Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (13 page)

"Yeah, but
where?" Chamberlain said, following Junior behind the counter to get the
credit card receipts.

"That
helicopter wasn't from around here,” the flight instructor offered. "I'd
guess Portland or Augusta."

"How do you
know it's not from around here?" I asked.

He looked at me
with the tolerance the young sometimes have for the aged. It made me feel
stupid, rather than old.

"Both
helicopters operating out of Rockland are Hughes 500's. They are based down at
the docks. You can check."

"I'll take
your word for it,” I said, trying to salvage some dignity. He smiled.

Chamberlain
returned with the tickets. "Come on, let's go to the office. We can check
this out from there."

On the way back
to the police department, I looked at the credit card receipts. The imprint
read: WHOPPER CHOPPERS--YOU CALL, WE HAUL. 1386 Airport Boulevard, Portland,
Maine.

Holding the
receipts up to Chamberlain, I said, "We may have a break with this. They
can tell us a lot."

"Let's
hope." He accelerated around a line of slow moving cars. "Let us
hope."

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

On our way
through to Chamberlain's office we passed by Sergeant Bowers' desk. He spoke to
Chamberlain, ignored me. Chamberlain got a big kick out of it. I was not
amused.

"Don't
worry about our esteemed Desk Sergeant,” he said, with a grin. "He's been
suffering from S.P.T.A. ever since he met Mabel two years ago."

"S.P.T.A.?"

"Slow
Progressive Testicular Atrophy. In his case, it's a condition in which his ego
has been destroyed by a good-looking woman leading to sleeplessness,
humiliation, and confusion. A cumulative collapse of confidence and
pride." Chamberlain was laughing. "He'll get over it."

It was good to
see Chamberlain's sense of humor intact. What he was facing with the slow
deterioration of his wife must be extremely hard. As far as Sergeant Bowers and
Mabel were concerned, I would have to worry about them later.

"Let's see
what we can find out about this Whopper Chopper outfit. We need the information
from them before we call Anastasio tomorrow."

"I
agree." Chamberlain sat down stiffly behind his desk. "This flying
thing is in your realm of expertise. I'll listen in. You do the talking."
There was a swift, involuntary look of eagerness on his face, the look of a
competent person's appreciation. Smiling, he glanced at me and said,
"Let's do it."

I punched in the
numbers.

"Whopper
Choppers. You call, we haul." A male voice answered the phone.

"Let me
speak to the owner. This is the Rockland Police Department."

"You got
him. Name's Charlie Walters. What can I do for you?"

"Last week,
on the dates of the 13th through the 16th, did you have a helicopter operating
in this area?"

"I could
check." He was hesitant. "Who did you say you were?"

"Name's
Leicester. I'm an investigator working with Detective Chamberlain of the Rockland
Police." I said, putting as much officialdom in my voice as I could.

"Okay,” he
mumbled. "Give me ten minutes, I’ll call you back. Collect."

"Fine. We
need this information now, not tomorrow."

"I said ten
minutes." He hung up.

"What do
you think?" Chamberlain asked, propping his feet up on the desk.

"We'll wait
ten minutes.

"Whopper
Choppers calling for Investigator Leicester." Sergeant Bowers' cold,
professional, voice droned over the intercom exactly ten minutes later.
Chamberlain smiled.

"Leicester
here,” I said into the mouthpiece after Chamberlain picked up the extension so
he could listen.

"We had a
charter operating in Rockland on the 14th and 15th,” Charlie Walters said
slowly, as if reading from a printed flight schedule. "Is there a problem?"

Looking at the
dates on the fuel tickets, I saw that they matched. "We need to know who
chartered your helicopter, and we need to talk with the pilot."

"Just a
minute, now. We can't give out that kind of information." He sounded
arrogant. "That's against company policy. You would need a court
order."

Winking at
Chamberlain, I said, "A Fairchild-Hiller, model 1100, N819WC, made four
trips to, and landed illegally on, Monhegan Island the 14th and 15th of this
month. We have six witnesses willing to testify to that effect. I'm sure the
local FSDO, (Flight Standards District Office) which oversees your certificate,
would like to have this information. On top of the Federal Aviation Regulations
your pilot violated, he also hauled a cargo of stolen goods extorted from an
old couple on the island." I paused, waiting for Mr. Walters to assimilate
this information. It did not take long.

"My pilot
who flew the charter is out on an overnight. He will call you tomorrow
afternoon around three o'clock with all the information you requested. Is this
satisfactory, Mr. Leicester?"

"Yes, thank
you. I'm glad you were able to come around to our way of thinking, Mr. Walters.
We'll be waiting to hear from your pilot." I hung up.

"Well
done." J.L. smiled and hung up his receiver. "We'll wait until we
talk with the pilot before contacting the 'Chairman of the Board." He got
up and turned out the lights. "Come on, I'll escort you out past the Desk
Sergeant's office. I want to be sure you get safely out of the building."

Chamberlain
dropped me off at the Navigator Inn. It was seven-thirty. Entering the lobby to
get a newspaper, I found that Henry was nowhere in sight. The place seemed
deserted. A toilet flushed somewhere in the rear. Henry appeared, wiping his
hands on a paper towel.

"Ah,” he
said, spying me. "Room 412. We have messages for you. How was
Monhegan?"

"Nice.
Let's you and I retire, liquidate our assets, and build a house on the island.
Spend the rest of our days fishing."

"I'm
ready,” he said with overt eagerness. "Here are your messages."

"Newspaper?"

"Sorry,
they didn't deliver any today."

Shrugging, I
started out the door, then paused. Looking back at Henry, I said, "Don't
wake me in the morning. I'm going to try and sleep late."

"Okay.
Sweet dreams." He reached over and turned on a small television.

Up in my room, I
opened the sliding glass doors to the balcony and let the cold night air pour
in. Sitting down at the table, I read the messages. They were the same as last
night. One was from Guy Robbins, the other from Sandy. There was one sealed in
a white envelope. I opened it: 'There's a fire in the fireplace and a bottle of
champagne in the fridge.' There was no signature.

Feeling the
chill of the night air against the back of my neck, I dialed Guy Robbins, but
got no answer. Reaching Sandy's answering service, I left a message saying I
would call at ten o'clock tomorrow morning.

It took me ten
minutes to get to Mabel's house.

*
* *

We lay on a
blanket in front of the fireplace. The flames had burned low. One log lying
atop the grate still kept its shape. It was checkered into squares and glowed
without flame. Sweat glistened off both our bodies. Mabel lay, one leg draped
across me, rubbing the hair on my chest. I had no idea what time it was. Or
cared.

"Are you
and J.L. going to find out who killed those two men?" She asked, holding
me unashamedly.

"We already
know. Proving it will be something else." Running a hand through her hair,
I smelled the soap in it, a clean, earthy, musky odor.

A car light
flashed through the window. I wondered if it was a certain policeman on the way
home. "You know, Sergeant Bowers won't speak to me anymore because of
you."

"Sergeant
Bowers never had a claim on me." She climbed on top of me, and straddled
my waist. "No man's had a claim on me until you came along. I still don't
know why I'm attracted to you."

It did not
matter why me as long as she didn't figure it out in the next few minutes and
stop what she was doing.

*
* *

Awaking cold, I
was wrapped in the blanket. A breeze wafting down the chimney ruffled the
remnants of last night’s fire in the fireplace and blew a faint scent of
charred ashes and wood into the room. Mabel was gone.

Shivering as I
dressed, I read a note on the dining table that said Mabel had gone to work,
and asked me to stop by for coffee.

Driving back to
the motel, I went up the back way. There was time to shower and shave before
calling Sandy.

Deciding to give
Guy a call first, his secretary said he was in court. I told her I would try
again, tonight.

Sandy answered
on the first ring. "Have you found out anything?" She asked immediately.

"We're
pretty sure Anastasio's responsible." I explained all we had learned on
Monhegan Island, telling her about the upcoming meeting with the helicopter
pilot.

Sandy sighed.
"I know someone's following me. I don't like it."

"It's
Anastasio's people." I reminded her of our earlier conversation.
"Don't worry about them. They want to see what you do, if you go to the
police, or contact anyone else. He's playing a game."

"Well, it's
not a fun game." Her voice was cold and serious.

"I'll let
you know what we learn from the pilot. Also,

if someone were to dump the Kent
Collection on the market, could there be any way to check and find out about
it? Some 'Art World' network?"

"No way.
Too many avenues. Think about it, the thousands of galleries, museums,
boutiques, and private collectors. Impossible."

"Well, I
needed to know,” I said, feeling stupid. Maybe I should have known, but I was
going through a learning curve with this art thing. "I'll be in
touch."

"You call
every day. You promise me."

"I promise."

Walking out on
the balcony, I saw a low cloud line lying barely visible far out to sea, the
last vestiges of the cold front. The wind was calm. The sun was warming the air
into a truly nice spring day in the State of Maine. A flock of sea birds, too
far away to identify, moved in an ever-changing line toward Vinal Haven.

Leaning back in
the chair, I let the morning sun wash warmly over my face and thought about
last night, and Mabel. She is quite a woman. It was going to be hard to leave
when the time came.

Then I thought
about the face of defeat. The helpless look of Ben Barnes as he stared vacantly
in despair. His courage had failed. The sad thing about courage is that a man
must be a little careless of his life in order to keep it. Courage to me had
always been not in blindly overlooking danger, but in recognizing it and
conquering it. But what could a little old man on an isolated island in the
Atlantic Ocean do up against a powerful Mafia figure like Gino Anastasio? I
made a silent promise that Mr. Boss of Bosses would somehow pay for the
suffering he had caused this old couple.

The coffee shop
was empty except for three people sitting around a table near the cash
register. Two of them were Mabel and Henry. The other one had his back to me. I
did not realize it was Sergeant Bowers until we looked at each other face to
face.

Expecting some
form of antagonism from Bowers, he surprised me with an invitation to sit and
have coffee. Henry excused himself, saying he had work to do. Mabel went for
the coffeepot.

"Look, Mr.
Leicester,” he said, peering into his cup. He had a prominent nose and brown,
intense eyes. The hair at the sides and on the back of his head curled like shavings
in a boat-builder's shop. "I'm sorry about the way I've been acting. It's
been childish. I had a talk with Mabel. She pointed out some things I seemed to
have overlooked. You being from out of town, a stranger and all..."

It took guts to
say what he was saying. "Forget it, Sergeant. Water under the bridge. I'd
feel the same way if the situation were reversed."

What motivated
Sergeant Bowers to have such a change of heart? Had he done it on his own, or
from something Chamberlain said to him. He and Mabel could be involved in these
killings in some way. Maybe she pointed out how his petty jealously could blow
their scam.

Sergeant Bowers
excused himself. I spent an hour talking with Mabel, drinking coffee, drawing
her out. We had not had much conversation since that first night. She told me
how her husband died, drowning at sea, his body never recovered. We talked a
little about the murders. Henry finally interrupted us, saying Detective
Chamberlain wanted to talk with me on the phone.

Leaving, I
promised Mabel that I would see her tonight.

*
* *

Picking up the
phone at the front desk, I said, "Yeah, what's up, J.L.?"

"Mr.
Walters from the helicopter service phoned, his pilot's flying in from Bangor.
He'd planned a fuel stop in Augusta; he'll stop in Rockland, instead. Walters
said he would have all the information we'd need."

Looking at my
watch, I asked, "Arrival time?"

"In about
forty-five minutes. I'll pick you up out front of the Navigator in ten
minutes." He hung up.

*
* *

"How's
Kathleen?" I slid into the passenger side of J.L.'s unmarked police car.

"She had a
good night. Bill was by this morning checking on her. He seems to think this
crisis is over."

"I'm
glad." We turned onto the highway in front of the hotel and headed for the
airport. "Did you say anything to Bowers about this situation with
Mabel?"

Chamberlain
looked at me for a moment. "No, I didn't think it necessary. Why?
Something happen?"

"No. Bowers
apologized to me this morning in the coffee shop for the way he's been acting.
That's all."

"Bowers is
a good man, Jay." Chamberlain slowed for an old man crossing the street
with a small dog on a leash. "All of us let things cloud our judgment from
time to time. I knew the jealously thing would pass with him."

"I wanted
to know if he did it on his own. It took guts. I'm glad it wasn't coming from
you. One more thing, was Bowers involved in any of the investigation on
Bilotti's killing?"

"Yes. In
fact, he was the first officer on the scene. He's only working the desk until
the regular officer returns from vacation. Why?"

"You figure
it out."

Chamberlain
looked intently at me, but didn't say anything. Leaning back in the seat, I
clasped my hands behind my head, and stared at the car's headliner.

Parking in front
of the FBO, Chamberlain shut the engine off and rolled down his window. I did
the same. We heard the helicopter long before it appeared. The whop, whop, whop
of the blades were unmistakable. There is only one machine which makes that
sound, a Bell HU-1, better known as the 'Huey.' The helicopter was designed for
the Vietnam War and used as an air ambulance, a gunship, and a troop carrier.
It now serves many rolls in civilian life. I did not fly helicopters, but I had
never heard pilots who flew them ever say anything bad about the Huey.