Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (8 page)

"He's the
one. The Wise Guys refer to these get-togethers as commission meetings. Can you
believe it? The FBI had a tap on the place. One of the Dons made the remark
that organized crime was second only in size to the government itself.
Anastasio spoke up and said they were at least as big as IBM."

I had heard the
story differently. The message was the same, though.

"Anything
else?" I asked, sitting back up.

"Only that
this guy is powerful. Wouldn't make sense for him to be piddling with stuff
like this. It just doesn't wash."

Thinking for a
minute, I pulled at the telephone cord. "The hit had to be planned for
Bilotti. Rinaldi may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time by design.
It was a cover for the hit."

"I don't
know,” J.L. mused.

"It does
seem too complicated for a hit on a mole." Kicking off both shoes, I
rubbed my feet together. "They could have just dropped him off the Sears
tower, or let him wash up on the beach from Lake Michigan. Something's out of
kilter. Tomorrow's meeting should prove interesting."

"Well,
you've got to be careful. I'll put a wire on you. Jay, he could get you aboard
his airplane, shut the door, fly off, and you'd never be heard from
again."

"Well, it'd
be a hell of a ride." Scratching a little toe, I said, "No wire, J.L.
He's not stupid. They'd find it before I was within ten feet of him."

"Okay, if
that's the way you feel,” Chamberlain said, relenting, sounding unhappy.
"I'll be taking you to the airport. I want Gino Anastasio to know I'm
there, waiting if anything should go wrong."

"Sounds
fine to me,” I said, meaning it. "I'll see you in the morning."

Easing the phone
back into its cradle, I took the newspaper and went out on the balcony. It was
dusk dark, the peaceful transition period between light and night. A good time
of day for some, a lonesome time for others.

The evening
ferry was off-loading cars and people. Lines were forming for those finished
with the day’s work, heading home to the idyllic life on offshore islands. The
wind had calmed as the sun set. It was going to be a nice spring night in
Rockland, Maine.

Propping my feet
up on the banister, I unfolded the paper. An article in the lower right hand
corner of the front page caught my eye:

STOLEN RUBENS RECOVERED IN FLORIDA

Miami Beach – A
stolen 17th-century oil masterpiece by Flemish painter Peter Paul Rubens was
recovered in Miami Beach on Tuesday, six years after it was taken from a museum
in Spain. The five-by-eight inch painting entitled AURORA was recovered after
four men offered to sell it for $3.5 million to an undercover agent, officials said.

If the thief's
offered it for $3.5 million, wonder what its real value would be?

I had never
heard of the artist, Rubens. My knowledge of art was still next to nil.
Rockwell Kent, I knew about, though. It was a start.

Night fell
quickly, like someone pulling down a window shade. The ferry pulled out, taking
people to warm, clean homes, laughing children, and loving mates. Sitting alone
on a balcony in a hotel, I thought of two dead bodies, a mournful sister, the
dying wife of a friend, a man who headed the entire crime families in the
United States, and Mabel.

Finishing the
newspaper, I called down and asked Henry to ring me at seven in the morning,
then went to bed.

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

The appetent and
limbic parts of my brain worked embarrassingly well during the night. Henry
called precisely at seven o'clock. Thanking him, I headed for a stinging,
ice-cold shower.

After dressing,
I opened the sliding glass doors and walked out on the balcony. The air was
cool and smelled faintly of salt. A light breeze rippled the blue water of the
bay. The sun was already up, but hung like a giant red ball above the offshore
islands. The early ferry, returning the same people it had carried the night
before, appeared to emerge from the blazing orb.

Chamberlain was
to meet me at eight o'clock for breakfast. Securing the door to my room, I
walked down to the end of the hall. The elevator doors opened instantly when I
punched the button, as if waiting to draw me into the cold, empty space for
some evil purpose. The doors closed, clicking like valves, a pulsating rhythm
in their sound.

Chamberlain was
standing, talking to Henry, when I entered the lobby. After the usual
pleasantries, we went into the restaurant. There were no other customers. Mabel
emerged from the kitchen with a pot of fresh coffee.

"Hello, you
two,” she said, smiling, waving the coffeepot in a broad sweep. "Be a few
minutes for a table."

"Morning,
Mabel,” J.L. said laughing, selecting a seat by the window and sitting down.
"Always the kidder, aren't you?"

"Keeps me
young. How's Kathleen doing?" She asked, pouring us coffee.

"She's not
feeling too well today. But thank you for asking."

"And you,
sir,” Mabel asked, looking at me. "How are you today?"

"Very well,
Mabel,” I said, thinking of the limbic part of my brain. "Do you work all
the time? You're here every time I come in."

"No,” she
said, taking out a pen and pad from an apron pocket. "Sometimes I sit by
the phone and wait for it to ring."

Sitting with my
elbows on the table, I felt my face flush.

"What'll it
be, Gentleman?" Mabel asked with a sly grin.

Chamberlain ate
like a horse. I only had coffee.

"You heard
anything from South Carolina?"

"Waterbury's
are clean,” Chamberlain answered between bites. "Fax came in this morning
from the South Carolina State police. He's a retired Aerospace Engineer, worked
with NASA. Neither he or his wife have ever had so much as a parking
ticket."

"We keep
looking." I fingered a knife, and watched Mabel disappear into the
kitchen.

"Yes, we
do."

Henry entered
the restaurant, went behind the counter, poured himself a cup of coffee, came
over to our table, and sat down with us. He said the hotel was empty, except
for me. Silently, I wondered where Nat Rinaldi could have stayed. He had to
have slept somewhere. I made a mental note to discuss this with Chamberlain on
the way to the airport. His men were working on it, I knew, but we needed to
know.

Watching Henry
carefully, there was nothing outwardly noticeable that indicated he had more
than a layman's curiosity of what had happened in this small community. He had
not been scratched off my list, not yet, anyway.

On the way out
of the restaurant Chamberlain insisted on paying. At the cash register Mabel
asked if I still had the piece of paper she'd given me. I said that I did.

"What you
don't use, you lose,” she said, walking away toward the kitchen.

When we got in
Chamberlain's car he asked, "What was that all about?"

"You mean
with Mabel?" I fastened my seat belt. "What do you know about
her?"

"I've known
her for thirty years. Lost her husband to the sea." He started the engine.
"She's hard working, never remarried. Doesn't play around much. Why, you
interested?"

"Just
wondered,” I said, looking out the window to the blue waters of the bay.

"Yeah,”
Chamberlain said, with a smile, putting the car in gear. "Let's go meet
with the Chairman of the Board."

"We've got
to find where Nat Rinaldi was staying,” I said to Chamberlain while looking at
the buildings along the waterfront as we drove south toward the airport.

"Yes,” he
said, nodding, both hands gripping the steering wheel. "Sooner or later
we'll get lucky. One of the advantages in working the confines of a small
community is your chances are better at finding the bad guys. Or anything else
you might be looking for."

"You think
he might have stayed on Monhegan?"

"I don't
know." He turned and watched a squad car speed down the street in the
opposite direction. Bending forward, he turned up the police radio. "It's
a possibility we won't rule out."

"I talked
with Barstein, the ferry boat Captain out of Port Clyde,” I said, turning and
watching the blue and white round a corner. "He said Rianldi was at the
dock wanting to get across to Monhegan Island the day before Bilotti turned up
with a bullet in his brain. Only the ferry didn't run. Rinaldi was upset, asked
about a charter boat."

Chamberlain hit
the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "I asked Barstein,
personally, if Rianldi had been on the passenger list. He said no, which was
the truth. He should have volunteered he'd seen him."

"Well, you
know seamen are a closed mouth group,” I said, remembering being among them
yesterday.

"Yes. But,
by God, this is murder." He slapped the steering wheel again, then as an
afterthought, adjusted the volume on the police radio. "Two of them. They
know it!"

Chamberlain was
mad. He knew the people in his community. All of them. He knew there were times
when they'd lie; illegal fishing, running some grass, stealing. There are
things where one draws the line. Murder was one of them.

"I thought
one of the locals might have lifted the cash from Bilotti,” I said, feeling out
his thoughts. "If it was still there when the body was found."

"Forget
it,” Chamberlain said, looking at me. "They couldn't keep it secret for
twenty-four hours. They'd probably go buy a new sports car, a boat, and a
house. All in one day, paying cash." He laughed, exercised the fist with
which he'd hit the wheel. "I don't think so, Jay."

Maybe, I
thought. But half a million would go a long way to keeping up an old ferryboat.

"We may
have to go over to Monhegan Island,” I volunteered, rolling down a window,
smelling the clean salt air. "If we come up dry finding where Rinaldi was
staying on the mainland. He may have gotten over. It could be where the money
and the Kent collection are located."

"Yeah,”
Chamberlain said, cracking his window a few inches. "If you want to
believe Anastasio didn't perpetrate some elaborate scheme to whack a disloyal
mole. Let's wait and see what the Boss of Bosses has to say."

Knox County
Regional Airport, Rockland, Maine, is a small airport by today's standards. It
has two runways; one, four thousand five hundred feet in length; the other,
four thousand feet. Long enough to accommodate aircraft up to and including
medium-sized turboprops and jets.

There are two
fixed base operators on the field. We had no way of knowing where Anastasio's
plane would park. There were no transit aircraft at either business. It was
five minutes until ten o'clock. We waited.

Chamberlain spotted
it first.

"There,” he
said, pointing into the blue sky. "Over the water tower."

"Pretty
good eyesight for an old man,” I said, laughing, still trying to locate the
aircraft.

Finally I did
catch the sun glint off of metal. A small speck in the sky emerged into an
aircraft. We watched as it intercepted the electronic landing system, which
would guide it to within two hundred feet above, and on the centerline, of the
runway.

The sleek jet
descended gracefully, blue smoke erupting from the tires as the main landing
gear took the full weight of the aircraft. It rolled out slowly to the end of
the runway, taxied back towards the fixed-base operation where we were
standing. Several local pilots came out to watch, the jet obviously an unusual
sight at the small airport.

"I'll say
one thing for Don Gino, J.L. The man rides in style."

"Nice
looking plane,” Chamberlain said, unimpressed.

I was impressed.
The aircraft was the Gulfstream GIV, a twenty-five million-dollar investment by
today's money. This airplane was familiar to me. Back during the years I made
my living flying, I watched with great interest the development of the
Gulfstream GIV. It was a plush, roomy, fast, long-range aircraft. Yes, Mr.
Anastasio traveled first class.

The GIV pulled
into the parking area. As the engines spooled down, the airstair door opened. A
man descended the steps and headed for where Chamberlain and I stood. As he
approached, I noticed he was dressed in a three-piece pinstripe, red tie, and
wing tips. A young, good-looking corporate type. Not the usual, tough bodyguard
facade you see in the movies.

He stood for a
moment, looking at us. Then, staring directly at me, he said, "Mr.
Leicester, Mr. Anastasio will not be deplaning. He would like to meet with you
aboard the aircraft." He looked at J.L. "Mr. Chamberlain, Mr. Anastasio
asked that you wait here while he speaks with Mr. Leicester."

Chamberlain gave
him a stern look. "I have no intentions of talking with Mr. Anastasio,
young man. I just want him to know I'm here."

"I understand,
sir,” he said, unperturbed, and motioned toward the aircraft. "Mr.
Leicester, will you follow me."

It wasn't a
request.

As we walked
across the tarmac, I wondered how this man could possibly know who we were.
Anastasio must be a lot more thorough than I imagined.

One must see the
inside of a GIV to appreciate it. Most of these aircraft are outfitted to the
specifications of the individual owner. I had seen the factory demonstrator
back in eighty-seven. I did not think it possible to improve on that layout. I
was wrong.

The plane's
interior had eight individual seats, all with their own small television.
Behind a divider was a three-place couch with a boardroom type conference
table. A small, auxiliary turbine engine hummed softly in the background. It
provided power to run all the electronics and environmental systems while the
aircraft was on the ground with the main engines shut down. Keep the boss comfortable,
is the key phrase.

Glancing into
the cockpit upon entering the cabin, I saw that the crew sat, stone-faced,
staring out the windscreen. I did not blame them. If I flew for the head of the
entire organized crime syndicates in America I would stare straight ahead, too.
The instrument panel looked like five television screens. I was not sure if I
could get used to that kind of flying. Button pushing.

Young Mr.
Corporate Executive ushered me back to the conference room.

Seated at the
head of the oval table was a cadaver. I thought for a second that this was some
sort of morbid joke. Then the cadaver spoke.

"Sit
down."

The voice was
high pitched, each spoken word dragged out, every syllable enunciated and
stretched. The few strands of hair on the pale, vein-laced head went in all
directions. His eyes were black holes in a yellow face. The mouth, thin-lipped
and tight, stretched across black, neglected teeth. Dressed in a blue jogging
suit, the body seemed thin and frail. He was seated, so it was hard to guess
his weight. He looked like something rescued from a German concentration camp.

Trying to remember
if his voice had sounded this way over the phone when we had talked in J.L.'s
office, I could not.

"Miss
Rinaldi won't be joining us today."

"I'm aware
of Miss Rinaldi's whereabouts,” he said, looking past me, nodding.

The suit left
us, going forward, toward the cockpit.

"What is it
you have to tell me?"

The question
took me by surprise.

"What are
you talking about? You called this meeting, remember?"

Anastasio's eyes
seared into mine. A look that had probably sent many a man to an early grave.

He sat up a
little straighter in the chair. "I hoped you were not going to be
stupid."

"My
client's brother is dead, Mr. Anastasio. The four hundred and fifty thousand
dollars in cash, the money you insisted he bring, is missing." I looked
back into those black holes.

He lifted his
head and looked at me, the faint contraction of boredom in the corner of his
eyes letting me understand that this moment of attention was a favor. He spoke
in a tone of emphasized patience. "My wife loves paintings. I try to give
her the best. We had no children, so she found interest in the arts."

Shifting
position in my chair, I put both hands on my knees and leaned forward,
attentive.

"I take
care of my business. I've done very well with it, but I know little of art. To
me, it is merely a product of the untalented sold by the unprincipled to the
utterly bewildered."

Shifting
position again in the chair, I laughed.

He ignored the
laugh and continued. "Two years ago I overheard my wife talk about this
Rockwell person. I thought I'd give some of his work to her as a birthday gift.
We found this entire collection. I had it authenticated, appraised, and I paid
a fair price for it. My wife didn't like it. Turns out she wanted Norman
Rockwell, not Rockwell Kent."

"So you
decided to sell the Kent collection,” I offered.

"Exactly.
Not a penny profit did I ask,” he said, waving the bony hands. "Mr. Rinaldi
did business with associates of mine in New Orleans. He was highly recommended."

Yes, I thought.
By whom, the Marcello family.

Anastasio continued.
"I sent my man down to New Orleans to meet with Mr. Rinaldi. He agreed to
come to Monhegan Island to view the collection, purchasing it for cash if it
was as advertised."