TURTLE DOVE (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 7) (10 page)

CHAPTER 14 - LEON

Cormac told me not to expect any answers from the crime lab for at least a week, so I drove to my office to catch up on some work, which much to my surprise and delight, had actually come my way recently.

“As it is,” he said, “I’ll have to tell the lab boys that this is an important cold case, so they don’t get too curious. I haven’t used the Lindbergh baby in a while. Might be a good time.”

When I got to my office, there were three black people in it. Abby Jones was the only one who really belonged there. Abby, whose given name is Habika, originally worked the security desk in the lobby of my building. She had put in 20 years in the Army, retiring as a staff sergeant in the Military Police. When I met her she was a divorced mother working to put a daughter through college. We bonded over a shared love of eggplant parmigiana sandwiches from the Red Lantern tavern in nearby Rosebank. It was soon apparent that she was wasted on a security desk and I hired her part-time. She had half-brothers who were, respectively, a cable technician whose red-tape cutting made me the envy of the building, and Leon, an oft-arrested former gang banger turned minor crime boss who also occasionally came in handy. I soon made her my full-time business manager, and my office suite was now the Pine-Sol center of Staten Island. Her knowledge of criminology and her military contacts had helped me solve several cases, and I paid for her to get her own private investigator’s license.

One of the two black men standing next to Abby’s desk was her brother Leon, the on-again, off-again felon. He had obviously finished his most-recent stretch in jail. I also recognized, but had never met, the other man. It was the Rev. Rufus T. Futterman, pastor of the Fox Hills Baptist Church in one of Staten Island’s more-blighted neighborhoods and a local political firebrand.

“I believe you know my brother, Leon, Alton. And this is Rev. Futterman.”

“Yes, I’ve seen his picture on TV.” I shook both their hands. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“I told the Reverend that you might be able to help us out,” Leon said.

In fact, I did owe Leon a favor for some help he gave me on a sting I ran against some jewel thieves a while back. But I wondered about the “us”.

“Let’s go into my office,” I said.

As we walked away I spied a brown Amazon box on Abby’s desk, which was cluttered with files, newspaper clippings and computer printouts. Abby is not a clutterer. The printer in the corner was clacking away and spewing out more material. Something was up.

She looked at me and smiled.

“A Geiger counter. I’ll explain later.”

That’s the type of comment that normally demands an immediate explanation, but I trusted Abby, so I kept going and got both my visitors comfortably seated in my office. They declined coffee.

“You look well, Leon,” I said.

“It was a walk in the park,” he replied. “I needed the rest.”

He did look good, and was dressed in a blue suit, white shirt and red polka dot tie. I had never seen him in anything but a track suit. Rev. Futterman was in full minister garb but seemed uncomfortable. The last few times I had seen him on TV, he was wearing a charcoal gray that must have cost two Sunday’s worth of collection plates in his blighted parish. His thick salt-and-pepper hair, though, was, as usual, perfectly coiffed and his nails gleamed. 

“Leon tells me that you are a trustworthy man,” Futterman intoned.

He had a deep, sonorous voice that did not need a microphone if one was not available. I looked at Leon, who smiled. Being vouched for by Leon would not get me into Fort Knox or the gumshoe hall of fame.

“I try to be,” I said, tenting my hands somberly.

I realized I looked ridiculous, so I untented. 

“And that you are good friends with District Attorney Michael Sullivan.”

“I just gave him some bagels,” I said, helpfully, wondering where this was going.

Futterman looked confused. But before he could respond, I heard a familiar bark. Then the door to my office opened and Maks Kalugin walked in with Gunner straining on a leash. Maks does not knock. He let go of the leash and Gunner launched himself into my lap, and smothered me in wet doggie kisses. Gunner has a tongue the size of Greenland and is a big hound, so I barely managed not to topple over. He was happy to see me, and likewise. But I had guests, and I finally managed to calm him down. Abby came in with a dog biscuit that would choke a Tyrannosaurus and took control of him, leading him out to the reception area. Kalugin and Leon looked at each other, and nodded. Professional nods; it was obvious they knew each other. Without a word, Maks left.

The Reverend looked stunned.

“That was your dog?”

“Yes.”

“He is big.”

“Just out of puppyhood,” I said proudly.

“What kind is he?”

“Byelorussian Ovcharka, also known as an East European Shepherd, a mix of East Siberian Laika dogs and German Shepherds. Red Army war dogs in World War II.”

Leon was looking at me with new-found respect.

“You have Maks Kalugin walking your dog?”

“Long story. Now, what is this all about?”

Futterman regrouped.

“As you undoubtedly know, Staten Island is awash in heroin.”

He was right. It was not news to me. The borough’s heroin epidemic had even been cited in the national news media, including a Page 1 story in
The New York Times
, which generally ignores Staten Island unless a plane crashes on it. 

“Almost 80 percent of new users are white,” Futterman continued, “and now the authorities are treating the scourge more as a disease than a crime. There is talk that prosecutors and judges should not treat users too harshly.”

“And you oppose that?”

“On the contrary. I believe that is the correct approach. But in the past, young black men and women were sent to jail for heroin use, and they threw away the key! I suspect that people of color will still be treated differently from whites. And I believe that many of those already incarcerated should have their cases reviewed.”

I looked at Leon.

“My people don’t go near that crap,” he said.

I knew that was probably true. But I also knew that heroin was so cheap now it probably was not worth the risk to a certain caliber of criminal. But maybe he was sincere. The Rahms stayed away from any drug business, no matter how profitable. It was one of their stricter rules. Early on, a couple of their men had broken that rule until Maks Kalugin showed them the error of their ways, which meant they disappeared without a trace. I shrugged.

“I agree with you, Reverend. And things may be changing. They are beginning to release some drug abusers.”

“But not enough,” he said. “Please understand, I do not care a whit for major drug dealers, be they white or black. They should rot in hell. But I do care for their victims, black and white. I just want everyone treated the same.”

“Again, I have no problem with that. But where do I come in?”

“We are going to the Urban League luncheon at the Hilton today.” That explained Leon’s suit. “Sullivan is the guest speaker. He will probably repeat all the platitudes about race and the rule of law. But I intend to speak to him privately about the matter of heroin and how his office treats drug addicts.”

“Mike Sullivan is a reasonable man. And fair.”

“I believe that a word of support, from you, in a more informal venue, might give added weight to our cause.”

“I’m pretty low on the food chain in Staten Island, Reverend.”

“That is not what Leon tells me.”

I looked at Leon.   

“I spend a lot of time in the, ah, court system,” Leon said. “My sources tell me that Sullivan holds you in high regard.”

Leon’s recent stint in jail was voluntary, giving him a rest and an alibi while his subalterns pulled some heists. When he wants to, Leon can talk like a Harvard man. Abby says he was always the smartest of her brothers and ran his tight little crime crew like a small corporation. Arman Rahm, whose operations do not compete with Leon’s, told me basically the same thing.

“That’s nice to hear.”

“They also heard that he owes you big time. Something to do with his wife’s murder.”

I could tell from Leon’s tone that he knew what that “something” was.

“Sullivan doesn’t owe me anything,” I said, coldly.

I had told Mike that many times. But I knew his gratitude would never go away entirely.  

“What are you two talking about?” Futterman said.

“Nothing,” Leon said, shortly. “It’s private.”

“But if you know something, maybe we can use it.”

Leon gave him a withering look.

“I don’t know shit, Rufus,” Leon lied, dropping the Harvard pose. “And if I did, I wouldn’t use it against the man. Bring it up again and I’ll shove your black ass into one of the poor boxes in your church.”

He looked at me and I nodded, as Futterman sputtered.

“I’ll do what I can,” I said.

I walked both men out. Leon had to step over a sleeping Gunner to give his sister a hug.

“Stay out of trouble, Leon,” she said.

“I’ve found the Lord,” he said, nodding at Futterman, who was staring at Gunner.

“That’s what I mean,” Abby said.

I knew she was no fan of the good reverend.

At the elevator, I said, “When you speak to Sullivan, check out his teeth.”

They both stared at me and I told them about the bagels.

“If he still has poppy seeds in his teeth, he will appreciate that you told him before he gets up to speak. Can’t hurt.”

“My sister told me you are a strange dude,” Leon said.

CHAPTER 15 - STRONTIUM 90

When I went back to my office, Abby said, “Are you going to do it?”

“Yes. Futterman is a horse’s ass, but he’s right about this.”

“I’m surprised Leon got involved.”

“I think we’ll be hearing a lot about your brother in the future. He’s becoming a player. Now, what’s this about a Geiger counter?”

“In a moment. What’s our rent?”

“Half of what anyone else in this building is paying,” I said.

“Not anymore.”

I was shocked. I thought I had a great relationship with my landlord, the law firm that owned the waterfront building on Bay Street in Stapleton. The firm occupied the ninth, and top, floor, but had given me a nice corner office on the floor below them, at a reasonable rate. I had a great view of the harbor. In return, I did a lot of free work for them, from skip traces to insurance scams. After Superstorm Sandy, I ran into some of the lawyers doing rescue and cleanup work in some of the devastated sections of Staten Island. They weren’t ambulance chasing, so I suggested that their firm offer to represent some of the homeowners
pro bono
in their battle to get compensation. Pro bono was a term that gave them hives, but I made the point that Staten Islanders tend to have long memories. They bought into my idea and in recent years the firm is awash in new, and paying, business from grateful families and their relatives. And when the Rahms, who drove truckloads of relief supplies to the flooded areas, where many of their businesses were, heard about what the law firm had done, they hired it to handle some of their affairs, both criminal and otherwise. As a result, the firm cut my rent and started paying me for some of the work I do for them. They even give me tickets to Staten Island Yankee games.

“I can’t believe they plan to raise my rent,” I said. “After all I’ve done for them.”

Abby laughed.

“Who said they are gonna raise your rent? After you show them some of this stuff, they’ll probably let us stay here for nothin’. Hell, they may pay
us
!”       

Other than about Red Lantern’s Italian food, I’ve never seen her excited. Until now.

“What are you talking about, Abs?”

“You know that god-awful boring brownfield case you have me researching over by the Bayonne Bridge?”

The law firm upstairs, which thanks to me now gets plenty of environmental cases from homeowners, was fighting a losing battle with some politically-connected developers who had just won approval to build scores of townhouses on land formerly owned by the city. The land in question, on the waterfront of Richmond Terrace, between Nicholas Avenue and John Street, was a so-called brownfield, meaning it was commercially or industrially zoned but presumably undeveloped because of environmental contamination. That usually meant seepage of oil, gasoline or other liquid contaminants. The firm’s clients, who owned homes nearby, were worried.   

“By the way,” Abby said, “why do they call them brownfields? I think that’s racist.”

“Get on with it, Abby.”

She waved her arm at the clutter on her desk.

“You asked me to research the history of the site. Turns out that the land was originally owned by the Archer Daniels Heartland Corporation in Michigan. During the Second World War, ADH, as it is now known, maintained a storage site there for the Manhattan Project.”

  I moved some papers and sat on the edge of Abby’s desk.

“Are you saying that material that was used in the atom bomb project was stored here on Staten Island? Why would anyone do that?”

“Apparently everyone was afraid Hitler would beat us to the bomb. The United States did not have enough uranium, so we grabbed as much from around the world before the Nazis closed off access to it. The Government stored it all over the Metropolitan area when it arrived by boat. This was before they had even picked out places inland to work on the bomb.”

Abby consulted some notes she had made.

“There was a Belgian named Edgar Sengier who ran the Union Minière du Haut Katanga, a mining operation in the Belgian Congo, where a fantastic lode of uranium ore was discovered. As the Nazis began overrunning Europe, he shipped huge amounts of the ore to America and gave it to the U.S. Army. More than 2,000 drums of raw uranium from the Belgium Congo, weighing 1,200 tons, were brought in by barge to the ADH site. It sat there for a couple of years. In 1942, the stuff was shipped out for refinement for use in the making of atomic bombs. The warehouse where it was kept was destroyed in the mid-1940’s.”

“And you think the site is radioactive?”

“That’s for you to find out, boss. But did you ever hear of a nuclear site that wasn’t radioactive. Like for a million years?”

She reached into the Amazon box and hauled out the surprisingly small instrument.

“What we have here,” Abby said, reading the label, “is a GMD-300F-Plus Digital Nuclear Beta Gamma X ray Dosimeter. AKA, a Geiger counter.”

“Good Lord, what did it cost?”

“A hundred bucks and free shipping.”

***

Two hours later, after I familiarized myself with the Geiger counter, I drove up to the front gate of the brownfield. In addition to the Geiger, I brought along a clipboard and a hard hat, which are usually all that is necessary to get into any construction site. I thought it was overkill. I did not even expect a guard.

There was a guard. He heaved himself out of a car when I parked. He was a fat guy in an ill-fitting brown uniform with underarm sweat stains and an attitude.

“Hold it right there, pal,” he said. “This is private property.”

I reached back in my car for my hard hat and clipboard. The hat was red. If I had the time, I would have stenciled a skull and crossbones on it, but I hadn’t been expecting a problem. The red usually did the trick.

“Nuclear Regulatory Commission,” I said. “Division of Brownfield Inspections. We called ahead.”

He walked up to me.

“I don’t know nothin’ about no inspection. Buzz off.”

He was acting pretty tough for a security guard. I looked at the bill of his cap. A logo said “F.B.S.”

“You’re from Five-Boro Security?”

“Yeah.”

I smiled. It was a mob-controlled company based in Brooklyn. The Carlucci crime family on Staten Island had once been a silent partner in F.B.S., and used it to identify houses that contained expensive jewelry that could be burgled, using security codes F.B.S. conveniently provided. The Carluccis were no longer a factor on Staten Island, but if F.B.S. was handling the security for the development of this brownfield, it explained why it was approved. I held up the Geiger counter.

“I have to check for radioactivity. We have reports that someone dumped some old X-ray machines in there.” I didn’t have the energy to explain the Manhattan Project to this dodo. “If that land is dug up, the dust and debris could affect nearby neighborhoods.”

The guard looked at some of the nearby homes. It was a poor neighborhood. Most of its residents were black and Hispanic.

“You mean the spics and the spooks might start glowing in the dark?” He laughed. “Who gives a fuck?”

I smiled at him, reasonably.

“Aren’t you worried that you might be contaminated?”

“I’ve never been in there,” he said, pointing into the lot. “Stinks of garbage. Animals who live around here must throw it over the fence.”

The guy’s own body odor did not making standing on our side of the fence very pleasant, but I let it go.

“You don’t mind if I check you out, do you?”

“What the fuck for?”

“A lot of stuff can drift on the wind. What’s the harm? It’s for your own good.”  

  While the thug hesitated, I turned on the Geiger counter and set it to register even the slightest hint of radiation.

“Sure. Have a blast, pal.”

I ran the wand up and down his body. It started clacking like crazy, probably from the luminescence from my wristwatch. But it sounded like I was at ground zero in Nagasaki.

I said “Jesus!” and stepped away from him. Predictably, he turned white.

“What’s the matter?” he stammered.

“Probably nothing,” I said, trying to sound unconvincing. “But I think you should go home and put all your clothes in the washing machine. Then take a hot shower.”

That was probably something he should do, anyway.

“What about my boots?”

“Put them in the washing machine, too.”

“That will be enough?”

“Do two cycles, just to be sure.”

“And shower?”

“Only one shower, but use a lot of shampoo. Strontium 90 tends to stick to the scalp.”

“Stront … is that bad?”

“It has been known to cause brain cataracts.”

“So if I do all this, I’ll be OK?”

He could hardly get the words out.

“Probably. But just to be sure, get a Geiger counter.”

“Where can I get one?”

“Well, this one is top-of-the-line, only used by the government. Probably cost a couple of grand. But you can get a civilian version on Amazon for about a hundred bucks. Go over everything in your house and car with it. Also any place in which you’ve spent a lot of time. The instructions will tell you what a normal reading is.”

The man looked incapable of moving.

“I live in Brooklyn,” he stammered. “Do you think I can make it?”

““Every second counts,” I said, helpfully. But I was having fun. “Do you have E-Z Pass?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t use those lanes. Sometimes radiation sets off the alarms.”

“OK, pal. Thanks.”

He ran to his car and a moment later shot off down the road, spewing gravel behind him. I wondered what his buddies at the local Italian-American social club would say when he walked in with a Geiger counter. I was still smiling when I broke the lock on the gate.

***

“Are you sure the land is radioactive?”

Abby and I were sitting in the boardroom of the law office on the top floor of my building. The questioner was Richard Mundy, the firm’s senior partner. A few other lawyers were arrayed around the table. I could sense their excitement.

“I walked most of the property,” I said. “My gizmo started clacking almost immediately. It was so loud I had to check to make sure I had reduced the setting after I got rid of the guard. I found the footprint of the old warehouse easily enough, and the counter went off the charts. Needless to say, I left.”

The lawyers looked at me with alarm.

“Don’t worry. I stopped by Wagner College on the way here and spoke to one of the professors in the physics department. He said the readings were high, but not dangerous for a short-term exposure. Long-term, he said, was another matter.”

“Was he curious about where the readings came from?” Mundy asked.

“Sure. But I told him I was working on a case in Long Island involving some empty lots near the old nuclear power plant in East Shoreham. Then he said something interesting. He wanted to know if my readings were ground level, which they were. He said if someone dug down the readings would probably be much higher from water seepage and the like.”

“Like if a developer built townhouses,” Mundy said.

“Be like living inside an MRI machine full-time,” I said. “But I haven’t gotten to the good part, yet.”

“Jesus,” one of the other lawyers said.

“Thanks to Abby, here, who researched the history of the site, it was originally owned by the Archer Daniels Heartland Corporation.”

“Deep pockets,” one of the lawyers murmured.

“So, I don’t think you will have any problem stopping the development. And the guard, bless his soul, complained that kids from the neighborhood often went into the lot.”

“My God,” Mundy said.

“Personally, I hope the kids didn’t pick up too much radiation just walking through.” I paused. “But that’s for a jury to decide.”

“We want to see all your research, Abby,” Mundy said.

“I’ll put it all together for you,” she said.

“It might be helpful if you led us through it.” Mundy looked at me. “We might have to borrow her for a while.”

“Is this a good time to talk about our rent?” Abby said, sweetly.