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

CHAPTER
FOUR

During the ride
back to the Police Station, I had the opportunity to watch Chamberlain's mind
at work. His true professionalism showed through.

"I was sure
the body we had was Renato Rinaldi." He gripped the steering wheel so hard
that the muscles bulged in his forearms. "So sure I didn't pursue it further.
Poor police work. We had the body, found in a rental registered to Rinaldi. A
satchel with his identification, clothes with his name in them. Plus the
description on the D.L. fits the body to a tee."

"Anyone
would have surmised the same thing,” I offered, trying to be sympathetic.

"Extremely
poor police work,” Sandy said from the back seat.

Chamberlain
grimaced, but wisely didn't say anything, just tightened his grip on the wheel.
He looked at me. I shook my head. Turning, I looked back at Sandy. She was
staring out at the darkened Maine landscape. She wasn't smiling.

We pulled up in
front of the police station. Chamberlain shut the engine off and turned around
to Sandy. "Miss Rinaldi, I'm sorry we caused you to come so far. It's all
my fault; I should have done better work. But the way I see it, we have a dead
person with a bullet in his brain that was found in your brother's rental car,
and your brother seems to have disappeared. We will identify the body, but I
need to know the rest of the story." He turned and looked at me with a
no-nonsense expression. "What the hell's going on?"

Sandy's perfume,
a musk oil I recognized but couldn't recall the name of, enveloped the small
space of the car's interior. Cracking a window, I said, "It's been a long
day, Chamberlain. Let us get a good night's sleep. We'll tell you all we know
in the morning."

He looked at me
piercingly, silent. The only sound was the occasional car passing in front of
the station and the blast of a boat's horn somewhere out in the darkness of Penobscot
Bay. Finally: "Alright, we'll meet for breakfast, but I want it all then,
understand?"

* * *

We had no
trouble finding the hotel Chamberlain recommended. It was on Main street, the
marquee read: THE NAVIGATOR INN. The desk clerk said Chamberlain called and informed
him we were on the way. He said it was still the off season, and only two other
guests were registered.

We were given
adjoining suites on the fourth floor.

"Compliments
of the Rockland Police Department,” the clerk said, waving away my American
Express card. "You'll have to park around back. There's no entrance to
your rooms from the front."

Strange, I
thought, but the rooms were free. I'd have to remember to thank Chamberlain
tomorrow.

"Great view
of the sunrise at six-thirty in the morning,” the clerk said, as I walked away.
"Don't miss it, it's worth the effort."

The Navigator
Inn was an old, four-story building, which had recently been remodeled. A smell
of fresh sawn wood, paint, and new carpet permeated the air. The rooms were huge,
with wide balconies overlooking the bay. Suddenly I was extremely tired and
fell into bed, making myself a promise to get up and watch the sunrise.

The alarm clock
went off at six a.m. I felt like I weighed two tons. A warm shower helped.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I stepped quietly out on the balcony.

The islands,
Vinal Haven and North Haven, as I later learned, were beginning to appear in
the growing light. The wind was dead calm. Water in the bay lay flat and
smooth, like a giant blue-gray mirror. A scattered cloud layer hovered low on
the horizon beyond the islands.

"Beautiful,
isn't it?" A voice suddenly said to my right. It was Sandy, wrapped in a
robe, sitting in a corner of her balcony. Failing to notice her, I was glad
that she wasn't the enemy.

"Morning."

"I didn't
sleep well,” she said, not moving from the chair. "I'm worried about Renato."

"Yes,” I
said, not knowing how to console her. "But at least we know he wasn't the
one in the morgue." It was the wrong thing to say. She went inside. The
sunrise was spoiled, so I went in and dressed.

At seven o'clock
the phone rang. It was Chamberlain. He was downstairs waiting in the
restaurant.

Knocking on
Sandy's door, I expected the worst. She opened it with a cheerful smile,
seeming to have forgotten her concern about her brother for the moment.

"Chamberlain's
waiting."

"Good,” she
said, walking ahead. "Renato will show up today and explain everything.
You'll see."

Shutting her
door, I followed her to the elevator.

Chamberlain
stood as we walked into the restaurant. The waitress poured coffee all around.
When she'd walked away Chamberlain shoved a folder across the table to me.
Opening it, I saw that there was a computer print out and a fax of a rap sheet.

Sipping the
strong, hot coffee, I read the printout. It was an NCIC, National Crime
Information Center, I.D. It showed a complex set of numbers referencing a set
of fingerprint classifications. There were sixteen points of reference. I
looked up at Chamberlain.

"I went
back to the hospital,” he said, answering my stare. "made a set of prints
from the body."

"You
classified them yourself?"

"Yes,” he
said nonchalantly. "I sent the classification through NCIC. They spit out
the I.D. The prints will have to be sent to the FBI for verification, but I'm
pretty sure we have a positive."

Holding up the
fax, I saw that it was from the Chicago Police Department.

Chamberlain
pointed at the page and said, "I sent them the I.D. They sent back the rap
sheet."

This was good
police work, I thought. Chamberlain must have spent hours classifying the
prints. It's a time-consuming process. "You get any rest?" I asked,
laying the fax down on the folder.

"Not much,”
he replied, rubbing both eyes. "But I'm used to it. My wife's been ill for
some time. She doesn't sleep well."

"I'm sorry.
Is she going to be okay?"

"No."
He dropped his head, then looked up at me with a pained expression. "But
we've learned to accept it. Thanks for asking, though."

Reading over the
information in the folder, I saw that the fingerprints identified the dead man
as Tony Bilotti, d.o.b. 13 May 1960, Chicago, Ill. Five feet nine inches in
height, one hundred seventy-five pounds. No scars, marks, or tattoos. Turning
to the rap sheet, I read that he'd been arrested twenty-five times. Served a
short stretch in Joliet for armed robbery and assault with intent. Paroled
August, 1990. There was a handwritten note at the bottom of the fax: 'Whatever
he gets, he's earned it.'

Looking at
Chamberlain, I said, "You think he's a made member from Chicago?"

"An old
friend works the south side,” he said, tapping a spoon on the table. "I'll
call him a little later this morning. He'll be able to tell me. Now, let's hear
it."

Setting my
coffee cup in the saucer, I leaned back in the chair. "Sandy contacted me
yesterday after they received your call. She asked me to accompany her to identify
the body. Her brother was in Rockland to meet a seller of an art collection.
The seller was from Chicago. No, we don't know his name. It could be
Bilotti."

"Nobody has
heard from Rinaldi?" Chamberlain asked, sliding his cup and saucer to the
side.

"No,” Sandy
spoke up. "I called my service in New Orleans this morning. Renato hasn't
called in. We were supposed to meet at the Gallery today."

"Gallery?"
Chamberlain asked, looking around for the waitress.

"Yes,” I
interjected. "Sandy and her brother own an art gallery in New Orleans.
They deal in expensive works of art." All of a sudden I'd become an
expert.

Sandy looked at
me, amused. "Yes, Detective. My brother and I deal in the art world. We
sometimes, through necessity, deal with people who may seem unsavory. But they
spend big money for authentic works of art. We make no apologies for our clientele."

"Which
brings me to something you need to know, Chamberlain,” I said, sorry now that I
had not told him last night. "Rinaldi was traveling with four hundred and
fifty thousand in cash."

Chamberlain
looked at me with disbelief, leaned back in his chair. Then, when he had
thought it through, he said, "You wait until now to tell me?" There wasn't
animosity in his voice, it was disappointment.

"We wanted
to be sure...,” I began, but Chamberlain held up his hand and stopped me.

"It's
okay,” he said, waving his hand from side to side. "I understand. You
wanted to check out the small town cop, see if he stole a half a million in
cash. Smart, Leicester. What convinced you I'm clean? I might still have the
money stashed." He gently lay both hands on the white tabletop, splayed
his fingers, and stiffened his arms at the elbow.

I deserved the
digs. They were less than I'd expected. Sandy changed position in her chair,
watching Chamberlain.

"I saw that
you have been through the Academy. It takes some integrity to do that. And a
lot of other things, too. Besides, I'm pretty good at making quick judgments of
one's character."

Deep down in the
back of Chamberlain's eyes, I could see into the recesses of a mind working
hard and fast. Every millisecond the words Leicester, private investigator,
half a million in cash, Renato Rinaldi, Sandy Rinaldi, Tony Bilotti, expensive
art, were all flying across synapses geared to making quick and correct
judgments. It was going to be fun working with J.L. Chamberlain, once I did
assure myself he had not, in fact, found the money with the body and stashed it
somewhere. The probability was minuscule, but still...

"Tell me
where they found the car with Bilotti's body. I'll go take a look."

Chamberlain
stared at me, then smiled. "Not much there but a parking lot. The car's
been towed to a local wrecker yard. They're holding it for us. You know where
the body is."

"I want to
see, too,” Sandy said, picking up her coffee cup and blowing on the black
liquid.

"It's about
six miles south, Port Clyde. The ferry to Monhegan Island leaves from there.
The car was left in the parking lot. Bilotti was slumped over the steering
wheel. A ferry passenger by the name of Wilma Sturgis found him. They called
from the chandlery. The rest you know."

"You check
to see if Rinaldi took the ferry?" I asked, writing the name 'Wilma
Sturgis' on top of the folder.

"Wasn't
listed on the ship's manifest." He motioned for the waitress who had
emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray. "Nobody recognized the photo on
the driver's license. I'd like to have a better picture of him to show
around."

"I have one
taken last year during Mardi Gras,” Sandy said, reaching for her purse.

"Thanks,”
Chamberlain said, taking the small photo. "Yes, that's much better. I'll
get an enlargement made. We'll pass it around."

"By the
way,” I said, holding my cup for the waitress as she poured fresh coffee.
"Thanks for the rooms. It wasn't necessary, but it was a nice
gesture."

"It was the
least I could do after my 'extremely poor' police work, as Miss Rinaldi so
aptly pointed out."

Sandy smiled.
"You took the point quite well, Detective Chamberlain."

"Please,
call me J.L.,” Chamberlain said. "Look, I'd like to take you down to Port
Clyde, but I need to get to work on Bilotti and start things rolling concerning
your brother. I hope you don't mind?"

"Not at
all,” Sandy said. "From now on, I'm Sandy, this is Jay. We'll all be one,
big, happy family."

Chamberlain
smiled.

Looking at
Sandy, I wasn't sure whether she was being friendly or taking a subtle smack at
Chamberlain. I was going to have to learn to read her a lot better.

CHAPTER
FIVE

We adjourned our
meeting with Chamberlain. As Sandy and I walked back through the lobby the same
clerk who had checked us in last night was behind the desk. Making friends with
people who run front desks at hotels has proven to be advantageous. Valuable
information can be learned from them. They see who comes and goes, and at what
hours of the night and day.

"You work
all the time?" I asked with a sympathetic smile as we walked by.

He grinned,
waving a hand over his head. "During the off-season I live here at the
Inn. Work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week."

"Rough."

"Not
really." He stood up, leaned on the counter, and shuffled some papers.
"I lock up at midnight. Few people check in after then. They can rouse me
out by ringing the bell at the front door. The extra money helps."

"Well,
don't work too hard,” I said, walking away, making a mental note to give this
guy a hefty tip.

"I wonder
who the other two people are?" Sandy asked, resting her chin gently on a
long, slim finger, as we got on the elevator.

"What?"

"I wonder
who the other two people are the desk clerk said were registered here at the
hotel?"

"I don't
know,” I answered, cursing myself for not thinking of this. If one of them had
been Nat Rinaldi surely the desk clerk would have said something when I signed
Sandy's name on the check in slip last night. The other guest could be Bilotti.

When I got to my
room, I called the front desk. "This is Leicester, 412. I was just talking
to you."

"Yes, Mr.
Leicester, I remember." He laughed. "What can I do for you?"

"The other
two guests, who are they?"

"I can give
you their names,” he said officially. "But I can't give out their room
numbers. Against the rules, you know. Although I can connect you to them."

"If one of
them is named Bilotti, it'll be a long distant call,” I said, fumbling with the
telephone cord. "A very long distance."

"We do have
a Mr. Tony Bilotti registered. Has something happened to him?"

Good, I thought.
He catches on quickly. "Who's the other guest?" I ignored his question.

"A Mr. and
Mrs. Waterbury, from South Carolina,” he answered quickly, without the
bureaucratic inflection. "What's going on, Mr. Leicester?"

"I'll
explain later, I promise. But for now, don't let anyone, and I mean anyone,
into Bilotti's room until I can get in touch with Detective Chamberlain.
Okay?"

"You got my
word, Mr. Leicester. Nobody will bother the room." We hung up.

Immediately I
dialed the Rockland Police Department. Chamberlain was out, but would be
relayed the message.

Sandy was
expecting us to leave in an hour for the drive to Port Clyde. There was no
reason to tell her Bilotti was registered here until Chamberlain and I had
looked over his room.

My phone rang.
It was Chamberlain calling from a pay phone. "They radioed me and said you
needed to talk. What's up?"

"Bilotti's
registered here at the Navigator Inn."

"Meet me at
the front desk in five minutes."

* * *

"It's the
cleanest room I've looked over in years,” Chamberlain said, opening and closing
drawers. "Nothing. The guy didn't even unpack."

A small carry-on
bag was lying on the bed. It contained the usual stuff, change of clothes,
toiletries. Not a thing to indicate who, or what, Bilotti was about.

We walked back
to the lobby. Chamberlain brought Bilotti's bag along.

"Thanks
Henry,” Chamberlain said, tossing the room key to the desk clerk. "You can
rent the room, Bilotti won't be needing it any more."

Henry didn't say
anything. He took the key, slid it back into its slot on the wall, and then
looked at me.

Walking
Chamberlain to his car, I said, "Wonder where Nat Rinaldi was staying?
There can't be that many places in the area."

"I'll get
right on it,” he said, unlocking his car door. "I'll check in Rockland. He
could have booked a room in Tenant's Harbor, Port Clyde, or maybe on Monhegan Island.
We'll look at all of'em."

"What about
this couple from South Carolina, the Waterburys? We need to run a check on
them, don't you think?"

"Yes,”
Chamberlain said, smiling and sitting down hard behind the wheel. "You're
pretty good, Leicester, much better than I expected."

"I'll call
you when we get back from Port Clyde." I shut his car door for him.

"Alright.
By the way, you and Sandy don't plan anything for dinner. It's lobster night
down at the Angler's Inn. My treat." He drove away.

Henry was waiting
for me when I walked back inside. "You promised, Mr. Leicester."

"Come on,
Henry." I motioned toward the restaurant. "I'll buy you a cup of coffee."

In the cafe the
waitress brought us coffee, then left us alone. An old couple, probably the
Waterburys from South Carolina, were talking with her, the man with great
animation, and flailing of arms. They were laughing, seemingly enjoying life.

Henry was sandy
haired, rawboned, freckle faced, mid-thirties. His eyes were dark brown and, if
it had not been for his perpetual smile, you would have thought him a dull
person. It was his hands that caught my eye: thick, callused, bulbous tips on
all digits. The nails were clean, but chipped, erose. Not the hands of a motel
desk clerk. Henry was not a big man, but well proportioned, and going a little
soft around the middle.

"So, Henry,
what's your last name?" I needed to probe him a little. This was a small
community, one never knows...

"Randan.
Henry Elijah Randan. Fifth generation to live in Maine. Family came over from
the Isle of Mann, across the pond." His smile turned into a wide, proud
grin.

"How long
you been working at the Navigator Inn?"

"Almost two
years,” he answered, waving at the waitress. "It was the only thing I
could find after our boat building business went keel up. You're keeping me in
suspense, Mr. Leicester."

Boat
building...that explained the hands.

I told him the
man my client's brother was here to meet was the one murdered down at Port
Clyde. The one and the same, Mr. Tony Bilotti. And that my client's brother was
missing. I didn't elaborate any further. No need to spread rumors about the
money.

"Talk to
me, Henry. You see this Bilotti fellow coming and going, anyone with him?"

He thought for a
moment, rubbed the back of his neck with a callused hand. "I only saw him
twice, the day he checked in, and one day later. He was leaving in a hurry,
seemed to be cursing under his breath, like he was angry at something."

"Anything
else?"

"I never
saw him with anyone. If I remember anything, I'll let you know."

"What about
the Waterburys?" I pointed toward the couple sitting by the window.
"That them over there?"

"Yeah. Here
about a week, checking out today. Nice people, friendly, said they've been
visiting relatives."

The waitress
came by with the coffeepot and a smile. Declining another cup, I laid a
five-dollar bill on the table, thanked Henry, and excused myself.

Back on the
fourth floor, I knocked on Sandy's door. She took a long time answering. I was
beginning to worry.

"I'm
sorry,” she said, when she finally flung it open. "I was on the balcony.
What were you and Chamberlain talking about? I saw you at his car."

"After you
wondered about the other people who are registered here, I checked."
Crossing my arms, I leaned against the doorframe, gazed out at the sparkling
water in the bay through her balcony door. "One of them was Tony Bilotti.
Chamberlain came back; we went through his room. There was nothing of
significance."

"My
brother?"

"No, he
wasn't the other guest. They're a couple named Waterbury, from South
Carolina." Shoving off the doorframe, I uncrossed my arms, started for my
room. "You ready to drive down to Port Clyde?"

"Yes, I'll
just be a minute." She disappeared into the room.

Sandy Rinaldi
was a beautiful woman. I've made it a hard rule not to get involved with a
client. Maybe when this is finished, I'll spend some time in the Big Easy.

*
* *

We retraced our
route back down Highway one until we came to state highway one thirty one. We
turned left. It would take us to Port Clyde.

At the intersection
of the two highways, high up on a hill, stood a huge, white mansion. "Now
that's a nice house,” I said, impressed with the imposing building.

"Yes,”
Sandy said, nonchalantly. "It's an exact replica of Thomas Jefferson's
Virginia plantation home, Monticello."

Well, I thought
to myself, wonder how she knew about the house?

"It says so
right here in this brochure I read this morning,” she said, chuckling, reading
my mind.

I laughed out
loud. Sandy looked at me with an impish expression.

The highway to
Port Clyde threaded its way through forested valleys and hills cleared for
cattle grazing. Pastures had started greening, bright sunshine brought out the
stark verdigris of the hills. We passed through the quaint fishing village of
Tenant's Harbor, set in a picturesque cove, sheltered from the storms of the
north Atlantic. More winding, climbing, descending through rural countryside
brought us to Port Clyde. Here the road ended in a steep descent at the dock.
Beyond lay the Atlantic, blue and glistening against the old oak trees and
colorfully painted houses of the village.

The parking lot
at the ferry dock was not hard to find. The highway dead-ended into the small,
bi-level, gravel covered lot. There were only two cars parked in the upper
level. There was no one to be seen. We'd only met one car since turning off
Highway one. It truly was the off season.

We parked in the
lot next to one of the cars. Sandy and I got out and stood in the bright
sunshine.

"Detective
Chamberlain was right,” Sandy said, looking out to sea. "There's nothing
here, not even people."

Surveying the
area, I saw that there were several buildings along the dock. Out in the
harbor, a dozen boats lay at anchor. None were moored at the long,
weather-beaten pier. Where were the people?

"This
doesn't make sense,” Sandy said, still looking out to sea. "Why was Tony
Bilotti in Renato's rental car? Who shot him? It wasn't Renato. He hated guns,
wouldn't touch one. What about this Waterbury couple?"

"Chamberlain's
running a check on them." I said, leaning against our rental car.

"Let's get
out of here, I don't like this place."

We got back in
the car. Remembering a rooming house a block back from the end of the road, I
parked in front and went inside. A sign hanging from a post in the yard, in the
motif of a whale, read: BARSTOW INN – OFF-SEASON RATES.

A young,
gray-headed man materialized behind the counter. "Yes, sir, what can I do
for you?" He asked, extending his hand. "James Barstow,
proprietor."

"Supposed
to meet my brother in Port Clyde,” I said, shaking his hand. "I hope this
is the place he's staying."

"We're the
only Inn in Port Clyde. Sorry, but we have no guests. Was hoping you were going
to register. Off season rates still in effect till the first of the month, then
all hell breaks loose."

"Maybe he
went on the ferry to Monhegan."

"Could be.
But the ferry hasn't run in two days."

"How often
does it run?"

"Here,” he
said, reaching across the counter, pulling a brochure from a holder. "Take
this, it's their schedule. Runs as advertised except for bad weather, or when
there's no passengers, freight, or mail."

Thanking him, I
started out.

"Say, we
had a fellow killed here couple days ago. I don't suppose..."

"No, talked
to my brother last night. Thanks."

Driving back
from Port Clyde proved to be as good going as it was coming. With clear skies,
the higher the sun rose, the greener our surroundings.

Sandy sat
reading the ferry schedule. "Renato must have gone on across to Monhegan
Island,” she said suddenly. "That's it. He's staying on the island waiting
for Bilotti to show. Why can't we call over and find out if Renato is
there?"

"Chamberlain
said he'd check. Besides, I don't think they have phone service to the offshore
islands. Communications is usually by radio."

Sandy was
silent, brooding.

When we entered
the small village of Tenant's Harbor, I noticed a sign advertising lunch at the
East Wind Inn. It was almost noon. Asking Sandy if she were hungry, she said
she could eat something.

Turning off the
highway into the East Wind Inn drive, we descended a curving, paved lane down
to a beautiful old house situated at the water's edge. A huge porch ran around
two sides of the house, overlooking the cove and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.

At least here,
in the East Wind Inn restaurant, there were other people. We were led to a
table next to a big picture window facing east towards the sea.

There's
something about a restaurant overlooking the ocean in the daytime. The
brightness of the surrounding hills, wafting of salt breezes, and amethystine
hues of the sea makes the atmosphere more striking. Maybe the people being
locals, not vacationers, made for a better ambiance. Whatever it was, the East
Wind had it. And I liked it.

We both had a
thick, creamy, seafood chowder, which was too good to describe. Wanting to ask
for seconds, but too embarrassed, I sipped on the 1990 Acacia Chardonnay, which
was superb with the chowder. The wine was rich, buttery, with nuances of honey,
pear, and lemon. It was the first time I'd tasted this vintage. I made a mental
note to buy some to cellar.