CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “We owed you one from happy hour,” she said.

  Ah, Florida.

  My timing was almost perfect. I’d just finished the chili and was nursing my happy hour brew when Billy pecked the woman on the cheek and exchanged cards with her. She looked vaguely disappointed at not passing muster, at least for this night. He slapped some cash down on the bar and did a swirl with his finger to indicate that the next drinks for both women were on him. The he headed for the door. I went out right behind him.

  Capriati’s car was a dark blue, two-seat, Chrysler Crossfire convertible that is probably a chick magnet – but unless you’re dating a 25-year-old yoga instructor impossible to have sex in. The thought of one of the ladies from the bar trying it conjured up visions of hospital traction. Despite its sexual disadvantages, however, Crossfires have more than 300 horses under their hoods. Billy would have no problem losing me if so inclined. He could probably lose the Space Shuttle. I was cautious, but needn’t have worried. He headed downtown at a reasonable pace and twenty minutes later pulled into a marina complex on the Gordon River. He parked just outside a restaurant called Kelly’s Fish House. A moment later I saw him being seated, alone, at a table overlooking the river. I went back to my car. He didn’t come out. I went back to the front window of the restaurant. He was having a salad. I sat in my car and waited, salivating, while he gorged himself on stone crabs, hush puppies, coleslaw and onion rings. Actually, I didn’t know what he ate after the salad, but I had glanced at the menu on the window and that’s what I would have ordered. An hour later he emerged, got in his car and headed back in the general direction from whence we came. He had driven 12 miles to eat at Kelly’s and I made a mental note to try it out if I had the chance.

  Back in North Naples, Billy turned into a gated golf community called Pelican Cove. Every gated community in Florida is called Pelican something. I suppose it beats naming them after Florida’s other quotidian bird, the huge turkey vulture, which looks as gloomy and ugly as it sounds. While something like “Vulture Cove” might be more appropriate given the demographics of the retirement communities, the homes might be a hard sell.

  The club entrance was divided in two, visitors on the left where they could be checked at the formidable-looking guardhouse, and residents on the right. Capriati went to the right, slowing just enough to allow the crossbar gate to rise. I assume he had some sort of electronic tag on his car. I thought about trying to bluff my way past the guard to follow him but decided to see how good the security actually was.

  The level of vigilance in gated communities varies; the more upscale the homes, the tighter it is. In communities where the properties run into the millions, guards tend to be younger (usually moonlighting cops or military), visitors have to show a picture I.D. and be announced if they haven’t already been cleared. Some gates are equipped with cameras that record license plates.

  I drove past and made a U-Turn, parking just down from the club within sight of the entrance. I wasn’t particularly worried about attracting attention. There was a small pickup truck parked near me and two guys were fishing in a canal. I walked over to them without losing sight of the guardhouse. I asked them how they were doing. One of them nodded at the back of the pickup where there was a large Igloo ice chest. I went over and opened it. It was full of fish. A few bass and some others I didn’t recognize. I asked him what they were.

  “Tilapia. They’re so thick we snag ‘em with the bass lures. Good eatin’ though.”

  I kept glancing at the club entrance.

  “You’re not worried about pesticide runoff from the golf course?”

  “Canals run down from Lake Okee and the Gulf,” he said. “Been eatin’ these fish for 30 years. Ain’t done me no harm.”

  His toothless smile made me wonder. Just then a car pulled into the club and stopped at the gatehouse. A guard holding a clipboard stuck her head out and said something to the driver. I wished the fishermen good luck they obviously didn’t need and went back to my own car. I saw the driver hold out something that looked like a driver’s license. The guard glanced at it and reached into her little cubicle. The visitor’s gate went up and the guard smiled the car through. In a community like Capriati’s, apparently down the food chain a bit, a guard’s job apparently consisted mainly of keeping the underclass out, unless, of course, they are working on the lawns or cleaning the homes.

  I was guessing Cap was in for the night. Happy Hour hunting was done and he’d eaten dinner. He had built himself a life in Naples. I knew where he lived. I pulled out my phone and checked for an actual address, under Capriati and Calloway, and was not surprised to draw a blank. It didn’t matter. I’d be able to get in to his community the next day with Ellen. He might be golfing, or hunting alligators, but he’d be back. Of course, he could also hop a plane for Barbados, but she said not to approach him, so there wasn’t much use in worrying about it. On the drive back to my hotel I called her.

  “I found him. He goes by the name William Calloway now, but it’s him.”

  There was what I assumed was an appropriate stunned silence.

  “Thank God,” she finally breathed. “Where?”

  “A place called Pelican Cove in Naples. It’s a gated golf community. I don’t have his exact address yet. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

  “You didn’t approach him, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Wonderful. We will fly down first thing tomorrow.”

  “We?”

  “I’m bringing Savannah.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Ellen.”

  “She’s well enough to travel. If he sees her I just know he will want to help. Can you pick us up?”

  “Of course.”

  She said she’d call me back with their flight information.

  “You did the impossible, Alton. I’ll never forget it.”

  Aw shucks. It was nothing. I didn’t say that. It would have ruined the moment, which I spent thinking about how she would show her gratitude. I wouldn’t have been human if I hadn’t. After we hung up I started thinking about what I think about when not thinking about sex. Sam’s chili was but a wonderful memory. I was hungry enough to eat a boiled armadillo. I made it back to McCabe’s at my hotel by 10 PM and settled for a brisket sandwich and a pint of Irish ale. I was almost finished when Ellen called to tell me they’d be on an 8 AM JetBlue flight out of JFK, arriving at 10:52.

  “We’ll just have carry-ons. I’ll call when we land and you can pick us up at the curb.”

  I told her I’d meet her at the gate.

  “You’re sweet,” she said.

  I had a celebratory Irish whiskey for dessert and went to bed exhausted but elated.

  CHAPTER 26 – ENDANGERED SPECIES

  When I woke up the next morning I briefly entertained the idea of heading to Pelican Cove keeping an eye on Capriati until I went to the airport. Maybe flatten a couple of his tires to make sure he stayed put. I always get antsy when I’m close to a resolution. But that’s usually when I make a mistake. So instead I went for another workout in the hotel gym. After showering and dressing I ordered breakfast in my room. I was sipping the last of my coffee and reading The New York Times when Cormac Levine called me.

  “I got info on your boy, Capriati,” he said. “You ain’t gonna find him.” I chuckled. I could hardly wait to tell him. “He’s in witness protection with the Feds,” Mac said.

  I unchuckled.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yeah. Are you sure?”

  “No. I made it up. Of course, I’m sure. How long you think I’ve been doing this crap? Everywhere I looked was a black hole. Everyone I asked either knew nothing or clammed up. Finally, an old pal on one of those joint task forces we run with the Feds, you know, the ones where we give them everything and they give us crap, told me that Capriati is in the fucking witness protection program. You got any leads, just forget ‘em.”

  Mac didn’t know I was in Florida. The beauty of cell
phones.

  “Uh, there’s a bit of a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I found him.”

  For a moment I thought I’d lost the connection. Then Mac said, “Oh, Christ!”

  I quickly explained what I’d been up to.

  “I’m about to head out to the airport to pick up my client and her daughter. I don’t think this makes any difference. She’ll want to see him.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’ll have to tell her. What a cluster fuck. You are a piece of work. Watch your back. You are in uncharted waters, my boy. Any chance you were followed to Florida?”

  “Carlucci?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not sure there’s enough of them left. Besides, I got my boarding pass on line. Once I cleared security they wouldn’t know what flight I was on.”

  “All the same, be careful. Something about this whole thing stinks like day old lox.”

  I rang off and called JetBlue. Their flight was scheduled to arrive a few minutes early. I headed to the airport. On the drive I mulled over the situation. What would Capriati’s reaction be when they met? Even if he wanted to do the right thing, he certainly wouldn’t expose himself. Would he go to the Feds? Maybe the bone marrow procedure could be done secretly. But they’d surely want to relocate him again. Where would I stand with the them? I hadn’t broken any laws, but they wouldn’t be happy. They’d probably try to blackmail me into silence. Threaten my livelihood. I could always counter-threaten to advertise my talent for finding people in witness protection. Think of all the business the mob would throw my way. Stalemate. I’d keep my mouth shut. Mac would help broker any deal. My accomplishment, presumably unprecedented, would go virtually unnoticed. Oh, well. I could still feel pretty damn good about it.

  I wondered how to tell Ellen about Capriati without Savannah hearing it. It would be her call after that. And a tough one. Even if he hasn’t been in her life, a daughter wouldn’t want to know that her father was a criminal, and probably a snitch.

  Along the access road to the terminal I spotted several feral hogs racing along an embankment. I also passed several “Panther Crossing” signs. Florida only has about 100 panthers left in the wild. They are less an endangered species than an endangered litter. I parked my car and took the walkway to the terminal. JetBlue was located in Concourse D. I checked the Departures and Arrivals board. Their flight was due in at 10:45. I looked at my watch. It was 11 AM. The plane had obviously landed safely. I hadn’t heard any fire trucks. I waited for her call. I realized I wanted to hear the sound of her voice again. And to see her. I saw a JetBlue plane pull up to one of the gates. After about 10 minutes passengers started walking out. Some people standing near me were waving at friends or relatives who waved back. Some kids from the plane ran up to their grandparents.

  “Look at you! You’re so big. Give me a big smooch.”

  Gradually more and more people passed by. The plane had apparently been full. Ellen and Savannah were probably lucky to get seats on such short notice. They had probably been stuck in the rear of the plane. The debarking passengers thinned out. Now they were coming out in twos, or singly. I stopped one.

  “You just get off JetBlue out of JFK? Flight 1252. Left at 8 AM.”

  It was the correct flight. I spotted some wheelchairs. Older folks. I wondered if the trip had been too taxing for Savannah. They might have called a wheelchair for her. The last chair went by. Then the flight crew. No Ellen or Savannah. I waited 15 more minutes. Perhaps Savannah was sick in a restroom. I couldn’t go past security to check, so I took out my cell and called Ellen. Got her voicemail. They couldn’t have gotten past me, and after another ten minutes the restroom made no sense, so I went to the JetBlue counter where a nice woman suggested that perhaps they missed the plane and were catching the next flight, which was scheduled to arrive at noon. Couldn’t I call them?

  “I just get her answering message. Could they have been bumped? The flight looked pretty full.”

  “I think I would have heard about that. But hold on a sec.” She punched something into her computer. Shook her head. “One more thing.” She picked up a phone and made a call to what I assumed was a central reservation number. “This is Margaret in Fort Myers. Was anybody bumped from 1252? OK. Anything unusual? Sick passenger or something? OK. Thanks a bunch.” She hung up. “No one was bumped. They actually had a couple of empty seats. And nothing unusual at the gate. That’s good news, right? I bet they missed the plane. Keep trying her phone. Of course, they might have jumped on another airline. American. Delta. US Air and United. There were several flights leaving about the same time. No nonstops, like ours. Maybe they didn’t have time to call you.”

  “Could you check to see if they were booked on your flight?”

  “Do you have a confirmation number?”

  “No, but I can give you their names.”

  “I’m sorry, but we’re not allowed to check that way. You need a confirmation number. I’m sure she’ll call.” The look she gave me said it all. I was probably stood up. “Sometimes people change their mind.”

  I thanked her and went back to the concourse. Unless Ellen answered her cell I saw no choice but to wait for the next JetBlue flight. I checked the Arrivals board for other flights on other airlines. None would arrive within three hours. I had a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. Bad things can happen to people who are involved with protected witnesses. Could someone have gotten to Ellen and Savannah? Perhaps Capriati’s cover was blown. Should I warn him? But if I called him he might fly the coop, no matter what I told him about his daughter. I’d wait for the next flight before making a decision. I hated playing dice with his life. But it was the life he chose. I despised myself for the rationalization. I’ve spent a lot of bad hours in my life. The next one was in the top five. The gallon of coffee I drank damn near burned a hole in my stomach.

  They weren’t on the next JetBlue flight either. One last shot. I went back to the JetBlue counter. The lady remembered me.

  “She didn’t call?”

  “No. You have to help me. Her name is Ellen James and she’s traveling with her daughter, Savannah, who has leukemia. I’m really worried something has happened. Is there a supervisor we can talk to. I have to find out where they are.”

  The mention of a child’s illness did it. She picked up her phone.

  “Hi. It’s Margie in Fort Myers again. Can you check out a couple of names for me?”

  Ten minutes later we both knew that no one named James had been booked on a JetBlue flight from any airport in New York that morning.

  “I’m really sorry,” Margie said morosely. “They must be on another airline.”

  Waiting in the airport for two people who might not show up at all was probably not going to be a productive use of my time. If they had caught another flight and I wasn’t there to pick them up they would hopefully go to the hotel. I had given Ellen the suite number. I called the Inn on Fifth and left a message for her to stay in the suite until she heard from me. Of course, she might go straight to Pelican Cove. If so, I wanted to be there first. I went to my car. And called Cormac.

  “Sounds bad,” he said. Mac had a genius for stating the obvious. “I told you.”

  “Can you try to locate them without stirring up a hornet’s nest? Without mentioning Capriati? I don’t want someone tipping him off.”

  “Give me their descriptions. I’ll check with One Police Plaza for any incident reports. But Alton, I might find out something happened to them you don’t want to hear.”

  “Then I’ll still need Capriati. Look, maybe I’m overreacting. There might be a simple explanation. The kid might have taken a turn for the worse. Check the Carlyle and Sloane-Kettering for starters.”

  I gave Mac Ellen’s cell number. He’d do the rest.

  CHAPTER 27 – BILLY, I HARDLY KNEW YOU

  On the way back from the airport I called Pelican Cove administration and asked to speak to whoever was in charge of sales. The
real estate market in Florida being weaker than a politicians conscience, someone came on the phone almost immediately.

  “Fred Bandinage, speaking. “How can I help you.”

  “Aaron Rose, Mr. Bandinage. Some friends of mine have been trying to get me to look at homes in your community for a long time. Say it’s one of the best around. You all got anything I can look at?”

  “Our models are always open, Mr. Rose. When can you come by?”

  “I’m at the Ritz-Carlton and could be there in 20 minutes. Is that all right? I know it’s short notice. But I only flew in for a couple of days of golf.”

  “Not a problem.” I knew it wouldn’t be once I mentioned the Ritz. “I’ll leave your name at the gate. The guard can give you directions to the main clubhouse. I can take you around myself. Might I ask what’s your price range, Mr. Rose?’

  “What’s yours, Mr. Bandinage?”

  “Our smaller two-bedroom condo units start at $229,900, but we have stand-alone houses that run to over a million.”

  Which meant that with short sales and foreclosures, I could cut those prices in half. But I wanted to be wanted, so I said, “For a million damn bucks, I sure hope you can throw in the golf membership.”

  “I’m sure something can be worked out, Mr. Rose.”

  He’d definitely leave my name at the gate.

  When I pulled up to the club an elderly guard stuck his head out. He didn’t look like an ex-serviceman, unless his service was in the Boxer Rebellion.

  “I’m meeting Mr. Bandinage,” I said.

  He looked at a clipboard and nodded.

  “Can I see your driver’s license, please?”

  I handed it over. He lifted his glasses to squint at it, then shook his head. Aaron Rose. Alton Rhode. Close enough. Must have misheard the gal in the clubhouse. Got rocks in her mouth. He handed it back to me, hit a button and the gate went up.