CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) (20 page)

CHAPTER 26 – ENDANGERED SPECIES

When I woke up the next morning I briefly entertained the idea of heading to Pelican Cove keeping an eye on Capriati until I went to the airport. Maybe flatten a couple of his tires to make sure he stayed put. I always get antsy when I’m close to a resolution. But that’s usually when I make  a mistake. So instead I went for another workout in the hotel gym. After showering and dressing I ordered breakfast in my room. I was sipping the last of my coffee and reading
The New York Times
when Cormac Levine called me. 

“I got info on your boy, Capriati,” he said. “You ain’t gonna find him.” I chuckled. I could hardly wait to tell him. “He’s in witness protection with the Feds,” Mac said.

I unchuckled.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah. Are you sure?”

“No. I made it up. Of course, I’m sure. How long you think I’ve been doing this crap? Everywhere I looked was a black hole. Everyone I asked either knew nothing or clammed up. Finally, an old pal on one of those joint task forces we run with the Feds, you know, the ones where we give them everything and they give us crap, told me that Capriati is in the fucking witness protection program. You got any leads,  just forget ‘em.”

Mac didn’t know I was in Florida. The beauty of cell phones.

“Uh, there’s a bit of a problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I found him.”

For a moment I thought I’d lost the connection. Then Mac said, “Oh, Christ!”

I quickly explained what I’d been up to.

“I’m about to head out to the airport to pick up my client and her daughter. I don’t think this makes any difference. She’ll want to see him.”

“Yeah, I guess you’ll have to tell her. What a cluster fuck. You are a piece of work. Watch your back. You are in uncharted waters, my boy. Any chance you were followed to Florida?”

“Carlucci?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not sure there’s enough of them left. Besides, I got my boarding pass on line. Once I cleared security they wouldn’t know what flight I was on.”

“All the same, be careful. Something about this whole thing stinks like day old lox.”

I rang off and called JetBlue. Their flight was scheduled to arrive a few minutes early. I headed to the airport. On the drive I mulled over the situation. What would Capriati’s reaction be when they met? Even if he wanted to do the right thing, he certainly wouldn’t expose himself. Would he go to the Feds? Maybe the bone marrow procedure could be done secretly. But they’d surely want to relocate him again. Where would I stand with the them? I hadn’t broken any laws, but they wouldn’t be happy. They’d probably try to blackmail me into silence. Threaten my livelihood. I could always counter-threaten to advertise my talent for finding people in witness protection. Think of all the business the mob would throw my way. Stalemate. I’d keep my mouth shut. Mac would help broker any deal. My accomplishment, presumably unprecedented, would go virtually unnoticed. Oh, well. I could still feel pretty damn good about it.

I wondered how to tell Ellen about Capriati without Savannah hearing it. It would be her call after that. And a tough one. Even if he hasn’t been in her life, a daughter wouldn’t want to know that her father was a criminal, and probably a snitch.

Along the access road to the terminal I spotted several feral hogs racing along an embankment. I also passed several “Panther Crossing” signs. Florida only has about 100 panthers left in the wild. They are less an endangered species than an endangered litter. I parked my car and took the walkway to the terminal. JetBlue was located in Concourse D. I checked the Departures and Arrivals board. Their flight was due in at 10:45. I looked at my watch. It was 11 AM. The plane had obviously landed safely. I hadn’t heard any fire trucks. I waited for her call. I realized I wanted to hear the sound of her voice again. And to see her. I saw a JetBlue plane pull up to one of the gates. After about 10 minutes passengers started walking out. Some people standing near me were waving at friends or relatives who waved back. Some kids from the plane ran up to their grandparents.

“Look at you! You’re so big. Give me a big smooch.”

Gradually more and more people passed by. The plane had apparently been full. Ellen and Savannah were probably lucky to get seats on such short notice. They had probably been stuck in the rear of the plane. The debarking passengers thinned out. Now they were coming out in twos, or singly. I stopped one.

“You just get off JetBlue out of JFK? Flight 1252. Left at 8 AM.”

It was the correct flight. I spotted some wheelchairs. Older folks. I wondered if the trip had been too taxing for Savannah. They might have called a wheelchair for her. The last chair went by. Then the flight crew. No Ellen or Savannah. I waited 15 more minutes. Perhaps Savannah was sick in a restroom. I couldn’t go past security to check, so I took out my cell and called Ellen. Got her voicemail. They couldn’t have gotten past me, and after another ten minutes the restroom made no sense, so I went to the JetBlue counter where a nice woman suggested that perhaps they missed the plane and were catching the next flight, which was scheduled to arrive at noon. Couldn’t I call them?

“I just get her answering message. Could they have been bumped? The flight looked pretty full.”

“I think I would have heard about that. But hold on a sec.” She punched something into her computer. Shook her head. “One more thing.” She picked up a phone and made a call to what I assumed was a central reservation number. “This is Margaret in Fort Myers. Was anybody bumped from 1252? OK. Anything unusual? Sick passenger or something? OK. Thanks a bunch.” She hung up.  “No one was bumped. They actually had a couple of empty seats. And nothing unusual at the gate. That’s good news, right? I bet they missed the plane. Keep trying her phone. Of course, they might have jumped on another airline. American. Delta. US Air and United. There were several flights leaving about the same time. No nonstops, like ours. Maybe they didn’t have time to call you.”

“Could you check to see if they were booked on your flight?”

“Do you have a confirmation number?”

“No, but I can give you their names.”

“I’m sorry, but we’re not allowed to check that way. You need a confirmation number. I’m sure she’ll call.” The look she gave me said it all. I was probably stood up. “Sometimes people change their mind.”

I thanked her and went back to the concourse. Unless Ellen answered her cell I saw no choice but to wait for the next JetBlue flight. I checked the Arrivals board for other flights on other airlines. None would arrive within three hours. I had a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. Bad things can happen to people who are involved with protected witnesses. Could someone have gotten to Ellen and Savannah? Perhaps Capriati’s cover was blown. Should I warn him? But if I called him he might fly the coop, no matter what I told him about his daughter. I’d wait for the next flight before making a decision. I  hated playing dice with his life. But it was the life he chose. I despised myself for the rationalization. I’ve spent a lot of bad hours in my life. The next one was in the top five. The gallon of coffee I drank damn near burned a hole in my stomach.

They weren’t on the next JetBlue flight either. One last shot. I went back to the JetBlue counter. The lady remembered me.

“She didn’t call?”

“No. You have to help me. Her name is Ellen James and she’s traveling with her daughter, Savannah, who has leukemia. I’m really worried something has happened. Is there a supervisor we can talk to. I have to find out where they are.”

The mention of a child’s illness did it. She picked up her phone.

“Hi. It’s Margie in Fort Myers again. Can you check out a couple of names for me?”

Ten minutes later we both knew that no one named James had been booked on a JetBlue flight from any airport in New York that morning.

“I’m really sorry,” Margie said morosely. “They must be on another airline.” 

Waiting in the airport for two people who might not show up at all was probably not going to be a productive use of my time. If they had caught another flight and I wasn’t there to pick them up they would hopefully go to the hotel. I had given Ellen the suite number. I called the Inn on Fifth and left a message for her to stay in the suite until she heard from me. Of course, she might go straight to Pelican Cove. If so, I wanted to be there first. I went to my car. And called Cormac.

“Sounds bad,” he said. Mac had a genius for stating the obvious. “I told you.”

“Can you try to locate them without stirring up a hornet’s nest? Without mentioning Capriati? I don’t want someone tipping him off.”

“Give me their descriptions. I’ll check with One Police Plaza for any incident reports. But Alton, I might find out something happened to them you don’t want to hear.”

“Then I’ll still need Capriati. Look, maybe I’m overreacting. There might be a simple explanation. The kid might have taken a turn for the worse. Check the Carlyle and Sloane-Kettering for starters.”

I gave Mac Ellen’s cell number. He’d do the rest.

CHAPTER 27 – BILLY, I HARDLY KNEW YOU

On the way back from the airport I called Pelican Cove administration and asked to speak to whoever was in charge of sales. The real estate market in Florida being weaker than a politicians conscience, someone came on the phone almost immediately.

“Fred Bandinage, speaking. “How can I help you.”

“Aaron Rose, Mr. Bandinage. Some friends of mine have been trying to get me to look at homes in your community for a long time. Say it’s one of the best around. You all got anything I can look at?”

“Our models are always open, Mr. Rose. When can you come by?”

“I’m at the Ritz-Carlton and could be there in 20 minutes. Is that all right? I know it’s short notice. But I only flew in for a couple of days of golf.”

“Not a problem.” I knew it wouldn’t be once I mentioned the Ritz. “I’ll leave your name at the gate. The guard can give you directions to the main clubhouse. I can take you around myself. Might I ask what’s your price range, Mr. Rose?’

“What’s yours, Mr. Bandinage?”

“Our smaller two-bedroom condo units start at $229,900, but we have stand-alone houses that run to over a million.”

Which meant that with short sales and foreclosures, I could cut those prices in half. But I wanted to be wanted, so I said, “For a million damn bucks, I sure hope you can throw in the golf membership.”

“I’m sure something can be worked out, Mr. Rose.”

He’d definitely leave my name at the gate.

When I pulled up to the club an elderly guard stuck his head out. He didn’t look like an ex-serviceman, unless his service was in the Boxer Rebellion.

“I’m meeting Mr. Bandinage,” I said.

He looked at a clipboard and nodded.

“Can I see your driver’s license, please?”

I handed it over. He lifted his glasses to squint at it, then shook his head. Aaron Rose. Alton Rhode. Close enough. Must have misheard the gal in the clubhouse. Got rocks in her mouth. He handed it back to me, hit a button and the gate went up.

“By the way,” I said. “I’m having lunch after with a member. William Calloway. I forgot his address. Please look it up for me.”

He went to his computer and was back in a minute. A car pulled up behind me.

“Sorry, sir, we don’t have anyone living here by that name.” He saw my confusion. Another car pulled up. Then he smiled. “I bet he’s a renter. Hold it a sec.”

It was more like another minute. Enough time for a third car to line up behind me. I felt like I was leading a parade.

“Yup. He’s a renter. Annual. In Mr. Payson’s house. Here’s the address.” He handed me a piece of paper. “Second block past the clubhouse, make a right, then another right. Can’t miss it.”

It made sense that Capriati was a renter. It gave him flexibility. And he obviously was pretty sure nobody would find him in Naples, since Pelican Cove was about as secure as a liquor cabinet with a teen-ager in the house. He probably joined the club for the golf, not because it was a gated.

Capriati lived in a complex that bundled six condominiums together, each with its own garage. His Crossfire was in the driveway of his unit. It hadn’t rained but there were beads of water on plants and shrubs lining the walkway and both the walkway and driveway were wet. I assumed an automatic sprinkler system had recently shut down. There were no curbs or sidewalks, which  made parking conspicuous but there was a community pool just a few doors down with a small adjacent lot. I backed into a vacant spot that gave me a clear view of his front door and car. I had no plan other than to follow Capriati if he came out. After I heard from Cormac, that might change. I shut off the engine. Idling cars attract attention or are remembered. There were several other cars in the lot, including one facing the way I was. My windows were tinted. I doubted anyone would notice me sitting there.

The front door of Capriati’s condo edged open. I waited. Nobody came out. Was he peeking out. Perhaps I should have been more cautious. The door began to close and then opened up a little more. It oscillated like that for a moment until I realized that it was reacting to a breeze. It finally opened halfway and stayed that way. Something didn’t fit. I got out and walked over to Capriati’s condo. There were faint footprints in the driveway. Someone had recently walked through the wet area to and from the front door. The footprints seemed to end in the middle of the driveway where, I assumed, another car had been parked behind Capriati’s. I went to the door. The security chain was hanging limply with a piece of wood. It had been ripped from its housing. Cue the ominous music. I drew my gun and kicked the door open, then slid quickly to the left once inside, crouching low.

Capriati was lower than I was. He was about six feet in front of me staring at the ceiling. Which was quite an accomplishment, considering he was splayed out on his stomach. I smelled coffee. There was a mug on the floor halfway between me and the corpse and a brownish stain on the white carpet. Not wanting to become a source of stains myself, I cautiously checked out the rest of the house. It was empty.

I went back to the body. Uncharitably I thought that, after all my brilliant sleuthing, Capriati could have had the common decency to stay alive. I’d never even had the chance to say hello. He was barefoot, wearing only golf shorts and a white T-shirt. His neck was obviously broken. I thought of Linda Blair in
The Exorcist.
I also thought about the kind of strength it took to twist an ex-wrestler’s neck like a pretzel. I touched an arm with my wrist. It was still warm. Capriati hadn’t been dead long. There was blood pooling around his left hand. I looked closely. Someone had cut off his ring finger. His nose was smashed and there was a smear of blood on his upper lip that traveled around to his cheek but coagulated before it reached the carpet.

I walked over to the front door. Sure enough, there was a red splotch on the inside of the door, about nose high. It wasn’t hard to figure out what happened. Billy had answered his front door but left the security chain on when he opened it. A man in witness protection would be cautious. I looked at the peephole. Someone, presumably the killer, had clogged it with a dab of mud. Inventive.

When Capriati opened the door a crack whoever was on the other side rammed it open, mashing his nose and hurling him backwards. The killer would have been on him almost immediately. Maybe Billy tried to crawl away, or maybe the killer flipped him on his stomach. In either case he probably knelt astride Capriati, grabbed his head and snapped it like a twig. Then cut off the finger, walked outside, left a few footprints that would be dry in a few minutes and drove away. Probably had less trouble getting into Pelican Cove than I did. A pro job. Maybe five minutes in and out. There would be no fingerprints. Except mine.

I had just finished wiping down everything I’d touched when my cell phone buzzed. It was Mac.

“I’ve got some bad news.”

“They’re dead,” I said dully.

“No, it’s much worse than that.”

I walked over to Capriati’s corpse while he told me. He was right.

“Called the Carlyle and was put through to the woman’s room. A man answered, said he didn’t know any Ellen James. Been in the room two days and was just leaving for Rockefeller Center with his family. I could hear kids nagging him in the background. So I called the front desk. They said the James woman checked out Thursday.”

I felt the first twinge in my gut.

“Maybe she moved to another hotel, or into the hospital.”

“Called Sloan-Kettering. Neither of them was there. Or ever had been. No record of a Savannah James being treated for leukemia or needing a bone marrow transplant. I spoke to the head nurse on the pediatric oncology floor. No kid fitting the description had been treated in the last month. You never actually saw her in Sloan, did you?”

The twinge was now a hollow feeling.

“No.”

“You’ve been had, Alton. You’d better warn Capriati.”

“Won’t do any good.”

“Why not.”

“I rolled the dice, and it came up snake eyes for Billy. I’m looking down at him right now. Somebody broke his neck and chopped off a finger.”

“Well, I guess you can rule out accidental death.”

I had probably missed the killer by half an hour. Unless it was one of the greatest coincidences in crime history, I had led Capriati’s murderer right to him. He was probably just now catching a plane at the same airport I had conveniently been stuck in while he aced his victim. The only person I had told about Pelican Cove was Ellen James, who had now disappeared, and who had apparently lied to me from the very beginning. Whoever hired her did fast work.

“What are you going to do?”

I had a lot of questions and a dead body. Unfortunately, the police would have several hundred more for me if they found me standing over it looking perplexed.

“Any suggestions?”

“You’re in state where traffic violators get the electric chair. You leave a trail?”

I thought about it. Some bartenders and citrus workers knew I’d been asking for Capriati. They might be able to describe me, but I’d paid cash for everything. I told Mac.

“Get the fuck out. Now.”

Sound advice. I wanted to search the house, looking for anything that might help me figure what the hell was going on. But my goose would be cooked if a couple of Billy’s golfing buddies showed up, so after taking out my handkerchief to wipe the spot I’d touched on Billy’s arm I headed to the door. I stopped when I heard the fan from the home’s air-conditioning cycle on. I found the thermostat on a wall in the hallway between the kitchen and back bedrooms. Time was my friend so I used my handkerchief to dial the thermostat to 60 degrees. The longer it took Billy to get ripe the better. He wouldn’t be concerned about his electricity bill.

There was something on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living area. It was a cell phone attached to a wall outlet. Next to it was a plate with some toast. Some crumbs had fallen on the counter and one or two tiny ants, each no bigger than a period, were reconnoitering. In Florida they are called grease ants and singly almost impossible to see. One of them was already heading back to the nest with the information about the crumbs. In a half hour there would be a conga line of reinforcements. I grabbed the phone and charger.

On the way out I stopped to look down at Capriati’s body. There was a small rivulet of coagulated blood extending from the stump of his severed finger. Against the white carpet it appeared almost black.

“They got the blood they were after,” I said aloud. “Sorry, Billy.”   

I went to the front window. There was nobody about. I closed the door and heard the lock click. Walking unhurriedly to my car I noticed newspapers in some neighboring driveways. I hadn’t spotted any in Billy’s house. Without papers piling up in the driveway, it might be a while before he started stinking up the neighborhood. Unless the body was discovered quickly in the chilled house I doubted the cops could narrow a time of death to less than a two-day window. The gate guard was busy waving other potential hit men through with a smile and didn’t see me leave. I drove to my hotel and checked out. They were mildly disappointed at my sudden change of plans.

“Death in the family,” I said.

I took the first plane out of Dodge.