by JC Simmons
"I'll say one thing for Don Gino, J.L. The man rides in style."
"Nice looking plane,” Chamberlain said, unimpressed.
I was impressed. The aircraft was the Gulfstream GIV, a twenty-five million-dollar investment by today's money. This airplane was familiar to me. Back during the years I made my living flying, I watched with great interest the development of the Gulfstream GIV. It was a plush, roomy, fast, long-range aircraft. Yes, Mr. Anastasio traveled first class.
The GIV pulled into the parking area. As the engines spooled down, the airstair door opened. A man descended the steps and headed for where Chamberlain and I stood. As he approached, I noticed he was dressed in a three-piece pinstripe, red tie, and wing tips. A young, good-looking corporate type. Not the usual, tough bodyguard facade you see in the movies.
He stood for a moment, looking at us. Then, staring directly at me, he said, "Mr. Leicester, Mr. Anastasio will not be deplaning. He would like to meet with you aboard the aircraft." He looked at J.L. "Mr. Chamberlain, Mr. Anastasio asked that you wait here while he speaks with Mr. Leicester."
Chamberlain gave him a stern look. "I have no intentions of talking with Mr. Anastasio, young man. I just want him to know I'm here."
"I understand, sir,” he said, unperturbed, and motioned toward the aircraft. "Mr. Leicester, will you follow me."
It wasn't a request.
As we walked across the tarmac, I wondered how this man could possibly know who we were. Anastasio must be a lot more thorough than I imagined.
One must see the inside of a GIV to appreciate it. Most of these aircraft are outfitted to the specifications of the individual owner. I had seen the factory demonstrator back in eighty-seven. I did not think it possible to improve on that layout. I was wrong.
The plane's interior had eight individual seats, all with their own small television. Behind a divider was a three-place couch with a boardroom type conference table. A small, auxiliary turbine engine hummed softly in the background. It provided power to run all the electronics and environmental systems while the aircraft was on the ground with the main engines shut down. Keep the boss comfortable, is the key phrase.
Glancing into the cockpit upon entering the cabin, I saw that the crew sat, stone-faced, staring out the windscreen. I did not blame them. If I flew for the head of the entire organized crime syndicates in America I would stare straight ahead, too. The instrument panel looked like five television screens. I was not sure if I could get used to that kind of flying. Button pushing.
Young Mr. Corporate Executive ushered me back to the conference room.
Seated at the head of the oval table was a cadaver. I thought for a second that this was some sort of morbid joke. Then the cadaver spoke.
"Sit down."
The voice was high pitched, each spoken word dragged out, every syllable enunciated and stretched. The few strands of hair on the pale, vein-laced head went in all directions. His eyes were black holes in a yellow face. The mouth, thin-lipped and tight, stretched across black, neglected teeth. Dressed in a blue jogging suit, the body seemed thin and frail. He was seated, so it was hard to guess his weight. He looked like something rescued from a German concentration camp.
Trying to remember if his voice had sounded this way over the phone when we had talked in J.L.'s office, I could not.
"Miss Rinaldi won't be joining us today."
"I'm aware of Miss Rinaldi's whereabouts,” he said, looking past me, nodding.
The suit left us, going forward, toward the cockpit.
"What is it you have to tell me?"
The question took me by surprise.
"What are you talking about? You called this meeting, remember?"
Anastasio's eyes seared into mine. A look that had probably sent many a man to an early grave.
He sat up a little straighter in the chair. "I hoped you were not going to be stupid."
"My client's brother is dead, Mr. Anastasio. The four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash, the money you insisted he bring, is missing." I looked back into those black holes.
He lifted his head and looked at me, the faint contraction of boredom in the corner of his eyes letting me understand that this moment of attention was a favor. He spoke in a tone of emphasized patience. "My wife loves paintings. I try to give her the best. We had no children, so she found interest in the arts."
Shifting position in my chair, I put both hands on my knees and leaned forward, attentive.
"I take care of my business. I've done very well with it, but I know little of art. To me, it is merely a product of the untalented sold by the unprincipled to the utterly bewildered."
Shifting position again in the chair, I laughed.
He ignored the laugh and continued. "Two years ago I overheard my wife talk about this Rockwell person. I thought I'd give some of his work to her as a birthday gift. We found this entire collection. I had it authenticated, appraised, and I paid a fair price for it. My wife didn't like it. Turns out she wanted Norman Rockwell, not Rockwell Kent."
"So you decided to sell the Kent collection,” I offered.
"Exactly. Not a penny profit did I ask,” he said, waving the bony hands. "Mr. Rinaldi did business with associates of mine in New Orleans. He was highly recommended."
Yes, I thought. By whom, the Marcello family.
Anastasio continued. "I sent my man down to New Orleans to meet with Mr. Rinaldi. He agreed to come to Monhegan Island to view the collection, purchasing it for cash if it was as advertised."
"Why was the collection on Monhegan Island? I thought you lived in Chicago?"
He shot me an impatient glance. "The lady who had the collection for sale has a summer house on the island. That's where the collection was located." He paused, as if to catch his breath. "We arranged for several of the oil paintings and a few of the prints to be shown to my wife. She didn't like them. But you see, I'd already bought the entire collection. I couldn't very well go back on my word, now could I?"
I didn't say anything.
"My employee, Mr. Tony Bilotti, brought the paintings and prints with him to Rockland. The rest of the collection remained in the summerhouse of the seller. We arranged for Mr. Rinaldi to view everything together, on Monhegan Island."
"So the entire collection is still on Monhegan?" I asked, following his logic.
"No," Anastasio said, flailing his arms. "The entire collection is missing." His voice rose to a higher pitch, the death-like face reddened. "My employee is dead, the collection is missing, and I don't have the money. I want to know why!" His whole body began jerking in the chair.
The suit came back and stood quietly at the entrance to the conference area.
Anastasio calmed down, waved his man away. "So you see my problem,” he said, holding his head to the side, ugly, thin lips stretched tightly across still uglier teeth. Bony hands shaking as if afflicted with palsy.
"I can see your problem, Mr. Anastasio,” I said slowly, carefully. "Now here's my problem..."
The most powerful Mafia figure in the world looked at me incredulously. No one had probably spoken to him in a long time without being subservient and intimidated. I was neither. All I could see was an old man who thought he had been cheated. That is if one chose to believe him. I did not.
"I'm getting paid to find out who killed Nat Rinaldi, and what happened to the four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I could care less about Tony Bilotti. You already heard my thoughts over the phone. Change my mind."
This was a dangerous situation. Anastasio could squash me like a bug. Sometimes the fray must be met to bring out the dimensions of men.
Anastasio settled into his chair, looking disappointed. "I'm not a well man. Without health life is not life, it is only a state of languor and suffering; an image of death. I don't need to have stuff like this art thing aggravating me. I want it over with."
He pushed a button on the table. The suit appeared with a small glass of blue liquid. Anastasio drank it and hand
ed the glass back to the young man, who went back forward.
"Listen to me well, private eye. This will be the only time I say this." His speech was lucid. His voice was thin and dry as dead leaves, but clear. He spoke in a rapid monotone such as one might use in giving a legal deposition, not having much time. "The art collection is gone, Tony Bilotti is dead. I had nothing to do with it. Someone will pay for their actions. It is a matter of honor. All my people are working on this full time. I will find out.
"You have almost crossed the bounds several times. I would be very careful. I have let you make your stupid accusations only because they made sense. You are now informed."
Leaning back in my chair, I watched the frail hands wave as he spoke, suddenly starting to believe him.
He continued, seemingly revived by the blue liquid. "I've done a thorough check of you. Integrity is what they tell me about your character. So I don't think you're involved. One of my men flew to New Orleans with Miss Rinaldi. We are watching her. Your Detective Chamberlain, an interesting man, good cop. Too bad about his dying wife."
If this kind of information was supposed to get my attention, it did.
"If you had nothing to do with the two deaths,” I acquiesced, "then tell me if you have any ideas. It was a professional hit on both men. I've seen the bodies, and the reports."
"So have I. If I had ideas, we wouldn't be having this conversation. You have my private number. I expect a call if you find anything before we do. Now get out of here, out of my sight."
The meeting was over. I stood up. The suit was already waiting for me at the door to escort me out. Turning, I started up the aisle.
"Just a minute,” Anastasio said, waving me back, motioning for me to sit. He leaned across the highly polished table, splayed both ugly hands wide. Through some illusion, no doubt a trick of light and shadow from the sunlight coming in through the cabin windows, his withered, translucent face seemed to go smooth, his eyes sardonic under lowered lids. "I almost forgot. You might like to have this back."
He reached a shaky hand under the table, retrieved something, and placed it down gently on the polished top. It was my magnum. My mouth must have dropped open.
"How in the...?"
The old man grinned, turned in his chair, and looked out at the Maine landscape. Then glancing at me, he said, "Motel maids are poor people. Some have husbands who need medical attention. A few hundred bucks for a quick look around a hotel room...you should be more careful, private eye."
There was pure sarcasm and contempt resonating in his voice, as if even having to speak to an underling such as myself was beyond his stature.
Picking up my pistol, I gave Anastasio one last glance, and exited the aircraft.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sitting down heavily in the car and hanging my head, I said, "J.L., even with the maid letting them in, it seems impossible for someone to have retrieved my magnum from the hotel and gotten it to Anastasio aboard that aircraft."
"These people are good. They can do things we can not, or would not, think of doing." He rubbed his chin, a serious expression on the scholarly profile. "What do you want to do about the maid?"
It was an easy decision. "Nothing."
Chamberlain kept glancing over at me as we drove back from the airport to the Navigator Inn.
"Two men are dead, J.L." I had forgotten to buckle my seatbelt, so I did. "The people we're playing with are powerful, connected, and deadly. Anastasio said he'd already read the autopsy reports."
Chamberlain slowed, allowing an oncoming car to get back into the proper lane after passing another vehicle. "Yeah, the medical examiner's office sends the results to the State Police Headquarters via computer. If high school hackers can tap into the Pentagon and get classified files, I'm sure Anastasio wouldn't have any problem with a state computer network. All the information goes over the phone lines."
Realizing that fact was sobering.
"Sandy must be informed about the meeting with Anastasio. You got any idea when we can get Rinaldi's body released? It's my responsibility to take care of it."
"Probably today,” Chamberlain said, glancing in his rearview mirror. "I'll check as soon as we get back to the office. What are your plans?"
"To find out if Henry knew about my magnum being lifted from my room."
"Don't go off half-cocked, Jay. I've known Henry a long time. He comes from good people."
"One advantage I have, J.L., is not being bound by any preconceived ministrations with the local populous. I can work my own investigation without what we in the South call 'the good ole boy' syndrome interfering with rational thought." Propping a foot up on the corner of the dash, I said, "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'll just make my own decisions about Henry, or anyone else I think may be involved."
"Point well taken." He shot me a glance that betrayed the harshness of the statement.
Chamberlain dropped me off at the Navigator Inn. He didn't seem to have taken offense at my comment. He was a good cop, but sometimes even good cops can get too close to their subjects to be objective.
Henry was coming out of the coffee shop as I walked into the lobby. He saw me and waved.
"Come over here, Henry. I want to talk with you."
Henry went behind the registration desk, sat on a stool, and motioned to me. "Come on back here, Mr. Leicester, have a seat. What's on your mind?"
Going behind the counter, I sat on a stool identical to Henry's. A young couple emerged from the cafe and waved at him. When they left the lobby, I said, "I've got a problem, Henry. Returning to the hotel yesterday, I found that the door to my room had been left open."
Watching his face closely for any indication of guilt, I found none.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Leicester." He leaned back against the wall and crossed his legs. "It has happened before. We have warned the maid about being careless, but she's old and she forgets. Management would have fired her a long time ago, but she's been here forever, and needs the work. I don't think she could find a job anywhere else. I'll talk to her today."
"There was something stolen from my room, Henry. Something valuable."
I watched his expression.
He uncrossed his legs and sat up straight. "Stolen. Oh, my goodness. The maid's never been accused of stealing anything from guests, ever. We have insurance. I'll call them right now. What was taken?"
Henry was either cleverly good at lying, or telling me the truth. It was hard to decide.
Standing up, I said, "It wasn't the maid. The item has been recovered. You need to know there's been a breach in security at your hotel."
Henry got up from his stool and stood beside me. "You recovered what was stolen? I don't understand?"
"Let's just say someone had a change of heart, returned what they took." Walking from behind the counter, I waved and said, "See you later, Henry."
Rounding the corner for the elevator, I stopped and looked back. Henry was making a hastened dash for the coffee shop.
Back up in the room, I slid open the glass doors, walked out on the balcony, and sat down. I wanted to make some notes on the conversation with Anastasio. The mind has a strange way of forgetting fifty percent of what it learns in about six months. Making a written account has proven its worth a thousand times, especially for dates, times, and exactly what was said or done in given situations.
The sky had turned a gunmetal blue. The wind had picked up and there was a cold, rotting smell of the sea in the air. The mare’s-tails were being vindicated by the approaching cold front. A pelican flew low over the ferry dock, gray like a piece of newspaper blowing across a deserted street.
Finishing the notes, I leaned back in the chair and watched a flock of seagull’s fight for positions on the pilings along the waterfront. They told me the wind direction was from the northwest. Seagulls always sit facing into the wind.
Still troubled about Anastasio having my magnum, I remembered hiding the gun shortly after discovering the door to my motel room ope
n. Nothing else was missing. Even with the maid's involvement, whoever stole my gun entered the room while I was out for a moment, sitting on the balcony, or asleep. Henry had access, but if he was involved, he had played a good hand when confronted. I'll say this for whoever it was, they are good, really good.
The phone rang. Going inside, I picked up the receiver, "Yes?"
"You can have Rinaldi's body anytime you want,” Chamberlain said.
"Thanks, J.L. Listen, I need your recommendation for a funeral home to handle the body for me, get it ready for transport, do the paperwork, deliver it to the airport."
"No problem. Wilson's Mortuary can handle it. Dave Wilson is the owner. He's a good friend. They're listed in the book, but I'll give him a call for you."
"Thanks,” I said, making a mental note of the funeral home. "I'll call Sandy, then let them know the details after I speak with her."
"You talk with Henry?"
"Yeah. I don't know what to think, yet."
"You'll tell me if you learn anything about his involvement?"
"J.L., I'm not working against you. I thought we understood each other?" Finding a pad, I jotted down the funeral home's name.
"I just wanted to be sure. Call me after you talk with Sandy."
"Will do. We've got to get organized. There's lots of work to be done. Two murders, half a million unaccounted for, a missing art collection, remember?"
"Yes,” Chamberlain said. "I remember."
* * *
"Rinaldi Art Gallery. This is Sandy. How may I help you?"
"Hello, Sandy, it's Jay."
"Oh, Jay,” she said, concern in her voice. "Have you found out who killed Renato?"
"No, not yet,” I answered quickly. "But I did meet with a man named Gino Anastasio this morning."
"You mean the Mafia Don from Chicago?"
"Yes, he was Bilotti's boss,” I answered, stretching the phone cord across the bed, sitting down at the small table, and thinking how familiar Sandy was with the name. "It was Anastasio who was selling the Kent Collection."