We’d had this semantic battle before.
“But if only two of them fall out,” I said, “then ‘between’ is correct.”
Alice gave me a look of pity.
“So, the third party simply disappears? That’s illogical. He or she would have to take one side or another, so there would be a disagreement ‘among’ them all.”
Arguing logic with a philosophy professor was, on the face of it, illogical. I would lose no matter how irrefutable my position, which I had already begun to doubt in any case. Besides, I did not want to antagonize Alice. There was half of a BLT sandwich at stake.
“Anyway,” I said, surrendering, “one or more of their attorneys would find the photos useful. They know they are out there. Be hard for anyone to deny collusion when they can be seen filling up each other’s orifices.”
“Oh, yuckie. Sex aside, I’m still unclear what the personal dynamics were.”
“It’s simple. While everyone who knew what really happened to Panetta assumed some vast corporate or international conspiracy, it was sweet little Teresa Yorke who didn’t want her husband outed as a coward and a phony. She’s been covering for him for years, pushing him higher and higher up the political ladder. You should have heard her before she realized she should keep her trap shut. I guess the shootings unnerved her temporarily. Her marriage had been sexless for years but she had everything invested in poor Nathaniel. If Panetta had blown the whistle on him he would have been finished, disgraced. And so would she. If I had to guess, I’d say she and Bowles had arranged some cushy payoffs from the people behind the St. George project, deals that maybe her husband wasn’t even aware of. If there is a Sad Sack in this whole affair, it’s Nathaniel Yorke, war phony, professional politician and sucker extraordinaire. “
“When did the Tolentine woman become involved? Before or after she took up with Panetta?”
“Before. Teresa Yorke and Joan Tolentine had been lovers for years. Joan followed Terry to Staten Island and opened that Pilates studio. Terry mentioned to me that she was a Pilates buff when we went out for that dinner, but I never put two-and-two together.”
“You had other things on your mind at that dinner, as I recall. But even if you didn’t, there’s no way you could have known. Half the world is into Pilates.”
“You’re not.”
“Do I need it?”
“Hell, no. If you were any more athletic, I’d be in traction.”
“What a romantic thing to say.”
“Anyway, when Panetta showed up and threatened to go to the media about her hubby, Teresa had Joan seduce him to find out how serious he was, and to keep tabs on him. She played the part to the hilt. Even went to his funeral in Arlington.”
“Where did Bowles fit in?”
“I’d have to see some of Cormac’s photos to refresh my memory. I think he fit in Joan Tolentine, but I can’t be sure.”
“No, you idiot. I mean in the scheme. Oh, stop laughing.”
“Apparently Teresa has a lot of sexual outlets, male and female, and Claude was one of them. Joan was broadminded, or maybe I should say not completely broadminded, and didn’t seem to mind an occasional threesome. They started making a habit out of it. Probably to keep their hooks in one another.”
“How utterly sordid. I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather have an international cabal behind all of it. Five people dead!”
“Don’t forget the eunuch.”
“Do the police have any idea who fired the shot that killed Yorke?”
“No,” I replied. “If you don’t count Cormac and Mike as the police.”
“And they think it’s the same person you do. That Veronica woman, who works for the Rahms.”
“Makes the most sense. The stray-bullet theory is a non-starter. We don’t have a hunting season, at least for animals. No one heard a shot, which probably means a silencer.”
“Yorke could have other enemies.”
“Who just happened to be in the neighborhood, at night, when I needed a crack shot the most?”
A yellow jacket hovered over the sandwich plate. I hate yellow jackets. I swatted at it. It looked like it wanted a fight, but then flew away.
“Why would she do it?”
“I don’t know. Professional courtesy? She may have been tracking me as part of her cover as my putative assassin. She had already been paid to act the part. Maybe she has a sense of irony.”
“Have you asked Arman?”
“He’s still in Russia.”
“Is the St. George project in jeopardy?”
“Some of the community activists are making hay over what happened, but the general consensus seems to be that there is no connection.”
“But you think payoffs motivated Teresa Yorke and Bowles.”
“There are always payoffs. But that’s no reason to murder people. No, it was sex and greed. Like it usually is.”
“The media is going berserk.”
“That’s a good thing. They’re floating so many scenarios the real story will probably get lost in all the chatter.”
“What are they going to do about a Borough President?”
“I don’t know. The opposition is salivating, of course. But their candidate was a sacrificial lamb to begin with. He runs every four years and his vote count usually lags behind the bond initiatives on the ballot. I hear that there is a move to draft Mike Sullivan.”
“Really? Would he give up being District Attorney?”
“Rather than try to prosecute the case I just handed him? Maybe. We’ll see.”
Alice slid the remaining BLT my way.
“I’m full,” she said.
“You shouldn’t have gorged yourself on potato chips,” I said, digging into the sandwich.
“Don’t press your luck, buddy boy. I knew what you were doing. Now finish up. Break’s over. We have work to do.”
The yellow jacket was back, but he had no chance.
***
An hour or so later, we heard the front doorbell.
“I’ll get it,” Alice said.
I heard murmured voices and a moment later she came down the basement stairs.
“Look who is back,” she said happily.
Arman Rahm followed her, dressed like he just stepped out of GQ. Behind him was Max Kalugin, looking like he’d just stepped out of a tank. He was holding a puppy, which was lapping his face. I reached for my iPhone to take a picture, but thought better of it. Maks didn’t like his picture taken.
“It is about time you did something with this dungeon,” Rahm said, looking around. “Alice is obviously a good influence on you.”
“How was Russia?”
“It was good for my father. He met some old friends, some of whom have become very rich. Did you know that there are more than 100 Russian billionaires?”
“And I bet your father has something on half of them.”
Arman smiled.
“Yes, his time in the KGB was not wasted. He is no Hoover, but some of his files are very interesting, to say the least.”
No wonder the old crook felt so secure in returning to his homeland.
“What did you think about the country?”
“Russia is still Russia. Paranoid and looking for trouble. I’m glad to be back home.”
I crooked a finger toward the puppy, which was squirming in Kalugin’s arms.
“What’s with the hound?”
“Hound, indeed. This is a Byelorussian Ovcharka, or East European Shepherd, a mix of East Siberian Laika dogs and German Shepherds confiscated by the Russian Army from the territory of Germany at the end of World War II. A rare breed noted for their loyalty and superior intelligence. One of two pups that the Russian Government gave my father as a gift.”
“The Russian Government?”
“Long story,” Arman said. “But we can only keep one of the dogs.”
Kalugin put the puppy down and it began scampering about, stopping only to sniff a large but mostly faded brown spot in the mid
dle of the floor. The pup squatted over it and took a leak before continuing its explorations.
Alice laughed.
“Maybe that will work,” she said. “I can’t seem to get that spot up.”
Rahm, Maks and I looked at each other. We knew what had caused the stain. I thought Rahm’s crew had done a pretty good job on it after Nando Carlucci had bled out. But the pole lamps I brought down for more light while Alice and I worked made the stain obvious.
“They should have used Neutrex,” Kalugin mumbled.
“I’m sorry,” Alice said, “what was that?”
“You should use Neutrex,” Kalugin said in a gentle voice he only used for Alice. “Just put some in water and use a scrub brush. I have some in the car. I’ll give it to you when we leave.”
“What is it? How do you know it will work on this?”
“I have a cleaning business,” Rahm said quickly. “Maks knows all about such things.”
None of us wanted to explain to Alice that Kalugin probably had a PhD.in blood-splatter removal. Or why he just happened to have some Neutrex in Rahm’s Mercedes.
We heard something crash. The puppy had knocked over an empty bucket. Startled, he ran over to Alice, who picked him up.
“Oh, he’s adorable. Just the sweetest thing, Alton.”
I saw Maks and Arman smile at each other. Arman winked. I had an uneasy feeling. A feeling confirmed by his next statement.
“The pup seems to like it here.”
“What will I do with a dog?”
“You’re always talking about Scruffy, that dog you grew up with,” Alice said. “It’s obvious you like them.”
“They take a lot of work.”
“You take a lot of work,” Kalugin said.
I wasn’t about to give up that easily.
“What about Scar? He’ll think that puppy is an hors d'oeuvre.”
“A Byelorussian Ovcharka fears nothing,” Kalugin intoned. “There will not be a problem.”
I looked at Arman.
“My father would consider it a favor,” he said.
With the Rahms I was losing track of who owed what to whom, but then I remembered the bullet that went in Yorke’s ear. I nodded.
Arman smiled.
“Now that that is settled, might I have a word, Alton?”
Alice took the hint.
“I can make some coffee. Will you have some?”
“That would be wonderful,” Arman said. “And I don’t mean to cut you out, Alice. But I also don’t want you to hear things that might compromise you legally. If Alton wants to tell you, that’s different.”
“I understand. And thank you.”
“I will help you with the coffee,” Kalugin said.
They went upstairs.
“He’s very fond of her,” Arman said. “I believe it’s one of the reasons he puts up with you.”
“Any reason will do.”
Rahm laughed.
“So, my friend, what happened? I’ve heard a few things, but they are hard to believe.”
I told him everything. When I finished, he shook his head.
“Tragedy or farce? I don’t know what to make of it, Alton. A story started by an assassin and ended by another assassin. Yes, it was Veronica, as you suspect. And in between, more dead bodies than an Agatha Christie novel. Maks will be disappointed. He was hoping it was the Germans. What did Freud say? Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. You do lead an interesting life. That dog will feel right at home here.”
***
After Arman and Kalugin left, Alice and I called it a day in the basement. We were sitting on the deck drinking Bloody Marys.
“To Veronica,” Alice said, raising her glass.
I’d told her what Arman said.
“Are you going to thank her?”
“That’s not how it’s done. But maybe I’ll send her some gift-wrapped bullets.”
My new puppy was clumping around the deck, sniffing everything and slowly closing in on Scar, who was still sleeping after his bacon-fest.
“Look at those paws,” Alice said. “Maks said he will look mostly like a German Shepherd but be slightly bigger.”
“Great.”
“What will you call him? He needs a good name.”
We watched the puppy nose up to Scar, who lazily raised his head and looked at him. The pup barked — it was more of a squeak — and Scar gave it a half-hearted swat with his paw. The pup backed off a second but then resumed “barking,” moving even closer to the cat. Scar looked at him and then went back to sleep. The pup lay down beside the big cat, which was probably three times his size, and also fell asleep.
“He’s not afraid,” Alice said. “I think they’ll get along fine. So, do you want me to pick a name? Or are we looking at the new Scruffy?”
“No, there will never be another Scruffy. That name is retired. Besides, I just decided on a name.”
“What?”
“Gunner.”
THE END
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***
Alton Rhode returns in THE ELSON LEGACY. Here is an excerpt:
CHAPTER 1 - DOUBLE VISION
Atlas, Virginia
April
Colver Elson picked up the remote and started flipping through his cable channels. He scrolled through a series of cop shows: CSI, NCIS, CSI Miami, NCIS Los Angeles, Law and Order, NCIS New Orleans, Castle, The Mentalist, Rizzoli & Isles, Law and Order SVU, Criminal Minds, Blue Bloods and a couple he did not recognize. He often joked to his golfing buddies that they should be happy they lived in a small town because everyone in America’s big cities was apparently murdered or raped. He’d stopped watching such shows. As someone who dealt with crime himself, Elson found the police and forensic expertise of TV sleuths unbelievable.
With almost 700 cable shows to choose from, Elson couldn’t believe he was having so much trouble finding something to watch on his brand-new, 55-inch, wall-mounted plasma TV set. The cop shows were bad enough, but for the $100 a month extra he was paying for “premium service” he’d be damned if he’d watch retards wrestle alligators, idiots chasing tornadoes or disgusting obese people compete to see who lost hundreds of pounds the fastest!
Finally, he found something he liked on The Blitzkrieg Channel, which was devoted to German operations during World War II. It was 10 PM. The show, Wehrmacht: In Living Color, was just starting.
Elson reached over to make himself another mint julep. A frequent visitor to the Kentucky Derby, he considered his juleps superior to any he’d ever had at Churchill Downs. It was now his standard drink and he was very particular about its makeup. Cracked ice was a necessity. And not the shaved ice that came out of the ice maker on the refrigerator door. It wasn’t the right consistency and smelled of freezer food to boot. No sir. He bought spring water chunk ice from the supermarket, chopped it up and double bagged it separately, and then put what he needed each night in an ice bucket on a sturdy table next to his chair in the den. He rendered that ice down to chips, using an antique jade-handled ice pick that had been in the family since the War of Secession. Next to the bucket was a half-full bottle of Evan Williams Single Barrel bourbon that he’d opened when he sat down. Close by was a small bowl with fresh mint and a glass mesh soda siphon.
Elson was still a good-looking man, six-foot-two with a full head of white hair, piercing blue-gray eyes and the ruddy complexion of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors, either on a golf course or in the saddle. Of course, he wasn’t a spring chicken any more, and some of the ruddiness of his 69-year-old visage could be attributed to all the bourbon he drank. He still cut a swath with the ladies of a certain age, although he now often needed a boost from the little blue pills his doctor prescribed. And for a small town, Atlas, Virginia, provided a surprising number of willing bedmates, mainly widows and divorcees who felt sorry for such a vital man whose wife had passed on and wh
o suffered the tragedy of a mentally disturbed daughter. Colver Elson felt absolutely no compunction playing the sympathy card. “Pity fucks”, as he called them, were still fucks, and he knew that some of his paramours were hoping to become the next Mrs. Colver Elson. His dance card was so full now he no longer needed to lure female lawyers and court-appointed “experts” to his bed with promises of fees from his nursing home connections. Elson had a jaundiced view of the legal profession in Atlas. My God, he often thought, if he was bisexual he would never have gotten any sleep!
Elson was having a hard time focusing on the TV screen. As usual when he drank too much, which was whenever he drank, Colver Elson was afflicted with double vision. His ophthalmologist said it was caused by a weakness in one of his optic nerves. Nothing could be done and it was only a minor irritation, except when he played golf or drove one of his cars. Putts were a bitch when aiming at two holes. And driving on a two-lane road that became a four-lane road was a challenge. But Elson was a lousy golfer even when sober, anyway. And as for driving a car while impaired, well, he was not concerned about being arrested. All the cops knew his car. None would have the temerity to stop him, or in the case of an accident, suggest a Breathalyzer or blood test.
Three more mint juleps later, the Nazis invaded France. Elson struggled to keep his eyes open. He enjoyed watching the Frogs getting their clock cleaned by Hitler’s Wehrmacht. There was a flash of lightning outside, almost immediately followed by a sharp crack of thunder that drowned out the artillery barrage on his TV screen. Elson looked out the large bay window of his study. The small grove of Eastern White Pine trees in his front yard began swaying in the wind and rain began to splatter against the window. Elson hoped the early spring thunderstorm would dissipate by morning. Sunday was the opening-day tournament at his golf club.
Well, the rain would be good for the Highbush Blueberry, Sweetfern, Partridgeberry, Jack-in-the-Pulpit, and Wild Sarsaparilla shrubs and plants he’d carefully planted in his yard around the pines. They were hardy enough to flourish in shade. Elson was proud of his gardens. He was always bragging about his green thumb.
GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5) Page 18