CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Yeah.”

  I went into my building and chatted with the security guard for a minute. As advertised, he has seen and heard nothing and was plainly worried about his job. Not noticing two guys being whacked out front of his building might be considered a reflection on his powers of observation.

  “I wasn’t goofing off, Mr. Rhode. I just didn’t hear anything.”

  I didn’t tell him about the silencer but reminded him that nobody on the nearby streets apparently heard anything either.

  “You were inside with the doors closed. You’d have heard less than anyone. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “But I am worried. I need this job. They might think I’m too old.”

  The truth was everyone in the building probably would have preferred a younger guard. But I kind of felt responsible for what happened on his watch. I was obviously getting soft. First Porgie, then this security guard.

  “Listen, if your company hassles you, play the age discrimination card. I can talk to the lawyers on the top floor. They own the building. They love cases like that.”

  He was very grateful. And it didn’t cost me another hero sandwich.

  When I got to my office I cancelled my flight and went about my business looking innocent, even if nobody could see me. It’s good to practice. I called a new stencil guy who, surprisingly, came right over. Of course, he wanted to talk about the shooting, and I feigned astonishment. He also wanted to know what the problem was with my middle initial. Not his concern, I said, and watched him like a hawk. Just after he left Cormac Levine called.

  “Did you shoot them?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t fuck around, Alton.”

  “Oh, the two guys out front? No.”

  “Two Carlucci hitters get smoked outside your office when the Carluccis are following you around like Brad and Angelina?”

  “They were waiting for me. Somebody intervened before they could turn me into Swiss cheese.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know. Cops said it was an Uzi. Maybe it was Mossad.”

  “Always blame the Jews, right. Maybe it was Immelberger, or whatever that Kraut pilot called himself. Nando will think you did it.”

  “Works for me. Thanks for the photos, by the way. Your guy did a good job.”

  “What now?”

  “I have to go get your oranges.”

  I spent most of the rest of the day moving stuff around my office, paying bills and conducting more unproductive Internet searches. I ordered in lunch and waited around for Homicide.

  Finally, around 4 PM, two detectives showed up. They knew who I was and that I knew the drill, so they settled in and made themselves comfortable. They looked like they had all the time in the world. I gave them both coffee, played dumb and lied a lot. When I wasn’t doing either, I invoked client confidentiality, just for the hell of it. That always angers homicide cops and despite the excellent coffee they threatened me with everything from subpoenas to waterboarding. So I grudging let it slip that I only had one client: a woman looking for the father of her child. I didn’t think either of the dead men was him. The cops almost looked sorry for me.

  Did I have any idea who killed the two men?

  I mentioned the lawyers upstairs and hinted at shady characters. They didn’t even bother writing that down. I’m sure it explained to them why I had only one client. I asked if they had identified the victims. They said no, which made me feel better about my own lies. We sat there a few more minutes lying back and forth. One of them complimented my selection of plants. We exchanged cards. They left. I exhaled. I rebooked my flight for the next morning.

  When I finally left, Abby was working the guard desk. I noticed that her regular sign-in book had been replaced by a lined yellow pad.

  “Cops took it. They wanted to check whose been coming and going for a month.”

  “That’s good detective work.”

  “Remember when Staten Island got the dregs of the Police Department?” She pronounced it po-leece. “They’re getting their shit together.”

  “We always had some good cops, Ab. But with a half million people now we’re getting more. But tell me, and don’t get insulted, but why do black people say, po-leece?”

  “I’m not insulted. You honkies mispronounce it. We trying to educate you.”

  CHAPTER 24 – FLORIDA

  I flew out the next morning. I was looking forward to the trip. The weather in Southwest Florida in the late fall varies. It can be gorgeous, or really gorgeous. I’ve spent a lot of time in the Sunshine State, which because of its favorable bankruptcy laws tends to attract the type of miscreants I’ve had to pursue. There are more crooks on the East Coast, but that’s a function of population. Florida’s Southwestern coast boasts some of the priciest real estate in the nation. A Naples attorney I’ve worked with once gave me a tour of the mansions in Port Royal lining the Gulf and Gordon River. Some of them could have rated their own Zip Codes.

  On the flight down I studied the “aged” photos. There were 14 renderings in all: Capriati with and without facial hair such as beards and mustaches, and with various hairstyles, down to bald. Thin face, full face, jowls. Despite the variations, the majority looked like the old man Matt Damon morphed into at the end of Saving Private Ryan .

  The Fort Myers airport, officially known as Southwest Florida International Airport, is the closest big airport to Naples. It’s a gem, set amid scrublands, pine barrens and farmland. With a brand new terminal, it boasts plenty of parking, fast shuttles, wide concourses and solid but efficient security. I rented a Ford Fusion and headed south on I75, which swings east in Naples and becomes the famous Alligator Alley, 90 miles of superhighway surrounded by the Everglades that goes straight to Fort Lauderdale. But I cut over to Route 41, also known as Tamiami Trail, which would take me straight into downtown “Old Naples.” A lot of people assume Tamiami is an Indian name. It’s actually short for “Tampa to Miami.”

  Accomodations in Naples range from chain motels to some hotels that would make Caligula blush with their opulence. I had my sights set on the Inn on Fifth, an elegant Mediterranean-style boutique hotel in the heart of Fifth Avenue, the Rodeo Drive of Naples. I had stayed there before. In addition to Italian marble-and-tile rooms and a rooftop pool, one of the hotel’s restaurants was McCabe’s Irish Pub. Besides, Ellen James had forced another $2,000 on me with instructions to spend it unwisely. I still had most of her original retainer but she was adamant. If Ellen flew down to confront Capriati, as she insisted she would, I didn’t want her staying in a Super 8.

  “I have plenty of money,” she said. “What I don’t have is time.”

  The “Season” in Naples runs from January through April, so I was able to secure a suite at a rate that didn’t make me feel too guilty. It was early afternoon by the time I finished checking in. The temperature was in the mid 70’s. I put on a pair of shorts and a floral Tommy Bahama shirt I’d purchased in a moment of derangement on a previous trip. It was the kind of shirt that made me look faintly ridiculous but one I could wear outside my shorts to cover my gun. Loafers without socks and wraparound sunglasses completed the touristy look. Thank God I checked myself in the full-length mirror by the front door. I had upgraded from faintly to completely ridiculous. I quickly changed into slacks and a golf shirt and put on my Brooks Brothers sports coat. I kept the sunglasses.

  Wiggins Citrus was off Goodlette Road in North Naples. It is a working orange grove that sells citrus products, honey, jams and such from a large warehouse-style building that also contains a farmer’s market. There were dozens of cars in the parking lot when I pulled in. There was a separate counter devoted to mail orders, with representative boxed displays: oranges, mixed oranges and grapefruits, citrus products with jams and cheeses, etc. A large calendar on the counter listed dates still available for shipping gifts that would arrive before the holidays. There were two women behind the counter and I waited until they were free.

  “Yes, how
can I help you,” one of them said.

  I wanted to break the ice, so I sent out Mac’s order of oranges and grapefruits.

  “Do you keep records of all your shipments.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I decided that there was nothing to be lost by honesty, or something approaching it.

  “I’m looking for someone who has sent, on a regular basis, a box of oranges to a woman in a nursing home in New Jersey. There is no name on the gift, but I know from the label they came from here. The sender may be her son and she would like to contact him before it’s too late. She isn’t doing very well.”

  The other woman had drifted over. Both were of an age that would understand a mother’s need to see her son before she died. Playing the heartstring card never hurts.

  The first woman I spoke to said, “You a cop?”

  So much for heartstrings.

  “Private. Retained by the family.”

  “Peggy, go get Albert.”

  After Peggy left, the woman said, “We keep pretty good records, especially if they use a credit card. We even send out reminders every year. If Al says it’s OK, I’m sure we can help you out. But he’s the manager. His family owns the place. You understand.”

  I told her I did and we chatted about the weather and football, two subjects central to any conversation in Florida, until Peggy came back with a man dressed in a bib overall and smelling of oranges. His name was Al Wiggins and his family owned the place, lock. stock and barrels of oranges. And damn proud of it. I repeated my spiel, showed identification when asked and waited for his decision. I wanted to point out that every American’s credit information is probably available to anyone with a computer but held my tongue. Florida is a funny state. There might be a citrus confidentiality law I didn’t know about. But Al turned out to be a reasonable fellow.

  “What’s the name,” he said.

  “Capriati, but I’m not sure he’s still using it. Here’s the address the oranges are sent to and the information from your mailing label.”

  He sat at the computer on the counter and started searching.

  “Yup,” he said. “We’ve shipped there several times. Recently, too. But whoever sends the box must pay in cash every time. No credit card record. I also checked a master list of customers. We usually ask for names, phone numbers and such, even from those that pay in cash, so we can get back to them for repeat business and to send catalogues, but some people don’t want to bother and we don’t press them for it. He must come in and just fill out the address every time. Sorry.”

  “That would seem to indicate that he lives around here.” I put the manila envelope on the counter and spread the sketches out. “Do any of you recognize him from these?”

  “This one looks kind of familiar,” Peggy said, putting her finger on a sketch that actually made Capriati look fairly handsome. A full head of hair and firm of face. “Don’t you remember him, Carol. Always so nice.”

  “I think so,” Carol said.

  “I think I know him, too,” Al said. “Not from here. I’m not at the counter much. But I think I’ve seen him around. A sports bars, I think.”

  It turned out that when Al, recently divorced, took off his bib overalls he liked to have a few drinks. He rotated among three popular taverns, Sam Snead’s, Bokamper’s and Pelican Larry’s. All were within a 10-minute drive of Wiggins Citrus and close to each other in North Naples. But he couldn’t be sure where he’d seen the guy who looked like the aged rendition of Capriati. His three “I thinks” weren’t very encouraging. For all I knew, half the middle-age men in Naples looked alike after all the time they spent in the sun – and gin mills.

  After sending a case of oranges to Cormac and his wife, I spent the rest of the afternoon mimicking Al’s rotation. I visited each bar, all of which had full service restaurants, and flashed the photo that had registered with Al and the counter ladies. All I got out of it was a terrific burger at Sam Snead’s and the suggestion that the bartenders and wait staff at night might be a better bet. So I headed back to my hotel, spent an hour in the gym and went for a long swim in the rooftop pool. Then I showered, changed back into my private-eye uniform and headed back for some more bar hopping.

  CHAPTER 25 – HAPPY HOUR

  Just for diversity’s sake, I reversed the order of my tavern crawl. All three bars were jammed with patrons, mainly seniors at tables taking advantage of “early bird specials” or “happy hour,” and in some cases, both. There’s a reason, other than the weather, why Florida is popular with retirees. It’s possible for a couple to get pleasantly zonked and well-fed for less than $40. And most will leave with take-out boxes for next-day meals. Not everyone fit that profile, however. Standing or sitting at the bars were younger men, mostly golfers, and women of a certain age, mostly divorced or widowed. The golfers were inhaling beer and reliving their rounds. The women were nursing Cosmos and hunting. If Capriati was to be found, he’d probably in the bar crowd, talking golf or offering himself up as prey for the night.

  At Pelican Larry’s, which was in the corner of a shopping center off Immokalee Road, a wildly tattooed bartender wearing a bandana said “the dude” looked vaguely familiar. I ranked that as a “maybe.” Next stop was Bokamper’s, a sprawling haven for NFL fans with more TV’s than a Best Buy. This took some time, because there were 11 separate bar areas. I wasn’t sanguine. The waitresses and barmaids wore tight shorts and tops with plunging necklines and I would have been surprised if anyone noticed faces. But one older bartender said he was “pretty sure” he’d seen Capriati.

  No one in either Pelican Larry’s or Bokamper’s was familiar with his name, and no one came up with any other name he might be using. So, armed with a “maybe” and a “probably” I headed to Sam Snead’s, recalling the great burger but hoping I’d strike out. I wanted to concentrate on the “probably.” Another “maybe” or “probably” would complicate surveillance exponentially.

  At Snead’s, two bartenders put their heads together. I got neither “maybe” or “probably.” Instead one the bartenders said, “Mike, that’s Mr. Calloway, isn’t it?’ And the other said, “Yeah, he running late tonight. Usually here by now.”

  Slammin’ Sammy Snead, I love you.

  Casually, I asked, “What’s his first name.”

  They said “Billy” in unison.

  William Calloway. William Capriati. Cheap bastard probably didn’t want to change his monograms. We were standing at the cash register by the service bar near the kitchen so as not to be overheard.

  “OK. Fellas. Here’s the drill. I’m not sure he’s the one I’m looking for. But if he is, I don’t want you tell him I’ve been asking about him. If I spook him, I may have to get the cops involved, and that wouldn’t be good for anyone, including your boss.”

  “What’s he done,” Mike said.

  “Nothing all that bad,” I said. “It’s a paternity thing, from back North. Civil stuff.”

  “Paternity, that figures,” the other bartender laughed. “Billy is a horn dog. And it can’t be from around here. He ploughs nothin’ but grannies.”

  I gave them each a twenty, in case the threat of cops, which I hadn’t meant, wasn’t enough. When Mike pocketed the bill he said, “Billy who?” Both of them laughed and went back to work. Taverns serving retirement communities and transient snowbird golfers aren’t known for building long-term relationships and bartending loyalty. People in both demographics tend to disappear with regularity, some permanently. I took a seat that gave me a view of the front door and ordered a beer. A half hour later “Billy Who” walked into the bar.

  Capriati looked to be in pretty good shape, maybe 10 pounds heavier than in his wrestling days. I wondered if being on the run was good exercise. He had a full head of hair that showed no graying. He was dressed in grey slacks and a Florida shirt of the type that I had left in a heap back in my hotel room. It was outside his slacks and I wondered if he was packing. I looked for any telltale gun bulge but didn’t
see one. No reason he would have a gun.

  Billy cruised the bar and homed in on two women sitting together. He leaned between them and ordered a drink from Mike the bartender. They exchanged a laugh. I could tell Mike didn’t give my cover away. He put a glass of wine down for Capriati and then said something to the two women, both of who were at least 15 years older than him. They smiled at Capriati. A moment later two more Cosmos showed up for them and they all clinked glasses. Perhaps Billy knew them. Perhaps he always bought ladies a drink. More likely he was in horn dog mode. He started chatting up the women.

  Ellen James had told me that if I found Capriati I wasn’t to approach him without speaking to her first. She was afraid that he might disappear again. I replied that I wouldn’t let that happen, but she insisted. But I wanted to get a closer look at him, so I sidled down the bar to where I could see and hear him better. There was TV on the wall near them so I pretended to be interested in soccer. I even let out a small cheer when someone kicked a ball. No one paid me any attention. It was definitely Capriati. I said, to no one in particular, “Anyone know the score?” I’d forgotten it was a soccer game. The women looked annoyed, but Capriati laughed and said, “I think it’s a blowout, 1-0.” Pretty good line, and we both laughed. Then I walked away.

  Billy was soon deep in meaningful conversation with one of the women, who apparently had undergone more extensive medical intervention than her friend. It wasn’t the beer I’d been drinking; she really was quite attractive. Her friend looked miffed until another man took up a spot on the other side of her and they started talking. There are a lot of lonely people in Naples. Perhaps everywhere. Billy didn’t appear to be in a hurry, so I grabbed a high-top table with a clear view of the bar and ordered a bowl of the house chili, which came quickly. I was hopeful he wasn’t going to get lucky, but just in case I settled the bill before I even started eating. The chili was bubbling in a large earthenware crock surrounded by crackers and covered with cheddar cheese. It was all meat, no beans and about the best I’d ever had. I wanted Capriati/Calloway to leave, but not before I finished the chili. A minute later my waitress returned with another mug of beer.