Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (16 page)

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

Leaving
Chamberlain with his pharmacy burglary, I drove back to the Navigator Inn,
taking copies of the files on both murders with me. We agreed for tomorrow to
both spend the day with our respective endeavors. Chamberlain was to catch up
on police work that he had been neglecting for the last two weeks. I would
review all the information collected during our investigation and work on the
meeting with Gino Anastasio day after tomorrow in Augusta, Maine.

It was almost
dark when I left the police station. The streets glistened with early dew,
leaving dark blotches on the walls of buildings. The town looked bathed in a
cold sweat and the air was heavy with a sea smell of low tide, disquieting like
premature old age. Stopping two blocks from the Navigator, I picked up a pizza
and some wine.

Going straight
up to my room, I put the wine and pizza on the table and phoned down to Henry.
There were no messages for me. After telling him I didn't want a wake up call
for in the morning, we said good night, and hung up.

The wine, a 1988
Brolio Chianti Classico, was a little old, but went well with the pizza. After
finishing the entire bottle, I contemplated a cigar and cognac. Deciding
against them, I went to bed pleasantly drunk.

Waking sometime
later with a headache and a dry mouth, I had no idea what time it was. The
alarm clock next to the bed glowed a bright red six a.m. Not able to go back to
sleep, I decided to watch the sunrise.

It was cold on
the balcony. The dew made everything damp and wet. Going back inside, I put on
my old leather flight jacket. The sun rose from the sea, slowly melting the
world as it inched its way upward. It soon cleared the horizon causing the
morning to break fresh as new paint. Getting up to see this had been worth it.

After a shower
and a shave, I went down for coffee with Henry and his sister. My only plans
for today were to study the files and to work on the meeting with Anastasio.

Henry's sister
had made blue berry pancakes. I could not resist. During my third cup of coffee
a fly lit on an empty breakfast dish. Henry shooed it away. Watching as it
flew; I followed the flight path until it landed upside down on the ceiling, causing
me to remember an old friend who owns an aviation management company in Dallas,
Texas. He and I used to argue whether a fly did a loop maneuver or a half roll
to land upside down on a ceiling. We never settled the debate, but it suddenly
dawned on me that his computer system would have data on how many Hansa Jets
were still operating in the United States, and who their owners were.

Excusing myself,
I went to make a telephone call.

*
* *

"Ashley,
you old reprobate. How are you?"

"Leicester,
is that you? Well I'll be. Long time no see, son. How you been?"

"Good,
John. It's a pleasure to hear that raspy old voice again. Listen, I need some
information."

"Information?
I was hoping you were looking for a steady flying job. Got one open right now,
flying left seat on a Saberliner. Start you out at eighty thousand, plus
benefits. Guarantee you'll never have to fly at night, on weekends, or when
it's raining."

Ashley was
probably serious about the flying job, but I wasn't interested. "No
thanks, John. Unless something drastic happens, I'm through with that
life."

"Too bad.
Well, if you ever change your mind...” he said, trailing off. "How can I
help you?"

"I'm trying
to run down a charter, or a private flight, which landed in Rockland, Maine, on
the night of the sixteenth of this month. Don't have an 'N' number, but it was
a Hansa Jet. The only other information I have is it was flying with a female
copilot."

"Well, son,
that don't mean anything. There are about as many ladies flying airplanes today
as men. I hear the Government's going to let them start flying combat. They'll
do a good job, too. I work over a dozen in my charter department. They are a
lot more reliable, and not nearly as rough on my airplanes, as some of these
old fighter jocks."

"The Hansa Jet,
John." I was trying to slow him down. Once he started on a subject, he
would talk for two days. "Can you be of any help with locating it?"

"If the
thing flies, I know where it's based, who owns it, and how many hours left
until the engines need an overhaul." He laughed a deep resounding laugh.
"Give me a couple of hours. I'll see what I can come up with and call you
back."

Giving Ashley my
phone number at the motel, I said good-bye. Sitting down at the small table, I
picked up the file and started reading at the front.

*
* *

The file was
eclectic, but well organized. I read it carefully. It began with Tony Bilotti's
death and continued through the conversation we'd had with Anastasio yesterday
morning. This was an excellent and up-to-date piece of work.

The autopsy
report on Bilotti showed nothing other than what had truly happened; someone
stuck a .9mm pistol behind his right ear and pulled the trigger. Too bad. I
hoped he enjoyed his last day, but I felt no sympathy. A son of a bitch alive
is a son of a bitch dead.

Nat Rinaldi's
autopsy report read the same as Bilotti's, except he had been in the water for
a couple of days. Seeing his face after the crabs had been at it was still
fresh in my memory. The mouth was a dull smear of red, like a poorly painted
clown's face.

I felt sorry for
Nat. His time came early, but death is implicit in birth. The poor innocent art
dealer played on the fringe and ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The rest of the
file was a concise record of all the information we'd collected, people we'd
interviewed, places we'd been. At the end was a one page summary, written in
Chamberlain's own style of prose. The next scheduled meeting with Gino
Anastasio was the last thing entered in the file. There was a big question mark
at the end.

Throwing the
file on the table, I leaned back in the chair, and stared out at Penobscot bay.
Suddenly a feeling of exigency swept over me, but I felt chained.

The phone rang.

"Leicester,”
the booming voice said. "Get a pen, boy. I've got a listing of six of
these German jets. You ready to copy?"

"Go ahead,
John." I reached for a writing pad and pen next to the phone.

"Only one
is flying as a charter aircraft. The rest are in Detroit hauling auto parts for
the car makers."

"Outstanding.
Who runs the one on charter?"

"Aeroair,
Inc. They're based in Houston, operate out of Hobby, and owned by an old codger
named Charlie Garino. He's a straight shooter. When you call, tell him you're a
friend of mine."

"What'll
that get me?"

Ashley laughed.
"Why you need this information, Jay? I know old Charlie hasn't done
anything wrong."

"Keep this
under your hat, John. The Hansa Jet hauled a cargo of stolen artwork. If
Garino's clean, he might not have known what was on board. I need to find out
where the airplane landed."

"You can
bet your boots on Garino, son. Charlie Garino would have nothing to do with
anything illegal." There was a serious inflection in his voice. "I've
known him for thirty years. I'll vouch for him."

"Thanks.
Appreciate your help. I owe you one."

"Any time,
Jay. Stay in touch."

"Good-bye."
Untwisting the tangled cord, I hung up the receiver.

The room seemed
stuffy. Walking over, I opened the glass doors to the balcony. Fresh air flowed
into the room, followed by the sounds of the waterfront and auto traffic on the
street.

Back inside,
directory assistance gave me the number for Aeroair in Houston, Texas. I
punched in the eleven digits.

"Mr. Garino
won't be back until tomorrow,” the woman who answered the phone said. "May
I take a message, or could someone else help you?"

"No, Ma'am.
Will you tell Mr. Garino that I'm a friend of John Ashley? I'll get in touch
with him tomorrow."

"I'll be
glad to, Mr. Leicester. Thank you for calling Aeroair."

"Oh, one
more thing. Do you employ female pilots?"

"Yes, we
do,” the lady said. "We have six young women flying with us. Why do you
ask?"

"It's not
important. I'll talk with Mr. Garino tomorrow." Hanging up the phone, I
scratched my chin.

By the time I
finished studying the file and making a mental list of questions to confront
Anastasio with, the sun had set, leaving long wisps of gray clouds like streaks
of ashes pale against the evening sky.

The world seemed
to pause between day and night. Still feeling anxious, I wanted to confront
Anastasio now, not tomorrow.

*
* *

The dream was so
real. Gusty winds blew through the marina slamming the hulls of boats against
fenders. Loose halyards and shrouds clanked against masts. Flags flapped and
snapped. In the narrow bunk of Picaroon my hands found the warmth of her, followed
the familiar hills and valleys of smooth skin. Dim, reflected light played
around the cabin, glinting off her narrowed eyes. We made no pretense of
playing games of faked restraint, quickly passing the boundaries of no return
and came in a mounting passion which seemed to create a closeness nothing can
provide. The wind made breathing sounds through the mast of the boat, then subsided,
as we did. The slow tilting and creaking of the hull seeming to echo, in a
slower pace, our lovemaking just ended. Mabel lay beside me breathing slowly
and easily. I began to sweat and gasp for breath. A hand covered my face,
another closed tightly around my neck.

The phone ended
the dream and brought me back to reality. Henry was saying something about J.L.
waiting for me in the lobby. "What time is it?" I had forgotten to
leave a wake up call.

"Eight
o'clock,” he said, laughing.

"God, I
overslept. Tell Chamberlain to have a cup of coffee with your sister. Give me
twenty minutes."

Of all the times
to oversleep, I thought. The day we are to meet with Anastasio.

Chamberlain,
true to his character, didn't comment about me being late. "Have a cup of
coffee,” he said. "There's plenty of time to reach the airport in
Augusta."

The day was a
mirror image of yesterday with the sky clear and blue. We let the windows down
in the car as we drove slowly through the town even though a chill was still in
the air. Wind circulating in the car was bracing. I could smell wood smoke from
someone's fireplace or cook stove.

Once outside of
Rockland, it turned cold. We rolled the windows back up. The sun shining on the
obsidian rock of the mountains gave off an amethystine glow. Trees gleamed
green and bright. We rounded a curve and were presented with the bare face of a
hill eroded by wind and rain and snow. Etched by time, it reminded me of flying
over the Rocky Mountains. That anxious feeling suddenly swept around me again.

Chamberlain
glanced over at me. "You alright, Jay? You're pale as a sheet."

"Yeah, I'm
fine. Still trying to wake up."

"So, lay it
out for me. How exactly do you plan to approach Anastasio this time?"

Over the next
twenty minutes, I explained to Chamberlain my ideas. We discussed them until we
both were satisfied and in agreement. His input was both incisive and helpful.
He was a good investigator and a smart man.

The drive,
winding through the hills, was familiar to me. It was the same route Sandy and
I had driven days earlier when taking her to catch the airplane back to New Orleans.
I though of how she looked that day, her hair tied with the bandanna, the
tight, black slacks. I remembered the towel and her nakedness in the motel room
that morning. I also remembered her dead brother.

Tell me about
Jim Barstein, J.L.? Is he capable of doing these two murders?"

J.L. gave me
another of those scholarly-like looks, thought for a few minutes. Then: "I
sent him to prison when he was nineteen years old. He beat a man to death in a
bar. All the witnesses testified he'd been pushed into the fight and could not
avoid it. He got off with a plea to Man two. Served eighteen months of a three
to five."

"Then he's
capable of the violence?"

"Oh, he's
capable alright. There's been some scrapes since he's been out, but nothing
serious."

"Yes,
scrapes...” I said absentmindedly.

Chamberlain
looked at me with a quizzical expression.

Answering the
question mark on his face, I said, "There's a possibility Barstein and his
wife showed up early that morning at the chandlery, saw the car in the parking
lot, and went to take a look. They found the body and the four hundred and
fifty thousand in cash, took the money and left the body to be found by some
other poor soul."

"It could
have happened that way. I don't know...” His voice trailed off.

"Maybe
Barstein made the hits. Why don't we sweat him? See what wrings out?"

"It's an
idea." Silence. Then Chamberlain said, "Let's give it awhile, see
what happens."

We arrived at
the airport and drove around until we found the fixed-base operation.
Anastasio's G-IV was nowhere in sight.

"Sit tight,
J.L. I'll go see what I can find out." Inside the office, the young lady
behind the counter said that she had heard from a Gulfstream G-IV. One had
called in twenty minutes ago. They should be on the ramp in about five minutes.
Thanking her, I went back outside to where Chamberlain stood beside the car.

"There he
comes." Chamberlain pointed to a dot in the sky.

We watched the
profile of the G-IV grow larger. It slid down the glideslope like a giant eagle
to a perfect landing. Blue smoke erupted from the main gear tires. The aircraft
thrust-reversers opened and the engine noise increased to a roar.