GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5) (14 page)

CHAPTER 2
0
– THE COVERUP

I was alone with three bodies in a house that looked like an abattoir. Bullets from my gun were in two of the bodies. The other body happened to belong to a local Chief of Police.

It would have been a bad time for the Jehovah’s Witnesses to show up.

I wasn’t too worried about anyone hearing the gunshots. We were pretty far off the beaten track. The fusillade the day before on the river hadn’t attracted any attention. Gunfire was a fact of rural life. As long as no one stopped by for another half hour, I had a chance.

I’d caught a break with Rizzuto’s service revolver. It was a .38, just like my Taurus. Fired the same rounds, too. I knew what I had to do. It wouldn’t be pleasant. My gun was empty, so I went out to my S.U.V. for more ammunition. I listened for any sound. I only heard birds.

When I went back into the house I emptied Rizzuto’s revolver and put in three of my rounds. I walked over to Victoria’s body. I didn’t want to leave powder burns on her. It had to look like all of Rizzuto’s shot came at a distance. I stood over her.

“Sorry, Vicki,” I said, and shot her in the chest, near where her earlier wounds were. I felt nauseous. I bent down and tilted her to the side. My round, like the ones Rizzuto had fired, didn’t go through her. Most cops use hollow points, and so do I. They usually stay in the victim. I eased her back down. Her dead eyes started at me. I felt less bad about letting Rizzuto bleed out. I turned to Otto. He was easier, since he was sitting up. I shot him, too, and checked for an exit wound. None. I was earning every bit of Vernon Maples goddamn “blood money”.

I went back to Rizzuto’s body and placed his revolver in his hand. I looked at the stage I’d set. Sherlock Holmes or one of the geniuses on a TV cop show might have seen through my subterfuge, but I doubted the local medical examiner would be able to differentiate the rounds fired from my revolver and Rizzuto’s. The death of a police chief might draw the attention of the State Police and their more sophisticated forensic team, but even the Staties would not question the evidence right in front of their eyes. And by the time anyone thought about asking to see my weapon — an unlikely event, but possible — I would have used a nail to scrape the inside on my barrel. Guns are basically identified by the grooves left on bullets as they travel down a barrel. Any rounds fired for comparison from my Taurus in the future would have marking different from those found in the bodies of Victoria or Otto.

I didn’t want to just ditch the Taurus in some body of water. It was registered to me. Saying it was lost or stolen would be highly suspicious. I would have had to report it as such. The damage to the barrel would be negligible. A short-barreled revolver is a close-in weapon. Its accuracy wouldn’t be impaired, since it didn’t have much to begin with. Whether I would ever use the Taurus again after what I’d done was another matter.

What would the cops make of the slaughter? Maybe that something was going on between Chief Rizzuto and Victoria, and Otto went into a jealous rage. Or that Rizzuto went nuts. Maybe Otto tried to kill his ex-wife, and the “hero” chief intervened and Vicki was killed in the crossfire. I didn’t really care, just as long as the real story didn’t come out. I would feel bad if either Vicki or Otto’s reputation was sullied, but I had bigger fish to fry. Once any story got out, I was sure the people who put a $20,000 contract on me would redouble their efforts.     

I heard the rumble of an approaching thunderstorm. I wasn’t much worried about tire tracks or foot prints, but when trying to muddy up a crime scene, rain never hurts. My fingerprints inside the house weren’t a consideration. People knew I’d been there before. I did wipe off the door handle before I left. I didn’t want to be identified as possibly the last person to enter the house. As I drove away, lightning crackled through the trees and the skies opened. A summer downpour. Right on time. I pulled over to the side of the road and got out. I threw up, with Vicki’s dead eyes swimming in my vision.

Back at my motel, I cleaned and oiled my revolver, and using a nail from the small tool kit I keep in my car, altered the barrel. My suite had a small washer/dryer combo, and I cleaned the clothes I’d been wearing while I took a long, hot shower. I changed into fresh clothes and poured myself a stiff vodka. Then, I called the Pulaski Police Department to confirm my meeting with its Chief the next morning. As I suspected, no meeting was scheduled. Rizzuto had probably called his cable company and faked the conversation with the Pulaski cops. The recorded message they give you at the cable company goes on forever. You could read
War and Peace
before a human came on the line.

I had to give the Pulaski cop who answered my call my name, but I told him that my secretary must have forgotten to make the appointment. So I made a real one. I wanted to keep my cover. If my plan worked, the fact that I was prepared to waltz into a police station asking questions about a murder in Staten Island would only serve to dispel any suspicion. Next, I called the Selkirk police station and asked to speak to Rizzuto.

“Chief is off today.”

It was the young cop I’d met previously. Apparently Rizzuto had wanted to kill me on his own time.

“How can I reach him?”

“He doesn’t like to be bugged on his day off. Is it important?”

“Not really. I’m going down to see the Pulaski cops tomorrow morning and I thought he’d like to go with me, or maybe make a call on my behalf. I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.”

“I’ll try to reach him, but that’s the best I can do. What time is your meet?”

I told him.

“No promises,” he said.

As alibis went, I’d built a pretty solid one. No motive, no weapon match, no witnesses. 

*** 

The bodies weren’t found until the next afternoon, hours after I’d asked a dozen nonsensical questions of the Pulaski Police Chief, a young hard-charger who was polite but disinterested. By the time I left Oswego County, the media and local law enforcement had settled on the love triangle angle for the killings. I’d caught another break. Chief Rizzuto had been a frequent visitor to Victoria Gustafson’s house, and there had even been rumors about them. For all I knew, they did have something going, although her cold-blooded murder suggested to me that his visits had more to do with keeping tabs on her and Panetta than romance. But whatever the reason, the “tragedy,” as the media now called it, was a closed case.   

I drove back home, trying to put all the dead bodies and soiled reputations in context. I couldn’t. Just another day at the office.

CHAPTER 21 - RUSSIA

Having managed to get just about everyone who could connect Yorke to Panetta’s murder also killed, I decided to force the issue. If I stirred things up, maybe someone would do something foolish. Why should I be the only one?

The only flaw in my plan was that I was certainly next on the list to be eliminated. In a way, I had been lucky that Bowles and those behind him had decided to have bad-shot Rizzuto try to ace me instead of sending a real pro upstate. But I doubted they’d make that mistake again. Someone on the order of Vernon Maples or Rahm’s Veronica would get the job. I didn’t need any distractions, let alone a bullet through my shoulder blades. That gave me an idea.

***

It was not my first visit to the Norman-style limestone-and-slate Rahm mansion on Todt Hill. With its two-story copper-clad turret right of the front door it was a distinctive and, to my mind, beautiful structure with a hint of Russian dacha to it. My first time in the house I was a combination prisoner and a patient, with my future very much in doubt. Recent appearances have been more relaxing, although no one can really let down their guard when dealing with Marat Rahm, a genial host who killed for the K.G.B. before starting his own crime family and killing for his own pocket. 

Maks Kalugin answered the door. I followed him past perhaps a dozen trunks and suitcases stacked near the winding marble staircase that led up the turret to the rooms on the second floor.

“Going someplace, Maks?”

“We’re going to Russia.”

“I’ve been out of town. Did I miss something? Perhaps an indictment?”

Kalugin ignored me. Arman and his father were sitting on high-backed, wrought-iron stools at a large central island in the kitchen drinking coffee. Marat had to be pushing 80, but he looked much better than he had the last time I’d seen him. His color was good and his eyes clear. I suspected that he was giving his prostate cancer a run for its money. A wooden cane with an ornate engraved ivory handle in the shape of an eagle’s head hung from the island next to him. The thought crossed my mind that the handle was probably removable and had a stiletto attached to it. He smiled when he saw me.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Kalugin said, motioning me to a seat.

“Mr. Rhode, how nice to see you,” Marat said. “Will you have coffee? It’s Turkish. Very strong. Very good.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Maks. Please get our guest a cup of coffee.”

Kalugin walked over to the counter and poured coffee from a vintage Russian hand-painted porcelain samovar. He set a gold-trimmed mug with a nut-and-flower pattern in front of me. I smiled at him and said “meow.”

“I suppose you will want some syrnikis,” he said.

Another bear claw or Russian pastry and I’d probably go into a diabetic coma. I declined. Maks made himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the sink. I sipped my brew. It was excellent. I looked at Arman.

“I think this is better than McDonald’s. What about you?”

Marat Rahm looked confused.

“McDonalds?”

“Ignore him, Papa.”

“Maks tells me you are planning a trip, Mr. Rahm.”

“Yes. I am getting sentimental in my old age. I would like to see Mother Russia at least once more. For all its failings, it is the home of my ancestors.”

I doubted Marat Rahm had a sentimental bone in his body. I wanted to ask if he planned to visit the torture cellars at Lubyanka, where I knew he did some of his best work. Instead, I said, “You missed the Olympics.”

“The Olympics! What farce! They give medals for falling down a hill in the snow or doing something in a stovepipe.”

“It’s called halfpipe, Papa,” Arman said. “They use snowboards.”

“Chto za huy! The Greeks must be turning over in their graves. Although since they are Greeks, that’s probably not a problem.” He drank some coffee, with his pinkie extended. I doubt if anyone ever told him it looked silly. “My son has explained what you have been doing. May I make an observation? As a friend.”

“Please.”

“Tilting at windmills is not a healthy proposition for men in your profession. I can understand your reluctance to let the real murderers of the soldier Panetta escape justice, but they have not harmed you or anyone you love. So, you are not motivated by revenge, which I occasionally find admirable and effective. But, then, I am a Russian. We are weaned on revenge. But even we know when revenge is counterproductive and it is better to let things go. I know you are a brave, resourceful and stubborn man, but there is a price on your head. These people, whoever they are, will eventually find someone to kill you if you keep digging into their affairs.”

“I know who they are.”

That got even Kalugin’s attention. He came off the counter and came over to the island. I spent the next 10 minutes recounting my adventures upstate. It was funny. The only people I felt comfortable telling my story to were mobsters. Considering what I’d done, maybe it wasn’t so funny.

“Ah, the peaceful rural life,” Arman murmured. “Do you charge extra for massacres.”

“My son is being flip,” Marat said. “Yet it is often true that altruism has a high price, my friend. Three more people are dead because of your involvement in this matter, and two were innocents.”

“You weren’t so particular about my involvement,” I said, angrily, “when you sent that priest to me who suspected someone was killing his parishioners.”

At the reference about a previous case, when I wound up being poisoned, Marat smiled.

“Ah, yes. Father Zapotoski. But I didn’t think there was much to his suspicions. I was only humoring him. You proved all of us wrong. And he hoped to stop killings, not precipitate them. But I see your point. I’m sorry if you took offense. Tell me, how did you get all this information out of that police chief before he died?”

“I told him I wouldn’t call for an ambulance until he told me everything.”

“Jesus,” Arman muttered. “And he died before help arrived. That’s cold, Alton.”

A look of comprehension crossed Marat’s face.

“He was never going to call an ambulance,” he said. “Not with bullets from his gun in two people. The cop would have blamed him. Am I correct?”

I nodded.

“How did you cover your tracks?”

I told them.

Kalugin stared at me with something approaching respect.

“Are you sure you don’t have some Cossack blood in you, Rhode?”

We were all silent for a while.

“Have you told your fat detective friend, Levine, what is going on?” Marat asked.

I shook my head.

“Not yet. I’ve already put him in a bind. He can’t sit on what he knows for much longer. He’ll have to give me up. I have to finish this, somehow. And soon. I was hoping you had come up with something I could use.”

Marat looked at his son.

“Arman?”

“Sorry. I can only guess at motive. I hear the wheel and hotel people are on the up and up. Or as much as they can be in New York. That leaves the monorail.”

“Fucking Germans,” Kalugin said.

“Maks may be right,” Marat Rahm said. “If I was looking for a hand behind this, I might concentrate on them.”

“My father’s generation has no love for Germany,” Arman said with a smile. “Long memories.”

“You should show some respect, Arman. I was just a boy but I remember the Nazis. Both your grandfathers were wounded in that war. I remember my father saying that the only man he hated more than Stalin was Hitler. Stalin and the Communists killed half his family and the Germans tried to kill the rest.” The old man looked at me. “We were Rhamanovs, you know. Changed the name to avoid being wiped out by Stalin, then wound up fighting at his side. A rock and a hard place, you Americans would say. If we had to be killed we’d rather it be done by Russians than Germans.”

“Stalin was a Georgian,” Arman said.

“At least he wasn’t a German,” Kalugin said.

“I could listen to you rework Russian history all day, Mr. Rahm,” I said, “Perhaps you can regale me with the story about how you wound up working for the KGB.”

Marat laughed.

“I like you, Alton. I’m really glad we didn’t kill you a few years back. By the way, Eleni is meeting us in Moscow. She always asks for you.”

The old reprobate was trying to get my goat. He knew that my relationship with his daughter was a touchy subject. I heard Arman laugh softly. Even Kalugin smiled. 

“Please give her my regards.” I took a deep breath. “From everything I’ve read, Deutsch Eisenbahn is a highly respected organization. A leader in its field.”

“So was Krupp,” Marat said drily. “And the companies that made the Zyklon-B for the gas chambers.”

I was having a hard time equating the Holocaust with St. George development. My skepticism must have shown on my face.

“You should talk to Belvin, the bookmaker,” Marat said. “He can tell you all about the projects in St. George. He has sources that even I don’t. And he knows the history of Staten Island better than anyone I’ve met.”

I looked at Arman.

“Bubbles?”

“Yes. He’s still at the Dilly. We own it now. But we let him operate on his own. He’s an institution. The Dilly wouldn’t be the Dilly without Bubbles Belvin. And like my father indicated, he hears things.”

“What’s this Bubbles?” Marat asked.

“A nickname, Papa. When Belvin tried to give up smoking he chewed bubble gum. He blew bubbles all over the place. Didn’t last very long, but the name stuck.”

“Two disgusting habits,” Marat said. “And I could never understand the American fascination with, what do you call them, nicknames? The damn Italians make a religion out of it. Ridiculous.”

Marat stuck out his hand. I shook it. His grip was still firm.

“Be careful, Alton. Especially if it is the Germans.”

Arman and Maks walked me out to my car.

“Enjoy your trip to Mother Russia,” I said. “Although, knowing you two, I imagine there may be some business transacted.”

“If only we could deduct the expense,” Arman said. “But I wouldn’t want to tweak the I.R.S.’s tail. I fear them more than the F.B.I. or the C.I.A.”

“Don’t we all.”

“I’ll call Bubbles and tell him to expect you.”

“There’s something else you can do for me.”

“And what is that?”

“Do you think your Veronica can contact the people who wanted her to kill me?”

“Perhaps. Why?”

“I would like her to tell them she has reconsidered.”     

Arman smiled.

“You want her to accept the contract. And, of course, not follow through.”

“It may buy me the time I need.”

He looked at Kalugin.

“What do you think?”

“I like it. Have her ask for the whole fee upfront. That way, if Rhode ends this fucking thing, or gets himself killed, we can keep the $20,000.”

“Maks,” I said, “You’re such a sentimental bastard.”

“First-class airfare to Russia is expensive.”