GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5) (11 page)

CHAPTER 1
6
– THE CHIEF

I woke up the next morning to pounding at my door. I told whoever it was to hold the horses and threw on a pair of pants. I looked through the peep hole. A young cop was standing outside.

“Chief wants to see you,” he said when I opened the door.

He was a good-looking kid. A patrol car was parked sideways behind my car.

“Why?”

He gave me a just-following-orders shrug.

“Chief of what?”

“Selkirk Police Department.”

“Where’s the station.”

“Block before the lighthouse. Why?”

“Tell him I’ll be there in a half hour. I want to take a shower.”

“I’m supposed to bring you.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No.”

“Then I’m driving my own car there. If you want to wait, I’ll follow you.”

He hesitated.

“That going to be a problem?”

“No. I’ll wait.”

“I should warn you, I’m going to stop for coffee.”

“We have coffee.”

I looked at him.

“There’s a place just before we get to the station,” he said, with a small grin. “Mom and Pop. They know how to make real coffee.”

“How do you take yours?”

“Milk, two sugars. Chief likes it black. He uses Splenda, but we have a lot of that crap in the office.”

He walked back to his car and I closed the door. Twenty minutes later I followed him out of the motel. After a few miles he pulled into a small country store. I went in and got three large coffees. They didn’t have any donuts but I got a half dozen bear claws, still warm.  When in Rome.

I didn’t know what the Chief wanted me for, but I played it safe. By the time we got to the station, there were only five bear claws left in the bag. I followed the young cop into the building, a one-story brick affair. A woman civilian behind a counter smiled at him. There was another cop sitting behind a desk working on a computer. He didn’t bother to look up.

“Follow me,” my cop said.

I held up the two bags I was holding. He smiled.

“Bear claws?”

I saw the other cop look up. I nodded.

“Leave the claws and my coffee with Sally.”

I did and he took me to the back of the station to an office. The door was closed. A plaque next to it said: “CHIEF OF POLICE, Vito F. Rizzuto.” He knocked and opened the door.

“Here’s the private eye, Chief.”

He stepped aside and I went in. He left, shutting the door behind me.

The man who glowered at me from behind a big metal desk was a lot older than I expected. He had a fleshy face and an oversize red-veined nose that comes from a hard-liquor life. His hair was white and cut short. He wore his tan uniform badly, the bottom portion of his Sam Browne belt digging into an ample gut. A holster with a pearl-handled revolver hung from a coat rack against the wall behind him.

“Lemme see your I.D.”

I put two containers of coffee on his desk and handed over my license and my card identifying me as a consultant to the N.Y.P.D.

“Thought you might want some coffee.”

He looked annoyed.

“Where’s it from?”

I told him. He grunted and took the coffee. Didn’t say thanks.

“Brought some bear claws there, too. Left them with your deputy.”

He picked up his phone and punched a button.

“Save me a claw,” he growled, then put the phone down and looked at me. He reached into his top drawer and took out some little yellow packets and emptied their content into his coffee. I love fat people who try to keep their caloric intake below 4,000 by using artificial sweeteners. He drank some coffee. “This doesn’t make us pals, pal. What are you doing in my town?”

I was pretty sure he already knew the answer. There was one chair in front of his desk. I sat. That annoyed him some more.

“I hear you have the best bear claws in upstate New York.”

He ignored me and scanned my I.D. He held up the consultant card.

“Whose dick did you suck to get this? Doesn’t mean jackshit to me. You carrying a piece?”

I opened my jacket.

“Got a license for that?”

“Yeah. And the bullets, too.”

“Lemme see.”

I knew I was in trouble the moment I saw the Sam Browne belt and the pearl-handled revolver. There may be nothing more dangerous than a small-town police chief who thinks he’s George Patton. Although I don’t think Patton wore a Sam Browne. That might have been Pershing. I dug out my permit and flipped it on his desk.

“Anybody in your family play shortstop for the Yankees, Chief?”

He threw all my I.D. back across the desk.

“I hate the fuckin’ Yankees. I’m a Red Sox fan. Now, I asked you a question, and I want an answer. Why are you bothering Vicki Gustafson?”

“I wasn’t aware I was bothering her,” I said, sipping my coffee. “She even invited me back.” I looked at my watch. “Look, Chief, you’re not my only fan. If you want an autograph, fine. But I’ve got places to go, people to see. Can we wrap this up, whatever this is?”

“I got a right to know what’s going on around here.”

“Actually, you don’t. You have the right to ask me what I’m up to. And I have the right to tell you to suck farts. But since you are a cop, and I used to be one, if you ask me politely maybe I’ll tell you. I was going to ask the cops in Pulaski for some info, and I have no problem having a nice conversation with you boys in Selkirk, as well, but if you piss me off I’ll just leave and take my bear claws with me.”

His neck reddened and he gave me what he probably thought was a killer stare. I stared back and smiled. There was no way I was going to be out-glared by someone who used Splenda. Finally, he looked away, using a sip of coffee to cover his capitulation in the staring contest.

“OK,” he said finally. “Maybe I came on too strong. So, now I’m askin’ nice. What’s goin’ on?”

I decided that I might have to use the bear claw threat more often. I also decided that there was no harm in having the local gendarmes on my side. Hell, he might even know something useful. So, I told him what I was doing.

“What makes you think Panetta wasn’t killed by a robber? I read about the case, him being a local boy and all. Made some calls down there. I thought they had D.N.A. evidence. A spook.”

I was running out of variations of the lie I’d been telling. Rizzuto might be dim, but he was still a cop. I certainly couldn’t tell him that the killer had confessed to me and I was looking for the people that hired him.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t a robber. Probably is. But the D.A. has zilch and is under a lot of pressure to solve this thing.  It’s a long shot, but he doesn’t want any surprises. He wouldn’t send someone up here, officially, on what’s probably a wild-goose chase. But I owe him some favors, like that card I showed you. So, here I am. Who knows? Maybe it’s someone from his past who happens to be black.”

Rizzuto thought about it.

“Not too many of those around here. They tend to stick out. Especially when it snows. Get my drift?”

I didn’t know what was worse. The racist joke or the drift reference, which he probably didn’t get even though he said it. But I let it go.

“Did you know Panetta?”

“Not really. Knew of him, of course.”

How long you been a cop up here?”

“Born here. Gonna retire when I hit 70. Two more years. Started out on patrol in Oswego. Been chief here 20 years.”

“That makes you about the same age as Panetta. You know him when you were younger?”

“Maybe to say hello to. Knew a lot of kids back then. High school. You know how it is.”

“You seemed pretty concerned about Victoria Gustafson.”

“Well, hell, everybody knows Vicki and Otto. Her ex. Real loser. You seen their place? I get complaints, you know. Not that I blame Vicki. She’s a nice lady. Taught one of my kids. I was just concerned when I heard a private detective was talking to her. Thought it might have something to do with Otto. When are you gonna see her again?””

“Sometime tomorrow afternoon. She’s going to Albany. I have to call her. In the meantime, can you think of anyone I might talk to who might know anything about Panetta, either recently or from the old days?”

“Not off the top of my head. If I do, I’ll call you. Got a card?”

I gave him one.

“You said you’re gonna talk to the Pulaski cops?”

“Probably.”

“Want me to make a call? Kind of let them know I’m OK with it. Can’t hurt.”

It wasn’t a bad idea.

“Sure, thanks.”

He picked up his phone and punched in some numbers. He said his piece, then covered the receiver and looked at me. “Monday morning at 9? Their chief is off tomorrow.”

I figured I’d be stuck overnight Sunday anyway, so I nodded. Rizzuto hung up. He stood, and so did I. He put out his hand. We shook.

CHAPTER 17 - A NEW SKILL

I drove into Pulaski. VFW Post 7289 was right off State Route 11, also known as Salina Street. It was pretty hard to miss. The post itself was a standard one-story building, but there was a small lawn next to it on which sat a decommissioned M-60 Abrams tank decked out in camouflage green.

It was still pretty early in the day and I wasn’t expecting to find out much, and I wasn’t disappointed. I found out next to nothing. The hall was basically closed, except for a couple of young guys painting some shutters. They explained that they had recently left the Army and joined the post.

“Most of the guys are pretty old,” one of them said. “But we figured we’d see what it was like. Beers are only a buck. Thought we’d help out by doing a little sprucing up. If you want to talk to somebody, come back tonight. Better yet, tomorrow around 11. They have a kick-ass brunch. Lots of guys show up for that.”

I thanked them and headed back to my car. I resigned myself to taking the rest of the day off when I spotted a sports shop called the “Yankee Fly & Tackle” next door. I decided to go fishing. Hell, I was on the damn Salmon River with time on my hands.

The man behind the counter was happy to sell me a fly rod, reel and some streamer flies. I passed on the waders, vests and hats he also wanted to sell. When I said I didn’t know the first thing about fly fishing, he told a clerk to mind the store and took me out back into a parking lot and taught me the basics in about 20 minutes. For his trouble, I did buy a vest before I left.

An hour later I was wading barefoot near the dock at my motel. The Salmon River wasn’t a parking lot and many of my initial casts wound up in trees along the shoreline. I even managed to catch the dock before I put some distance between it and me. But I finally was able to put most of my flies where I wanted them. That’s not to say the fish wanted them. The current wasn’t too bad, but it took me a while to figure out that I had to take it into account when casting. In fly fishing, the heavy line is stripped from the reel by hand and then whipped back and forth in the air until finally it is allowed to settle gently on the water. At its business end is a small leader to which is attached an almost weightless fly or streamer. You cast upstream and allow the line to drift slowly downstream, perhaps giving the line an occasional twitch to make the fly or streamer simulate life.

I remembered the motel owner’s warning about falling into a hole so I didn’t stray too far from the shore. The gravel hurt my feet, but the water was cold enough so that it numbed the pain. That sounds like I was having a bad time, but I wasn’t. The river and the foliage were beautiful, and learning a new skill is never a waste of time. I’d filled a thermos with hot coffee and bought a couple of ham sandwiches on the way out of town. I wolfed a quick lunch on the dock and went back to fishing. It didn’t even bother me that I was having trouble catching anything. Fly fishing is an art, so I wasn’t surprised when I lost a couple of fish I’d actually hooked. But late in the afternoon I finally landed a small steelhead that weighed about three pounds. I knew enough about steelheads to know that they are really rainbow trout that have spent some time in the ocean and return to tributaries to spawn. The one I caught still had a distinctive red band along its flanks. I also knew it would be delicious.

Recalling my contretemps the night before at the restaurant that airmailed its fish, I decided to cook my trout. I cleaned it on the shore and went back to my suite and stuck it in the fridge. Then I drove into Pulaski, found a supermarket and bought some butter, flour, cheddar cheese, olives, lemons, leeks, a baguette, some potato salad and coleslaw. I stopped in a liquor store and bought a small bottle of Pinnacle vodka, which I stuck in the freezer in my suite’s kitchen. After showering, I turned on the Golf Channel and caught the last few holes of the third round of the FedEx St. Jude Classic in Memphis. It had a pretty good field, with many top PGA Tour players tuning up for the upcoming U.S. Open. I sipped the cold vodka while eating some of the cheese, olives and a hunk of the baguette. If there is anything that doesn’t taste better when accompanied by a baguette, I haven’t found it.

Then, I sautéed the leeks and then dusted the trout inside and out with flour, leaving the skin on. When the leeks were just translucent, I added the trout and pan fried it, adding some lemon after I flipped it over once. I made up a plate with my salads and ate in front of the TV. The Classic had been replaced by something called “Big Break Guadalcanal,” in which a group of wannabee golf professionals, male and female, competed against each other. Most of the golf was bogus, with artificially arranged challenges involving sand traps and other obstacles. The contestants spent most of the time sniping at each other in “off-camera” interviews on camera. It was like “Survivor” meets “The View,” except with golf clubs. I wondered what the Marine Corps thought about it. But I can’t say I was having a bad time. The vodka gave me a nice glow and my trout was spectacular. The local restaurants should be ashamed of themselves. Then again, the man at the tackle shop told me that cormorants, big, black, long-necked diving birds, had been devastating the local fishery in the Great Lakes, so perhaps commercial catches for restaurants were prohibited.

“Cormorants were a protected species,” he’d said. “It’s nuts. Some mornings their flocks can blot out the sun. Friend of mine and his sons just got six months in jail for going over to one of the islands and killing about 3,000 of the suckers with shotguns. He runs a charter business. Says he was just protecting his livelihood. I’m not saying it was right, but that still leaves about a billion of them.”

After I cleaned up the kitchen, I poured myself another drink and decided that another visit to the VFW could wait. I called Alice.

“What are you doing?”

“I was just about to step into the shower,” she said. “I’m meeting Joyce for dinner and then we’re going to see a play at the Lynn Redgrave on Bleecker Street. Her current boyfriend is in it.”

Joyce was an aspiring actress who lived in Alice’s building who rotated current boyfriends.

“I hope it’s better than
Dying Is Wasted on Corpses.
”

“Listening to Donald Trump would be better than
Dying Is Wasted on Corpses.
”  

“That’s harsh.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying not to think about you wrapped in a towel.”

“What towel?”

“Oh, God. You had to say that.”

“You sound a little buzzed,” Alice said, laughing.

“I caught my first steelhead. I’m celebrating.”

“Is a steelhead some sort of criminal? Like a gang member?”

“No. It’s a fish. A big rainbow trout.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be catching criminals?”

“Fish are dumber. It’s less work.”

“Why don’t they call it a rainbow trout?”

“Because it has lived in the ocean.”

“Aren’t you basically on Lake Ontario? What’s the ocean have to do with it.”

“I should have known better than to talk fish with a philosophy professor.”

“I didn’t ask you how many trout could fit through the eye of a needle.”

“Let’s just say that things are a little complicated in upstate New York.”

“I take it you’re not making much progress.”

“Not so. I learned how to fly fish. In addition to the steelhead, I caught six trees and a dock. The dock season is closed, so I didn’t keep it.”

“You are buzzed.”

“A tad. But to answer your question, I think Pulaski is a dead end. I have a few more things to check, but I’m not optimistic.”

“When are you coming home?”

“Monday.”

“I miss you.”

“I’ve only been gone two days.”

“Does that mean you don’t miss me?”

“Of course I miss you. Why do you think I’m sitting alone in my motel room in Pulaski drinking vodka out of a water glass?”

“That’s one of the nicest things a man has ever said to me.”

“I can also talk dirty.”

“Oh, please do. But you will have to hurry. I don’t want to be late. Joyce may change boyfriends.”