GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “I planted that. A little misdirection.”

  “What happens if they nab the wrong guy?’

  Maples smiled.

  “He’ll have a pretty good defense, unless he’s a zombie. The D.N.A. won’t match. Guy it came from is dead.’

  He saw the look on my face.

  “Hey. I didn’t kill him. I have people who can supply that kind of stuff to me. Comes in handy in my line of work. This batch came from a lifer in prison who had terminal cancer. You’d be surprised how much dead-end D.N.A. is harvested from prisons by the people in my profession. Has a lot of cops and D.A.s running around in circles.”

  “What does all this have to do with me, Vernon?”

  For the first time, a look of animation came to his face.

  “I loved the Army, Skip. You knew that. Everybody treated me right. It damn near killed me when they mustered me out because of my wounds. Yeah, I know, they probably could have found me a desk job, given my record. But combat was out. Hell, I’m in better shape now than I ever was. Worked out like a bandit for years. Thought about trying to go back, but by then I had found this gig. Changed my name and some other things.” Maples held up his free hand to show me the tips of his fingers. “Did you know there’s a place in Mexico where they can erase your fingerprints? Anyway, when you’re making six figures a year, tax-free, taking care of other people’s problems, there’s no reason for nostalgia. Got no family anymore. I don’t even know where my disability payments are going. But that don’t mean I like some sonsabitches using me to kill a Medal of Honor winner. Never would have done it had I known.” He paused and leaned slightly forward. “I want you to find out who the cocksuckers who ordered the hit are, and see that they are punished.”

  I stared at Maples. Despite his hardness and disrespect for life, he had that “trooper” look on his face I remembered well from him and others of my men in Afghanistan. Whenever the shit hit the fan, all eyes, even those of the most grizzled veterans, shifted toward their commander, especially if he’d won their respect. The “Skipper” would figure things out. Just tell us what to do, and we’ll do it. And, by God, they did. Despite the obvious delicacy of my current situation, I couldn’t help but feel a bit pleased.

  “Why don’t you take care of this yourself?”

  “Reasons I gave you, Skip. I don’t know who is behind the hit. I’m a shooter, not a detective like you. Hell, this is the first time I ever even came back to the scene of the crime, as they call it. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Why not go to the cops, even anonymously,” I said. “Tell them Panetta was a hit. They’ll start turning over rocks.”

  “Come on, Skip. I hate cops. For me, that would be like going to the Taliban back in the day. Besides, you know as well as I do that they’ll only clomp around in their muddy boots and fuck things up. It will get back to the people who ordered the hit and they’ll cover their tracks even more than they already have.”

  “What’s to prevent me from just going to the cops with this?”

  “Nothing. But I don’t think you will, for the same reasons I just gave you.”

  “Withholding evidence of a felony is a felony,” I pointed out. “I could lose my license.”

  That got a real laugh out of Maples.

  “Skip, you’re still a pisser. Withholding evidence is what you private eyes do. You could put it on your business card.”

  I’d almost forgotten that Maples probably knew more about the criminal justice system than I did.

  “Whatever I do, it’s bound to get back to the guys who hired you, the middlemen? And then get to you.”

  Maples shrugged.

  “I work off burner phones and numbered accounts that I change every week or so. To my contacts, I’m just a voice on a phone. Hell, like I said, I’m not even Vernon Maples anymore, in case you’re thinking of tracking me down. That name is dead and buried.”

  “Those contacts will know what you did.”

  “Not necessarily. But, hell, nothing is perfect. Even if they put it together, I may lose one source of income. I have several, none of whom know about the others. I’ve been thinking of cutting back, anyway. I got a couple of million in the bank. I could retire right now. Go to the cops if you want. It’s your call, but I think you’re too smart for that.”

  “What makes you think I want to get involved in this at all? I didn’t know Panetta.”

  “Like I say. It’s your call. But I did a little research on you. When I learned you were a private dick, it made up my mind. You’re a gift from heaven. I know guys who know guys. The word on the street is that you’re still a straight shooter. You won’t let this rest. Personally, I have my doubts you can get to the bottom of it, but it’s the best I can do under the circumstances. Hell, maybe you have a chance. I mean, you found someone in witness protection once.” Maples laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. That one made the rounds.”

  Maples took a quick glance at his watch. It was a Rolex. Business was indeed good.

  “I have to wrap this up, Skip.” He pointed at the table in front of me. “There’s 20 grand in that envelope. Untraceable.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  He ignored me.

  “It’s what I earned for killing Panetta. I don’t want blood money for killing a Medal of Honor winner, even if it’s been laundered.”

  “What makes you think I want it?”

  “Because you didn’t do anything to earn it, yet. And now you can use it against the scumbags who wanted Panetta dead.”

  Maples stood.

  “Well, I’ve got to be going. Have a plane to catch. Skip, despite everything, it’s been great seeing you. I know you’ll try your best. You always did. Please be careful. You might have to go up against some really bad dudes. Shoot first and ask questions later.”

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out another gun. It looked like a target pistol.

  “Sorry about this, Skip.”

  He pointed the pistol at me and shot me in the left side. It made a “thutt” sound and I realized it used compressed air. I felt a sharp sting in my side. I looked down. There was something with red plastic feathers dangling from my shirt. I started to rise.

  “Don’t,” Maples said, calmly. “You might fall over and hurt yourself. Give it time to work. Maybe a minute.”

  He saw the look on my face.

  “Tranquilizer gun. I had to estimate your weight for the dose in the dart. Brought some epinephrine in case I gave you too much. I’ll stick around to make sure you don’t asphyxiate. When you wake up, I’ll be a thousand miles away and you’ll have a small headache. Take a couple of Advil. Had to be done.”

  My legs had already begun to feel heavy. The room started to swim.

  “I’m really glad your lady friend isn’t here,” Maples said. His voice was very hollow. “I had a dart for her but I wouldn’t have liked using it.”

  I stared at Vernon Maples, who slowly started to disappear down a long tunnel. I was having trouble keeping my head up. And I don't mean in polite society. Something was wrong with my neck. The last thing I heard him say was, “Just relax. It can’t be as bad as that fucking play.”

  ***

  I woke up lying on the couch, with my head propped on two pillows. I sat up, and was rewarded with the promised headache. On the table next to the envelope with the money was a bottle of my Maker’s Mark bourbon and a fresh glass. Also a couple of Advil. Thoughtful. I poured myself a stiff drink and downed the pills. I’m pretty sure there is a warning on Advil boxes about doing that. When I stood up, I felt a small sting in my side where the dart had gone in. I wobbled out to the kitchen to throw some water on my face. The wine coaster Maples had used as an ashtray was in the sink rack, washed. The pizza wasn’t on the kitchen table. I looked in the fridge. The box was there. I opened it.

  Three slices were missing. There was a note in the box.

  “Outstanding. Now I know why you didn’t drop the box.”
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br />   CHAPTER 7 - CROSSROADS

  I spent the next morning in my office on my computer and phone gathering every piece of information I could about the murder of John Panetta. I gave Abby, my office manager, the task of finding out if “Vernon Maples” was indeed “dead.” Abby, born Habika Jones, was a former Army Military Police staff sergeant who was languishing as a security guard in my building before I realized that her talents were being wasted. She had already helped me solve several cases and was working toward her own private investigator’s license. She knew things that I didn’t. She even knew things that some good homicide cops and medical examiners missed. Like how far a body, depending on its weight, has to drop before a noose breaks the neck. That bit of arcane information proved that a client of mine was a murder victim and not a suicide, as everyone else, including me, surmised.

  I also called Cormac Levine at the D.A.’s office and asked him if I could buy him lunch.

  “I believe that’s what they call a rhetorical question,” Mac said. “Ruddy & Dean’s at 12:30.”

  There was a lot of information, or at least coverage, about the murder. It had for a while been a national story, although naturally it made the biggest splash locally. By 11:30, I had printed perhaps two dozen articles from the Internet and built up quite a file on the dead man. He was, indeed a hero, and one of the last of the 248 Americans who were awarded the Medal of Honor for service in the Vietnam War. He was a Specialist 4th Class serving as a machine gunner with A Company in the 198th brigade, a unit of the 23rd (Americal) Division, during the battle of Kham Hoac in Quang Nai Province, when he won his medal during his second tour in the battle zone. I read the official Medal of Honor Citation:

  For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty on 14 July 1971. While serving as a machine gunner with Company A, Sp4c. Panetta accompanied his unit on a combat mission near Kham Hoac. Suddenly his company came under small arms, automatic weapons, mortar and rocket propelled grenade fire from a battalion-size enemy unit. With communication with his own battalion lost and many of his comrades wounded in the initial attack, Sp4c. Panetta observed that his outnumbered company was pinned down and disorganized. He immediately moved to the front with complete disregard for his safety, firing his machine gun at the charging enemy, giving the pinned-down Americans a chance to regroup and evacuate their wounded. Although seriously wounded in both legs, Sp4c. Panetta maintained a steady volume of fire, killing several enemy soldiers and blunting the North Vietnamese attack. When his own machine gun was disabled by incoming rounds, he crawled through a hail of enemy fire to an operable machine gun and resumed the defensive fire, giving his company commander time to move to a safer position from which to organize a counterattack. Sp4c. Panetta remained at his position until relief arrived. He was found unconscious, surrounded by enemy dead, after an artillery barrage beat back the North Vietnamese forces. Sp4c. Panetta’s gallantry and extraordinary heroism were in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflect great credit upon himself, his unit, and the U.S. Army.

  Panetta’s obituaries naturally repeated the accounts of his valor. The local paper, the Staten Island Advance, noted that Panetta, who was born in 1949 in Pulaski, near Lake Ontario in upstate New York, had moved to the borough only 14 months ago, buying a run-down house in foreclosure. A carpenter by trade, he did much of the work to fix it up himself. Some of his neighbors were quoted as saying he lived a quiet life but was always willing to help out when they needed some carpentry work. He had one survivor, a first cousin named Victoria Gustafson, who came down from Pulaski to handle the funeral arrangements. Panetta was buried in Arlington National Cemetery, although there was a memorial service in Our Lady Help of Christians, a Catholic Church in Tottenville where Panetta attended mass. It brought out hundreds of neighbors, members of local veterans’ organizations and, of course, camera-ready politicians.

  The obituaries and other stories were vague about what Panetta did after he left the Army and where he lived before moving to Staten Island. His cousin, Gustafson, was quoted saying that after leaving his home town Panetta “lived out west,” working in several states as an itinerant carpenter. “He never married. He traveled extensively at home and abroad, because I got postcards from all over. He came back home every few years and stayed with me in Pulaski for a short visit. Last time was about a year ago, just before he moved to Staten Island.”

  There was no speculation as to why Panetta chose Staten Island as a place to “retire,” as the obits termed it. He apparently had no contacts in the borough, or even the city, prior to buying the house in Eltingville. I wondered about that. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had. If he moved here for a reason, maybe the reason got him killed. I would have Abby try to track Panetta’s whereabouts in the years before he moved to Staten Island, but my gut told me the answer to his murder was to be found in New York, either in Pulaski or Staten Island, or both.

  I wasn’t too concerned with learning how he’d accumulated the money to buy a house and travel so much. I’d have Abby work on that, too. But I also knew that a single man with no dependents, a good carpenter, could accumulate a lot of money. Traveling would be no problem. One of the “perks” of winning the Medal of Honor includes free transportation on military aircraft and the use of military recreation facilities such as pools, bowling allies and golf courses worldwide. His retirement income, from Social Security, disability payments and the special Medal of Honor pension benefit, would be substantial. No American could begrudge such perks, which even included lifetime invitations to all presidential inaugurations and inauguration balls. Soldiers who hold off human wave attacks or throw themselves on grenades to save their comrades aren’t thinking about dancing at an inauguration ball, which is why almost 70 percent of all Medals of Honor are awarded posthumously.

  After Panetta’s murder, the police, pressured by veterans’ organizations and always-patriotic politicians, had pulled out all the stops. As Mike Sullivan had intimated, the cops had drawn a blank and were going with the home-invasion story: Panetta’s death was a terrible tragedy, and just bad luck. Hopefully, some stolen items might turn up, or the killer would get careless and brag. I knew that neither of those things would happen. Word was leaked that the police suspected an African-American male. That didn’t go over well in certain parts of Staten Island. Doors were double-bolted. Bottom line: The cops were chasing a phantom.

  A fact that was confirmed when Abby walked into my office.

  “I called some old pals in the MP’s,” she said, sitting down across from me. “And they called some of their friends, or gave me the numbers to call. I checked some databases I have access to, and some I don’t. Your boy, Vernon Maples, went missing eight years ago and is presumed dead. In fact, he has been declared legally dead. His disability checks had been going to a nursing home in Sadieville, Kentucky, while his mother was alive.” Abby smiled. “And they kept going there for two years after she died. The asshole running the nursing home was still cashing them. Not just hers, either. A lot of other dead people’s. He’s doing five-to-ten in Federal prison for Social Security and Medicaid fraud.”

  Abby picked up the plastic photo cube on my desk. She was constantly trying to spruce up my office and make it more “homey.” The cube was her idea. I had finally put some pictures in it. She twirled it around.

  “Derek Jeter? Eli Manning? Mickey Mantle?” She looked at the last photo, then at me. “Secre-fuckin’-tariat?”

  I’d cut out photos of Jeter, Manning and the greatest thoroughbred in history from magazines. The Mantle was a yellowed old baseball card I’d found in a box of old family memorabilia in my basement.

  ““I bought this so you could put family and personal photos in it,” Abby sniffed. “This is so tacky.”

  I thought that was unkind. Jeter and Manning were terrific athletes and solid citizens. And while the Mick’s reputation as a person had suffered in recent ye
ars, my grandfather had regaled me with stories about how the great Yankee had blasted tape measure home runs while basically bandaged from head to toe. Most modern ballplayers — not Jeter, of course, — went on the disabled list with hangnails. And Secretariat won the Belmont by 31 lengths.

  “I don’t have any family, any close family, still around,” I said. “Just some cousins, but I wouldn’t know where to get shots of them.”

  “You don’t put cousins in a photo cube. And not a horse!”

  “I have lots of photos of my parents at home,” I said defensively. “Grandparents, too. I don’t consider them cube material.”

  “What about Alice?”

  “I don’t have any pictures of her.”

  “Get one, for God’s sake.”

  In truth, I had been thinking of doing just that, even though I realized that putting a photo of your lover in your office was a sign of commitment.

  “Maybe.”

  “Just do it, boss. And when you put it in the cube, lose the nag. Alice might get the wrong impression.”

  Abby put the cube down.

  “So, what’s this Maples guy to you? If it’s a missing person’s case, I don’t like our chances. I know you think you can find a virgin in a whore house, but this guy ain’t gonna be found.”

  “Vernon Maples was in my outfit in Afghanistan. He was also in my living room last night. He shot me with a tranquilizer dart and ate three slices of my Joe & Pat’s pizza.”

  “No wonder you want to find him. Best pizza on Staten Island.”

  Abby stared at me.

  “You’re not joking, are you?”

  I stood up and opened my shirt to show her the bruise where the dart went in.

  “I’ll say one thing for you, boss. You’re never boring. What did he want?”

  “If I tell you, you might be involved in a crime that could lose you that license you don’t even have yet. So, for now, I’m going to keep you in the dark.”

  “I know what you’ve been downloading from the Internet, boss. I can put two and two together.”