Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (17 page)

Chamberlain
looked at me and smiled. I wasn't anxious anymore. The next hour was going to
be an interesting one. One I would not have missed for anything in the world.

CHAPTER
TWENTY

We watched the
big jet taxi slowly into a parking space on the ramp. The lineman ran to the
airstair door and unrolled a red carpet. It's a gesture most customer oriented
fixed-base operations make today.

The crew took
their time shutting the engines down. Finally the door opened. The same young
man with the three-piece suit exited the aircraft and came toward us. We
watched his slow determined walk.

"Mr.
Leicester, Detective Chamberlain,” he said with educated politeness. "Mr.
Anastasio is preparing for your visit. It will be a few minutes. If you both
will follow me, you may wait aboard the aircraft."

"Both of
us? Anastasio wants to see us both?"

The young man
was unperturbed by my question. "Yes, sir,” he said without smiling.
"Mr. Anastasio wishes to see both you and Detective Chamberlain." He
turned and started for the aircraft.

Chamberlain
looked at me and winked. We followed the man aboard.

Inside the G-IV,
the crew sat in the cockpit, still staring into oblivion. The young man
indicated two seats across from each other. Chamberlain seemed more than a
little impressed with the inside of the cabin.

The young man
asked if we cared for anything to drink.

"Coffee
would be nice."

Chamberlain nodded
he would take coffee, also.

Surveying his
surroundings like an excited computer operator, Chamberlain pressed a button on
the small TV built into his armrest. A picture appeared asking if he would like
to see the nearest television station or videotape of his own selection. He
pressed the off button, looked at me, and shook his head.

The young man
served our coffee, then disappeared. It was quiet in the cabin. If you listened
hard enough the hum of the onboard auxiliary power unit could be faintly heard.
The soft gray colors of the walls had time to slowly work us over.

Looking across
to Chamberlain, I said, "Pretty nice for an airplane, don't you
think?"

He was toying
with a satellite-linked telephone. Putting it back in its holder, he rose up in
his seat, and scanned the cabin, then stared me in the eyes. "When a wolf
drapes a caribou skin over its thin, long legs and attempts to improvise a
caribou's bearing and a caribou's grunt, the truth is immediately and funnily
apparent to all sensitive eyes and ears and to all discriminating
noses..."

Point well
taken.

As soon as we
finished our coffee, the young man appeared and said Mr. Anastasio would see us
now.

We followed him
back to the conference room, which was partitioned off from the rest of the
cabin. Anastasio was sitting in the same seat at the oval table, wearing the
same blue jump suit as before. A flash of Howard Hughes with long hair and
fingernails, lying naked, pumped full of codeine, and starving to death in a
dark hotel room crossed my mind. At least Anastasio's surroundings were better.

His shaky, bony
arm waved us into the two chairs. The high, squeaky voice ordered, "Sit
down."

Anastasio was
even more cadaver-like than I remembered. Under the thin, almost clear skin of
the balding head, I could see the steady pulse of a blue vein.

"Detective
Chamberlain, how is your wife? Cancer is a very bad thing."

J.L. looked at
me, then back at Anastasio. "My wife's fine. Thank you for asking."

"What have
you for me?"

Chamberlain
spoke first. "We don't have anything for you. We're here to ask you some questions."

A deadly smile
curled from the side of Anastasio's face, then quickly disappeared.

"Look, Mr.
Anastasio,” I said, sitting up on the edge of my chair. "We're here for
some hard answers."

The dead eyes
burned into mine. "Proceed."

"We wanted
to believe you, Mr. Anastasio. You lied to me the last time we met, saying you
paid a fair price for the Rockwell Kent collection, claiming it belonged to a
lady who owned a summer home on Monhegan Island. The truth is, the collection
was extorted from an old couple who have lived on Monhegan all their lives.
They were treated with undue cruelty during the process." Pausing, I
watched his reaction. He seemed almost amused at my accusations, but his eyes
narrowed when I said the Barnes' had been treated cruelly. Sitting back in my
seat, I crossed one leg over the other. "Their grandson owed you money.
The police fished his body out of a canal in downtown Chicago. We think you
decided to put the arm on the grandparents for the grandson's debt."

Chamberlain
stood, walked around to the back of his chair, his leather shoes still
squeaking, even on the plush carpet. "Was it necessary to treat the Barnes
couple so harshly? To destroy the dignity of an old man in front of his wife?
How would you feel if it was done to you?"

Anastasio held
up an arm, looked at both of us. "You don't question me about how I
conduct my business. A debt is a debt. It must be paid." The eyes
narrowed, thin lips stretched tight across ruined teeth. "It is true, the
art collection was to settle the debt of the child. That is the way it is, but
no one was to treat them wrongly. If it happened, it was not by my order."

Uncrossing my
legs and holding up both hands in a question, I asked, "Is that why you
whacked Bilotti? You found out he'd gone against your orders and roughed up the
old couple?"

"You are an
idiot, Leicester." He sat further back in his seat, rubbed bony fingers
through the few ugly strands of scraggly hair.

"I don't
think it bothers you a hell of a lot that he's dead." J.L. sat back down,
and stared intently into Anastasio's eyes.

The old man
returned the stare. In a quiet, scratchy voice he said, "Detective
Chamberlain, death is sometimes a punishment, sometimes a gift. To many it
comes as a favor. To Mr. Bilotti...well, who knows, but I had nothing to do
with it."

He wasn't used
to being grilled by anybody, especially those from the police. Why he was
allowing it to continue was a mystery?

In a voice that
now sounded tired, Anastasio said, "I have had my people check across the
country. There has been no Rockwell Kent work sold in the past two weeks.
Whoever has the collection is sitting on it. When we find out who, they can
tell us the rest."

"The
collection could have been sent out of the country,” J.L. said calmly.
"Though you wouldn't know where unless it went to some Mafia controlled
city." He said it bluntly, with no animosity, merely stating a truth.

"You two
are starting to bore me."

Reaching over, I
grabbed the edge of the table with such force that it shook. "We'll try to
be more entertaining. Right now, you'll just have to endure us."

The fragile old
man turned and looked out the other side of the aircraft. He spoke as if to
himself. "I know a man who was hired by a Japanese gentleman to steal
certain works of art from museums and to ship them directly to Japan.
Expensive, but he got what he desired."

"Sounds
like something you wish you'd thought of,” J.L. said, with a smile that only
moved one side of his mouth.

Turning loose of
the desk and sitting back in my seat, I spoke quickly, "We know the art
collection was flown out of Rockland on board a charter flight the night of the
sixteenth. You are the only one connected to this case with the money and
knowledge to have the collection moved out of the area in this way."

Anastasio's dark
eyes set in deep black holes, opened wide. This interested him. "If I'd
wanted to fly the art collection out of Rockland, I would have done so with
this twenty-five million dollar machine we're sitting in." He waved an arm
around the cabin. "I wouldn't have chartered another aircraft and involved
other people."

It was a good
point.

Chamberlain
leaned forward and aimed a finger at Anastasio. "Maybe someone who owned a
charter service had a child who owed you money. You collected on another debt."

"Give me
the information on the charter flight,” Anastasio said to me, ignoring
Chamberlain's theory. "I'll have my people check it out."

"No thanks,
Mr. Anastasio. We won't do that. We have no way to be sure you're not involved.
We'll do our own checking."

"I
see." Anastasio stared out the oval cabin window next to him. "You
may be making a big mistake. Anything else you and Detective Chamberlain wish
to discuss?"

"Call your
moles off my client, they're upsetting her."

"Yes, she
recently purchased an art collection from the Mississippi Gulf Coast."

"I'm aware
of the transaction. The Moran collection. A private estate sale. An attorney
friend of mine handled the deal."

"You
surprise me with the thoroughness with which you stay abreast of some things,
disappoint me with the neglect of others."

The suit
appeared in the doorway. "Sir, the people for your next meeting are
here."

Anastasio
nodded. Raising both hands as if to lift us out of our seats, he said,
"I'd better hear from you two, and soon."

"We'll call
with a warrant as soon as we link you with the murders,” Chamberlain said,
standing and crossing both arms across his chest.

Anastasio looked
at him for a long while. "Take care of your wife." With that we were
dismissed.

We followed the
suit down the aisle of the aircraft. Sitting in the seats we had recently
occupied were two young men dressed like Mafia hoods. They looked up at us. One
of them had a fat, blank face and the eyes of a killer; a man impervious to any
sort of feeling. I saw in the tightened lips, in the jutting chin, in the
narrowed eyes, the look of an adolescent bully. The other man had scared eyes
and was sweating. His smile looked forced, and I detected other false notes in
his bravado: A hand raised to his tie, a tug at shirt sleeves to make sure the
right amount of cuff showed from the jacket sleeves. He was a man full of
self-doubt. I wondered how much they owed the 'Chairman of the Board,' and if
their fate held a .9mm slug to the back of the right ear.

We were escorted
down the airstair door and left to find our own way back across the ramp. The
door shut quickly behind us.

We sat in the
unmarked police car and watched as the crew of the G-IV started the engines,
taxied out, and took off. The big plane climbed swiftly into the blue sky.

"Seems as
if the two young men who boarded after us are in for a ride." Chamberlain
gripped the steering wheel with both hands.

"It could
be a ride into forever."

Chamberlain
started the car and drove away from the airport. "We didn't come away with
much,” he said as we left the city limits. "I didn't expect him to
confess, but he truly gives the impression he's not involved."

"He's had a
lot of practice, J.L. He does have a unique way of dominating the situation,
especially in that environment. We're just going to have to work harder."
We rode in silence, each deep into our own thoughts.

"Wonder
what he meant when he said he admired some things you did, others he
didn't?"

"What?"
I asked, coming back from my thoughts. "Oh, at my thoroughness at some
things, neglect of others. I don't know. I'm sure it wasn't meant as a
compliment."

"Probably
not."

We rode in
silence, again.

The weather had
warmed. The sky was now a cobalt blue. You could feel spring in the air. The
ride back to Rockland was good, both coming and going. J.L. dropped me off at
the Navigator Inn. He was going home to check on his wife and would call me
later in the afternoon.

Henry flagged me
down as I walked into the lobby. "Mr. Leicester, my sister's made a pot of
chowder. Have you had lunch?"

The chowder was
comparable to that at the East Wind Inn when I first ate there with Sandy.
Suddenly that lunch seemed a long time ago.

While dining on
the chowder Henry gave me three messages which had come in this morning. One
was from Guy Robbins and one was from Sandy. The last message was from Charlie
Garino of Aeroair saying he would be in his office the rest of the afternoon
and would be expecting my call.

Even though I
was anxious to make the phone calls, Henry's sister's chowder was too good not
to have seconds.

Henry kept me
company. We talked about Maine, the weather, and about his sister. He never
came right out and said it, but I got the impression he wanted me to ask her
out. She was a pleasant enough woman, but there was no way. Mabel was still too
much of a presence.

Excusing myself,
I went to my room, checking it carefully. Nothing had been bothered. Maybe
Anastasio had found out all he wanted the last time his 'people' were here.

As was his
custom, Guy Robbins was out of his office. His secretary was emphatic that Guy
wanted to talk with me today. Telling her where I'd be, I hung up, wondering
what the urgency was about.

Sandy's
answering service said she was gone for the day. Leaving her a message saying
we had met with Anastasio, I promised to call her tomorrow and fill her in on
the details.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

The mid-afternoon
ferry was leaving for North Haven and Vinalhaven islands. Sea birds followed
behind a fishing boat, squawking, diving, and fighting for a morsel of food to
sustain life another day. Far out to sea the horizon was sharp, and well defined
against a light blue sky.

The phone rang.
I went inside and picked up the receiver. "Leicester, here."

"Glad I
caught you,” the familiar voice said. "Sorry I've been missing you, but
it's been hectic down here."

"Hello,
Guy." I sat down on the edge of the bed. "What's all the urgency
about? Your secretary sounded as if it were important?"

"Don't know
how important, but I thought you should know as soon as possible."

"Alright,
let's have it."

"When Sandy
bought the Moran art collection, she paid with cash."

"I
understand that's not so unusual in the art world. Where does this lead,
Guy?"

"I'm not
sure. Remember me telling you that Sandy and her brother were worth more money
than you and I would ever see. When she paid in cash and hired me to handle
Nat's estate, something told me to check their current financial standing. I
found out Sandy's broke."

Gripping the
phone tightly, I did not say anything. My mind was reeling.

"She and
Nat made some bad real estate investments. They had a huge stake in an
insurance company that went belly up in New Orleans. They lost a total of
eleven million in two years."

"Not the
insurance company that brought down the Insurance Commissioner and the Lieutenant
Governor?"

"One and
the same. Hard to believe, isn't it? The crooks who ran the company took a lot
of good people for their hard earned money."

"Sounds
like something truly fishy went down. Maybe one crook stealing from the
others."

"Could be,”
Guy said with a sigh. "I don't know if it means anything, but I felt you
should know. Sandy could have had a half million stashed away, trying to
rebuild by using that money to buy the Moran collection and reselling it for a
good profit."

"Or what
else?"

"I won't make
any assumptions, but put these figures in the back of your head. Nat had a
double indemnity life insurance policy worth three million. The half million in
cash missing from his person in Maine was insured. That's right, it was
insured. If someone collected on Nat's life insurance, plus the insurance on
the cash, and had stolen the cash in the first place...it comes out to a pretty
good sum. Something for you to think about."

"You've
made my day, Guy. I do appreciate it, though. Thanks." We hung up.

Going back out
on the balcony, I sat down to think this through.

Sandy and Nat
made some bad investments and lost a bundle. So what, lots of people lose
fortunes. Sandy paid Guy Robbins a half million in cash for the Moran art collection.
The same amount, give or take a few thousand, missing from Nat Rinaldi. Does
this make Sandy guilty of two murders? A good possibility, but where's the
motive? Half a million plus the insurance money and the art collection is
plenty enough motive by some people's way of thinking, but to kill your own
brother for money...

Leaning over the
balcony, I watched a ferry slide slowly into the dock. People started lining up
like ants. They were all in a row, shuffling, bumping; wanting to get home for
dinner, to the wives and kids.

Familial
killings have taken place since time began, and for a lot less than what was
involved in this case. Sandy Rinaldi was starting to climb up the guilty ladder
to the same rung as some locals, and Gino Anastasio.

Pacing around
the small balcony like a bear in a cage, I tried to make some sense out of
this. I sat down, stood back up. Anastasio! The S.O.B. is smart. He is setting
Sandy up. He has the resources to know her finances. He has had her tailed
since she left Rockland, maybe long before. Also, the main player in the failed
insurance company was reputed to have strong ties with the mob. Where is that
Rockwell Kent art collection?

Going back
inside, I punched in Charlie Garino's number at Aeroair in Houston, Texas.
Little did I realize that this phone call would be the turning point in solving
two murders, locating the Rockwell Kent art collection, and revealing who had
possession of four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in blood money.

"Charlie
Garino, please. My name is Jay Leicester."

"Oh yes, Mr.
Leicester, Mr. Garino is expecting your call. Please hold for a moment."

"Thank
you." I paced around the edge of the bed as far as the telephone cord
would reach.

"Hello, Mr.
Leicester,” a deep voice said. "John Ashley told me you'd call. How can I
help you?"

Skipping the
usual formalities, I went right to the point. "I need to know if one of
your Hansa Jets flew a charter to Rockland, Maine, on the sixteenth of this
month?"

"That
shouldn't be a problem,” he said in an accommodating tone. "If I can get this
computer terminal to work, the information should pop right up." Keys
clicked, then I heard Garino utter an oath. "Mr. Leicester, the screen
went blank. I'm sorry, I'm still a stick and rudder man when it comes to
computers. Hang on a minute, I'll get Betty to find the information for
us."

"I
understand."

It was a minute
or more before Garino came back on the line. "Sorry for the delay. I have
the information I think you're looking for."

"Great."
I grabbed a pen. "Go ahead, I'm ready to copy."

"We did have
a charter on the sixteenth in the Hansa Jet. A good one, I might add. They paid
in cash. The flight plan reads: Houston Hobby direct Rockland, Maine, with a
fuel stop in Richmond, Virginia. A quick turn around in Rockland, then back to
Richmond, direct New Orleans Lakefront, then on in to Houston Hobby. Flight
time was seven point five hours, one passenger all the way around. A twelve
hour day for the crew, but legal with the FARs." (Federal Aviation
Regulations regarding flight and duty time for crewmembers in a given period.)

"Did the
passenger originate in Houston with the airplane?"

"Yes,”
Garino answered. "Remained aboard the entire round trip."

"I need to
know about the passenger. Is the Captain of that flight available?"

"Let me
check." He lay the phone down, and I paced the floor. He was not gone
long. "The pilot who flew the trip is on his way to Anchorage, Alaska.
He'll be gone for over a week."

"How about
the copilot?"

"Let me see
who that was...yes, Felicia. She's in the back right now, flight planning a
trip to Denver. Hold on, I'll get her for you."

"Thanks,
Charlie. You've been a lot of help."

"Any friend
of John Ashley's is a friend of mine."

"Felicia
Markham,” a soft voice said.

"Hello,
Miss Markham. My name is Jay Leicester. I'm a private investigator looking into
two murders that occurred in Rockland, Maine, around the time you flew a charter
up here. Tell me everything you can about the passenger, the cargo, or anything
else you remember about the flight."

"I remember
it being a long day,” she said, laughing. "It was the longest trip I've
ever flown, and the first time I'd been north of New York. Our passenger was a
woman around my age, I'm twenty-four. She was very quiet. Come to think of it,
she never did introduce herself. She paid in advance for the charter, almost
fifteen thousand dollars." She paused, as if searching for something else
to say.

"Describe
her for me,” I prodded. "Was she tall, short? What color was her hair? How
much did she weigh?"

"She had
blond hair. She was much taller then me, I'm five-six. I'd guess she weighed
around one-ten, one-twenty. That's about all I remember."

"That's
okay. Tell me about the cargo, Miss Markham. Who loaded it on board?"

"When we
got to Rockland, I went to file a flight plan. Didn't pay much attention to
what was going on around the aircraft. I do remember a van pulling alongside,
though. There were no other people. When I got back to the aircraft, the cabin
was full of stuff that looked like paintings, all sorts of frames and things. I
did a quick walk around, climbed aboard, and shut the door. We took off for
Richmond, Virginia, our fuel stop. The captain said that he hoped our passenger
left room to sit in the cabin. The cargo was bulky, but light. He wasn't concerned
with the weight."

"What
happened when you got to New Orleans?"

"I saw to
the refueling. The linemen helped unload the cargo. They were taking it inside
the hangar. I couldn't see what they were doing with it. We were ready to
depart in half an hour."

"So your
passenger did fly back to Houston with you?"

"Yes, sir.
We landed back at Hobby around three a.m. The passenger just disappeared.
Strange."

"Yes, Miss.
Markham, I tend to agree with you."

"My
goodness, did she have something to do with the murders? I'd hate to think we
were flying around a killer."

"She
probably had nothing to do with them." Trying to allay her fears, I said,
"She was probably a courier hired to transport the cargo to New
Orleans."

"Thank
goodness." She sounded relieved. "Mr. Leicester, I've really got to run.
I hope I've been some help."

"You have.
I'll tell Mr. Garino you were more than cooperative. Good-bye."

Walking back out
on the balcony, I saw that dark was falling fast. The first stars of the
evening were visible far out on the ocean. Glancing at the piece of paper I was
holding, I saw that I had unconsciously written the flight plan Charlie Garino
had given me in the shorthand of pilots: HOB > RIC > RKD > RIC >
NEW > HOB. Houston Hobby direct to Richmond, Virginia; direct to Rockland,
Maine; direct to Richmond, Virginia; direct New Orleans Lakefront airport;
direct Houston Hobby airport.

Holding it up to
the light coming from the room, I read it again and again. If Gino Anastasio
was setting up Sandy Rinaldi to take the fall for the murders, the theft of the
money, and the art collection, then I would be willing to bet the .9mm pistol
used in the shootings would turn up in New Orleans along with the art
collection. He could have hired the female mole, who looked like Sandy, to
charter the aircraft and fly the Kent collection to New Orleans. It was a clever
scenario, if it were true.

The thing that I
didn't have was a motive. Why would someone as powerful as Anastasio go to all
this trouble and expense to cover a single hit on someone as insignificant as
Tony Bilotti?

It would be
bothering Chamberlain, but I had to run this by him, tonight. He answered on
the first ring. "J.L., am I disturbing Kathleen?"

"No. As a
matter of fact, we were talking about you. She's feeling quite well. We were
thinking of making some fresh fettuccine. Why don't you come out? We'll make
the pasta and open something good from the cellar."

"Give me
forty-five minutes. Can I bring anything?"

"No need to
bring a thing. Kathleen will be happy to see you."

Taking a quick
shower, I dressed in slacks, my fifth and last clean white shirt, and put on my
old leather flight jacket. It's about as formal as I get. I don't know why, but
I put my magnum in the right hand pocket of the jacket. Maybe I didn't want
Anastasio stealing it again.

Driving slowly
along the winding lane leading to Owl's Head, the car tires made crunching
sounds on the loosely packed gravel. At the top of the hill the house suddenly
appeared like a ship emerging from a fog bank. The two-story house surrounded
by fir trees and water oaks was impressive.

Standing beside
the car for a moment, I listened to the night sounds. A bird cried somewhere
high up in the dark treetops. Whispering surf rolled gently on the small beach
below the house. Random night wind rustled new spring leaves. Faraway, I heard
the eerie pulsing of a siren. Then, as if on cue, the mournful strands of
LORENA wafted out to me. Walking up on the porch, I knocked gently on the door.

"Mr.
Leicester." Kathleen greeted me warmly. "What a great pleasure to see
you again. Come in, come in."

"Only if
you promise to call me Jay from now on."

"Alright,
Jay it is." She ushered me inside.

Following her
down the hall, I watched the way she walked, saw the slump of her shoulders,
then the effort that lifted them, saw the slender figure that seemed to sway,
then marshal all of its strength to remain erect.

At the doorway
to the kitchen, she turned and said, "J.L. is elbow deep in pasta flour.
He could use your help."

I handed her the
two books on Rockwell Kent she so graciously loaned me. She took them gently
into her bosom. Unknown emotions softened the lines of her face, giving it the
quality of a smile, of pain, and something greater that seemed to lift her
spirits.

"I hope you
enjoyed them."

"There was
much to learn."

She turned and
walked away.

J.L. did,
indeed, appear to be in need of help. I almost laughed at him when I entered
the kitchen. He wore an apron, his shirtsleeves were rolled up above his
elbows, and flour was scattered everywhere. His face and arms were covered, the
floor was covered, even his hair. He looked like a snowman.

Spying me, he
said, "Glad you're here. Help me with this cutter." He pointed to a
small, chrome-plated machine sitting on the table.

"You look
like you're having fun, J.L."

"I do enjoy
it. Fresh pasta is one hundred percent better than store bought. Don't you
think?"

"Never made
it before, so I wouldn't know."

"Here,”
J.L. said, offering me a glass. "Pour the champagne from that cooler over
on the buffet. I think you'll enjoy this one."