Long will, either. So, everything should be quick and clean.”

  “And appeal-proof.”

  “You bet.”

  “What if I find out she’s innocent?”

  He smiled.

  “The case is being tried on Staten Island, my friend. Not Lourdes. There will be no miracle.”

  “I suppose I can expect full cooperation from your office. On disclosure.”

  “Unfortunately for your client, there’s not much to disclose, and what there is, is damning. But you’ll have full access. You have my word. Have you met Elizabeth Olsen?”

  “Not yet. Long is setting it up. Met her father, though. He’s no cupcake.”

  Sullivan’s smile turned grim.

  “Yes. I’m well aware of that. I know Konrad well and take no pleasure in prosecuting his daughter. My office has tried to be decent. We didn’t oppose bail.”

  “I know. I’m a little surprised you insisted on ankle monitoring. She’s not going anywhere.”

  “Elizabeth Olsen put five bullets in Denton’s face. That’s not a sign of stability. I’m not taking any chances.”

  “Stability? That sounds like a word Long will use in defense.

  Sullivan shrugged.

  “Steve will use a lot of words. None of them will work. And despite what you think, Alton, I don’t need to convict Elizabeth to get reelected. I could beat Costello in my sleep, even if she pleads out. Nobody is out for blood. Only justice.”

  “Costello will be out for yours, if the case is screwed up.”

  “Which it won’t be. Especially with you on the job. And I’m not being facetious.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. It seemed like a lot of people on both sides of the Denton murder were putting their eggs in my basket. I didn’t like it.

  CHAPTER 7 – CHECK PLEASE

  I was working on a miniature crab cake, a safer sartorial bet than the miniature lamb chops that I tend to drip over everything, when I heard Peggy Mancuso ask for everyone’s attention.

  “Now that we’ve got you properly liquored up and before we eat,” she said, “I would like our great District Attorney, Mike Sullivan, to say a few words.”

  A few people clapped and Sullivan walked into the center of the room.

  “Thank you, Peg. I want all your votes, so I will be brief. Very brief. And for that you can also thank my lovely wife, Sharon, who says nobody likes a windbag standing between them and a hot buffet.”

  That got a few appreciative chuckles. Sharon Sullivan did a little curtsy. And true to his word, Sullivan kept it short. He recapped his office’s track record in suppressing major crimes on Staten Island, which, he noted, had the lowest incidence of murder, rape and felonious assault of the five boroughs in New York City. He ignored the fact that since the Susquehannock Indians stopped massacring settlers four hundred years earlier the borough always had the lowest rates of those three crimes, primarily because the police and Staten Island’s numerous mobsters were equally intolerant of non-organized violent crime in a community where they were raising their own families. But he rightfully pointed out that he had kept a lid on most other crimes despite the Island’s exploding population. I would have loved him to say that he intended to clean out Borough Hall, but the non-partisan Staten Island tradition of prosecutors avoiding white-collar crime or political corruption probably predated the Susquehannocks. The old boy network was a virtual religion on Staten Island. Its first commandment: Payback is only an election away.

  “Well, that’s it, folks,” Sullivan finished up. “It looks like the buffet is ready, and I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  Now everyone clapped and a few people went up to shake his hand before joining the buffet line. I’m not a “line” person and neither was Alice apparently, so we did the next best thing and freshened our drinks at the bar. Sullivan and his wife joined us. Sharon had another martini and this time her husband, now officially off duty apparently, asked for a scotch on the rocks. We all toasted his speech and wished him luck.

  “I’m sorry I can’t vote for you, Mike,” Alice said, “I don’t live on Staten Island. But I did bring Alton along to pay for my supper. Not that I can promise you his vote.”

  The Sullivans laughed and Mike said, “That’s a promise you’re wise not to make, especially since he’ll probably be mad at me after I cross examine him on the stand.”

  “Cross examine?”

  It was Sharon, who looked confused.

  “Didn’t I tell you, honey? Alton is working for the defense in the Denton case. He’ll try to convince the jury that Elizabeth Olsen did the world a service by shooting John Denton and I’ll try to convince them he’s the worst private detective in the Northern Hemisphere.”

  The smile froze on Sharon Sullivan’s face.

  “Mike, that’s uncalled for! You make it sound like a game. That poor woman is on trial for her life. You should apologize.”

  The three of us were startled by her vehemence. Her husband started to say something but I jumped in. I’d actually thought what he’d said was pretty funny.

  “Sharon, Mike is just teasing me. We bust each other all the time. Cop talk. You should hear what we say when there are no ladies around. Anyway, you missed the point. I’m flattered. Mike used to believe I was the worst detective in both hemispheres.”

  “Besides, honey,” Mike said quickly. “Elizabeth Olsen is not on trial for her life. And she will probably plead to a lesser charge. We’re not monsters.”

  “No,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I know that. But they exist.”

  With that she walked away. We all stared at each other.

  “Excuse me,” Sullivan said. “I seemed to have put my foot in it.”

  He walked after his wife. I looked at Alice.

  “What the hell was that all about?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  I looked over at the food table. Our fun time with the Sullivans had not worked to our advantage, buffet-wise. I’d seen shorter lines at Motor Vehicles.

  “Could I interest you in a real dinner. It’s still early and I’d like to blow this joint.”

  “My thoughts, exactly.”

  A few minutes later we made our goodbyes. Peggy Mancuso, who gave every sign of being plastered, walked us in a semi-straight line to the door, holding our arms. She gave us both effusive kisses, which forced me to bend down, offering me a clear view of her cleavage. A vision of the Grand Canyon popped unbidden into my mind.

  “Now don’t be strangers, you two,” she said. “And next time you’re here, Walton, I’ll be sure to have your favorite vodka.”

  “It’s Alton,” Alice said.

  “Alton? I thought it was Blinkers vodka. Oh, his name is Alton. I’m sorry. I’m bad with names. But I know a keeper when I see one, Alice. Don’t let this hunk get away. If I wasn’t so happily married I’d be all over him like stink on shit. Pardon
my French.”

  “That would be ‘puantes sur merde’,” I said.

  “What?”

  Alice grabbed my arm, digging in her nails.

  “It was a lovely party, Peg. This hunk and I have to run. I’ll call you.”

  On the way to the car, I could feel Alice laughing quietly.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Puantes sur merde?”

  “A rough translation. My French is a bit rusty.”

  “You really do speak it? You never fail to amaze me.”

  “Picked it up from a guy in the French Foreign Legion. There was a battalion near us. Funny thing was, he was a German, so I got a little of that, too. Kind of a Berlin Berlitz thing. Gave me a great French toast recipe, too. Speaking of French, you up for some?”

  “Always. But I didn’t think there was a good French restaurant on Staten Island.”

  We had reached my car.

  “You Manhattan elitist. You are with a trained detective.”

  There was a time when 90% of the better restaurants on Staten Island were Italian. There were still plenty of those but in recent years a few “Continental” places had made an inroad. I headed down Grymes Hill and ten minutes later pulled into the small lot behind Aesops Tables on Bay Street in Clifton.

  “I hope they cook better than they pun,” Alice commented.

  Without a reservation on a Saturday night, we had to kill a half hour at the small bar just off the kitchen. We ordered Kir Royales and were treated to a plate of appetizers by an apologetic host, “for your wait.”

  I dove right in.

  “I wonder if it’s possible to overdose on canapés.”

  “I’m in no danger,” Alice said. “I barely ate at Peggy’s. You, on the other hand, didn’t seem to miss a tray.”

  “I did pass on the lamb chops. I always make a mess.”

  “Did Sharon seem a little, I don’t know, off, tonight?”

  “You like her, don’t you?”

  “Very much. I think she’s under a lot of strain.”

  “It can’t be the election. Mike is a lock.”

  “I just don’t think she is happy in the public eye.”