Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (14 page)

The pilot
air-taxied the helicopter up to the fuel dock, and kept the engine running for
a few minutes while it cooled down. After engine shut down, the pilot and passenger
exited the Huey and walked into the fixed-base operation. We followed.
Chamberlain and I waited until the pilot finished with his duties before
introducing ourselves. He gave the brusque, limp handshake of someone with
little patience for basic pleasantries.

The man was
apprehensive in talking with us. "Look, we're not from the FAA." I
was trying to put him at ease. "The only thing we want to know is who
hired you, and where you off-loaded the art collection."

He was an
extremely tall man. How he managed to fold himself into the cockpit of the Huey
was beyond me. Slim and lanky, with coal black hair, his face was scarred and
pitted. They were not acne scars, they were from wounds. The eyes were black,
piercing, and alert.

"What's
this all about?" His gaze flitted erratically around the ramp as though he
was tracking an enemy fighter plane. "My boss called all upset, said you
were bitching because I landed on Monhegan and threatened to go to the Feds.”

We told him
about the murders, the strong-arm tactics against the old couple, and the Mafia
connection.

"Wow...” He
sat down slowly in a cushioned recliner in the lobby. "Both those guys
killed? One of'em was an asshole, probably no great loss. The other one was a
nice-seeming sort."

Would not be
hard to figure out which one was the asshole, I thought.

"Look,” the
pilot continued. "I plead guilty to landing on Monhegan. I had nothing to
do with any murders or pushing two old people around. I didn't even get out of
the helicopter while we were on Monhegan."

"Who hired
you?"

"I don't
know, truthfully. Charlie said the charter came out of Chicago. He said to tell
you a company called Vittoria Enterprises wired the money for the two-day charter,
in advance. The guy I dealt with was Tony Bilotti."

"The
asshole."

"Yeah,” the
pilot grunted. "You knew him?"

"Just a
lucky guess."

"You spent
the night in the area,” Chamberlain said. "Where?"

"A motel in
Thomaston. Bilotti had a van. He directed me to land in a field next to where
it was parked. We'd unload the stuff into it and make another run. Made two
trips the first day, and one the next."

"What else
can you tell us?" I prodded.

"Not much.
I had my own room at the motel. They disappeared right after we got there. Did
not even invite me to eat with them. The next day, after the run, I flew over
to Rockland, refueled, and headed to Portland."

"Think
hard, man. Did they say anything, mention any names, talk about money?"

"I'd really
like to help, but there's nothing else to tell. Are you guys gonna report the
Monhegan thing to the Feds?"

"We told
you from the start what we're interested in. Let the FAA do their own police
work. It won't come from us."

"Just stay
off Monhegan,” Chamberlain added.

"No
problem."

We shook hands.
He gathered up his passenger and walked out on the ramp towards the Huey.

Halfway to the
helicopter the pilot suddenly turned around and came back. "There was one
thing. I don't know if it means a lot, but the other guy, the nice one, he kept
saying something about his sister looking at the cargo. It stuck with me
because I never saw a woman."

"His
sister?"

"Yeah. He
kept saying his sister was going to look at the cargo. The asshole would just
nod, not seeming to pay any attention to the fact."

"Okay,
thanks." I waved good-bye. "Have a safe flight."

"Wonder
what that means?" Chamberlain asked.

"Sandy said
Nat was supposed to meet her at the gallery the Monday after he bought the Kent
collection, if he bought it. Maybe the deal was a lot better than he thought,
and he wanted her to see it. Then he and Bilotti got whacked before he could
get in touch with her."

"Could be,”
Chamberlain said, watching the blades start to turn on the Huey.

"We find
the art work, we find the killer. Let's check out some truck rental agencies.
Maybe we can find out something on this van. Then we need to call Gino Anastasio."

"Right,”
Chamberlain shouted, holding his ears against the whine of the turbine engine
on the helicopter, leading the way out to the car.

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

Leaving the
airport, we drove to Thomaston. Our first stop was the motel where the
helicopter pilot said they had spent the night.

"Yes,” the
desk clerk said, looking at the old receipts. "There were two rooms paid
for with cash by a Mr. Tony Bilotti."

We had finally
found where Nat Rinaldi stayed.

"No,” the
clerk said. "There was nothing left in the rooms. It is the slow season.
We haven't rented them since. You're welcome to look, although they've been
cleaned."

We looked. There
was nothing. Bilotti must have had a reason for putting Nat Rinaldi up here in
Thomaston. He had stayed at the Navigator Inn. It could have been a mere
unfamiliarity with the region. Rockland and Thomaston are only five miles
apart. Thomaston is actually closer to Port Clyde than Rockland. It was
something to keep in mind.

Chamberlain
called Sergeant Bowers and had him start checking with rental agencies on the
van. Stopping by the Avis office in Thomaston produced nothing. They had not
rented a van in over a month. We headed back to Rockland to call Mr. Gino Anastasio.

Sergeant Bowers
stopped us as we walked into the police department. The van, rented by Bilotti,
came from the local Budget Truck Rental. He had paid cash. The van was left for
pickup at the airport.

"What
airport?" I asked.

"Here in
Rockland, the Knox Country Airport."

"They
loaded the art collection aboard an aircraft and flew it out of here. We're
getting close to Mr. Anastasio." Looking at Chamberlain, I said,
"We'd better get back out to the airport, find out which airplane picked
up Mr. Kent's life work. If it's a Gulfstream G-IV, we've got him cold."

Junior was
working the line at the airport. "No, sir,” he said assuredly. "The
only time the G-IV landed here was the day Mr. Leicester went aboard."

This was
disappointing. "What about the other fixed-base operation? Could they have
landed and parked over there without you knowing it? Is that possible?"

"Not
likely." Junior looked across the field toward the other operation and
shook his head. "I work everyday from open up to closing. It's the slow
time of year. We have little traffic except for a few locals. Over there, they
close before we do, and don't sell jet fuel."

"There was
a rental van left here at the airport on the night of the 16th. Do you remember
it?" I pointed toward the parking lot. "Some people off-loaded cargo
onto an aircraft."

"Not while
we were open for business. We usually close at midnight." Junior scratched
his head. "They could have landed after we locked up. You could ask the
night watchman, or one of our flight instructors. They sometimes fly late,
conducting night lessons with students."

"Can you
check the aircraft rental logs and find out who may have been flying on that
night?" I raised my voice over the noise of a small twin-engine plane that
taxied up to the front door before shutting down the engines.

"Yes, I can
do that." Junior looked out at the airplane and frowned. "If the
instructor was giving dual in the pilot's personal aircraft, we wouldn't have a
record of it. He would be paid by the aircraft owner, not by us."

"What time
does the tower close?" I asked, hoping they would have kept a record of
arriving and departing aircraft, maybe even an audiotape.

"Same time
we do. If it was after hours, you won't get any help there. Maybe you could
check with Center?"

It was a good
idea. Aircraft arriving in the area would be handled by the local control
center. It would be a bureaucratic nightmare getting information from them,
though.

"Thanks,
Junior. That's a good idea. In the meantime, give us a list of the local flight
instructors and the name of the night watchman."

"I know the
watchman,” Chamberlain spoke up. "He's a retired city policeman."

Junior said they
only had two flight instructors working out of the fixed-base operation. There
were also two who worked across the field. He gave us all four names.

Chamberlain and
I drove to the Budget Rental Office and talked with the manager.

"Yes,” he
said, filling out a rental contract for a customer. "Someone called and
left a message on our answering machine. They said the van was going to be left
in the parking lot at the airport. That isn't allowed, leaving the van like
that, but I didn't have a choice. I guess we were lucky there was no
damage."

We thanked the
man, and drove back to the police station.

Back at
Chamberlain's office, I phoned Sandy. When she answered, I said, "Did your
brother contact you after he arrived in Maine?"

There was a short
pause. "No, I was over in Gulfport with Guy Robbins making a bid on the
estate sale of the Moran art collection."

"You're
absolutely sure Nat did not call you from up here?"

"He didn't
talk with me. The Answering Service said nothing about him calling and leaving
a message." She paused again. "From the time we got the call at the
restaurant about the body everything became chaotic. The Service could have
overlooked it. Why do you ask?"

Writing 'no
call' in big letters on a pad, I held it up for Chamberlain to see. He nodded.

"The
helicopter pilot overheard Nat saying his sister was to look over the Kent
artwork. He assumed it was to be that day by the way your brother said
it."

"Well,
obviously he was wrong, Jay. I would certainly have gone over each piece with a
fine-tooth comb before we decided to put it on the market. That would have been
several days after the collection arrived here at the Gallery, though."

"Okay. We
are merely trying to tie up some loose ends before we contact Anastasio again.
Would you check with your Service for me, just to be certain Nat didn't call
while you were in Gulfport?"

"Sure. I'll
do it right now. You want me to call you back?"

"No, it's
not necessary. I'll be in touch with you tomorrow. You can tell me then."

"Fine. I'll
wait until I hear from you." We hung up.

Shrugging my
shoulders at Chamberlain, I said, "Her brother never called her from
here."

"I
see." He made a notation in a file folder that I had not seen before.

Looking at my
watch, I said, "It's four o'clock. Why don't I take the flight instructors?
You talk with the night watchman. If you will take me back to the Navigator,
I'll pick up my car. We can meet for breakfast in the morning. I'd like to wait
until we check out this movement of the art collection before we contact
Anastasio."

"Agreed."
Chamberlain stood up. "What about fingerprinting the van. Think it's worth
a shot?"

Waving the
thought away, I said, "After it was picked up at the airport, washed,
wiped out, and readied for another customer? What would we learn if by some
miracle a print showed up? We know Bilotti, Rinaldi, and the helicopter pilot
were in the van."

"You're
right." He threw his pen on top of the file folder. "It was only a
thought."

*
* *

It was close to
five o'clock when I arrived at the Knox County Airport. Deciding to stop by the
smaller fixed-base operation first, I drove across the field to the other side
from where Junior, the lineman, worked.

The young lady
behind the desk said both of their instructors were in the back, giving ground
school. If I would have a seat, she'd see if they could take a break.

My eyes wandered
around the lobby. Aviation decor dominated the room. Most of it was as familiar
to me as the back of my hand.

A short while
later, two young men came out from the rear of the building. Both wore leather
flight jackets, sunglass cases strapped to their belts, and big wristwatches.
They carried styrofoam cups of coffee.

Introducing
myself, we shook hands and I asked if either had been teaching on the nights in
question. One said he had not flown at night in over three weeks. The other
went to retrieve his personal logbook. "No,” he said, running his finger
down a column of entries. "I was not flying on any of those nights."

Neither of the
instructors had noticed a van loading cargo on board an aircraft at the
operation across the way. Thanking them both, I said good-bye and drove across
the field to where Junior worked.

Inside the
office, I saw the flight instructor who I had met that night with Chamberlain.
His name was Carl.

He recognized
me. "Oh, Mr. Leicester. Junior said you were asking about the van
unloading some cargo into an airplane. Yeah, I saw them."

"You did?
Was it the G-IV?"

"No, it
wasn't a G-IV. It was one of those Hansa Jets. The one with the wings on backward."

So disappointed
at this information, I had trouble understanding what he was talking about.
"Wings on backward?"

"Yes, sir,
the German made jet. You know, the wings slant forward instead of to the rear,
like the wings of most jet aircraft." Carl spread his arms and angled them
forward, emulating the sweep of an aircraft's wings.

Then I
remembered. The Hansa Jet, sure, a roomy, German built, corporate aircraft with
the wings swept forward. It did not sell well in the United States for many reasons,
the least being its short range.

"When was
it here, Carl? Tell me everything you can remember about seeing it. Also, I
need to know about the people in the van."

"It was the
night of the sixteenth. I was giving dual in a twin Comanche. We landed around
ten p.m. The Hansa Jet was sitting on the ramp with the right engine running.
The van was already pulling away."

"You didn't
see anyone in the van?"

"No, I only
saw it pulling away from the Hansa Jet. We shut our engines down and walked
over to the office. I remember the copilot of the jet talking on the payphone
outside the building, trying to get a clearance. The noise of the engine was
drowning out her ability to hear."

"Her? It
was a female copilot?"

"Yes. I
unlocked the door and invited her inside to use the phone away from the whine
of the engine. She came in, got her clearance, and left."

"Did you
hear the clearance, where they were headed? Or maybe an 'N' number?"

"We were
going over a post-flight, I didn't pay attention. Sorry."

"What did
she look like? Can you describe her?"

"Around
twenty-five, short, brown hair, slim figure. That's all I remember."

"Thanks,
Carl. If you remember anything else, please give me or Detective Chamberlain a
call."

"Will do,
Mr. Leicester. You might want to check with old Johnson, the night watchman. He
let the van in through the gate to get out on the ramp."

"Good idea.
Detective Chamberlain is talking to him. Thanks again, Carl."

Heading back
toward Rockland, I thought of ways to find out where the Hansa Jet originated
and where it took the Kent collection. Most important of all, though, I wanted
to know who hired the aircraft.

There was no
moon and it was dark when I turned onto Highway One, heading for town.
Suddenly, up ahead to my right, I saw something I did not know still existed,
an outdoor theater, or drive-in movie. Pulling over to the side of the road, I
watched two men beating each other on the tall, lighted screen that rose
against the night sky like a giant dream of violence. After a few minutes, I
drove on, feeling an ominous chill, like an omen of bad things to come.

Henry was
standing behind the registration desk with a serious expression on his usually
happy face. "Lose your best friend, Henry?" I asked, walking up and
leaning on the counter.

"No, not
really. There is a message for you." He looked down at some paperwork,
obviously not in the mood for conversation.

"Okay. How
about waking me up at seven in the morning?"

"Sure, no
problem." He reached under the counter and pulled out an envelope.
"It's from Mabel."

"It must be
awful bad news for you to be so somber."

"It
is." He shuffled papers on the desk.

"I'll read
it up in the room. Good night, Henry."

"Seven
a.m.,” he said, referring to the wake up call.

Checking my room
carefully, I found no one had bothered anything. Anastasio having my magnum had
tightened me up.

Pouring two
fingers from a bottle of Martel cognac I'd bought earlier, I cut the end off
one of my Ernesto P. Carrillos, fifty-four ring, seven inch, long filler
cigars, all the while eyeing the envelope. Picking it up, I walked out onto the
balcony.

Lighting the
cigar, I looked out across the bay. A full moon had risen and hung in the sky
above the sea, like a flat, round spotlight without rays, a haze of light
floating in space, not reaching the surface, and the illumination seemed to
come from the white brightness of the cold water.

Putting off
opening the envelope was not going to change the contents. Ripping open the
flap, the two page letter started out: Dear Jay, We probably won't see each other
again...

Her mother had
passed away in Saint John's, Newfoundland. She would be away for at least two
weeks and knew that I would be gone when she returned. She wanted to say
good-bye.

Reading the
letter over again, I gazed out into the night. Had she run with the half
million? Was Bowers soon to follow? Was that why he suddenly became friendly?
He was the first on the scene of Bilotti's murder. Was the money there? Did he
take it hoping to get to Mabel with the cash? If this was true, who killed
Bilotti and Rinaldi? Was it Mabel and Bowers?

Wispy clouds
were drifting like smoke across the moon. In the diffused glow I thought I
could distinguish Nat Rinaldi and Tony Bilotti lying on stainless steel tables
amid a thousand foul smells, water flowing under and around them down
longitudinal channels, falling into a drain at the base of the table with an
obscene sucking noise.