by JC Simmons
Throwing the file on the table, I leaned back in the chair, and stared out at Penobscot bay. Suddenly a feeling of exigency swept over me, but I felt chained.
The phone rang.
"Leicester,” the booming voice said. "Get a pen, boy. I've got a listing of six of these German jets. You ready to copy?"
"Go ahead, John." I reached for a writing pad and pen next to the phone.
"Only one is flying as a charter aircraft. The rest are in Detroit hauling auto parts for the car makers."
"Outstanding. Who runs the one on charter?"
"Aeroair, Inc. They're based in Houston, operate out of Hobby, and owned by an old codger named Charlie Garino. He's a straight shooter. When you call, tell him you're a friend of mine."
"What'll that get me?"
Ashley laughed. "Why you need this information, Jay? I know old Charlie hasn't done anything wrong."
"Keep this under your hat, John. The Hansa Jet hauled a cargo of stolen artwork. If Garino's clean, he might not have known what was on board. I need to find out where the airplane landed."
"You can bet your boots on Garino, son. Charlie Garino would have nothing to do with anything illegal." There was a serious inflection in his voice. "I've known him for thirty years. I'll vouch for him."
"Thanks. Appreciate your help. I owe you one."
"Any time, Jay. Stay in touch."
"Good-bye." Untwisting the tangled cord, I hung up the receiver.
The room seemed stuffy. Walking over, I opened the glass doors to the balcony. Fresh air flowed into the room, followed by the sounds of the waterfront and auto traffic on the street.
Back inside, directory assistance gave me the number for Aeroair in Houston, Texas. I punched in the eleven digits.
"Mr. Garino won't be back until tomorrow,” the woman who answered the phone said. "May I take a message, or could someone else help you?"
"No, Ma'am. Will you tell Mr. Garino that I'm a friend of John Ashley? I'll get in touch with him tomorrow."
"I'll be glad to, Mr. Leicester. Thank you for calling Aeroair."
"Oh, one more thing. Do you employ female pilots?"
"Yes, we do,” the lady said. "We have six young women flying with us. Why do you ask?"
"It's not important. I'll talk with Mr. Garino tomorrow." Hanging up the phone, I scratched my chin.
By the time I finished studying the file and making a mental list of questions to confront Anastasio with, the sun had set, leaving long wisps of gray clouds like streaks of ashes pale against the evening sky.
The world seemed to pause between day and night. Still feeling anxious, I wanted to confront Anastasio now, not tomorrow.
* * *
The dream was so real. Gusty winds blew through the marina slamming the hulls of boats against fenders. Loose halyards and shrouds clanked against masts. Flags flapped and snapped. In the narrow bunk of Picaroon my hands found the warmth of her, followed the familiar hills and valleys of smooth skin. Dim, reflected light played around the cabin, glinting off her narrowed eyes. We made no pretense of playing games of faked restraint, quickly passing the boundaries of no return and came in a mounting passion which seemed to create a closeness nothing can provide. The wind made breathing sounds through the mast of the boat, then subsided, as we did. The slow tilting and creaking of the hull seeming to echo, in a slower pace, our lovemaking just ended. Mabel lay beside me breathing slowly and easily. I began to sweat and gasp for breath. A hand covered by face, another closed tightly around my neck.
The phone ended the dream and brought me back to reality. Henry was saying something about J.L. waiting for me in the lobby. "What time is it?" I had forgotten to leave a wake up call.
"Eight o'clock,” he said, laughing.
"God, I overslept. Tell Chamberlain to have a cup of coffee with your sister. Give me twenty minutes."
Of all the times to oversleep, I thought. The day we are to meet with Anastasio.
Chamberlain, true to his character, didn't comment about me being late. "Have a cup of coffee,” he said. "There's plenty of time to reach the airport in Augusta."
The day was a mirror image of yesterday with the sky clear and blue. We let the windows down in the car as we drove slowly through the town even though a chill was still in the air. Wind circulating in the car was bracing. I could smell wood smoke from someone's fireplace or cook stove.
Once outside of Rockland, it turned cold. We rolled the windows back up. The sun shining on the obsidian rock of the mountains gave off an amethystine glow. Trees gleamed green and bright. We rounded a curve and were presented with the bare face of a hill eroded by wind and rain and snow. Etched by time, it reminded me of flying over the Rocky Mountains. That anxious feeling suddenly swept around me again.
Chamberlain glanced over at me. "You alright, Jay? You're pale as a sheet."
"Yeah, I'm fine. Still trying to wake up."
"So, lay it out for me. How exactly do you plan to approach Anastasio this time?"
Over the next twenty minutes, I explained to Chamberlain my ideas. We discussed them until we both were satisfied and in agreement. His input was both incisive and helpful. He was a good investigator and a smart man.
The drive, winding through the hills, was familiar to me. It was the same route Sandy and I had driven days earlier when taking her to catch the airplane back to New Orleans. I though of how she looked that day, her hair tied with the bandanna, the tight, black slacks. I remembered the towel and her nakedness in the motel room that morning. I also remembered her dead brother.
Tell me about Jim Barstein, J.L.? Is he capable of doing these two murders?"
J.L. gave me another of those scholarly-like looks, thought for a few minutes. Then: "I sent him to prison when he was nineteen years old. He beat a man to death in a bar. All the witnesses testified he'd been pushed into the fight and could not avoid it. He got off with a plea to Man two. Served eighteen months of a three to five."
"Then he's capable of the violence?"
"Oh, he's capable alright. There's been some scrapes since he's been out, but nothing serious."
"Yes, scrapes...” I said absentmindedly.
Chamberlain looked at me with a quizzical expression.
Answering the question mark on his face, I said, "There's a possibility Barstein and his wife showed up early that morning at the chandlery, saw the car in the parking lot, and went to take a look. They found the body and the four hundred and fifty thousand in cash, took the money and left the body to be found by some other poor soul."
"It could have happened that way. I don't know...” His voice trailed off.
"Maybe Barstein made the hits. Why don't we sweat him? See what wrings out?"
"It's an idea." Silence. Then Chamberlain said, "Let's give it awhile, see what happens."
We arrived at the airport and drove around until we found the fixed-base operation. Anastasio's G-IV was nowhere in sight.
"Sit tight, J.L. I'll go see what I can find out." Inside the office, the young lady behind the counter said that she had heard from a Gulfstream G-IV. One had called in twenty minutes ago. They should be on the ramp in about five minutes. Thanking her, I went back outside to where Chamberlain stood beside the car.
"There he comes." Chamberlain pointed to a dot in the sky.
We watched the profile of the G-IV grow larger. It slid down the glideslope like a giant eagle to a perfect landing. Blue smoke erupted from the main gear tires. The aircraft thrust-reversers opened and the engine noise increased to a roar.
Chamberlain looked at me and smiled. I wasn't anxious anymore. The next hour was going to be an interesting one. One I would not have missed for anything in the world.
CHAPTER TWENTY
We watched the big jet taxi slowly into a parking space on the ramp. The lineman ran to the airstair door and unrolled a red carpet. It's a gesture most customer oriented fixed-base operations make today.
The crew took their time shutting the engi
nes down. Finally the door opened. The same young man with the three-piece suit exited the aircraft and came toward us. We watched his slow determined walk.
"Mr. Leicester, Detective Chamberlain,” he said with educated politeness. "Mr. Anastasio is preparing for your visit. It will be a few minutes. If you both will follow me, you may wait aboard the aircraft."
"Both of us? Anastasio wants to see us both?"
The young man was unperturbed by my question. "Yes, sir,” he said without smiling. "Mr. Anastasio wishes to see both you and Detective Chamberlain." He turned and started for the aircraft.
Chamberlain looked at me and winked. We followed the man aboard.
Inside the G-IV, the crew sat in the cockpit, still staring into oblivion. The young man indicated two seats across from each other. Chamberlain seemed more than a little impressed with the inside of the cabin.
The young man asked if we cared for anything to drink.
"Coffee would be nice."
Chamberlain nodded he would take coffee, also.
Surveying his surroundings like an excited computer operator, Chamberlain pressed a button on the small TV built into his armrest. A picture appeared asking if he would like to see the nearest television station or videotape of his own selection. He pressed the off button, looked at me, and shook his head.
The young man served our coffee, then disappeared. It was quiet in the cabin. If you listened hard enough the hum of the onboard auxiliary power unit could be faintly heard. The soft gray colors of the walls had time to slowly work us over.
Looking across to Chamberlain, I said, "Pretty nice for an airplane, don't you think?"
He was toying with a satellite-linked telephone. Putting it back in its holder, he raised up in his seat, and scanned the cabin, then stared me in the eyes. "When a wolf drapes a caribou skin over its thin, long legs and attempts to improvise a caribou's bearing and a caribou's grunt, the truth is immediately and funnily apparent to all sensitive eyes and ears and to all discriminating noses..."
Point well taken.
As soon as we finished our coffee, the young man appeared and said Mr. Anastasio would see us now.
We followed him back to the conference room, which was partitioned off from the rest of the cabin. Anastasio was sitting in the same seat at the oval table, wearing the same blue jump suit as before. A flash of Howard Hughes with long hair and fingernails, lying naked, pumped full of codeine, and starving to death in a dark hotel room crossed my mind. At least Anastasio's surroundings were better.
His shaky, bony arm waved us into the two chairs. The high, squeaky voice ordered, "Sit down."
Anastasio was even more cadaver-like than I remembered. Under the thin, almost clear skin of the balding head, I could see the steady pulse of a blue vein.
"Detective Chamberlain, how is your wife? Cancer is a very bad thing."
J.L. looked at me, then back at Anastasio. "My wife's fine. Thank you for asking."
"What have you for me?"
Chamberlain spoke first. "We don't have anything for you. We're here to ask you some questions."
A deadly smile curled from the side of Anastasio's face, then quickly disappeared.
"Look, Mr. Anastasio,” I said, sitting up on the edge of my chair. "We're here for some hard answers."
The dead eyes burned into mine. "Proceed."
"We wanted to believe you, Mr. Anastasio. You lied to me the last time we met, saying you paid a fair price for the Rockwell Kent collection, claiming it belonged to a lady who owned a summer home on Monhegan Island. The truth is, the collection was extorted from an old couple who have lived on Monhegan all their lives. They were treated with undue cruelty during the process." Pausing, I watched his reaction. He seemed almost amused at my accusations, but his eyes narrowed when I said the Barnes' had been treated cruelly. Sitting back in my seat, I crossed one leg over the other. "Their grandson owed you money. The police fished his body out of a canal in downtown Chicago. We think you decided to put the arm on the grandparents for the grandson's debt."
Chamberlain stood, walked around to the back of his chair, his leather shoes still squeaking, even on the plush carpet. "Was it necessary to treat the Barnes couple so harshly? To destroy the dignity of an old man in front of his wife? How would you feel if it was done to you?"
Anastasio held up an arm, looked at both of us. "You don't question me about how I conduct my business. A debt is a debt. It must be paid." The eyes narrowed, thin lips stretched tight across ruined teeth. "It is true, the art collection was to settle the debt of the child. That is the way it is, but no one was to treat them wrongly. If it happened, it was not by my order."
Uncrossing my legs and holding up both hands in a question, I asked, "Is that why you whacked Bilotti? You found out he'd gone against your orders and roughed up the old couple?"
"You are an idiot, Leicester." He sat further back in his seat, rubbed bony fingers through the few ugly strands of scraggly hair.
"I don't think it bothers you a hell of a lot that he's dead." J.L. sat back down, and stared intently into Anastasio's eyes.
The old man returned the stare. In a quiet, scratchy voice he said, "Detective Chamberlain, death is sometimes a punishment, sometimes a gift. To many it comes as a favor. To Mr. Bilotti...well, who knows, but I had nothing to do with it."
He wasn't used to being grilled by anybody, especially those from the police. Why he was allowing it to continue was a mystery?
In a voice that now sounded tired, Anastasio said, "I have had my people check across the country. There has been no Rockwell Kent work sold in the past two weeks. Whoever has the collection is sitting on it. When we find out who, they can tell us the rest."
"The collection could have been sent out of the country,” J.L. said calmly. "Though you wouldn't know where unless it went to some Mafia controlled city." He said it bluntly, with no animosity, merely stating a truth.
"You two are starting to bore me."
Reaching over, I grabbed the edge of the table with such force that it shook. "We'll try to be more entertaining. Right now, you'll just have to endure us."
The fragile old man turned and looked out the other side of the aircraft. He spoke as if to himself. "I know a man who was hired by a Japanese gentleman to steal certain works of art from museums and to ship them directly to Japan. Expensive, but he got what he desired."
"Sounds like something you wish you'd thought of,” J.L. said, with a smile that only moved one side of his mouth.
Turning loose of the desk and sitting back in my seat, I spoke quickly, "We know the art collection was flown out of Rockland on board a charter flight the night of the sixteenth. You are the only one connected to this case with the money and knowledge to have the collection moved out of the area in this way."
Anastasio's dark eyes set in deep black holes, opened wide. This interested him. "If I'd wanted to fly the art collection out of Rockland, I would have done so with this twenty-five million dollar machine we're sitting in." He waved an arm around the cabin. "I wouldn't have chartered another aircraft and involved other people."
It was a good point.
Chamberlain leaned forward and aimed a finger at Anastasio. "Maybe someone who owned a charter service had a child who owed you money. You collected on another debt."
"Give me the information on the charter flight,” Anastasio said to me, ignoring Chamberlain's theory. "I'll have my people check it out."
"No thanks, Mr. Anastasio. We won't do that. We have no way to be sure you're not involved. We'll do our own checking."
"I see." Anastasio stared out the oval cabin window next to him. "You may be making a big mistake. Anything else you and Detective Chamberlain wish to discuss?"
"Call your moles off my client, they're upsetting her."
"Yes, she recently purchased an art collection from the Mississippi Gulf Coast."
"I'm aware of the transaction. The Moran collection. A private estate sale. An attorney friend of mine
handled the deal."
"You surprise me with the thoroughness with which you stay abreast of some things, disappoint me with the neglect of others."
The suit appeared in the doorway. "Sir, the people for your next meeting are here."
Anastasio nodded. Raising both hands as if to lift us out of our seats, he said, "I'd better hear from you two, and soon."
"We'll call with a warrant as soon as we link you with the murders,” Chamberlain said, standing and crossing both arms across his chest.
Anastasio looked at him for a long while. "Take care of your wife." With that we were dismissed.
We followed the suit down the aisle of the aircraft. Sitting in the seats we had recently occupied were two young men dressed like Mafia hoods. They looked up at us. One of them had a fat, blank face and the eyes of a killer; a man impervious to any sort of feeling. I saw in the tightened lips, in the jutting chin, in the narrowed eyes, the look of an adolescent bully. The other man had scared eyes and was sweating. His smile looked forced, and I detected other false notes in his bravado: A hand raised to his tie, a tug at shirt sleeves to make sure the right amount of cuff showed from the jacket sleeves. He was a man full of self-doubt. I wondered how much they owed the 'Chairman of the Board,' and if their fate held a .9mm slug to the back of the right ear.
We were escorted down the airstair door and left to find our own way back across the ramp. The door shut quickly behind us.
We sat in the unmarked police car and watched as the crew of the G-IV started the engines, taxied out, and took off. The big plane climbed swiftly into the blue sky.
"Seems as if the two young men who boarded after us are in for a ride." Chamberlain gripped the steering wheel with both hands.
"It could be a ride into forever."
Chamberlain started the car and drove away from the airport. "We didn't come away with much,” he said as we left the city limits. "I didn't expect him to confess, but he truly gives the impression he's not involved."
"He's had a lot of practice, J.L. He does have a unique way of dominating the situation, especially in that environment. We're just going to have to work harder." We rode in silence, each deep into our own thoughts.