Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (4 page)

"Before I
forget it, Sandy,” I said over coffee. "Chamberlain invited us to dinner
tonight. It would be a good chance to get to know him better. You game?"

She smiled.
"Never turn down a free meal, Jay."

When we arrived
back at the Navigator Inn there was a message from Chamberlain. It said he'd
pick us up at six thirty for dinner. That was good, we could talk tonight.

With nothing
else to do for a few hours, I sat on the balcony watching the activity in the
harbor, thinking about Nat Rinaldi, Tony Bilotti, wondering where the four hundred
and fifty thousand dollars could be, and truly hoping Rinaldi was waiting on Monhegan
Island.

Then there was
this old couple from South Carolina staying here at the Navigator. Both were
dressed casually and inexpensively, like retirees on a fixed income. They
didn't seem to fit the high stakes world of art collecting. It couldn't hurt
for Chamberlain to check them out, though.

CHAPTER
SIX

Chamberlain rang
my room at the appointed time. Collecting Sandy, we met him downstairs at the
check in counter. Riding in silence, Chamberlain eased along the quaint waterfront
to the Angler's Inn.

"I hope you
both like lobster,” Chamberlain said, as we walked across the parking lot.
"If you do, you're in for a treat."

"We get
live Maine lobster flown into New Orleans,” Sandy said. "But they are
outrageously expensive."

Chamberlain
laughed, winked at me.

Inside, a woman
with a loud, squeaky voice showed us to a table. As she walked away her voice
lingered on like the whining of a dentist's drill. Thank God our waitress
didn't sound like her.

Chamberlain
ordered the nights special for all of us, and began to look over the wine list.
"They have a 1990 Chablis Grand Cru, from Les Preuses. It's dry, steely,
and goes great with the lobster. Is that okay, or would either of you like
something else to drink?"

Sandy said the
wine would be fine. It delighted me that Chamberlain had an appreciation for
the grape. Wine has been a hobby of mine for twenty years. The Chablis was
familiar, though not the vintage. It should be fun.

The lobster
arrived. Three, steaming, pink Maine lobster per person. Unbelievable! Gluttony
at its finest. The wine was superb; a yellow gold color, a rich, honeyed nose
with plenty of refreshing acidity to offset the sweetness. It was outstanding
with the lobster and, for the second time today, I promised to add to my
cellar.

Holding my glass
up to Sandy, I said, "What do you think?"

"Wonderful."
She twirled the wine in the glass, smelled the bouquet. "This is truly
good. A great choice, Detective. You can be my sommelier anytime."

Chamberlain
smiled; obviously pleased we appreciated the wine.

Sandy ate every
succulent morsel of her lobster. I was only able to get two of mine down.
Finishing with a satisfied grin, she was happier than I had seen her thus far.

We sat, sipping
on the second bottle of Les Preuses, listening to the noise of the now full
restaurant, smelling aromas of steaming lobster and clarified butter wafting
across the room.

"Tell me, Jay,”
Chamberlain asked. "How did you get into the private investigation
business? If you don't mind my asking?"

"Don't
mind, J.L.,” I lied. "Spent twenty-five years driving airplanes around.
Got tired of a lot of things about the business, not the least of which was the
nouveau riche that wanted pilots for servants. Wouldn't wash with me.
Government bureaucracy, however well-meant, was squeezing us too tight."

"Why this
business?"

Talking about
myself made me feel uneasy, especially in front of a client. Cutting him short,
I said, "I grew up in a family of law enforcement people. It's the only
thing I knew besides flying. How about you?"

"Me? I
don't know." He pulled his lobster bib off, wiped his hands in the lemon
water. "Joined the Air Force right out of college. Trained as an
electronics officer. Ended up doing surveillance against the North Koreans at
the end of that conflict. I guess I just naturally gravitated toward law
enforcement. Kind of enjoy working in a small town. Grew up here, know
everybody. We don't get a lot of complicated stuff. Makes life easy, you
know?"

"Well,
you've got something complicated, now,” Sandy said, pulling at her bib.
"Bilotti's dead and my brother has still not contacted us."

"I checked
all the places your brother could be staying,” Chamberlain said almost
defensively. "Haven't located where, yet."

"What about
Monhegan Island?" I asked, following suit with the bib and finger bowl.

"No, he's
not registered at the only place open this time of year, Barbara Hitchcock's
guest house. They stay open year-round. I talked to her by radio this
afternoon. He could be staying with someone, maybe in a private residence."

"Not
likely." Sandy said, dejected. "He doesn't know anyone in
Maine."

"Well, he's
got to be staying somewhere. I'll keep looking."

Miss Dental
Drill came to our table. "Telephone call for you, J.L.,” she whined away.
"You can take it at my desk."

"Thank you,
Lucy." Chamberlain excused himself, slid out of his seat. "I'll just
be a minute."

After
Chamberlain was out of earshot, Sandy looked at me and said, "Do you think
this man's capable of handling this situation?" She wiped her mouth,
looked toward where Chamberlain had disappeared. "Maybe we ought to call
the sheriff, or the state police."

"He's
capable,” I said, defending Chamberlain. "He works at his own pace, in his
own way. Don't underestimate him, Sandy." I'm not sure I convinced her.

Chamberlain
returned shortly. Whatever the phone call, it was troubling him. But all he
said was, "Just routine." It probably had to do with his wife.

Over coffee
Chamberlain said the photo enlargements of Nat Rinaldi would be ready in the
morning. He would pass them around throughout the area. Maybe someone would
recognize him.

"You find
out anything on Bilotti from your friend in Chicago?" I asked, surprised
he hadn't mentioned anything about this all evening. He had seemed pretty
preoccupied since the phone call.

"No. My
friend didn't know him, but he's going to check and let me know tomorrow."
Chamberlain fidgeted with his coffee cup. Finally, he said, "My wife is
interested in art. You never said what collection Nat Rinaldi was here to
purchase. It might brighten her day if she knew I was working on a case
involving the art world. She might even know the artist's work."

Looking at Sandy,
I deferred to her expertise.

Sandy smiled at
Detective Chamberlain. "The collection was by Rockwell Kent. I know little
about him, except that he did some government murals and worked in several
mediums. He was some sort of socialist. Renato's the expert on Kent."

Chamberlain's
smile turned into a strange, slanted grin.

"What?"
Sandy asked, agitated. "Did I say something amusing?"

"No, no,”
Chamberlain said, leaning back in his chair, holding up both hands in defense.
"It just surprised me. I know of Kent. My wife bought a book written by
him, GREENLAND JOURNAL. It came with six lithographs. She framed them; they're
hanging in our hallway. One of them named, On Earth Peace, is my favorite. It
shows a young Eskimo girl with angel wings soaring over the world."

"I'd love
to see them,” Sandy said.

"Yes."
He looked off in the distance. Then, "You know, Kent lived on Monhegan
Island when he was a young man. Worked at odd jobs, well digger, fisherman,
carpenter. They say he built two houses on the island which are still
standing."

Well, I said to
myself, this is coincidental. Maybe it was by design for the seller to meet
Rinaldi on Monhegan Island. The collection could be stored somewhere over
there. Interesting.

Chamberlain
looked for a long time at Sandy. "You and your brother's business is
located in New Orleans?"

"Yes,”
Sandy replied, clasping both hands together on top of the table. "We have
a small gallery in the French Quarter, adjacent to Jackson Square. We deal only
in oils and a few block prints. My area of expertise is with the
impressionists: Monet, Gauguin, Picasso, Manet, Van Gogh, etc."

"I've
certainly heard of all of them, but it's way over my head. I know nothing of
the art world. My wife is the family art expert. I leave all that to her."

Sandy smiled,
didn't say anything.

"You are a
beautiful young woman, Miss Rinaldi. Never married?"

Sandy looked at
him. "No, J.L., no one ever asked. The name is Sandy, remember?"

Chamberlain
nodded. "Well, there must me something wrong with those young men in
Louisiana. Why if I were thirty years younger and single, you would have to
beat me off with a stick."

I laughed.

"Why thank
you, kind sir. If you weren't a Yankee, I would take you for a true southern
gentleman."

Chamberlain and
I both laughed.

After the
dinner, which was only twelve bucks a person plus the wine, Chamberlain drove
us back to the Navigator Inn. He was strangely quiet during the drive. The
phone call must still be bothering him. We watched as he drove away, then went
up to our rooms.

Sandy said she
was tired and full and was going to turn in. We said good night. Leaving her at
her door, I walked out on my balcony. Lights on the islands in the bay twinkled
in the cool night air. The ferry was unloading people and cars at the dock
straight across the street from where I stood.

My phone rang.
The desk clerk, Henry, I thought. No doubt wanting to catch up on the latest.
Picking up the receiver, I had no time to say anything.

"Leicester,
it's J.L.,” he said, sounding rather depressed.

"What's up,
J.L.?" I asked, sitting down on the bed. "You alright? You don't
sound so good."

"I didn't
want to say anything at dinner in front of Sandy, but the phone call I got; we
have another body. Washed up down by Tenant's Harbor. It matches the
photograph. I just wanted to be sure. I'll run the prints."

"I
understand, J.L., thanks for calling. I'll be in touch with you in the
morning."

Hanging the
phone up, I stood there for a moment looking out the sliding glass doors toward
the Atlantic Ocean and Europe. Maybe I should tell Sandy. After all, she was my
client. Nat Rinaldi is, or was, her brother.

Lightly tapping
my fist on the doorframe, I made a decision to allow her a good night's sleep.
Death could be dealt with tomorrow. Chamberlain would have the rest of the
night to work on a positive identification of the body they fished out of
Tenant's Harbor. Maybe he could get a match on the fingerprints.

What I needed
was a drink. The small courtesy bar contained assorted liquors. Finding two
tiny bottles of Courvoisier cognac, I opened both, pouring them into a wineglass.
Carefully cutting the end off one of my seven inch, fifty-four ring, long
filler, handmade, Ernesto P. Carrillos cigars, crafted by old country
Tabaquero's on Calle Ocho in the heart of Miami, I carefully lit it, admiring
the aroma. It's been my habit to never travel without them.

The wind was
calm on the balcony. The cigar smoke curled slowly upward, a bluish-gray line
dividing the black void of my world into two equal halves. Checking Sandy's
balcony to be sure she wasn't curled up in a corner, I sat in one of the wooden
chairs, and propped my feet up on the railing.

Tony Bilotti was
dead. Now, almost surely, Nat Rinaldi was dead. Four hundred and fifty thousand
in cash hadn't turned up. A collection of artwork by an artist named Rockwell
Kent was probably stolen, also.

A boat,
invisible except for a white masthead light and a red portside running light,
made its way northward in Penobscot bay. Here I sat on a balcony, in a strange
motel, in the State of Maine. As usual, surrounded by dead bodies, unhappy
clients, and missing tangibles people think are worth human lives.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

The water was
cold, icy cold, and black. Something was pulling me down, down. Unable to
breathe, I was drowning. Something pulling me to the place where the dead who
do not die, but may not live, wander aimlessly forever.

Awaking with a
start, I was covered with sweat, sheets wrapped tightly around my neck. The
phone was ringing.

"Yes,” I
said into the foul smelling handset.

"Leicester?"
It was Chamberlain. "I'm downstairs, meet me for coffee, I have some more
information. We need to take Sandy for a positive I.D."

"What time
is it?" I asked, trying to shake off the nightmare.

"Jesus,
Leicester, it's eight-thirty. You're not still in bed?"

"I'll be
there in half an hour."

Dialing Sandy's
room and getting no answer, I headed for the shower.

After dressing,
I dialed Sandy's room again. Still no answer. Walking out on the balcony, I
peaked over into hers. She was not there. On the way to the elevator, I knocked
on her door. Nothing. Where could she be?

Waving at Henry
who was standing behind the registration desk, he smiled, and gave me a half
salute.

Entering the
restaurant, I was relieved to find Sandy sitting with Chamberlain.

"Better
late, than never,” she said jokingly as I sat down.

Chamberlain hadn't
told her about the body.

Looking at him,
he answered my stare. "I wanted to wait until you were here."

"Wait for
what? Have you found out something about Renato?" Sandy's voice rose in
pitch. She clinched her fists on the tabletop. "You tell me right
now."

"Take it
easy, Sandy. Chamberlain's only trying to spare you any more pain. He didn't
want to repeat the Bilotti thing."

Chamberlain was
looking at his coffee cup, head bowed. He looked old and tired.

"You tell
me now!" Sandy demanded, standing up suddenly, rattling the cups and
saucers on the table.

The waitress
looked at us with concern.

Holding my hand
up to the waitress, I shook my head. Then looking at Chamberlain, I said,
"Tell her."

"Please Miss Rinaldi,
Sandy,” he said, looking up at her with watery, pleading eyes. "Last night
at dinner when I got the phone call, a body had been found. Couple of fishermen
for the Port Clyde Foods Company found it washed up at Tenant's Harbor. I
wanted to be sure, not put you through another unnecessary trip to the morgue.
The body had been in the water for several days, I couldn't get fingerprints,
crabs had...well, it looks like your brother."

Sandy sat down,
her anger gone.

"I need you
to make a positive I.D.,” Chamberlain said softly. "I'm sorry..."

*
* *

We followed the
same stoop-shouldered old man with the limp, down the same cold, dank hallway.
He gave off an odor of sour booze and fresh hospital laundry.

The body lay on
the familiar stainless steel autopsy table Tony Bilotti had occupied two days
before. The air in the room had a sweet putridness to it, reminding me of a
tidal flat on a hot August afternoon. Gentrification doesn't mean a thing when
you arrive here; orifices ooze, blood pools. It is the same for everybody.

They are all the
same, places like this, and I hate them. Never in my lifetime could I become
used to being around death. No matter how many times I have to dip my hands
into stranger's blood, I'll never become hardened to it. Never.

Sandy walked
over and stood across the table from Chamberlain, at the head of the
sheet-draped body. I eased up beside her. The bright overhead lights made the
room seem sterile, clinical. A trickle of water echoed eerily around the walls.

Chamberlain
looked at me, I nodded. He pulled the sheet back. Sandy moaned, fell to the
floor. I reached for her, but she fell too quickly.

Her crumpled
body lay limp and still on the concrete floor. The long, ash-blond hair splayed
out in a neat, circular pattern around her head. Anywhere else it would have
been sexy and alluring.

Chamberlain was
at her side instantly, moving much faster than I imagined. We picked Sandy up
off the floor and took her outside to a small couch in the hallway. Blood from
a small cut discolored the hair on the back of her head.

"Jim, get
Doctor Reinbold,” Chamberlain said to the orderly who had been waiting in the
hall. "Now, Jim,” he said again, angrily. The old man shuffled off down
the hallway.

Soon, a nurse
with a gurney, followed by stoop-shouldered Jim, came hurrying down the hall.
"Doctor Reinbold is with a patient,” the nurse said. "What happened
here?"

"She
fainted and hit her head,” I answered. "She's still unconscious."

The nurse gave
her a quick look. "Okay, get her on the gurney. We'll take her to an
examination room. The doctor will see her shortly."

We followed them
to the exam room. The nurse took her vital signs, and started filling out the
usual lengthy forms. Answering the questions as best I could, I wondered what
the world do without paperwork. The nurse shuffled more pages, keeping an eye
on Sandy.

A giant of a man
entered the room. "I'm Doctor Reinbold,” he said, extending a massive paw.

We shook hands.
He was as strong as a Bull Moose.

"Hello,
J.L., how's the wife today?" He asked Chamberlain, turning his attention
to Sandy.

"She's
holding her own, Bill. Nausea's let up some this week."

"Good,
good,” the doctor said, nodding, feeling of the vertebra in Sandy's neck.
"What have we here?"

"She
fainted, hit her head,” I said. "After viewing the body of her
brother."

The big man
turned and looked at me with compassion in his eyes. "Yes, the one they
fished out of the water at Tenant's Harbor. I looked at it this morning. That
could be rough on anyone."

"Yes,” I
said, shifting weight from one foot to the other. "Could be."

"Well,” the
doctor said after giving Sandy a cursory exam. "I don't see anything here.
The cut doesn't need stitching, but I want to get an X-ray, keep her for awhile
just to be sure."

Sandy regained
consciousness before the doctor left. He seemed satisfied she was stable, and
said he'd look in on her later.

As gently as I
could, I said, "Chamberlain's got to know, Sandy, for official reasons.
Was it your brother?"

She nodded,
tears streaming down her lovely face. Suddenly, I felt a great deal of
compassion for her.

"Yes. Oh
God, Jay. Renato." She turned her head to the wall, sobbing harder.

"I'm
sorry,” I said, feeling helpless and inadequate.

"You rest
now,” Chamberlain said, stepping up to the bed, touching Sandy gently on the
shoulder. "Everything will be alright. We'll take care of all the details.
You get some rest."

Sandy turned and
looked at us. "I'm sorry I fainted. I'm stronger than that. It was such a
shock. You'll find out what happened?"

"Yes,”
Chamberlain said, patting her arm. "We'll find out. Don't you worry, we'll
find out."

The nurse came
back in and ushered us out. She said that they were going to take Sandy for
X-rays. She would be back in the room in an hour.

Chamberlain and
I went to the hospital cafeteria.

"She took
it pretty hard,” I said, watching Chamberlain stir sugar into the weak hospital
coffee.

"One cannot
weep with dignity, Jay. But one should weep for the loss of a loved one."

Realizing
Chamberlain must have been thinking of his own wife's death, and how he would
deal with it when the time came, I felt sorry for him.

He seemed to
sense my thoughts. "If there's one thing I've learned over the years about
life,” he said, blowing on the hot coffee and looking at me. "Is that it
goes on."

"How'd
Rinaldi die?" I asked, changing the subject. "Drown?"

He grunted, put
the cup down. "Same as Bilotti, single bullet hole behind the right
ear." He pointed as he did before, behind his head. "Ballistics will
tell us if both bullets came from the same gun."

"You hope,”
I said, knowing how bullets deform exploding through bone. It's only when they
pass through a Kennedy and a Connally at the same time do they remain pristine.
"Even so, it won't help much unless we find the shooter holding the
gun."

"Yeah,” he
said, rubbing the rim of his coffee cup. "We've got to try, though."

"You said
on the phone this morning you had some other information?"

He nodded.
"I heard from Chicago. Bilotti was nothing, a soldier in the crew of a
capo named Stefano. He's an associate of the Gino Anastasio crime family."
He paused, letting me assimilate Bilotti's resume.

Analytical
thinking is not one of my strong suits, but this was pretty plain. "Rip
off,” I said, more loudly than intended. "Anastasio sets up Nat Rinaldi by
insisting he bring cash. Uses Bilotti, who's really made'em mad about something
else, to do the legwork. Then they whack'em both. Two birds with one stone, and
half a million richer."

"We think a
lot alike, Jay,” Chamberlain said smiling, sitting back in his chair and
crossing his legs. "But if you got any ideas on how we can prove any of
this, I'd like to hear them."

"When are
they going to do the autopsy on Rinaldi?"

"Tomorrow.
We should get a preliminary on both Bilotti and Rinaldi by the end of the
week,” he answered, ducking a tray carried by an orderly. "The photo
enlargements of Rinaldi are ready. I'll pick them up this afternoon and get my
people to work on getting them out."

"I'll help
pass them around. Every resident of your community needs to see a copy of the
photos, both Rinaldi's and Bilotti's. Somebody had to have seen them together.
Rinaldi spent the night somewhere in the area."

"You're not
going to take over my case, are you?" He asked, watching the orderly find
a table.

"Will if I
have to."

Chamberlain
laughed and looked back at me. "I believe you would."

"I'll work
with you Chamberlain,” I said, putting both hands on the tabletop. "But I
won't, I don't, drag my feet."

"You going
to stay with Sandy until the doctor releases her, I suppose?" He asked,
ignoring my comment.

I nodded.

"I'm going
to get some work done." He rose from the table. Two young nurses walked by
carrying food trays. He watched them until they sat down. "Lord, I'm
getting old, Jay." He was gone.

Leaning back in
my chair, I watched the nurses chatting, eating their salads. Yeah, J.L., I
thought, I'm getting old, too.

I went to check
on Sandy.

*
* *

Sandy was lying
quietly on her back with her eyes closed. When I walked up to the side of the
bed, she slowly looked up at me with a tired expression. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine,
a little dizzy. But I'm ready to leave this place."

"I'll see
if you can be released." Heading for the door, I turned and said,
"Let me check with the nurse, won't be but a minute."

Walking down the
hall to the nurse's desk, I spotted the same one who had worked on Sandy
bending over writing furiously in a patient's chart.

She looked up,
watched me approach. "Oh, there you are." She smiled, held up a file.
"Doctor Reinbold said Miss Rinaldi can go. If she develops any symptoms
such as headaches, nausea, or dizziness over the next twenty-four hours, bring
her back in immediately."

"Thank you.
I'll keep an eye on her."

Realizing our
car was at the motel because we had ridden to the hospital with J.L., I asked the
nurse to call a taxi for us.

Stoop-shouldered
Jim, the orderly, rolled Sandy to the front door in a wheelchair.
"Hospital policy,” he said, pointing to the wheelchair, breathing fresh
whiskey breath into my face.

During the ride
back to the Navigator Inn Sandy curled up in the seat facing away from the sun.
She reminded me of the position some plants assume during the night.

Back at the
motel, Sandy threw me a curve that I wasn't expecting.

"Make us a
reservation on the earliest flight for tomorrow. I want out of this
place."

"Wait,
Sandy. Don't you want to find out who killed your brother? What happened to the
money?"

"I don't
care about the money. Renato is dead. There is nothing I can do about it. The
police can handle it from now on. Please get me out of here, tomorrow."
She slammed the door leaving me standing, stunned, in the hall.

Going to my
room, I walked out on the balcony. The ocean to the east was a brilliant blue,
covered with a field of diamond topped waves. Puffy white clouds drifted above
seabirds feeding along the shore, boats worked in the bay. I did not notice any
of this. Sandy's request was rolling through my mind.

Sitting down in
one of the small chairs, I realized that Sandy wanted to run. But why? Maybe I
would want to flee, too, if it had been my brother rotting away in some dank
hospital morgue. After some rest, maybe she would change her mind. Or I could
change it for her. At least I hoped that I could.

Sandy could fire
me tomorrow if she wanted, but I wasn't making any reservations to leave.
Someone had to find out who killed Nat Rinaldi and Tony Bilotti, find where the
four hundred and fifty thousand dollars went. Then there was Rockwell Kent. I
still did not know anything about this artist, or even if a Kent collection
existed.