“I wouldn’t dismiss a connection to the St. George project out of hand,” Rahm said. “That’s the only thing I can think of worth killing someone over. But even that is a stretch. Everyone wants it. I half expect the Pope to endorse it soon.”
“Where do you stand on it?”
Rahm smiled.
“A lot of money will be flowing into Staten Island. I am in favor of that.”
“I bet you are. What about the unions? They could throw a monkey wrench into the deal.”
Another smile.
“They won’t.”
Maks walked me out to my car.
“It’s local,” he repeated.
CHAPTER 9 - FLOOZY
There was a squad car waiting for me outside Panetta’s small two-story colonial on Winchester Avenue, a quiet tree-lined street a few blocks from the Eltingville train station. As I pulled up behind it, two cops got out. So did I. The cop who got out the passenger side, a beefy African-American, wore sergeant stripes and a scowl. He walked over to me while his partner leaned against the prowlie.
“You Rhode?”
“Yeah.” He didn’t ask, but I took out my I.D. anyway. “Appreciate you taking the time, Sarge.”
He barely glanced at my I.D.
“Captain says you can look around, as long as one of us is with you.”
Cormac, who used to work in Boro Command in the New Dorp Precinct, had called in a favor.
“You guys in the 122?” I asked, using the numerical I.D. for the New Dorp house.
“Nah,” the cop said. “We’re from the 123.”
“You guys had your hands full after Sandy. Did a great job.”
The Tottenville Precinct was normally quietest in the city, crime-wise, with about one murder every Ice Age. But the superstorm had ravaged the community, particularly along the shoreline, and the cops worked round the clock to help residents.
“Never seen anything like it,” he said, softening a bit. He waved over to his partner. “Hey, Tommie, take him through the house.”
I followed the other cop up the walk, past a “FOR SALE” sign on the lawn. I memorized the realtor’s name. My escort unlocked the front door.
“Hey, Tommy,” the black cop called after us. “Make sure you count the silverware on the way out.”
“Don’t tell me you guys left something?” I yelled back.
Both cops laughed.
I didn’t expect to learn much, if anything, in Panetta’s home. Vernon Maples had left only what he wanted the homicide detectives to find. I was sure they had removed whatever else they thought relevant. None of which, I knew, was. It’s why I hadn’t bothered with the police file. But I make it a point, whenever possible, to visit crime scenes. I can’t explain why. It just seems the right thing to do. Even when you know who the killer is.
Maples told me he slugged Panetta right after the door was opened. Then he dragged him over to a table in the living room, where he used the cord from a lamp to strangle him. I quickly found the table, which Maples had described to me. The lamp was gone, undoubtedly taken as evidence. That didn’t help the decor. The place was sparsely furnished. But everything appeared spotless and the place smelled of fresh paint and shaved wood. The dining room had a small wooden table and four chairs. There was a sideboard under two windows that looked out over the back yard.
“Early-American Goodwill,” the cop muttered. “I read that the guy was a carpenter. “Probably bought the place to fix it up and flip it.”
“Maybe,” I said.
The family room had a lounge chair, a small couch, a pedestal table with a lamp and a 19-inch TV on a metal stand. There was a fold-up aluminum table in the kitchen and a few wooden chairs.
We went upstairs. Two of the three bedrooms were empty. The third had only a bed and a chest of drawers. I opened the drawers. They were empty.
***
After my brief tour, the cops left me standing on the sidewalk next to my car. I started going house-to-house on the block. A lot of people weren’t home, and those that were didn’t know much about their dead neighbor, other than that he was friendly.
“He didn’t live here long,” one woman from across the street told me, “and he kept to himself. None of us knew his war record until we read about it in the papers. But if you needed a favor or something, he was always available. Fixed the stairs on my deck in the back yard. Wouldn’t take a dime, even for materials. Maybe you should talk to Mailers, next door to him.” She pointed at the house. “I know he was close with Henry.” She smiled. “And Ethel knows everything that goes on around here.”
I had already tried the Mailer house. No one had been home. But by the time I had rung every other doorbell on both sides of the block, there was a car in their driveway.
Henry Mailer answered the door and invited me in after I explained who I was.
“Me and John were good pals,” he said as we took seats at his dining room table. “He helped me repair the fence between our yards.”
“Did he ever talk about his past?”
“Only in generalities. Nothing about the war. But I guess that’s not unusual. A lot of guys don’t like to talk about what happened to them.”
“What about his life after Vietnam?”
“I’ve been up to the Salmon River near where he told me he was born. Know the area. We swapped lies about the fish we caught. He told me he moved around a lot after he left upstate, mostly going to communities that were being developed. Del Webb in Palm Springs was one he mentioned. Said there was always work for a good carpenter. He was marvelous with his hands. I think he made a lot of money in Louisiana after Katrina. Volunteered in Haiti. He was a good man. I’m gonna miss him.”
“He talk about anything else? Family?”
“Said he had a cousin up in Pulaski he visited occasionally. I think I saw her once, outside the house with the realtor she gave the listing to.”
“What else?”
“Well, we discussed sports and politics over a beer or two. He did seem real interested in local politics. But was very cynical. Said they were all thieves, out to rape Staten Island. Wasn’t going to get any argument from me on that, I’ll tell you. I was a little surprised he was so passionate on the subject, him being so new to the borough and all.”
“What about friends? I mean, other than you.”
Mailer perked up.
“You mean a woman? Yeah. He had a real nice girlfriend.”
A woman wearing a shapeless black house dress came into the room.
“That’s a matter of opinion! Who is this man, Henry?”
“Mr. Rhode is a private detective, Ethel. He’s looking into John’s murder.”
I stood and offered my hand, which she took, reluctantly.
“Why is a private investigator interested in what happened next door?” She sat, and so did I. “Some Negro did it. It’s getting so nobody is safe anymore, even in their own home.”
It had been a while since I’d heard the term “Negro,” but I suspected from her tone that it could have been worse.
“There are insurance considerations,” I lied. “I’m just gathering background information on the deceased.”
Ethel Mailer was the opposite of her husband. Where he was round and jolly-looking, she was thin to the point of gauntness and with her narrow face and hook nose bore a striking resemblance to Margaret Hamilton, who played Almira Gulch in The Wizard of Oz.
“Well, I can give you an earful,” she said. “Henry, didn’t you offer the man any coffee? Where are your manners?”
I could tell she wasn’t being gracious. She just wanted to embarrass her husband.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Nonsense. I’ll be right back.”
She headed to the kitchen. I heard her at the sink. She was back quickly, with a tray with three mugs and a container of skim milk. There was a pile of artificial sweetener packets on the tray.
“It’s instant coffee,” she said. “Only kind we drink.”
I took a sip. I wondered how it was possible to make lukewarm instant coffee. I hadn't heard a kettle boiling or a microwave. I suspected she used hot water from the tap.
“Don’t you want milk?” she asked.
“This is great,” I said. “So, what can you tell me about John Panetta?”
“He was a whore-monger,” Ethel said.
I damn near dropped my cup.
“Ethel, that’s not right,” her husband said. “That’s no way to talk about a war hero. John was a friend.’
She waved away his objection and looked at me.
“Oh, I know about his medals and all. I’m not saying he didn’t have some good points. And I certainly don’t mean he deserved to be murdered by some no-account Negro. But I never liked the way he flaunted that floozy he was seeing.”
“Floozy?”
“Well, what else can you call a woman like that who gives it away?”
“A home run,” Henry said under his breath.
Not far enough under his breath.
“Oh, for Christ sake, Henry, act your age. That old fart should have, too. It was unseemly, him and a younger woman.” She gave me a knowing look. “Some men get a whiff of it and can’t control themselves.”
I was pretty sure any man who got a whiff of Ethel Mailer was able to control himself.
“Jesus, Ethel,” Henry said, “She isn’t that young.”
“Young enough that you never could keep her eyes off her ass.” She turned back to me. “It drove him crazy that Panetta had a woman like that sleeping over.”
“What are you talking about? I’m five years younger than John was. Joan Tolentine is a nice lady. I met her a couple of times. Very refined and pleasant. I think you do her an injustice labeling her like that. I believe they really cared for each other.”
Ethel wasn’t buying it. I doubted she bought anything poor Henry said.
“She struck me as shifty. After something.”
“For God’s sake, Ethel, you only met her once.”
“That’s all it takes sometimes. And if they really cared for each other that much, why didn’t they get married?” She looked at me. “What do you think?”
“At least a triple,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. How often did she stay with him?”
“Only on weekends,” Henry said. “They didn’t bother anyone. They’re both adults, for God’s sake. I was happy for John. Man like that deserves some happiness.”
“God was watching,” his wife said. “Might explain what happened to him.”
“Ethel!”
“I’m just saying. More coffee, Mr. Rose?”
“It’s Rhode. And no thank you.” I turned to Henry. “Did you ever speak to Panetta’s cousin when she was here with the realtor?”
“No. Just saw her through the window.”
“Not a very attractive woman,” Ethel said. I bit my tongue. “Wears her hair too long for someone her age.”
“I didn’t think she was so bad, Ethel.”
His wife gave him a withering look.
“I just hope and pray she doesn’t sell the place to some Negro or wetback.”
I must have stepped through a time warp. I took a deep breath.
“Do either of you know where I might find Ms. Tolentine?”
“She runs a Pilates school in Grant City,” Henry said, and immediately realized his mistake.
“How do you know that, Henry?” his wife barked.
“She told me,” he said meekly. “I pass her studio all the time. On Hylan Boulevard near Seaview. By the hospital. Tolentine Pilates.”
Ethel looked like she was about to go full yoga on poor Henry, so I got up to leave.
“Well, thanks for the coffee. You’ve been very helpful.” I gave Henry my card. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”
Ethel snatched the card from his hand.
“Why don’t you walk the man to the door, Henry, while I clean up? Then we have shopping to do. And don’t forget we have to go over to mother’s for dinner.”
At the door, Henry grabbed my elbow.
“I really liked John,” he said. “We could talk, you know. Ethel and me never had any kids, and neither did he, so we had that in common. Other stuff, too. He didn’t have much family, and never mentioned any old friends or anything. Guess he lost touch the way he traveled so much. Me, I used to have lots of pals when I ran around here in my younger days. Gals, too.” He gave me a man-to-man wink. “But a lot of my buddies moved to Jersey. I tried to stay in touch. But they all have grandkids and such. I got tired of being the only one making the phone calls. John and me really hit it off. It’s like we knew each other all our lives. Not the same as childhood buddies, but damn close. Ethel didn’t get it.”
We shook and I started walking away. Then, I turned.
“Pilates instructor?”
Henry Mailer smiled.
“Home run,” we said in unison.
CHAPTER - 10 PILATES
It was easy to find Tolentine Pilates. It was also easy to understand why Panetta’s henpecked neighbor drooled over its owner. Joan Tolentine was a lean, attractive woman with a ready smile and a firm handshake.
“I’ll be with you in a minute, Mr. Rhode,” she said after I told her who I was and what I wanted. “Let me just make sure everyone knows what they are doing and then we can go into my office.”
She went over to an assistant and they both made the rounds, stopping to talk to each of the half dozen or so men and women who were working out on a variety of machines, some of which looked like they would have come in handy for Torquemada during the Inquisition. Nearest to me was a chrome-plated, trapeze-like frame with cross-bars. There were several barrel-shaped contraptions connected to ladders and something with leather straps, springs and handles. All had sliding platforms. But no one was screaming and admitting they were heretics. In fact, they all looked like they were enjoying themselves.
I studied a chart on the wall next to a Culligan water dispenser. The chart explained how the machines, and the exercises they promoted, helped “students” build flexibility, muscle strength and endurance in their “Powerhouse, the center, or core, of the body that, if strengthened, offers a solid foundation for any movement.” The core was described as the “power engine, a muscular network which provides control over the body and comprises all the front, lateral and back muscles found between the upper inner thighs and arm pits.”
I was fascinated. I had known men whose arm pits could stop an enraged water buffalo, but not because of musculature. I read on.
“By drawing the navel back into the spine, from the pubic bone to the breast bone, the Powerhouse engages the heels, the back of the inner thighs, the deep, lower-back muscles, and the muscles surrounding the sitting bones and coccyx area without student holdings their breath, stretching the body in many directions to reduce weight in the upper body and place the center of gravity again at its most efficient position.”
An attractive young woman in her twenties walked over to the water dispenser and filled a paper cup. As a kid I was fascinated by the big bubble made inside the big plastic container when cups were filled. I still like the sound.
“Looks like a good workout,” I said, just to be sociable. I’m often more sociable to young women who looked like they were poured into tank tops and leggings. “Is it?”
“It’s a bitch,” she said. “I wouldn’t be doing it if I wasn’t getting married in two weeks. I have a wedding dress to fit into.”
“Congratulations.”
She thanked me and walked away. I tried not to stare at her rear end. Almost succeeded.
“Have you ever tried Pilates?”
Joan Tolentine was standing at my side.
“No. But it sounds interesting.” I pointed at the chart. “I feel out of shape just reading this stuff.”
She laughed.
“You don’t look out of shape to me.
Come into my office.”
She shut the door, which reduced the sounds of clanking and sliding from the gym area, and offered me some Chai tea. I declined.
The office was spare, with a simple metal desk, a few chairs and some metal filing cabinets. The walls were adorned with diplomas and photos of people working out on some of the machines I’d seen in the gym. On her desk was a framed photo John Panetta, who I recognized from the news stories I’d read.
“Looks like business is good,” I said, as we sat.
“Yes. This is a good spot, so near Staten Island University Hospital. We get a lot of referrals from doctors.” She smiled. “In fact, we get a lot of doctors.”
Joan Tolentine looked to be about 50. But it was a Sandra Bullock 50, which meant that her tank top and tight workout pants looked very good on her. Not as good as the girl at the water cooler, but John Panetta had done all right. I’d have bet her hair came out of a bottle, but the rest of her appeared home-grown and she had the skin tone and clear eyes of a much-younger woman. Perhaps there was something to the Pilates palaver. Suddenly conscious of my core, I tightened my stomach.
“I suppose I should ask for some sort of identification.”
I took out my wallet and showed her my license.
“This says you are a private investigator. Is that the same as a private detective?”
“In reality, yes. But, legally, only police officers are allowed to use the term detective in New York. I used to be a cop, so sometimes even I get confused.”
I didn’t bother to mention that I also had a quasi-official status with the N.Y.P.D. Mike Sullivan had pulled some strings for me and made me a consultant to his office, as a way of thanking me for what I did for him when his wife died. It wasn’t necessary, but the perk came in handy, especially when traveling with a weapon. I tried not to abuse my status in the legal netherworld between private eye and police consultant unless absolutely necessary. Which meant all the time.
“Well, whatever the terminology, why are you interested in what happened to John?”
GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5) Page 7