by JC Simmons
"Came up from Mississippi, did you?" He said, leaning back in his chair, locking his hands behind his head. "Spent a year at Keesler, back in sixty-five. Got to know Biloxi pretty well. Too hot down there for me."
There was an awkward silence. I didn't say anything. Wasn't anything to say. It seemed everyone in the Air Force migrated through Keesler Air Force base sooner or later.
"Well, Miss Rinaldi,” Chamberlain said, sitting up in his chair. "I'll get to the point. We have a body over at the morgue. It matches the description on the driver's license we found in the rent-a-car at Port Clyde. We'll need you to make a positive identification. I'm truly sorry about your brother."
"Cause of death?" I asked.
"One bullet, back of the right ear." Chamberlain held up a finger to a spot behind his right ear. "Probably a thirty-eight. We're waiting for an I.D. before we do the autopsy."
Sandy gasped, turned her head to the side, and put her hand to her mouth.
"I'm sorry, Miss Rinaldi,” Chamberlain said.
"Any mention of finding a large amount of cash money with the body?" I asked, watching Chamberlain closely.
"His personal effects are at the hospital. The hospital's where the morgue is located,” he added. "We're a small town. Not too many bodies. I believe there was about seven hundred dollars in his wallet. A lot of money to be carrying around."
"Yes,” I said, not elaborating.
"You want to view the body today?" Chamberlain asked. "Or wait until tomorrow?"
"As soon as possible." I looked at Sandy. She nodded in approval. "If you could recommend a place to stay for a couple of days we'd appreciate it."
"Sure,” Chamberlain said. "I'll arrange it." He picked up the phone, called the hospital, and a hotel.
We rode with Chamberlain. Sandy sat silently in the back seat, looking out the window at the water. Dark was closing in quickly on Rockland, Maine.
An old man, stoop shouldered, and walking with a limp, escorted us down a dark hallway. His nametag read: JIM-HOSPITAL ORDERLY. The unpainted concrete floor echoed our steps. The small room Chamberlain referred to as a morgue was dank and cold.
The body lay on a stainless steel autopsy table covered with a white sheet. Detective Chamberlain tried to be as gentle as he could. He looked at me, then at Sandy. I nodded. He pulled the sheet from the head of the body. Sandy leaned closer, turned and walked out of the room, saying nothing. Taking a quick look at the face, I saw the hole where the bullet entered. There was no exit wound.
Going out after Sandy, I found her leaning against a far wall, head bowed, arms across her stomach.
"I'm sorry, Sandy,” I said, putting my hand gently on her shoulder, remembering how violently she'd reacted to me approaching her yesterday. "I know this is hard on you, but..."
"That's not my brother,” she said, not looking up at me.
Denial is sometimes a manifestation of events like these. Seeing someone lying on a slab, especially someone you love, does strange things to some people's mind.
"Sandy,” I said gently. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. I'm sure." She looked me directly in the eyes. "I've never seen that person before in my life."
Chamberlain was still in with the body. When I walked back into the room, he looked at me expectantly. "It's not Rinaldi."
"Jesus,” Chamberlain said, throwing his head back, and looking up at the ceiling. He pulled the sheet back over the unknown body.
CHAPTER FOUR
During the ride back to the Police Station, I had the opportunity to watch Chamberlain's mind at work. His true professionalism showed through.
"I was sure the body we had was Renato Rinaldi." He gripped the steering wheel so hard that the muscles bulged in his forearms. "So sure I didn't pursue it further. Poor police work. We had the body, found in a rental registered to Rinaldi. A satchel with his identification, clothes with his name in them. Plus the description on the D.L. fits the body to a tee."
"Anyone would have surmised the same thing,” I offered, trying to be sympathetic.
"Extremely poor police work,” Sandy said from the back seat.
Chamberlain grimaced, but wisely didn't say anything, just tightened his grip on the wheel. He looked at me. I shook my head. Turning, I looked back at Sandy. She was staring out at the darkened Maine landscape. She wasn't smiling.
We pulled up in front of the police station. Chamberlain shut the engine off and turned around to Sandy. "Miss Rinaldi, I'm sorry we caused you to come so far. It's all my fault; I should have done better work. But the way I see it, we have a dead person with a bullet in his brain that was found in your brother's rental car, and your brother seems to have disappeared. We will identify the body, but I need to know the rest of the story." He turned and looked at me with a no-nonsense expression. "What the hell's going on?"
Sandy's perfume, a musk oil I recognized but couldn't recall the name of, enveloped the small space of the car's interior. Cracking a window, I said, "It's been a long day, Chamberlain. Let us get a good night's sleep. We'll tell you all we know in the morning."
He looked at me piercingly, silent. The only sound was the occasional car passing in front of the station and the blast of a boat's horn somewhere out in the darkness of Penobscot Bay. Finally: "Alright, we'll meet for breakfast, but I want it all then, understand?"
* * *
We had no trouble finding the hotel Chamberlain recommended. It was on Main street, the marquee read: THE NAVIGATOR INN. The desk clerk said Chamberlain called and informed him we were on the way. He said it was still the off season, and only two other guests were registered.
We were given adjoining suites on the fourth floor.
"Compliments of the Rockland Police Department,” the clerk said, waving away my American Express card. "You'll have to park around back. There's no entrance to your rooms from the front."
Strange, I thought, but the rooms were free. I'd have to remember to thank Chamberlain tomorrow.
"Great view of the sunrise at six-thirty in the morning,” the clerk said, as I walked away. "Don't miss it, it's worth the effort."
The Navigator Inn was an old, four-story building, which had recently been remodeled. A smell of fresh sawn wood, paint, and new carpet permeated the air. The rooms were huge, with wide balconies overlooking the bay. Suddenly I was extremely tired and fell into bed, making myself a promise to get up and watch the sunrise.
The alarm clock went off at six a.m. I felt like I weighed two tons. A warm shower helped. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I stepped quietly out on the balcony.
The islands, Vinal Haven and North Haven, as I later learned, were beginning to appear in the growing light. The wind was dead calm. Water in the bay lay flat and smooth, like a giant blue-gray mirror. A scattered cloud layer hovered low on the horizon beyond the islands.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" A voice suddenly said to my right. It was Sandy, wrapped in a robe, sitting in a corner of her balcony. Failing to notice her, I was glad that she wasn't the enemy.
"Morning."
"I didn't sleep well,” she said, not moving from the chair. "I'm worried about Renato."
"Yes,” I said, not knowing how to console her. "But at least we know he wasn't the one in the morgue." It was the wrong thing to say. She went inside. The sunrise was spoiled, so I went in and dressed.
At seven o'clock the phone rang. It was Chamberlain. He was downstairs waiting in the restaurant.
Knocking on Sandy's door, I expected the worst. She opened it with a cheerful smile, seeming to have forgotten her concern about her brother for the moment.
"Chamberlain's waiting."
"Good,” she said, walking ahead. "Renato will show up today and explain everything. You'll see."
Shutting her door, I followed her to the elevator.
Chamberlain stood as we walked into the restaurant. The waitress poured coffee all around. When she'd walked away Chamberlain shoved a folder across the table to me. Opening it, I saw that there
was a computer print out and a fax of a rap sheet.
Sipping the strong, hot coffee, I read the printout. It was an NCIC, National Crime Information Center, I.D. It showed a complex set of numbers referencing a set of fingerprint classifications. There were sixteen points of reference. I looked up at Chamberlain.
"I went back to the hospital,” he said, answering my stare. "made a set of prints from the body."
"You classified them yourself?"
"Yes,” he said nonchalantly. "I sent the classification through NCIC. They spit out the I.D. The prints will have to be sent to the FBI for verification, but I'm pretty sure we have a positive."
Holding up the fax, I saw that it was from the Chicago Police Department.
Chamberlain pointed at the page and said, "I sent them the I.D. They sent back the rap sheet."
This was good police work, I thought. Chamberlain must have spent hours classifying the prints. It's a time-consuming process. "You get any rest?" I asked, laying the fax down on the folder.
"Not much,” he replied, rubbing both eyes. "But I'm used to it. My wife's been ill for some time. She doesn't sleep well."
"I'm sorry. Is she going to be okay?"
"No." He dropped his head, then looked up at me with a pained expression. "But we've learned to accept it. Thanks for asking, though."
Reading over the information in the folder, I saw that the fingerprints identified the dead man as Tony Bilotti, d.o.b. 13 May 1960, Chicago, Ill. Five feet nine inches in height, one hundred seventy-five pounds. No scars, marks, or tattoos. Turning to the rap sheet, I read that he'd been arrested twenty-five times. Served a short stretch in Joliet for armed robbery and assault with intent. Paroled August, 1990. There was a handwritten note at the bottom of the fax: 'Whatever he gets, he's earned it.'
Looking at Chamberlain, I said, "You think he's a made member from Chicago?"
"An old friend works the south side,” he said, tapping a spoon on the table. "I'll call him a little later this morning. He'll be able to tell me. Now, let's hear it."
Setting my coffee cup in the saucer, I leaned back in the chair. "Sandy contacted me yesterday after they received your call. She asked me to accompany her to identify the body. Her brother was in Rockland to meet a seller of an art collection. The seller was from Chicago. No, we don't know his name. It could be Bilotti."
"Nobody has heard from Rinaldi?" Chamberlain asked, sliding his cup and saucer to the side.
"No,” Sandy spoke up. "I called my service in New Orleans this morning. Renato hasn't called in. We were supposed to meet at the Gallery today."
"Gallery?" Chamberlain asked, looking around for the waitress.
"Yes,” I interjected. "Sandy and her brother own an art gallery in New Orleans. They deal in expensive works of art." All of a sudden I'd become an expert.
Sandy looked at me, amused. "Yes, Detective. My brother and I deal in the art world. We sometimes, through necessity, deal with people who may seem unsavory. But they spend big money for authentic works of art. We make no apologies for our clientele."
"Which brings me to something you need to know, Chamberlain,” I said, sorry now that I had not told him last night. "Rinaldi was traveling with four hundred and fifty thousand in cash."
Chamberlain looked at me with disbelief, leaned back in his chair. Then, when he had thought it through, he said, "You wait until now to tell me?" There wasn't animosity in his voice, it was disappointment.
"We wanted to be sure...,” I began, but Chamberlain held up his hand and stopped me.
"It's okay,” he said, waving his hand from side to side. "I understand. You wanted to check out the small town cop, see if he stole a half a million in cash. Smart, Leicester. What convinced you I'm clean? I might still have the money stashed." He gently lay both hands on the white tabletop, splayed his fingers, and stiffened his arms at the elbow.
I deserved the digs. They were less than I'd expected. Sandy changed position in her chair, watching Chamberlain.
"I saw that you have been through the Academy. It takes some integrity to do that. And a lot of other things, too. Besides, I'm pretty good at making quick judgments of one's character."
Deep down in the back of Chamberlain's eyes, I could see into the recesses of a mind working hard and fast. Every millisecond the words Leicester, private investigator, half a million in cash, Renato Rinaldi, Sandy Rinaldi, Tony Bilotti, expensive art, were all flying across synapses geared to making quick and correct judgments. It was going to be fun working with J.L. Chamberlain, once I did assure myself he had not, in fact, found the money with the body and stashed it somewhere. The probability was minuscule, but still...
"Tell me where they found the car with Bilotti's body. I'll go take a look."
Chamberlain stared at me, then smiled. "Not much there but a parking lot. The car's been towed to a local wrecker yard. They're holding it for us. You know where the body is."
"I want to see, too,” Sandy said, picking up her coffee cup and blowing on the black liquid.
"It's about six miles south, Port Clyde. The ferry to Monhegan Island leaves from there. The car was left in the parking lot. Bilotti was slumped over the steering wheel. A ferry passenger by the name of Wilma Sturgis found him. They called from the chandlery. The rest you know."
"You check to see if Rinaldi took the ferry?" I asked, writing the name 'Wilma Sturgis' on top of the folder.
"Wasn't listed on the ship's manifest." He motioned for the waitress who had emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray. "Nobody recognized the photo on the driver's license. I'd like to have a better picture of him to show around."
"I have one taken last year during Mardi Gras,” Sandy said, reaching for her purse.
"Thanks,” Chamberlain said, taking the small photo. "Yes, that's much better. I'll get an enlargement made. We'll pass it around."
"By the way,” I said, holding my cup for the waitress as she poured fresh coffee. "Thanks for the rooms. It wasn't necessary, but it was a nice gesture."
"It was the least I could do after my 'extremely poor' police work, as Miss Rinaldi so aptly pointed out."
Sandy smiled. "You took the point quite well, Detective Chamberlain."
"Please, call me J.L.,” Chamberlain said. "Look, I'd like to take you down to Port Clyde, but I need to get to work on Bilotti and start things rolling concerning your brother. I hope you don't mind?"
"Not at all,” Sandy said. "From now on, I'm Sandy, this is Jay. We'll all be one, big, happy family."
Chamberlain smiled.
Looking at Sandy, I wasn't sure whether she was being friendly or taking a subtle smack at Chamberlain. I was going to have to learn to read her a lot better.
CHAPTER FIVE
We adjourned our meeting with Chamberlain. As Sandy and I walked back through the lobby the same clerk who had checked us in last night was behind the desk. Making friends with people who run front desks at hotels has proven to be advantageous. Valuable information can be learned from them. They see who comes and goes, and at what hours of the night and day.
"You work all the time?" I asked with a sympathetic smile as we walked by.
He grinned, waving a hand over his head. "During the off-season I live here at the Inn. Work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week."
"Rough."
"Not really." He stood up, leaned on the counter, and shuffled some papers. "I lock up at midnight. Few people check in after then. They can rouse me out by ringing the bell at the front door. The extra money helps."
"Well, don't work too hard,” I said, walking away, making a mental note to give this guy a hefty tip.
"I wonder who the other two people are?" Sandy asked, resting her chin gently on a long, slim finger, as we got on the elevator.
"What?"
"I wonder who the other two people are the desk clerk said were registered here at the hotel?"
"I don't know,” I answered, cursing myself for not thinking of this. If one of them had been
Nat Rinaldi surely the desk clerk would have said something when I signed Sandy's name on the check in slip last night. The other guest could be Bilotti.
When I got to my room, I called the front desk. "This is Leicester, 412. I was just talking to you."
"Yes, Mr. Leicester, I remember." He laughed. "What can I do for you?"
"The other two guests, who are they?"
"I can give you their names,” he said officially. "But I can't give out their room numbers. Against the rules, you know. Although I can connect you to them."
"If one of them is named Bilotti, it'll be a long distant call,” I said, fumbling with the telephone cord. "A very long distance."
"We do have a Mr. Tony Bilotti registered. Has something happened to him?"
Good, I thought. He catches on quickly. "Who's the other guest?" I ignored his question.
"A Mr. and Mrs. Waterbury, from South Carolina,” he answered quickly, without the bureaucratic inflection. "What's going on, Mr. Leicester?"
"I'll explain later, I promise. But for now, don't let anyone, and I mean anyone, into Bilotti's room until I can get in touch with Detective Chamberlain. Okay?"
"You got my word, Mr. Leicester. Nobody will bother the room." We hung up.
Immediately I dialed the Rockland Police Department. Chamberlain was out, but would be relayed the message.
Sandy was expecting us to leave in an hour for the drive to Port Clyde. There was no reason to tell her Bilotti was registered here until Chamberlain and I had looked over his room.
My phone rang. It was Chamberlain calling from a pay phone. "They radioed me and said you needed to talk. What's up?"
"Bilotti's registered here at the Navigator Inn."
"Meet me at the front desk in five minutes."
* * *
"It's the cleanest room I've looked over in years,” Chamberlain said, opening and closing drawers. "Nothing. The guy didn't even unpack."
A small carry-on bag was lying on the bed. It contained the usual stuff, change of clothes, toiletries. Not a thing to indicate who, or what, Bilotti was about.