“Mike is one of the good guys.”
“Fuck the good guys. I’m finding more honor among some of the bad guys lately.”
“What’s got you so wound up?”
“My back hurts. The bandages itch. I just yelled at a distraught man. Want to go get drunk?”
***
As it turned out, we pulled it off with less trouble than we expected. I did so much lying I felt like I was running for office.
The crimes, of course, were compelling and the media frenzy was fierce. Initial coverage centered on the unprecedented murder of a District Attorney’s wife, which even in New York doesn’t happen every day. But calculated leaks soon steered the coverage to Ricks, who was painted as a closet lunatic who killed Denton and then tried to frame Elizabeth Olsen. When his scheme didn’t work – because a certain intrepid private eye was on the ball – he faked Elizabeth’s suicide to make her guilt apparent. But the same intrepid private dick also figured that out. In a final spasm of insanity, Ricks kidnapped the poor woman and brought her to Denton’s house, for reason’s unknown.
I was quoted as saying that “no one understands the mind of a madman.” I explained that I had been keeping tabs on Ricks and spotted him forcing Sharon into Denton’s house. Alas, I intervened too late to save her, but managed to slay Ricks.
I actually didn’t say “alas” or “slay;” one of the reporters did, and no one used the word “intrepid” to describe me, which I thought was a pity. But the press did run some nice photos of me. The story, Cormac said, made him want to puke. But I forgave him, since he did somehow make Laura Lee’s fingerprint evidence disappear. The likelihood that some technician in the overworked N.Y.P.D. lab in Manhattan would connect the dots was infinitesimal.
With all the principals dead and everyone who knew the truth keeping their mouths shut because they had broken all sorts of laws, not much media effort went into trying to disprove the story. Connor Costello quickly demolished his own candidacy with an interview during which he claimed that Sharon Sullivan’s murder, “while tragic”, was a direct result of her husband’s “lackluster approach to violent crime.”
The coverage finally petered out with dueling editorials in The New York Times and the Wall Street Journal about gun control laws. The public’s attention was soon centered on the Housewives of the Jersey Shore, or something like that.
Konrad Olsen came by my office to give me a check for $20,000. I told him that I would settle for what he owed me on a per-hour basis. He told me that unless I took the 20 grand he’d tell his New Jersey construction pals that I was pro-union. We finally agreed on a compromise. I took $10,000 and he donated the rest to Sharon Sullivan’s All Our Children charity in his daughter’s name.
CHAPTER 33 – RUSSIAN BROTHEL SONG
Alice and I were in my kitchen putting the finishing touch on dinner.
“More wine?” she asked.
“It has enough,” I said, stirring the cast iron pot. “Too much ruins a beef bourguignon.”
As if I knew what I was doing without the help of a Williams-Sonoma mix. It was my first attempt at making the dish from scratch.
“Not for the pot, silly, for us.”
She was holding up the empty bottle of one of the Francis Ford Coppola reds she’d brought.
I was opening a new bottle when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” she said.
I heard a familiar voice from the hallway. When I got to the door Alice was talking to Arman Rahm. Maks Kalugin was standing on the stoop behind him.
“May we come in?”
“Sure,” I said, and made the introductions.
Arman took Alice’s hand and kissed it.
“Enchantée, Miss Watts. You are as beautiful as I’ve been led to believe.” He turned to his bodyguard. “This is my associate, Mr. Kalugin.”
Unlike most people meeting Rahm’s fearsome henchman for the first time, Alice didn’t hesitate to put her hand out. Maks quickly took off his watch cap and extended his beefy paw. He even gave her a small smile.
“Alton, I wonder if we might have a word, in private,” Rahm said. He looked at Alice. “My apologies. Believe me, I’d much rather talk to you.”
“Of course, I understand.”
“I knew you would. Perhaps Mr. Kalugin can keep you company for a moment.”
“Alton was just opening some wine and I have to keep the pot stirred, so if he doesn’t mind coming into the kitchen?”
“Smells delicious. Maks can open the wine for you.”
“Will you have some?”
“Thank you, no. We will only be a few moments.”
I took Arman into the living room. We sat on a couple of wing chairs facing each other.
“Last time I was in your house,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “it didn’t smell so delicious. Perhaps it needs a woman’s touch.”
“Last time you were here, there were two dead men in the basement.”
“Good point. How is the basement coming along?”
“It’s getting there.”
“I admired the way you and the police concocted the story about Ricks. You turned him into a veritable serial killer. I presume there was some planting of evidence.”
“All in a good cause.”
“I agree. The news stories were also delightful. I liked the part about you being a war hero. Maks did, too.”
“The cops added all that crap to muddy the waters, deflect any serious scrutiny into what was a shaky story at best. And if I recall, Maks thinks the Taliban didn’t shoot me enough when I was over there.”
“Yes,” Rahmn laughed, “he believes his war was tougher than yours.”
“You and your men did a good job at Ricks’s apartment, Arman. The police never suspected it was burgled.”
“We have our moments. Of course, some of my employees have a lot of practice. Do the police know about the videos?”
“No. I didn’t see any upside to that. They had enough on their plate cooking up a believable scenario tying Ricks to all three murders. And Mike Sullivan is devastated enough.”
“Quite so.” He reached in his pocket, brought out several DVD’s and handed them to me. “I presume the police didn’t find the camera in the bear’s mouth.”
“I doubt they would even look,” I said, “but I ripped it out before they showed up. If anyone ever finds the wiring in the wall they’ll probably think it belongs to an old TV system.”
“Will you watch the videos, Alton?”
“No. But I bet you did.”
Rahm smiled.
“Considering that you asked me to commit burglary, I thought I earned the right. It turns out that I know several of the women. In addition to Sullivan’s wife, that is. More importantly, I know their husbands, some of whom are prominent businessmen and politicians. It is a sordid world we live in, my friend.”
“And what will you do with that knowledge?”
He looked at me steadily.
“What would you have me do?”
“Forget what you saw and destroy the copies you made.”
“And why would I do that? The images on the videos are potentially worth a fortune. Besides, you lied to me that day by the pool.”
“It must have been the Margaritas.”
“I think not. You were protecting the Sullivans, which was admirable. And you undoubtedly enjoyed misleading me after what Eleni and I did to you.”
That was true enough.
“So, what now?”
He leaned back and crossed his ankles.
“There are no copies. And I will forget what I saw, unless I should happen to meet the other ladies socially. Then I may see if they are willing to do with me what they did with Denton. On a bed, though. I have no desire to try out for the Russian Olympic team.”
“Thank you.”
Rahm smiled.
“I’m not being entirely altruistic, of course. This entire affair has worked out well for us. With Denton and that psych
opath, Ricks, both dead, and Sharon Sullivan a heroine, her husband will easily be reelected as District Attorney.”
“And your mole will be safe.”
“I prefer to think of her as a good friend.”
“Mike Sullivan is pretty broken up about his wife. He has taken a leave of absence. He may step away for good.”
“I have it on good authority that his party has convinced him to stay at least through the election. No one wants that fool Costello to win by default. Sullivan won’t even have to campaign. After that, who knows? No one would blame the poor fellow if he eventually resigned. Then my friend will happily serve his successor.” Rahm gave me his best shark smile. “Or, perhaps, as his successor.”
I had to laugh.
“But,” he went on, “there is another reason I won’t use the videos in the manner that you fear. I would feel dirty, soiled. Denton was a pig. Perhaps one could accept what he did with those other women. They performed voluntarily, and, from what I saw, enthusiastically. But Mrs. Sullivan was coerced. You could see it on her face during the sex acts. And he made her do things he didn’t ask of the others, because he knew he had absolute power over her. He would just sit in that chair without any clothes on and wait for her to service him. You should have seen the look on his face when she walked in front of him with the revolver. She was right to shoot him.”
He stood and so did I. As we shook, he recited a short poem:
“Not for this I was born and raised up;
Unacquainted was I with such need;
I once prayed to God, I was faithful;
I once had a soul that knew peace.”
“You have to stop throwing your Ivy League degree around, Arman. It won’t do your reputation as a thug any good. Next thing you will do is wax poetic about Sonia Marmelodov in Crime and Punishment.”
He clapped me on the shoulder and laughed.
“You know your Dostoyevsky! I forgot that you are an educated man, Alton. You will be happy to know that I didn’t learn that at Columbia, but at my father’s knee. It’s an old Russian brothel song. We are suckers for tales of fallen women. By the way, what was Mrs. Sullivan’s real name?”
“Laura Lee.”
“A beautiful name. A beautiful woman. And a courageous one. Now she knows peace.”
When we got to the kitchen, Alice was making a salad while Kalugin stirred the pot. He tasted the bourguignon with the wooden spoon and looked at me.
“Needs more wine,” he said.
***
After Rahm and Kalugin left, I took out the DVD’s and told Alice what Arman promised.
“Will he keep his word?”
“Yes.”
I reached in a drawer and took out a meat pounder. Placing the DVD’s on the edge of a wooden cutting block, I smashed them one by one.
“Because of his sister?”
Alice knew about my former relationship, if that’s what it was, with Eleni Rahm.
“That may have something to do with it. But I think there are certain lines Arman won’t cross. Abusing a helpless woman is one of them. Using her death to destroy a man who loved her is another.”
“And he likes you.”
“In his way. At least enough not to kill me without a really good reason.”
“God, he’s a handsome devil,” Alice said. “Does he really kill people.”
“Occasionally, although I think Kalugin does most of the heavy lifting for the family.”
“I can believe that. He’s like a force of nature.”
I took Alice in my arms.
“When Maks came in I was afraid he’d crush your hand when you shook. Instead you had him eating out of it. I was reminded of a scene in Androcles and the Lion.”
“He was as gentle as a baby. And he knows how to cook.”
“Speaking of cooking, how long before we can eat?”
“The longer beef bourguignon simmers, the better it tastes.” She reached over to the stove and turned the heat under the pot to its lowest setting. “Let’s give it an hour.”
“We’ll be plastered by then.”
“Not if we go upstairs,” she said, kissing me, “and screw our brains out in the interim.”
“I bet it will taste sublime in two hours.”
It did.
THE END
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***
Alton Rhode returns in another mystery, SIREN’S TEARS. Here is an excerpt:
PROLOGUE
Cordillera Occidental (Western Andes) - 2003
Black spider monkeys are social animals, often found in close-knit family groups of 20 or more. Social, but not stupid.
Those that inhabit the Pacific slopes of the Andes of western Colombia are particularly cautious, constantly on the move, swinging through the trees with a genetic grace and power that would be the envy of Cirque du Soleil. To remain motionless for more than a few minutes in a South American rain forest is to be eaten.
But even some arboreal creatures must come down out of trees occasionally. But when a group of spider monkeys, mostly females and immature males, is on the ground foraging for fallen fruit and other food, the older males higher up are constantly on the watch for predators. These they usually manage to thwart with their early warning system. If an anaconda or jaguar is spotted in time, all it takes is a screech from one monkey to send the entire troupe up into the canopy, frightened babies clinging to the backs of their howling mothers.
There they will all sit for a moment, looking down at their frustrated pursuers, until, at a signal from the dominant male, all the monkeys will swing toward even more safety. Adding distance to height almost always works. Almost always.
Spider monkeys are reluctant to leave a group member behind, although in dire circumstances self-preservation wins out and, with the exception of females with young, it’s every ape for itself. On this day it was not a 20-foot snake or a big cat that caused the tribe to climb frantically into the trees. Humans were walking through the forest: Four loin-clothed Noanamá Chocó Indians and a young white woman. The Indians carried long palm-wood tubes; the woman, binoculars. Except for the low buzz of insects, the forest was now silent. Animals, even those not in danger, instinctively sense a hunt. Death was in the air.
The spider monkeys were the most nervous, and with good reason. The five humans circled their trees far below. But they made no move to climb. The four Indian men merely put their tubes to their mouths. There was a series of barely-audible “pfftts.” The small primates awaited a sign from the alpha male to flee. Suddenly, he jumped to another branch with a screech. It wasn’t the normal signal, but it was enough for the others. They started swinging away through the branches.
Surprisingly, the humans followed, at a loping pace that gave them no chance to catch the monkeys. With safety assured, the troupe slowed, waiting for their leader. For some reason, he lagged behind. At one point he did something none of the animals ever did. He missed a branch, and barely caught a lower one. He wrapped his legs and arms around it. Another big male, showing unusual courage, swung back toward the alpha. The leader raised his head, shaking it violently back and forth, as if to say, “Don’t come any closer.” But even had he been capable of such intelligent thought, it was merely the beginning of a convulsion. The shaking soon spread to the rest of his body.
Suddenly, the alpha male stiffened, and tumbled off the branch to the forest floor 60 feet below. With millions of years of accumulated rainforest detritus breaking his impact, the fall wouldn’t have killed him. It didn’t matter. The alpha male was dead before he hit the ground.
The other male didn’t hesitate, or wonder why the other ape fell out of the tree for no apparent re
ason. All he felt was fear. And even if he could have felt regret, he wouldn’t have. The dead alpha male had bullied him into second place in the tribe, and mated with all the best females. Now, he was the leader. He let out a loud screech and led the survivors away. The sounds of the chattering band soon receded in the distance. But other animal sounds, muted to be sure, resumed. An animal died, but the forest lived.
Below, at the base of the tree, the four men squatted around the dead animal. Their blowguns lay next to them. One of the Indians reached out and pulled a small dart from the monkey’s shoulder and placed it in a pouch tied to the lace string that held up his scanty loincloth. The woman came up to them and sat cross-legged. One of the men reached down and cupped his own dangling testicles and said something. The other Indians laughed and then looked at the woman. She smiled and nodded. The first man took out a knife and expertly castrated the dead monkey. Carefully, he sliced the animal’s genitals in four roughly even pieces and passed the dripping delicacies around to the other three men. Each tilted his head back and dropped their portions into their mouths. They looked like they were slurping oysters, she thought.
The woman had eaten much worse in her time with these people, but the monkey gonads were not offered. She was not offended. They liked her, and accepted her almost as one of their own, but she obviously didn’t need male spirit.
Thank God, they didn’t kill a female, Dr. Mary Naulls thought. Although I doubt if they even know what ovaries are.
***
A half hour later the small hunting party emerged from the tree line and walked into a small village. Two of the men carried a long pole, from which hung the body of the spider monkey, its long swishing tail almost touching the ground. The man whose dart killed the animal walked at the head of the column. No monkey-carrying for him. Naked children and several hairless dogs ran out to greet them. A woman with a baby at a breast walked over to the lead man and said something. She pointed at the dangling animal. He looked chagrined. Mary Naulls had a limited grasp of the language, but she got the drift. Something about a “small monkey.”
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