GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5) (7 page)

“I wouldn’t dismiss a connection to the St. George project out of hand,” Rahm said. “That’s the only thing I can think of worth killing someone over. But even that is a stretch. Everyone wants it. I half expect the Pope to endorse it soon.”

“Where do you stand on it?”

Rahm smiled.

“A lot of money will be flowing into Staten Island. I am in favor of that.”

“I bet you are. What about the unions? They could throw a monkey wrench into the deal.”

Another smile.

“They won’t.”

Maks walked me out to my car.

“It’s local,” he repeated.

CHAPTER 9 - FLOOZY

There was a squad car waiting for me outside Panetta’s small two-story colonial on Winchester Avenue, a quiet tree-lined street a few blocks from the Eltingville train station. As I pulled up behind it, two cops got out. So did I. The cop who got out the passenger side, a beefy African-American, wore sergeant stripes and a scowl. He walked over to me while his partner leaned against the prowlie. 

“You Rhode?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t ask, but I took out my I.D. anyway. “Appreciate you taking the time, Sarge.”

He barely glanced at my I.D.

“Captain says you can look around, as long as one of us is with you.”

Cormac, who used to work in Boro Command in the New Dorp Precinct, had called in a favor.

“You guys in the 122?” I asked, using the numerical I.D. for the New Dorp house.

“Nah,” the cop said. “We’re from the 123.”

“You guys had your hands full after Sandy. Did a great job.”

The Tottenville Precinct was normally quietest in the city, crime-wise, with about one murder every Ice Age. But the superstorm had ravaged the community, particularly along the shoreline, and the cops worked round the clock to help residents.

“Never seen anything like it,” he said, softening a bit. He waved over to his partner. “Hey, Tommie, take him through the house.”

I followed the other cop up the walk, past a “FOR SALE” sign on the lawn. I memorized the realtor’s name. My escort unlocked the front door.

“Hey, Tommy,” the black cop called after us. “Make sure you count the silverware on the way out.”

“Don’t tell me you guys left something?” I yelled back.

Both cops laughed.

I didn’t expect to learn much, if anything, in Panetta’s home. Vernon Maples had left only what he wanted the homicide detectives to find. I was sure they had removed whatever else they thought relevant. None of which, I knew, was. It’s why I hadn’t bothered with the police file. But I make it a point, whenever possible, to visit crime scenes. I can’t explain why. It just seems the right thing to do. Even when you know who the killer is.

Maples told me he slugged Panetta right after the door was opened. Then he dragged him over to a table in the living room, where he used the cord from a lamp to strangle him. I quickly found the table, which Maples had described to me. The lamp was gone, undoubtedly taken as evidence. That didn’t help the decor. The place was sparsely furnished. But everything appeared spotless and the place smelled of fresh paint and shaved wood. The dining room had a small wooden table and four chairs. There was a sideboard under two windows that looked out over the back yard.

“Early-American Goodwill,” the cop muttered. “I read that the guy was a carpenter. “Probably bought the place to fix it up and flip it.”

“Maybe,” I said.  

The family room had a lounge chair, a small couch, a pedestal table with a lamp and a 19-inch TV on a metal stand. There was a fold-up aluminum table in the kitchen and a few wooden chairs.

We went upstairs. Two of the three bedrooms were empty. The third had only a bed and a chest of drawers. I opened the drawers. They were empty.

***

After my brief tour, the cops left me standing on the sidewalk next to my car. I started going house-to-house on the block. A lot of people weren’t home, and those that were didn’t know much about their dead neighbor, other than that he was friendly.

“He didn’t live here long,” one woman from across the street told me, “and he kept to himself. None of us knew his war record until we read about it in the papers. But if you needed a favor or something, he was always available. Fixed the stairs on my deck in the back yard. Wouldn’t take a dime, even for materials. Maybe you should talk to Mailers, next door to him.” She pointed at the house. “I know he was close with Henry.” She smiled. “And Ethel knows everything that goes on around here.”

I had already tried the Mailer house. No one had been home. But by the time I had rung every other doorbell on both sides of the block, there was a car in their driveway.

Henry Mailer answered the door and invited me in after I explained who I was. 

“Me and John were good pals,” he said as we took seats at his dining room table. “He helped me repair the fence between our yards.”

“Did he ever talk about his past?”

“Only in generalities. Nothing about the war. But I guess that’s not unusual. A lot of guys don’t like to talk about what happened to them.”

“What about his life after Vietnam?”

“I’ve been up to the Salmon River near where he told me he was born. Know the area. We swapped lies about the fish we caught. He told me he moved around a lot after he left upstate, mostly going to communities that were being developed. Del Webb in Palm Springs was one he mentioned. Said there was always work for a good carpenter. He was marvelous with his hands. I think he made a lot of money in Louisiana after Katrina. Volunteered in Haiti. He was a good man. I’m gonna miss him.”

“He talk about anything else? Family?”

“Said he had a cousin up in Pulaski he visited occasionally. I think I saw her once, outside the house with the realtor she gave the listing to.”

“What else?”

“Well, we discussed sports and politics over a beer or two. He did seem real interested in local politics. But was very cynical. Said they were all thieves, out to rape Staten Island. Wasn’t going to get any argument from me on that, I’ll tell you. I was a little surprised he was so passionate on the subject, him being so new to the borough and all.”

“What about friends? I mean, other than you.”

Mailer perked up.

“You mean a woman? Yeah. He had a real nice girlfriend.”

A woman wearing a shapeless black house dress came into the room.

“That’s a matter of opinion! Who is this man, Henry?”

“Mr. Rhode is a private detective, Ethel. He’s looking into John’s murder.”

I stood and offered my hand, which she took, reluctantly.

“Why is a private investigator interested in what happened next door?” She sat, and so did I. “Some Negro did it. It’s getting so nobody is safe anymore, even in their own home.”

It had been a while since I’d heard the term “Negro,” but I suspected from her tone that it could have been worse.

“There are insurance considerations,” I lied. “I’m just gathering background information on the deceased.”

Ethel Mailer was the opposite of her husband. Where he was round and jolly-looking, she was thin to the point of gauntness and with her narrow face and hook nose bore a striking resemblance to Margaret Hamilton, who played Almira Gulch in
The Wizard of Oz
.

“Well, I can give you an earful,” she said. “Henry, didn’t you offer the man any coffee? Where are your manners?”

I could tell she wasn’t being gracious. She just wanted to embarrass her husband.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Nonsense. I’ll be right back.”

She headed to the kitchen. I heard her at the sink. She was back quickly, with a tray with three mugs and a container of skim milk. There was a pile of artificial sweetener packets on the tray.

“It’s instant coffee,” she said. “Only kind we drink.”

I took a sip. I wondered how it was possible to make lukewarm instant coffee. I hadn't heard a kettle boiling or a microwave. I suspected she used hot water from the tap.

“Don’t you want milk?” she asked.

“This is great,” I said. “So, what can you tell me about John Panetta?”

“He was a whore-monger,” Ethel said.

I damn near dropped my cup.

“Ethel, that’s not right,” her husband said. “That’s no way to talk about a war hero. John was a friend.’

She waved away his objection and looked at me.

“Oh, I know about his medals and all. I’m not saying he didn’t have some good points. And I certainly don’t mean he deserved to be murdered by some no-account Negro. But I never liked the way he flaunted that floozy he was seeing.”

“Floozy?”

“Well, what else can you call a woman like that who gives it away?”

“A home run,” Henry said under his breath.

Not far enough under his breath.

“Oh, for Christ sake, Henry, act your age. That old fart should have, too. It was unseemly, him and a younger woman.” She gave me a knowing look. “Some men get a whiff of it and can’t control themselves.”

I was pretty sure any man who got a whiff of Ethel Mailer was able to control himself.

“Jesus, Ethel,” Henry said, “She isn’t that young.”

“Young enough that you never could keep her eyes off her ass.” She turned back to me. “It drove him crazy that Panetta had a woman like that sleeping over.”

“What are you talking about? I’m five years younger than John was. Joan Tolentine is a nice lady. I met her a couple of times. Very refined and pleasant. I think you do her an injustice labeling her like that. I believe they really cared for each other.”

Ethel wasn’t buying it. I doubted she bought anything poor Henry said.

“She struck me as shifty. After something.”

“For God’s sake, Ethel, you only met her once.”

“That’s all it takes sometimes. And if they really cared for each other that much, why didn’t they get married?” She looked at me. “What do you think?”

“At least a triple,” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind. How often did she stay with him?”

“Only on weekends,” Henry said. “They didn’t bother anyone. They’re both adults, for God’s sake. I was happy for John. Man like that deserves some happiness.”

“God was watching,” his wife said. “Might explain what happened to him.”

“Ethel!”

“I’m just saying. More coffee, Mr. Rose?”

“It’s Rhode. And no thank you.” I turned to Henry. “Did you ever speak to Panetta’s cousin when she was here with the realtor?”

“No. Just saw her through the window.”

“Not a very attractive woman,” Ethel said. I bit my tongue. “Wears her hair too long for someone her age.”

“I didn’t think she was so bad, Ethel.”

His wife gave him a withering look.

“I just hope and pray she doesn’t sell the place to some Negro or wetback.”

I must have stepped through a time warp. I took a deep breath.

“Do either of you know where I might find Ms. Tolentine?”

“She runs a Pilates school in Grant City,” Henry said, and immediately realized his mistake.

“How do you know that, Henry?” his wife barked.

“She told me,” he said meekly. “I pass her studio all the time. On Hylan Boulevard near Seaview. By the hospital. Tolentine Pilates.”

Ethel looked like she was about to go full yoga on poor Henry, so I got up to leave.

“Well, thanks for the coffee. You’ve been very helpful.” I gave Henry my card. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”

Ethel snatched the card from his hand.

“Why don’t you walk the man to the door, Henry, while I clean up? Then we have shopping to do. And don’t forget we have to go over to mother’s for dinner.”

At the door, Henry grabbed my elbow.

“I really liked John,” he said. “We could talk, you know. Ethel and me never had any kids, and neither did he, so we had that in common. Other stuff, too. He didn’t have much family, and never mentioned any old friends or anything. Guess he lost touch the way he traveled so much. Me, I used to have lots of pals when I ran around here in my younger days. Gals, too.” He gave me a man-to-man wink. “But a lot of my buddies moved to Jersey. I tried to stay in touch. But they all have grandkids and such. I got tired of being the only one making the phone calls. John and me really hit it off. It’s like we knew each other all our lives. Not the same as childhood buddies, but damn close. Ethel didn’t get it.”

We shook and I started walking away. Then, I turned.  

“Pilates instructor?”

Henry Mailer smiled.

“Home run,” we said in unison.

CHAPTER - 10 PILATES

It was easy to find Tolentine Pilates. It was also easy to understand why Panetta’s henpecked neighbor drooled over its owner. Joan Tolentine was a lean, attractive woman with a ready smile and a firm handshake.

“I’ll be with you in a minute, Mr. Rhode,” she said after I told her who I was and what I wanted. “Let me just make sure everyone knows what they are doing and then we can go into my office.”

She went over to an assistant and they both made the rounds, stopping to talk to each of the half dozen or so men and women who were working out on a variety of machines, some of which looked like they would have come in handy for Torquemada during the Inquisition. Nearest to me was a chrome-plated, trapeze-like frame with cross-bars. There were several barrel-shaped contraptions connected to ladders and something with leather straps, springs and handles. All had sliding platforms. But no one was screaming and admitting they were heretics. In fact, they all looked like they were enjoying themselves.

I studied a chart on the wall next to a Culligan water dispenser. The chart explained how the machines, and the exercises they promoted, helped “students” build flexibility, muscle strength and endurance in their “Powerhouse, the center, or core, of the body that, if strengthened, offers a solid foundation for any movement.” The core was described as the “power engine, a muscular network which provides control over the body and comprises all the front, lateral and back muscles found between the upper inner thighs and arm pits.”

I was fascinated. I had known men whose arm pits could stop an enraged water buffalo, but not because of musculature. I read on.

“By drawing the navel back into the spine, from the pubic bone to the breast bone, the Powerhouse engages the heels, the back of the inner thighs, the deep, lower-back muscles, and the muscles surrounding the sitting bones and coccyx area without student holdings their breath, stretching the body in many directions to reduce weight in the upper body and place the center of gravity again at its most efficient position.”

An attractive young woman in her twenties walked over to the water dispenser and filled a paper cup. As a kid I was fascinated by the big bubble made inside the big plastic container when cups were filled. I still like the sound.

“Looks like a good workout,” I said, just to be sociable. I’m often more sociable to young women who looked like they were poured into tank tops and leggings. “Is it?”

“It’s a bitch,” she said. “I wouldn’t be doing it if I wasn’t getting married in two weeks. I have a wedding dress to fit into.”

“Congratulations.”

She thanked me and walked away. I tried not to stare at her rear end. Almost succeeded.

“Have you ever tried Pilates?”

Joan Tolentine was standing at my side.

“No. But it sounds interesting.” I pointed at the chart.  “I feel out of shape just reading this stuff.”

She laughed.

“You don’t look out of shape to me. Come into my office.”

She shut the door, which reduced the sounds of clanking and sliding from the gym area, and offered me some Chai tea. I declined.

The office was spare, with a simple metal desk, a few chairs and some metal filing cabinets. The walls were adorned with diplomas and photos of people working out on some of the machines I’d seen in the gym. On her desk was a framed photo John Panetta, who I recognized from the news stories I’d read.

“Looks like business is good,” I said, as we sat.

“Yes. This is a good spot, so near Staten Island University Hospital. We get a lot of referrals from doctors.” She smiled. “In fact, we get a lot of doctors.”

Joan Tolentine looked to be about 50. But it was a Sandra Bullock 50, which meant that her tank top and tight workout pants looked very good on her. Not as good as the girl at the water cooler, but John Panetta had done all right. I’d have bet her hair came out of a bottle, but the rest of her appeared home-grown and she had the skin tone and clear eyes of a much-younger woman. Perhaps there was something to the Pilates palaver. Suddenly conscious of my core, I tightened my stomach.

“I suppose I should ask for some sort of identification.”

I took out my wallet and showed her my license.

“This says you are a private investigator. Is that the same as a private detective?”

“In reality, yes. But, legally, only police officers are allowed to use the term detective in New York. I used to be a cop, so sometimes even I get confused.”

I didn’t bother to mention that I also had a quasi-official status with the N.Y.P.D. Mike Sullivan had pulled some strings for me and made me a consultant to his office, as a way of thanking me for what I did for him when his wife died. It wasn’t necessary, but the perk came in handy, especially when traveling with a weapon. I tried not to abuse my status in the legal netherworld between private eye and police consultant unless absolutely necessary. Which meant all the time.

“Well, whatever the terminology, why are you interested in what happened to John?”

I hesitated. It’s one thing to lie to a neighbor, especially one with a nosy wife who would spread the truth all over the Western Hemisphere. But quite another to mislead a woman who may have been in love with Panetta. I opted for a version of the truth.

“There are some inconsistencies in the evidence the police recovered in his house.”

“What kind of inconsistencies?”

“I’m afraid I can’t go into that. Let’s just say that there may be a chance the attack wasn’t a random break-in. More than that, I can’t say.”

Joan Tolentine was nobody’s fool. She gave me an appraising look.

“And why, Mr. Rhode, are you involved?”

“Again, I can’t say. But certainly there can’t be any harm in talking to me.” I gave her my most winsome smile. “I promise to keep anything you tell me in confidence.”

It’s a promise I’m usually able to keep.

She seemed satisfied.

“Well, what do you want to know?”

“Were you interviewed by the police?”

“Yes. Of course. Briefly. They mainly wanted to know if I had seen anyone or anything suspicious when I was with John. I told them I hadn’t.”

I was sure the interview had been pro forma. While everyone who knew Panetta would initially be considered a suspect, it was likely that the police doubted that a woman, even a strong Pilates instructor, could break a man’s jaw and then strangle him with an electrical cord. Most women would just shoot a lover, if it came to that. And Vernon Maples had done his job well. Once the D.N.A. evidence pointed toward an unknown black man, the cops would have drawn an obvious conclusion.

“The police knew you occasionally stayed the weekend at his house?”

I thought she might get angry, but, instead, she laughed.

“Of course. I think Ethel, the witch next door, put in on the Internet. I don’t know why the police even bothered to ask me what I’d seen. They should have just interviewed Ethel. You couldn’t fart on that block without her knowing about it.”

I laughed.

“If it’s any consolation,” I said, “Her husband thought you were the cat’s meow.”

“Henry was a sweetheart.”

“How did you meet Panetta?”

“At Trader Joe’s, the food market. I shop there all the time. Their products are so much healthier than a regular supermarket. John was on one of his health kicks, which never lasted that long.” She laughed. “But this one lasted long enough for me to see him in the store a few times. We’d get to talking. I told him what I did and he showed up here and said he wanted to take some classes. Later, he admitted he just wanted to see me. He was new in town and lonely. I was recently divorced. We’d go for coffee. He was a good bit older than me, so I wasn’t particularly interested in a relationship. But I checked him out on the Internet. Can’t be too careful, nowadays. And when I found out about his war record, well, he was a real hero, so I started looking at him differently. We started dating and one thing led to another.” She laughed. “He was a funny guy. Said if we hadn’t taken up with each other he didn’t know what he’d do. The Pilates was killing him.”

“Did he talk about the war?”

“He never mentioned it when I first met him, can you imagine? Even after we started dating, he didn’t like to talk about it. Asked me not to tell anyone about his decorations.”

“Did he ever talk about his life before or after Vietnam?”

“A little. I know he came from upstate and after the Army he bounced around a lot. He even wanted to know if I wanted to go with him when he made his next visit to see his cousin. She still lives in the town he was born. I met her at the funeral in D.C. John was buried in Arlington, you know. It’s strange. We had only gone down there a few weeks earlier. He wanted to visit the Vietnam memorial. It was very emotional for him, looking at the names of some of his friends on the Wall. And we went to Arlington, to see JFK’s grave. And now John’s buried there, too.”

Joan Tolentine’s voice broke and her eyes welled up.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Joan. And I’m sorry if my questions have dredged up painful memories.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” There was a box of tissues on the cabinet behind her desk. She took one and blew her nose. “The memories aren’t painful. They are good memories. I only wish I’d had more time to make more with him. And thank you for saying that. To most people I’m just the girlfriend. They don’t really understand that two people who are older can become very fond of each other.”

“Did John tell you why he moved to Staten Island?”

“Because it was close to Manhattan and affordable. He liked the idea of being in a big city. He said he was going to rent at first but when he found the house in Eltingville he knew he could fix it up himself and resell it.”

“Who did the two of you socialize with?’

She laughed.

“Each other. I tried to get John to meet some of my friends, but he always found an excuse. We went to movies, out to dinner, occasionally went into Manhattan for a show.”

“What about his politics? Henry Mailer said he could get pretty worked up about that.”

She shook her head.

“John never talked politics with me. If I had to guess I’d bet Henry did most of the talking. With that wife of his he probably couldn’t get a word in edgewise half the time. John was probably his only outlet.”

“Did he ever speak of anyone who might have it in for him? Did he mention any problems at all? Money? Business? Anything?”

Joan Tolentine shook her head.

“No. Do you really think someone besides a burglar killed John?”

“I don’t think anything, Joan,” I lied. “That’s still the most reasonable explanation. I’m just covering all the bases.”

I got up to leave.

“You have my card. If you think of anything, anything at all, please call me.”

“Of course.” Her eyes welled up. “I wish John had stuck with the Pilates. He wasn’t in the greatest of shape. Maybe he could have fought off whoever attacked him.”

I didn’t want to tell her that he could have looked like Vin Diesel and it wouldn’t have made a difference to a pro like Vernon Maples.

John Panetta was a dead man when he opened his front door.