Blind Overlook

by JC Simmons

  The more I thought of what had been done to the Barnes' the madder I became. By the time Chamberlain was ready, I had to force myself to calm down. Nothing would be accomplished by being angry, it could only impede the investigation. No one was going to intimidate Anastasio.

  "Dial him up,” J.L. said. "Everything's ready."

  Taking a deep breath, I punched up Anastasio's private number in Chicago.

  "Yeah?" A familiar voice said.

  "Jay Leicester for Gino Anastasio." It was hard to keep my voice calm.

  There was a pause on the line. Clicking noises echoed in the background. Finally the bored voice asked me to hold for a moment. It gave me time to take another few deep breaths. Two minutes went by.

  "Do you have news for me?" The whine of Anastasio's voice drilled through the receiver, reminding me of his cadaver-like facial movements. "Have you found my money and my art collection?"

  Now both the money and the Kent collection belonged to him. What audacity.

  "We need to have another meeting, Mr. Anastasio. You've kept some things from us. We are very angry about the way you had Mr. and Mrs. Barnes treated. I thought we understood each other."

  "I know nothing about mistreating the Barnes'." He paused for a minute. I clinched a fist so tight the knuckles turned white. "Have you recovered the art collection?"

  "You know very well the Kent collection was flown out of Rockland aboard a Hanza Jet on the night of the sixteenth." Pausing, I swallowed hard. "We believe you whacked your man Bilotti and Nat Rinaldi. What you did with the money, we don't have any idea, but I'd bet my last nickel you know exactly where the Kent collection is at this very moment."

  "You may be right, I may very well know exactly the whereabouts of the art collection. It is necessary we meet again. The day after tomorrow at the airport in Augusta, Maine. Ten a.m."

  Chamberlain started shaking his head and pointing at the floor.

  "How about the Rockland Airport, Mr. Anastasio?" I said, taking the cue from J.L. "It would be much better for us."

  "Don't be late, private eye." He hung up. I threw the telephone receiver at its cradle.

  "Why Augusta?" Chamberlain asked out loud, more to himself than me.

  Shrugging my shoulders at the question, I said, "Anastasio's right about one thing, J.L., we do not want to be late for this meeting."

  "Don't worry,” Chamberlain said with a firmness I appreciated. "We won't be late."

  Exiting the room where the sophisticated electronic equipment was located, we went back to Chamberlain's office.

  "You want some coffee?" Chamberlain asked as we sat down.

  "No thanks."

  "Detective Chamberlain,” Sergeant Bowers said over the intercom. "There's a call for you, line three. It's a business burglary."

  Chamberlain punched the blinking button on the telephone. Listening to the one-sided conversation, I watched him scribble information on a note pad. "I'll be there in ten minutes,” he finally said into the receiver. Looking up at me. "Duty calls. Dope addicts hit one of our local pharmacies. Want to come along and watch a pro work?"

  "If you don't mind, I'll pass. I need to get in touch with Guy Robbins. We've been missing each other for a week. He's the attorney friend down in Gulfport who recommended me for this case. Sandy was with him when she got your call about the body."

  "Yes." Chamberlain put on his coat and straightened his tie. "I spoke with him on the phone the night Sandy returned my call. He seemed like a pleasant sort."

  "He's one of the best, and a close personal friend. We grew up together. He throws a lot of work my way."

  "I shouldn't be over a couple of hours,” Chamberlain said as we walked out.

  Stopping out front on the sidewalk and looking around at the several police cars parked in the tiny lot, I said, "Let's meet back here, say around three o'clock? We can go over this whole thing. Plan some tough questions to ask Anastasio."

  "Fine. I'll meet you then." Chamberlain headed for his car, a stern expression on his face. He was already pursuing pharmacy burglars.

  Back at the Navigator Inn, Henry invited me for coffee in the restaurant. His sister was filling in for Mabel until she returned. She had reddish-brown curls, wide-set eyes, and a few freckles on the bridge of an upturned nose. A carbon copy of Henry. One would call her face attractive if one ever noticed it, but there was no particular reason to. She had a look of alertness, of eager interest, a look that expected the world to contain an exciting secret behind every corner.

  "So how's your murder investigation going?" asked Henry.

  "It could be better. We think we've figured out who did it. Proving it is another matter. We're making progress, though."

  "The Mafia guy, right?" Henry said with a knowing look, blowing on the hot coffee and raising his thick eyebrows at me. "The Mafia hit'em both, stole the money and the art collection." He sat back in his chair, a satisfied grin on his face.

  Sipping the coffee and looking at Henry's sister, I did not respond. She stared back, a smile at the corner of her tight, thin-lipped mouth.

  "I read a lot of mystery books. Always figure out who did the crime by the time I'm halfway through."

  "How did you know about the Mafia guy, Henry?"

  He blushed and rubbed a callused hand behind his head. "Mabel or Sergeant Bowers told me, I think. Oh, the lights blinking on the phone at the desk. Excuse me."

  Right, I thought, Mabel and Bowers, and they told Henry.

  Thanking Henry's sister and leaving a five-dollar bill on the table, I went up to my room to call Guy Robbins. His secretary put me right through to him.

  "Jay, I'm glad we finally caught up with each other. How's the investigation going? Any breakthroughs?"

  "We may be getting close. There are two locals we suspect may be involved with stealing a half a million in cash from the crime scene. That's how much money Sandy's brother brought to buy the art collection. One of them is a Police Sergeant. There could even be a boat captain and his wife involved. As to who did the killings...we're still working on it."

  "What about the local detective? Is he involved?"

  "Not a chance. Would bet my life on it."

  "You be absolutely sure, Jay. By the way, Sandy was over in Gulfport day before yesterday. She bought the Moran collection. We talked about her brother. I inquired as to who was handling his legal affairs."

  "Who is handling them?"

  "I am. Sandy asked me represent both of them when we finalized the Moran deal."

  Picking up a pad beside the phone, I propped my feet in a chair, and made some notes. "Isn't that a little strange? One would think they'd have an attorney on retainer. Especially if they are as wealthy as you say."

  "I don't know, it surprised me, too. Sandy said something about not trusting Nat's lawyer. I didn't press her."

  "Well, good luck with your new client."

  "I've got to go, Jay. Keep me informed. I have a vested interest now. Also, keep in mind that the smoke ascends as lightly from the cottage hearth as from the haughty palace." He hung up.

  Sitting on the side of the bed, holding the receiver, I did not truly know why Guy had wanted to talk with me. He usually was not given to inane conversation. What did he mean by that rising smoke expression? Did Guy know something that he was not telling me?

  The phone started making a beeping noise. Replacing it in its cradle, I stood up and walked out on the balcony. The soft murmur cars made passing along the highway created a humming noise, remote yet intimate, like the rushing of blood through my own veins. That quote about the smoke rising was familiar, but from where? What could Guy have meant by it?

  Sitting down in the chair, I glanced over at the next balcony, remembering Sandy curled up, almost invisible, in the corner. No one was there.

  Watching two sea gulls fight for position on top of a piling at the ferry dock, I mentally listed the people who could possibly be involved with these two murders. J.L. Chamberlain was not on my list. Bar
stein and his wife, Annie, Sergeant Bowers and Mabel, they could, together or separately, have stolen the money. The ferry captain and his wife were certainly on the scene. Sergeant Bowers was the first officer to arrive. Mabel had an inordinate interest in the developments of the case. So did Henry. There was the woman who supposedly discovered Bilotti's body, what was her name...Wilma? J.L. checked her out and found nothing. Then there's Anastasio and his connection. Though, as J.L. pointed out, why draw the heat for so little gain? There's also my client. If she were involved, why hire an investigator?

  Could this case be so simple as a local mugger who stumbled into something bigger than he could have imagined? Is the Kent art collection sitting somewhere never to be discovered again? I went back inside.

  * * *

  Down in the motel restaurant, I had lunch with Henry and his sister. We were the only ones there. This time Henry did not want to play sleuth. He wanted to know about the South. It seems that the man had never been out of the state of Maine. Explaining that our progress into the twenty-first century is in fact edging us forward toward becoming an industrialized section of the nation, I said not everyone lives on a farm, plows a mule, and grows cotton. Though it surprised him when I said that was exactly where I longed to be. Henry's image of the South remained an enigma to him. Leaving the two of them to ponder the situation, I left to meet with Chamberlain.

  Sergeant Bowers flagged me down as I passed his desk. He asked if I had heard from Mabel. I said that I had not, and wondered to myself if he had."

  "Detective Chamberlain's in the back filling out the report on the Pigott Pharmacy burglary." Bowers pointed toward J.L.'s office. "He's expecting you. You know the way."

  "Hello, J.L. They leave any clues?" Plopping down in one of the spartan chairs, I propped my feet up on Chamberlain's desk.

  He looked up at me and didn't smile. "They went through the roof." He held up a hand-operated auger. A maul and a handsaw lay on the desk. "First time I've seen this modus operandi. They usually break out a window, or jimmy a door. But through the roof..."

  "So what did they get?"

  "Not much. A few Empirin compound #3 tablets, a hundred Seconals. They missed the good stuff, thank goodness."

  "You able to lift any prints off these?" I pointed at the tools.

  "They're clean except for a few smudges. We found a red bandanna, but not much else."

  "Alright." Taking my feet off Chamberlain's desk and changing position in the chair, I said, "We've got the rest of the afternoon and all of tomorrow to figure out how to confront the 'Chairman of the Board.' Any ideas?"

  Chamberlain felt the tip of the wood auger with his thumb, and laid it back on the table. "We know he's not going to let me aboard the airplane. You're going to have to go it alone, again."

  "Don't mind being alone with the man. Nothing's going to happen to me. We need to confront him with good, clean, hard facts. See how he reacts. Let's go prepared."

  Chamberlain rose from his chair and took two steps to the window, his leather shoes squeaking on the concrete floor. Turning, he looked at me, scratched his chin, and pondered the situation, but said nothing.

  "I agree with what you said earlier. It doesn't make sense for him to draw all this heat and risk the amount of exposure that could result over an investigation for so small a problem. He certainly would not want the police digging into why one of his moles was executed."

  "Who can figure the Mafia mind?" Chamberlain gathered up the burglary tools and put them in a box on his desk. "Sometimes they do the stupidest things for a warped sense of honor. They will destroy everything they've built for the Mafia code of ethics."

  "He's going to have to explain why he felt it necessary to destroy an old couple, and where he took the Kent art collection." Standing up, I paced the small room. A hawk flew in erratic patterns beyond the office window.

  Chamberlain reached in the box and picked up the auger. He looked at it, turned it over in his hand, letting me continue.

  "I want to confront Anastasio for what he did to Ben and Betty Barnes. He needs to know we're turning up the heat. J.L. Chamberlain and Jay Leicester are not going away. We're like two old pit bulls, once we get what teeth we have left into him, the only way we let go is when we're dead. Or he is."

  Chamberlain lay the auger on the desk, sat down, leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and smiled. The hawk dove toward the ground outside the window.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Leaving Chamberlain with his pharmacy burglary, I drove back to the Navigator Inn, taking copies of the files on both murders with me. We agreed for tomorrow to both spend the day with our respective endeavors. Chamberlain was to catch up on police work that he had been neglecting for the last two weeks. I would review all the information collected during our investigation and work on the meeting with Gino Anastasio day after tomorrow in Augusta, Maine.

  It was almost dark when I left the police station. The streets glistened with early dew, leaving dark blotches on the walls of buildings. The town looked bathed in a cold sweat and the air was heavy with a sea smell of low tide, disquieting like premature old age. Stopping two blocks from the Navigator, I picked up a pizza and some wine.

  Going straight up to my room, I put the wine and pizza on the table and phoned down to Henry. There were no messages for me. After telling him I didn't want a wake up call for in the morning, we said good night, and hung up.

  The wine, a 1988 Brolio Chianti Classico, was a little old, but went well with the pizza. After finishing the entire bottle, I contemplated a cigar and cognac. Deciding against them, I went to bed pleasantly drunk.

  Waking sometime later with a headache and a dry mouth, I had no idea what time it was. The alarm clock next to the bed glowed a bright red six a.m. Not able to go back to sleep, I decided to watch the sunrise.

  It was cold on the balcony. The dew made everything damp and wet. Going back inside, I put on my old leather flight jacket. The sun rose from the sea, slowly melting the world as it inched its way upward. It soon cleared the horizon causing the morning to break fresh as new paint. Getting up to see this had been worth it.

  After a shower and a shave, I went down for coffee with Henry and his sister. My only plans for today were to study the files and to work on the meeting with Anastasio.

  Henry's sister had made blue berry pancakes. I could not resist. During my third cup of coffee a fly lit on an empty breakfast dish. Henry shooed it away. Watching as it flew; I followed the flight path until it landed upside down on the ceiling, causing me to remember an old friend who owns an aviation management company in Dallas, Texas. He and I used to argue whether a fly did a loop maneuver or a half roll to land upside down on a ceiling. We never settled the debate, but it suddenly dawned on me that his computer system would have data on how many Hansa Jets were still operating in the United States, and who their owners were.

  Excusing myself, I went to make a telephone call.

  * * *

  "Ashley, you old reprobate. How are you?"

  "Leicester, is that you? Well I'll be. Long time no see, son. How you been?"

  "Good, John. It's a pleasure to hear that raspy old voice again. Listen, I need some information."

  "Information? I was hoping you were looking for a steady flying job. Got one open right now, flying left seat on a Saberliner. Start you out at eighty thousand, plus benefits. Guarantee you'll never have to fly at night, on weekends, or when it's raining."

  Ashley was probably serious about the flying job, but I wasn't interested. "No thanks, John. Unless something drastic happens, I'm through with that life."

  "Too bad. Well, if you ever change your mind...” he said, trailing off. "How can I help you?"

  "I'm trying to run down a charter, or a private flight, which landed in Rockland, Maine, on the night of the sixteenth of this month. Don't have an 'N' number, but it was a Hansa Jet. The only other information I have is it was flying with a female copilot."


  "Well, son, that don't mean anything. There are about as many ladies flying airplanes today as men. I hear the Government's going to let them start flying combat. They'll do a good job, too. I work over a dozen in my charter department. They are a lot more reliable, and not nearly as rough on my airplanes, as some of these old fighter jocks."

  "The Hansa Jet, John." I was trying to slow him down. Once he started on a subject, he would talk for two days. "Can you be of any help with locating it?"

  "If the thing flies, I know where it's based, who owns it, and how many hours left until the engines need an overhaul." He laughed a deep resounding laugh. "Give me a couple of hours. I'll see what I can come up with and call you back."

  Giving Ashley my phone number at the motel, I said good-bye. Sitting down at the small table, I picked up the file and started reading at the front.

  * * *

  The file was eclectic, but well organized. I read it carefully. It began with Tony Bilotti's death and continued through the conversation we'd had with Anastasio yesterday morning. This was an excellent and up-to-date piece of work.

  The autopsy report on Bilotti showed nothing other than what had truly happened; someone stuck a .9mm pistol behind his right ear and pulled the trigger. Too bad. I hoped he enjoyed his last day, but I felt no sympathy. A son of a bitch alive is a son of a bitch dead.

  Nat Rinaldi's autopsy report read the same as Bilotti's, except he had been in the water for a couple of days. Seeing his face after the crabs had been at it was still fresh in my memory. The mouth was a dull smear of red, like a poorly painted clown's face.

  I felt sorry for Nat. His time came early, but death is implicit in birth. The poor innocent art dealer played on the fringe and ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  The rest of the file was a concise record of all the information we'd collected, people we'd interviewed, places we'd been. At the end was a one page summary, written in Chamberlain's own style of prose. The next scheduled meeting with Gino Anastasio was the last thing entered in the file. There was a big question mark at the end.