CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “You can stop acting.”

  She put her hand on my arm and felt it stiffen. She withdrew it quickly.

  “I deserved that. I don’t blame you for hating me. And you are quite right. I would do anything to protect my family.”

  “What made you come back?”

  “I made my peace with my father at Stefan’s funeral. When Arman called me and told me about Carlucci’s plot, I knew I had to do something. I loved Stefan. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to my father and Arman. If they couldn’t get to Carlucci, it was obvious they had to get to Capriati. I thought of a way. It was a long shot but it was something I was good at.”

  “You knew they would kill him.”

  “It was the only way to make sure he would never resurface.”

  She looked at me steadily.

  “Was any of it real?”

  “The night at the Carlyle was real.”

  “And convenient. I was perfectly set up for the next day. The lunch with Savannah, or rather Laurene, was inspired. She was proud of her performance on such short notice.”

  “I didn’t have to sleep with you to pull that off. I could just as easily have asked you to come in the next day to meet us. But I wanted to see you. I had lied to you and placed your life in danger.”

  “And you wanted to set the hook deeper.”

  “One motive doesn’t preclude the other. I won’t apologize for saving what’s left of my family.” She smiled. “And you were a willing catch.”

  A log rolled in the fireplace. I looked at her. She was right. I wanted to make love to her that night in the hotel, and was looking forward to seeing her in Naples before I’d found Capriati dead. I remembered every curve in her body, every sound she made. She knew what I was thinking.

  “I wasn’t acting in bed,” she said, coloring slightly.

  “I was,” I said. “I faked my orgasms.”

  “Sir Laurence Olivier,” she said, laughing. She came over and knelt beside me. “My father thinks I’m in love with you. Maybe I am, a little. But I have to go away. I have commitments in Europe, for at least a year. After that, who knows?”

  I knew. Stefan was gone, but now Eleni would be a force to be reckoned with in the Rahm family.

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  I ran my fingers through her hair.

  “A beautiful woman is the most dangerous thing in the world,” I said.

  She looked up at me.

  “And don’t we know it,” she said.

  ***

  Three days after Kalugin drove me home I went up to Wagner College. I sat on a bench outside Bryce Hall and opened up the Staten Island Advance.

  The sudden disappearance on Nando Carlucci was still the topic of the day in the local media, and people assumed the worst. Or, in Nando’s case, the best.

  But I knew the public would soon move on to another crime, scandal, international crisis or Kardashian wedding.

  The Carluccis wouldn’t be making any more news. They had been effectively gutted during the Capriati affair. There was no one left to seek vengeance for Nando, even if anyone had been so inclined.

  Before I left the Rahm manse, Arman told me that he was already had several feelers from Carlucci soldiers looking for work.

  “I may have to open a human resources department.”

  I think he was kidding, but then he did go to Wharton. No, Nando would be turning over in whatever out-of-state landfill he was in if he knew his brilliant plan to take down the Rahms destroyed what was left of his family.

  I smiled at a co-ed walking by. She looked at me and picked up her pace. Apparently my face had some more healing to do. I shrugged and began riffing through the paper. A story caught my eye:

  PASTOR RESIGNS SUDDENLY

  The Rev. Norbert Kittelsen, pastor of Resurrection Lutheran Church in West Brighton, abruptly resigned his duties yesterday and reportedly is in seclusion.

  In the wake of some recent scandals affecting other churches, the popular minister’s mysterious departure quickly generated speculation about congregation finances.

  A spokesman for the Lutheran Synod in New York was quick to deny that any financial improprieties were involved in the resignation.

  “It is an unfortunate situation,” the spokesman said, “involving a personal matter.”

  The Advance has learned that Rev. Kittelsen was allegedly the author of a series of anonymous “poison pen” letters sent to women in his neighborhood.

  When asked to confirm or deny this accusation, the spokesman would only say that Rev. Kittelsen was undergoing counseling for an undisclosed psychological problem.

  Legal experts contacted by the Advance said it was unlikely criminal charges could be brought against Rev. Kittelsen, even if the accusations are true.

  But there may be civil slander and libel charges, they said.

  I started laughing. More students gave me a wide berth.

  My stock on St. Austins Place would go through the roof. Al Johnsen probably figured I’d spotted something suspicious about the good reverend during his visit to my house. He didn’t know that I’d been so busy trying to stay alive that I’d farmed the poison pen assignment out to Cormac Levine. Al would spread the word about my investigative prowess.

  I wouldn’t disabuse him of the notion. Hell, I’d found a guy in witness protection.

  I’d have eventually nailed good old Norm. Child’s play. Still, I wondered how Mac had done it. I’d make sure to send him some of the booze and cakes that would surely come my way from grateful and relieved neighbors.

  Alice Watts came out of Bryce Hall talking to a couple of co-eds. She spotted me. I walked over. My limp was gone. Perhaps Nando’s ice water treatment had helped. I’d have to tell the V.A. doctors.

  “Can I buy you a corn muffin, Ms. Watts?”

  The two college girls were staring at my face. The stitches were out but the bruising and puffiness around my eyes and mouth made me look like an undercard loser in an Ultimate Fighting bout.

  “Do you want us to call campus security, Ms Watts?” one of the kids said.

  I didn’t think I looked that bad.

  “No, it’s alright Stephanie. I know the gentleman. I’ll catch you both later.”

  The girls walked away with their heads together, undoubtedly parsing the information that their instructor had a secret life that included beat-up thugs.

  “Good Lord. What happened to you?”

  “I was kidnapped by an Italian mobster and tortured. A Russian mobster rescued me and nursed me back to health with vodka and caviar.”

  “Boy, if I had a dollar for every time I heard that one.”

  “I didn’t want to use the story about the aliens abducting me for sexual experiments.”

  “If you were anyone else, I’d say you were joking. But you’re not, are you, about the mobsters, I mean?”

  “If you were anyone else, I’d have lied about why I stood you up for dinner.”

  We had started walking in the general direction of the Bear’s Den, a good sign.

  “Pierce resigned suddenly and no one knows where he is,” Alice said. “He hasn’t returned my calls. Did you have anything to do with that?’

  “He left town. I told him that if he didn’t I would make sure everyone from President Bradley to the District Attorney would know about his ties to the Mafia, drug use and trading grades for sex. I also told him that if he ever tried to contact you again I would hit him a google of times in the face. So, yes, I may have had something to do with it.”

  We had stopped walking. Alice Watts stared at me. I led her over to a bench.

  “Tell me,” she said. “Everything.”

  We sat and I did.

  When I finished, I said, “I’m sorry. But he’s a world-class jerk.”

  “What does that make me?”

  “Don’t be so damn hard on yourself. Compared to me, you’re looking pretty good. I’m supposed to be
a professional and I was led around the mulberry bush.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “I really want those corn muffins.”

  She sat there for several minutes, looking at the ground. Then she looked at me.

  “Could I talk you into a Grizzly Burger instead,” she asked.

  “You may have to cut it into little pieces for me,” I said. “My jaw is still sore.”

  “I suspect you will manage.”

  “I suspect you are right.”

  We again started walking toward the Bear’s Den.

  “The google is a very large number, isn’t it,” she asked.

  “It’s a 1, followed by a million zeroes. I was going to threaten him with a googleplex of punches. That’s a 1 followed by a google of zeroes. But it seemed excessive. It’s almost the number of calories in a Grizzly Burger.”

  “So perhaps we should split one again.”

  “You can’t fool me. You just want to leave room for some corn muffins.”

  THE END

  If you’ve enjoyed this novel, we hope you will review it on Amazon.com. Here is a handy link:

  REVIEW

  And we also hope you will try the author’s other novels, all of which are available on Amazon or through his website, www.lawrencedemaria.com. He can also be contacted at ljdemaria@aol.com, and welcomes comments.)

  ***

  Alton Rhode returns in another mystery, LAURA LEE. Here is an excerpt:

  ***

  The squad car from the 122nd Precinct in New Dorp pulled into the Richmond County Country Club. The report of “possible shots fired” had been relayed from the private security company that patrolled the club grounds on Todt Hill. The two veteran cops in the sector car were not overly concerned. The new security firm hired by the club had a reputation at the precinct for being overly cautious; it was probably kids setting off cherry bombs.

  False alarms aside, the cops knew the area well. A rash of burglaries a year earlier had shaken the neighborhood, especially after it was discovered that the previous security company had a silent partner, Nando Carlucci, the grossly obese head of the local Mafia. With access to many of the home alarm codes, he had orchestrated the break-ins. Carlucci had disappeared under mysterious circumstances and was presumably filling up several landfills.

  The burglaries ended. But under pressure from some of the club’s more influential members, the board of directors hired KrullCorp, a national security company with no local ties. It had the responsibility of protecting not only lavish facilities that included a 150-year-old main clubhouse awarded Landmark status by the City of New York but also the many private homes on the property. The firm took its job seriously. There was no better, or at least pricier, neighborhood on Staten Island. None of the homes was worth less than $5 million and most contained museum-quality artwork, not to mention pricey jewelry Carlucci’s crew missed.

  As N.Y.P.D.’s finest drove up the circular driveway to the address they were given, they spotted the familiar brown car used by KrullCorp. There was another car parked in the drive, a powder-blue BMW.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” the driver of the patrol car said, “here comes a fucking lawsuit.”

  It wasn’t delinquents with cherry bombs.

  “Let’s be careful with this guy,” his partner, a sergeant, said. “He probably thinks he’s Rambo. But scared shitless.”

  Standing under the light by the front door was one of the security firm’s rent-a-cops. The man, a big, beefy guy who looked to be about 25, was wearing a neatly pressed brown uniform. That’s not what had the cops’ full attention, however. They were more interested in the black Glock the guard was holding. At his feet was a well-dressed woman, face down, with her hands behind her head. A large revolver lay on the ground a few feet away. Both cops drew their weapons and got out, careful to stand behind their respective open car doors.

  “Take it easy, pal,” the sergeant ordered. “Why don’t you put the cannon away.”

  “Not a problem, officer,” the guard said, holstering his weapon. “I know the drill. She’s all yours.”

  The kid doesn’t look scared, the sergeant noted as he walked forward. In fact, he looked like a tough son of a bitch.

  “What do we have here?”

  “Doing my rounds when I heard some shots,” the guard replied. “Called it in. Was debating to go in when this lady charged out the front door with a gun.” He pointed to the revolver. “I got to tell you, I haven’t had that much of a jolt since my last tour in Sandland.”

  He’s a war vet, the sergeant realized, warming to the kid. No wonder he’s so calm. Been there, done that. And up close, he didn’t look 25. Late 20’s probably, maybe even older. Trying to grow a moustache, none too successfully.

  “Anyway, I detained her. She’s OK. Didn’t give me any trouble. Her gun is empty by the way. I checked.”

  The guard had a bit of a drawl, the cop realized. Not from around here, that’s for sure. The sergeant glanced down at the revolver, a strange, clunky piece. He’d never seen one like it.

  “I handled it by the barrel only,” the guard added quickly. “Used a pen. Figured they’d want prints.”

  “You touch anything else?”

  “Nope. And I haven’t gone inside. She said she didn’t do it, but I figure I’d let you guys find out what she didn’t do. I’m taking the test for the academy in the fall. I don’t want to screw up a crime scene, if that’s what the hell it is.”

  Sharp cookie, the sergeant thought. He turned to his partner.

  “Frank, stay here, I’m going in. Call for backup.”

  “Watch your ass, Pete.”

  The front door was still open and the sergeant cautiously entered the center-hall colonial, sticking close to a wall to present a small target. The place was dark. He took a small flashlight from his utility belt and quickly found a switch in the front hall. He weighed the risks of smudging some prints against walking into an ambush.

  “Fuck that,” he said to himself, and deftly using the barrel of his gun flicked up the switch. The hallway was instantly bathed in light. He let out a deep breath and started going room by room on the ground floor.

  When he got to what appeared to be a study or den, there was enough light from the hallway and a roaring fireplace for him to see a form slumped in a weird-looking recliner facing the hearth. The flames flickered unevenly, creating weird shadow patterns on the walls and ceiling. The sergeant froze at the sight of a snarling wild animal across the room. He almost pulled the trigger. Using his gun again he flipped a wall switch. He laughed in relief. The wild animal turned out to be the stuffed head of a bear mounted above the fireplace. My kids have me watching too many vampire and werewolf movies, he thought.

  As he approached the chair, he noticed a hand hanging toward the floor. Two bare feet rested on an ottoman in front of the recliner. They were splayed out from each other in an unnatural-looking ‘V’ shape. Underneath the hand was a toppled wine glass, surrounded by a dark purple stain. That will be a bitch to get out, the cop thought irrationally. The smell of cordite was intense and he was pretty sure what he would find when he got to the chair.

  The sergeant walked around it and looked at the body. He was no rookie, but the “holy fuck!” came anyway. The man was naked, with a huge erection. Both the man’s eyes had been shot out, and the nose, chin and forehead also had bullet holes in them. Blood and brain matter were splattered over the back of the chair’s headrest. Five shots, at least. A remote control was clenched in the man’s right hand in his lap at the base of his penis. The sergeant looked around. There was no TV or anything else electronic anywhere in sight. Maybe the device was some kind of sex aid. They sold all sorts of stuff on late night cable. Nothing would surprise him. Why not a remote-controlled hard-on?

  The sergeant was startled by a rustling sound and felt a breeze. He whirled to his left, his gun up. The door to what was probably the back yard was open and curtains on nearby wind
ows were flapping. He heard sirens. Thank God. He wanted someone watching his back when he cleared the rest of the house. In fact, he decided to let someone else do it.

  He went outside. Three more squad cars screeched to a halt. People started coming out of nearby mansions. He walked over to the woman, who was now standing docilely by the security guard and his partner. For the first time he noticed that she was blond and beautiful.

  “What’s your name, Miss?”

  “Elizabeth Olsen.”

  Oh, crap. One of those Olsens? It was the country club, after all. Better do everything by the book. Let the homicide dicks handle the inevitable shit storm. He walked over to his partner and lowered his voice.

  “Mirandize her, Frank, and cuff her. But go easy. Not too tight.” The sergeant shivered, only partially because of the late October chill. “And put Miss Olsen in the car, where it’s warmer.”

  He turned to the security guard, whose nameplate said, “R. Ricks.” Pulling him aside, he said, “You did good, kid. After you give your statement, look me up. I know some guys at the academy.”

  “Thanks, Sarge,” Ricks said.

  If you would like to read LAURA LEE, here is a link:

  LAURA LEE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lawrence De Maria began his career as a general interest reporter (winning an Associated Press award for his crime reporting) and eventually became a Pulitzer-nominated senior editor and financial writer The New York Times, where he wrote hundreds of stories and features, often on Page 1. After he left the Times, De Maria became an Executive Director at Forbes. Following a stint in corporate America – during which he helped uncover the $7 billion Allen Stanford Ponzi scheme and was widely quoted in the national media – he returned to journalism as Managing Editor of the Naples Sun Times, a Florida weekly, until its sale to the Scripps chain in 2007. Since then, he has been a full-time fiction writer. De Maria is on the board of directors of the Washington Independent Review of Books, where he writes a regular column.