Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (9 page)

"Why was
the collection on Monhegan Island? I thought you lived in Chicago?"

He shot me an
impatient glance. "The lady who had the collection for sale has a summer
house on the island. That's where the collection was located." He paused,
as if to catch his breath. "We arranged for several of the oil paintings
and a few of the prints to be shown to my wife. She didn't like them. But you
see, I'd already bought the entire collection. I couldn't very well go back on
my word, now could I?"

I didn't say
anything.

"My
employee, Mr. Tony Bilotti, brought the paintings and prints with him to
Rockland. The rest of the collection remained in the summerhouse of the seller.
We arranged for Mr. Rinaldi to view everything together, on Monhegan
Island."

"So the
entire collection is still on Monhegan?" I asked, following his logic.

"No,"
Anastasio said, flailing his arms. "The entire collection is
missing." His voice rose to a higher pitch, the death-like face reddened.
"My employee is dead, the collection is missing, and I don't have the money.
I want to know why!" His whole body began jerking in the chair.

The suit came
back and stood quietly at the entrance to the conference area.

Anastasio calmed
down, waved his man away. "So you see my problem,” he said, holding his
head to the side, ugly, thin lips stretched tightly across still uglier teeth.
Bony hands shaking as if afflicted with palsy.

"I can see
your problem, Mr. Anastasio,” I said slowly, carefully. "Now here's my
problem..."

The most
powerful Mafia figure in the world looked at me incredulously. No one had
probably spoken to him in a long time without being subservient and
intimidated. I was neither. All I could see was an old man who thought he had
been cheated. That is if one chose to believe him. I did not.

"I'm
getting paid to find out who killed Nat Rinaldi, and what happened to the four
hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I could care less about Tony Bilotti. You
already heard my thoughts over the phone. Change my mind."

This was a
dangerous situation. Anastasio could squash me like a bug. Sometimes the fray
must be met to bring out the dimensions of men.

Anastasio
settled into his chair, looking disappointed. "I'm not a well man. Without
health life is not life, it is only a state of languor and suffering; an image
of death. I don't need to have stuff like this art thing aggravating me. I want
it over with."

He pushed a
button on the table. The suit appeared with a small glass of blue liquid.
Anastasio drank it and handed the glass back to the young man, who went back forward.

"Listen to
me well, private eye. This will be the only time I say this." His speech
was lucid. His voice was thin and dry as dead leaves, but clear. He spoke in a
rapid monotone such as one might use in giving a legal deposition, not having
much time. "The art collection is gone, Tony Bilotti is dead. I had
nothing to do with it. Someone will pay for their actions. It is a matter of
honor. All my people are working on this full time. I will find out.

"You have
almost crossed the bounds several times. I would be very careful. I have let
you make your stupid accusations only because they made sense. You are now informed."

Leaning back in
my chair, I watched the frail hands wave as he spoke, suddenly starting to
believe him.

He continued,
seemingly revived by the blue liquid. "I've done a thorough check of you.
Integrity is what they tell me about your character. So I don't think you're involved.
One of my men flew to New Orleans with Miss Rinaldi. We are watching her. Your
Detective Chamberlain, an interesting man, good cop. Too bad about his dying
wife."

If this kind of information
was supposed to get my attention, it did.

"If you had
nothing to do with the two deaths,” I acquiesced, "then tell me if you
have any ideas. It was a professional hit on both men. I've seen the bodies,
and the reports."

"So have I.
If I had ideas, we wouldn't be having this conversation. You have my private
number. I expect a call if you find anything before we do. Now get out of here,
out of my sight."

The meeting was
over. I stood up. The suit was already waiting for me at the door to escort me
out. Turning, I started up the aisle.

"Just a
minute,” Anastasio said, waving me back, motioning for me to sit. He leaned
across the highly polished table, splayed both ugly hands wide. Through some illusion,
no doubt a trick of light and shadow from the sunlight coming in through the
cabin windows, his withered, translucent face seemed to go smooth, his eyes
sardonic under lowered lids. "I almost forgot. You might like to have this
back."

He reached a
shaky hand under the table, retrieved something, and placed it down gently on
the polished top. It was my magnum. My mouth must have dropped open.

"How in
the...?"

The old man
grinned, turned in his chair, and looked out at the Maine landscape. Then
glancing at me, he said, "Motel maids are poor people. Some have husbands
who need medical attention. A few hundred bucks for a quick look around a hotel
room...you should be more careful, private eye."

There was pure
sarcasm and contempt resonating in his voice, as if even having to speak to an
underling such as myself was beyond his stature.

Picking up my
pistol, I gave Anastasio one last glance, and exited the aircraft.

CHAPTER
TWELVE

Sitting down
heavily in the car and hanging my head, I said, "J.L., even with the maid
letting them in, it seems impossible for someone to have retrieved my magnum
from the hotel and gotten it to Anastasio aboard that aircraft."

"These
people are good. They can do things we can not, or would not, think of
doing." He rubbed his chin, a serious expression on the scholarly profile.
"What do you want to do about the maid?"

It was an easy
decision. "Nothing."

Chamberlain kept
glancing over at me as we drove back from the airport to the Navigator Inn.

"Two men
are dead, J.L." I had forgotten to buckle my seatbelt, so I did. "The
people we're playing with are powerful, connected, and deadly. Anastasio said
he'd already read the autopsy reports."

Chamberlain
slowed, allowing an oncoming car to get back into the proper lane after passing
another vehicle. "Yeah, the medical examiner's office sends the results to
the State Police Headquarters via computer. If high school hackers can tap into
the Pentagon and get classified files, I'm sure Anastasio wouldn't have any
problem with a state computer network. All the information goes over the phone
lines."

Realizing that
fact was sobering.

"Sandy must
be informed about the meeting with Anastasio. You got any idea when we can get
Rinaldi's body released? It's my responsibility to take care of it."

"Probably
today,” Chamberlain said, glancing in his rearview mirror. "I'll check as
soon as we get back to the office. What are your plans?"

"To find
out if Henry knew about my magnum being lifted from my room."

"Don't go
off half-cocked, Jay. I've known Henry a long time. He comes from good
people."

"One advantage
I have, J.L., is not being bound by any preconceived ministrations with the
local populous. I can work my own investigation without what we in the South
call 'the good ole boy' syndrome interfering with rational thought."
Propping a foot up on the corner of the dash, I said, "Don't take this the
wrong way, but I'll just make my own decisions about Henry, or anyone else I
think may be involved."

"Point well
taken." He shot me a glance that betrayed the harshness of the statement.

Chamberlain
dropped me off at the Navigator Inn. He didn't seem to have taken offense at my
comment. He was a good cop, but sometimes even good cops can get too close to
their subjects to be objective.

Henry was coming
out of the coffee shop as I walked into the lobby. He saw me and waved.

"Come over
here, Henry. I want to talk with you."

Henry went
behind the registration desk, sat on a stool, and motioned to me. "Come on
back here, Mr. Leicester, have a seat. What's on your mind?"

Going behind the
counter, I sat on a stool identical to Henry's. A young couple emerged from the
cafe and waved at him. When they left the lobby, I said, "I've got a
problem, Henry. Returning to the hotel yesterday, I found that the door to my
room had been left open."

Watching his
face closely for any indication of guilt, I found none.

"I'm sorry,
Mr. Leicester." He leaned back against the wall and crossed his legs.
"It has happened before. We have warned the maid about being careless, but
she's old and she forgets. Management would have fired her a long time ago, but
she's been here forever, and needs the work. I don't think she could find a job
anywhere else. I'll talk to her today."

"There was
something stolen from my room, Henry. Something valuable."

I watched his
expression.

He uncrossed his
legs and sat up straight. "Stolen. Oh, my goodness. The maid's never been
accused of stealing anything from guests, ever. We have insurance. I'll call
them right now. What was taken?"

Henry was either
cleverly good at lying, or telling me the truth. It was hard to decide.

Standing up, I
said, "It wasn't the maid. The item has been recovered. You need to know
there's been a breach in security at your hotel."

Henry got up
from his stool and stood beside me. "You recovered what was stolen? I
don't understand?"

"Let's just
say someone had a change of heart, returned what they took." Walking from
behind the counter, I waved and said, "See you later, Henry."

Rounding the
corner for the elevator, I stopped and looked back. Henry was making a hastened
dash for the coffee shop.

Back up in the
room, I slid open the glass doors, walked out on the balcony, and sat down. I
wanted to make some notes on the conversation with Anastasio. The mind has a
strange way of forgetting fifty percent of what it learns in about six months.
Making a written account has proven its worth a thousand times, especially for
dates, times, and exactly what was said or done in given situations.

The sky had
turned a gunmetal blue. The wind had picked up and there was a cold, rotting
smell of the sea in the air. The mare’s-tails were being vindicated by the approaching
cold front. A pelican flew low over the ferry dock, gray like a piece of
newspaper blowing across a deserted street.

Finishing the
notes, I leaned back in the chair and watched a flock of seagull’s fight for
positions on the pilings along the waterfront. They told me the wind direction
was from the northwest. Seagulls always sit facing into the wind.

Still troubled
about Anastasio having my magnum, I remembered hiding the gun shortly after
discovering the door to my motel room open. Nothing else was missing. Even with
the maid's involvement, whoever stole my gun entered the room while I was out
for a moment, sitting on the balcony, or asleep. Henry had access, but if he
was involved, he had played a good hand when confronted. I'll say this for
whoever it was, they are good, really good.

The phone rang.
Going inside, I picked up the receiver, "Yes?"

"You can
have Rinaldi's body anytime you want,” Chamberlain said.

"Thanks,
J.L. Listen, I need your recommendation for a funeral home to handle the body
for me, get it ready for transport, do the paperwork, deliver it to the
airport."

"No
problem. Wilson's Mortuary can handle it. Dave Wilson is the owner. He's a good
friend. They're listed in the book, but I'll give him a call for you."

"Thanks,” I
said, making a mental note of the funeral home. "I'll call Sandy, then let
them know the details after I speak with her."

"You talk
with Henry?"

"Yeah. I
don't know what to think, yet."

"You'll
tell me if you learn anything about his involvement?"

"J.L., I'm
not working against you. I thought we understood each other?" Finding a
pad, I jotted down the funeral home's name.

"I just
wanted to be sure. Call me after you talk with Sandy."

"Will do.
We've got to get organized. There's lots of work to be done. Two murders, half
a million unaccounted for, a missing art collection, remember?"

"Yes,”
Chamberlain said. "I remember."

*
* *

"Rinaldi
Art Gallery. This is Sandy. How may I help you?"

"Hello,
Sandy, it's Jay."

"Oh, Jay,”
she said, concern in her voice. "Have you found out who killed Renato?"

"No, not
yet,” I answered quickly. "But I did meet with a man named Gino Anastasio
this morning."

"You mean
the Mafia Don from Chicago?"

"Yes, he
was Bilotti's boss,” I answered, stretching the phone cord across the bed,
sitting down at the small table, and thinking how familiar Sandy was with the
name. "It was Anastasio who was selling the Kent Collection."

"My God,
Jay,” she gasped. "Did he have Rinaldi killed for the money?"

"Chamberlain
and I both think the stakes are too small for Anastasio. We're working on other
angles which could involve him or his organization." I drew a circle
around the funeral home name.

"What
angles?" She asked. "If not Anastasio, then who?"

"Don't
worry, Sandy, we'll find out." I hesitated and drew another circle.
"We'll have some help. Anastasio's whole organization is looking into it,
according to him. Seems he planned to give the Kent collection to his wife as a
birthday present. Only she wanted Norman Rockwell instead of..."

"Rockwell
Kent,” Sandy interrupted. "It's not an infrequent mix-up."

"Yeah,
well, Anastasio's taking this one personally. He's lost the collection and a
hired hand. He hasn't been compensated for either."

"Upset then,
is Mr. Anastasio?" She said, in a strangely amused tone.

"He's
serious, Sandy. He knows all about you and your brother. My background, as well
as Chamberlain's, was thoroughly researched. He even followed you to New Orleans.
They're watching you now."

I heard her
gasp.

"Sandy, you
okay?"

There was a
pause. Then, "Yes, I'm fine. I just hadn't thought about anyone following
me. The idea doesn't sit too well."

"There's
one other thing,” I said, as gently as I could. "Your brother's body is
ready to be returned. What do you want me to do?"

"Send it to
Bluillot's Crematorium,” she answered, quickly. "I've made arrangements
with them."

"Okay,
spell the name for me." I grimaced, having always hated the thought of
being cremated. "Give me their address and phone number. I'll let them
know which flight and the time of arrival."

Sandy gave me
the information and, after promising to keep her informed on our progress with
the investigation, we hung up.

Sitting on the
bed, I thought about cremation. It didn't matter to the dead, but it did to me.
I had a bad experience watching a fellow airman burn to death in an airplane
crash one cold and snowy day after they slid off an icy runway. The only fire I
have been able to tolerate since was in a fireplace.

Standing, I
walked to the sliding glass doors of the room. The wind was really whipping.
The workboats in the bay were pounding, their bows throwing salty spray high
into the leaden, overcast sky. The rain would come soon.

Stepping over to
the phone, I punched in Chamberlain's number. It was time to go to work.

*
* *

Turning out of
the hotel parking lot onto the road paralleling the ocean, I headed toward the
police department. A lonely traffic light hung far ahead, a flash of changing
red, yellow, and green in a bleak, gray sky. The rain started in earnest as I
arrived at Chamberlain's office.

"Mr.
Leicester,” the Desk Sergeant said, as I entered the front door of the police
station. "A good nor'wester blowing in. Should be the last one of the
year."

Looking at him
closely for the first time, I observed that he was slightly less than six feet,
compactly built, with a ruddy, clean-shaven face, and receding hairline. He had
broad, powerful shoulders, with well-muscled arms. He was in his mid to late
thirties or early forties. His nametag read: SERGEANT BOWERS. He was a man more
suited for the outside than a desk job, I thought.

"Does the
temperature usually drop this much in the spring?" I asked, wiping the icy
rain off my face with a handkerchief.

"We've had
heavy snow this time of year,” he said, grinning, bending forward, forearms on
the desk, his two hands closed before him. "Not like being in the South,
is it?"

"Not in
your wildest imagination, Sergeant."

He laughed, a
big booming sound that seemed to shake the building.

"Is
Chamberlain in his office?"

"He's
expecting you. Go right in."

"J.L.,” I
said, sitting down in one of the spartan chairs in the bare office. "Your
friend Dave Wilson's a nice man. He's taking care of all the arrangements to
ship Rinaldi's body back to New Orleans. He's even working with the crematorium
there to pick up the body. He said to tell you thanks for the business."

"He's a
good man,” J.L. said, leaning back in his chair, putting his hands behind his
head. "Let's look at what we've got."

Chamberlain went
through the whole scenario from the time the body was discovered in the parking
lot at the Port Clyde ferry dock with me filling in the blanks where Sandy and
I were involved.

The only
identification on the body in the car at the ferry dock was that of Nat
Rinaldi, which turned out to be Tony Bilotti. Chamberlain called Sandy, who was
listed as next of kin on the Driver's License, who in turn contacted me. Nat
Rinaldi washed up on the beach two days later. Both men had been killed in the
same way; a .9mm slug behind the right ear, execution style.

Nat Rinaldi was
supposedly traveling with four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash to
purchase an art collection by renowned artist, Rockwell Kent. Both money and
art collection are missing.

Tony Bilotti
turned out to be a low-level Mafia mole from Chicago. This led to the suspicion
that the Wise Guys may have killed both men and ripped off the money. But the
head of the crime families, Gino Anastasio, informed us he had nothing to do
with the murders.

"Well,”
Chamberlain said, after an awkward pause. "We've got to list our possible
suspects."

"Okay,” I
agreed, leaning forward in the chair, grabbing the edge of his desk with both
hands. "I'll put Anastasio at the head of the list. Your turn?"

Chamberlain
looked at me. I could see the brain working through his eyes.

"It could
have been one of the local people in Port Clyde, or someone here, in Rockland."
He paused.

Remaining
silent, I enjoyed watching his investigative thought processes continue in their
current vein.

He continued.
"Maybe someone on Monhegan Island that we don't know about...” His voice
trailed off. Then suddenly: "Or, by God, it could be me. I carry a .9mm
automatic, shoots the same slug as the ones dug out of both brains. Don't you want
to run my gun through ballistics?"