GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5) (17 page)

CHAPTER 26 - THREESOME

There were three cars in the driveway. One, the black Range Rover emblazoned with “Yorke for Borough President” stickers, I knew belonged to Bowles. The silver Mercedes was Teresa Yorke’s. The third was a Chevy Malibu. Had Yorke somehow shot back to Staten Island before me?

“I don’t like this,” I said.

We had just pulled up to Bowles’s house. Mac was already eating a salami sandwich.

“Why?”

“That Malibu could be a rental. Yorke’s.”

“Maybe it’s bridge night,” Mac said. “How do you want to play this, Alt? Just ring the doorbell and say we were in the neighborhood looking for evidence and thought we’d drop in?”

“Pass me a salami sandwich while I come up with a plan.”

It turned out I didn’t need one. The windows in my Hyundai were open. We heard a woman scream from somewhere deep in the house.

“Oh, crap,” Cormac said.

We ran to the front door. It was locked and too sturdy for us to kick in.

“Hold on.” I said.

I ran back to my car and grabbed a pry bar from my trunk. I looked at Cormac.

“Gotta do it,” he said.

“You have mustard on your cheek,” I said and jammed the pry bar in the door frame. The lock fell out, along with a fair amount of splintered wood. I kicked the door open. We moved into the house, guns drawn. There was another muffled scream, coming from down a hallway. We ran to a room at the back of the house. The door to the room was also locked. We heard moans, and then — laughter. We put our ears to the door. It sounded like the New York Rangers were having tryouts.

“Oh, God, I’m coming,” a woman cried out, clearly Teresa Yorke. “Go faster.”

Even while in the throes of passion, her voice had an upper-crust clipped accent.

“Wait, I’m almost there,” a man groaned. Bowles sounded like Bowles, if a bit out of breath.

“Shit, there goes my pension,” Mac said.

“Jesus, it’s so good,” a woman moaned. “Go slower.”

It wasn’t Teresa Yorke. It was someone else, apparently not on the same sexual page as the other two. Cormac and I looked at each other. We holstered our guns.

“This, I got to see,” he said. “Stand aside.”

I did, and he backed up a few paces and then threw his considerable bulk against the door, which flew off its hinges. It had been some time since Cormac had busted into a room. He was out of practice. The momentum of his lunge was too much for a graceful entry. Cormac is a bit top heavy and he fell forward, winding up on all fours. In that respect, he fit right in with the other three people in the room, although he had his clothes on.

They were all splayed naked on a huge round bed, above which was a ceiling mirror. Bowles was between and under the two women, who were facing one another. Their activities had ground to a sudden halt with our rather undignified arrival, but it wasn’t hard to see what each of their roles had been. Unfortunately for Bowles, under the ministrations of the two women he had reached the point of no return, sexually, and was in the midst of what was probably one of his less enjoyable orgasms. We politely watched until his spasms subsided.

“That’s not something you see every day,” Cormac said as he lumbered to his feet.

The woman facing us was Teresa Yorke. The other woman’s head turned slowly toward us.

“Son of a bitch,” I said.

I was definitely going to take up Pilates. It was Joan Tolentine.

***

“Can’t you at least let us put our clothes back on?”

After some maneuvering, the energetic threesome had managed to untangle. The two women stood mute and didn’t even bother covering themselves. I didn’t want to stare at them but it beat looking at Cormac or Bowles, who had his hand over his privates and was alternately whining and blubbering. There was an unpleasant odor in the room, a combination of sex, sweat — and fear. 

“Just one more,” Cormac said, aiming his iPhone and snapping another picture to go with those he’d taken while they were immersed in their sexual gymnastic poses. “Say cheeseburger.”

“None of that is admissible in court,” Bowles blurted. “You broke in without a warrant. We have rights.”

“You have the right to shut the fuck up,” Cormac said. “Your days of screwing broads are over. You’ve got a standing, or maybe a bending, date with guys name Bubba and Rufus in Sing Sing for the next 100 years.”

I could hear sirens approaching. When he wasn’t snapping pictures with his iPhone, Cormac had called for backup.

“Let me do the talking,” he said.

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“OK,” he ordered, “you three get some clothes on.”

I heard footsteps behind me. I assumed the backup had arrived. Until I saw Bowles’s face. He had managed to get one leg in his underwear. Then his expression changed from embarrassment to fear, with a bit of horror thrown in for good measure.

“Please don’t,” he whined.

He let go of his drawers, which fell to his ankles. I whirled around. Nathaniel Yorke was standing in the doorway holding a very large revolver.

“You fucking cunt!”

“Nathaniel, put the gun down.” It was Teresa Yorke, sounding amazingly Bostonian for someone standing naked in front of an enraged husband with two equally naked lovers by her side. “I can explain.”

That, I wanted to hear. But Yorke was having none of it. Tears were streaming down his face.

“I put up with your crazy ambition,” he cried. “I let you kill Gunner, my friend.”

“I did it for you, darling. He would have ruined us with his lies.”

“They weren’t lies. I ran away. I was afraid. I told you everything before we got married. And you’ve used it against me ever since. I’m not afraid now. And I’m not running anymore.”

“Don’t be a fool,” she said. “Stop crying. Act like a man for once in your life.”

Her voice had taken on a scolding tone, probably the one she’d always used on her husband when she egged him on to higher office, holding his war cowardice over his head.   

“Lady, I think maybe you should put a sock in it,” Cormac said. “I’m a police officer. And you’re all under arrest.”

Yorke looked at Bowles and Joan Tolentine, then back at his wife.

“You said you didn’t like sex anymore.”

Teresa Yorke laughed derisively.

“I just didn’t like fucking you. You couldn’t get it up half the time anyway.”

I didn’t like the way this was going. If Teresa Yorke wanted to commit suicide it was fine with me, but I wasn’t interested in joining her.

Bowles was shaking like a leaf. Why he decided to throw more gasoline on the fire, I’ll never know.

“Nathaniel, this doesn’t mean anything,” he said in a quavering voice. “I’m not the only one. She’s screwed half of Albany. She seduced me.”

Christ! Yorke started laughing. It was that nutty laugh Alice called a chortle. She was right. It was completely inappropriate, especially now. 

“Yorke,” I said, “we can handle this. They’ll pay for what they did. Just put the gun down.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Teresa Yorke said. “We can still get out of this. Kill them both. They broke in. You can claim you didn’t realize who they were and shot them in self-defense.” 

Yorke pointed his gun at my chest.

“I let them talk me into killing Panetta. A man who saved my life.” Another goddamn chortle. “How are you going to handle that, Rhode? You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”

“Do it,” she hissed. “Show some balls for a change.”

It was absolutely the worst thing she could have said. Or maybe, as far as I was concerned, the best.

Yorke turned the gun toward Bowles and fired. Bowles screamed in agony and crumpled to the floor, holding his crotch. I didn’t want to think about where the bullet caught him. Cormac and I reached for our weapons but stopped in mid-draw when we heard the tinkling of glass hitting the floor near the window to Yorke’s right. His head jerked sideways and a plume of red mist shot out one of his ears. His face lost all definition and his arms dropped to the side. His knees collapsed and he fell at my feet, like a marionette whose strings had suddenly been cut. I instinctively looked at the window. There was a small hole in it, surrounded with spider web cracks.

I thought I caught a flash of blond hair on a figure sprinting away, but I couldn’t be sure. I reached down and felt for a pulse in Yorke’s neck. He was dead, and blood started to trickle out his ears and nose. I heard loud sirens and screeching tires. The women were whimpering and Bowles was rolling around in a fetal position, screeching like a wolverine getting a prostate exam. I stood up. Two uniformed cops burst into the room, guns drawn.

“Holy shit,” one of them said.

I turned to Cormac.

“You are definitely doing all the talking,” I said.

***

“What am I going to do with you two?”

Mike Sullivan was pouring three drinks from a bar in the den.

“This room is bigger than it appears from outside the window,” I said, looking around.

Cormac took his drink.

“Are we supposed to be drinking a perp’s booze, boss?”

Sullivan sighed.

“You’re worried about goddamn propriety after breaking down two doors in a house crawling with naked people? I know I’m going to need another drink when I hear your stories. And, please, don’t give me that bullshit you told the detectives out there.”

I could see police cars, ambulances, coroner’s vehicles, EMS trucks and media vans out in front of the house. Curious neighbors had begun to gather. The rest of Bowles’s home was swarming with cops and technicians. Sullivan had closed and locked the door to the den.

“Two people shot, one fatally,” he said, shaking his head. “The one who is dead was certain to be the next Borough President. Jesus Christ!”

“Actually,” I said, taking my whiskey, “it’s six people, five fatally. But only if we go off the record.”

Sullivan slumped in a chair.

“God help me. Let’s hear it. Everything.”

Twenty minutes later, he stared at us.

“I assume a commendation is out of the question,” Cormac said.

EPILOGUE

Alice had come for the weekend and insisted we work in my basement, which, she decided, had to be turned into something “that doesn’t look like the one Tom Cruise hid in during
War of the Worlds,
not that
any alien would ever go in it.” Alice can be quite cutting in her criticisms of my lifestyle. The dumpster I’d rented was sitting in my driveway almost half full of the clutter my family had accumulated over 60 years. And we weren’t half done.

We were sitting on the back deck, mercifully taking a lunch break. It was one of those perfect late June days when no one in their right mind should be filling a dumpster. But I’d made some bacon-lettuce and tomato sandwiches on rye, fixed a plate of bread-and-butter pickles and added two bags of potato chips. Alice had somehow made fresh lemonade. The ice-filled pitcher and our glasses were dripping condensation. Alice, while a bit bedraggled, still looked beautiful. That’s not always the case with women. I decided I would cope.

Scar, who could smell bacon like a shark can smell blood, was snoozing on the porch a few feet from us. Alice had fixed him a dish of bacon and tuna fish.

“You know, he really is kind of beautiful, stretched out like that,” she said, “when you can’t see his face.”

“Don’t let him hear you. He’s very sensitive about his looks. He likes being the ugliest cat on the East Coast.”

“He’s hardly ugly.”

I had made three BLT sandwiches and the third, meant for us to split, still lay on its plate. Alice usually let me have her half of any third sandwich. But it’s not a given. She’s been working like a stevedore and burning calories. I’m not a big fan of potato chips, so I had already slid my bag to her side of the table, trying to fill her up.

“What happens to them now?”

“Who?”

I had been distracted by the remaining BLT.

“Teresa Yorke, Bowles and the Pilates woman.”

“It’s anyone’s guess. Mike Sullivan says they all turned on each other, but then common sense prevailed and they lawyered up. He said he doesn’t know if their initial statements will hold up legally, given the circumstances. Or as he put it, the ‘shitburger of a case’ we presented him with. He’s not sure whether Mac and I had a legal right to break into Bowles’s house. Loud sex probably doesn’t rise to the level of exigent circumstances.”

“Thank God,” Alice murmured.

“And then there’s the circumstance of a dead borough presidential candidate lying on the floor after he just shot Bowles in the balls in front of two naked women.”

“Not to mention the killings upstate. Will you be tied to them?”

“No. Cormac and Mike will squash any hint I was involved. They have to link Chief Rizzuto to the Yorke camp and the best way to do that is to find a money trail between them. That shouldn’t be hard. Then everything will fall together without me. They don’t need more complications. Even given the best lawyering, Teresa and Joan will have to plead out to something. Just too many dead bodies. They’ll all do hard time. Bowles will be trying out for lead soprano in the Attica choir.”

“What about the photos Cormac took?”

“Almost certainly inadmissible, but they could be useful if the defendants fall out between themselves.”

“You mean ‘amongst’ themselves. ‘Between’ refers to two individuals. More than that is ‘among’ or ‘amongst,’ which I prefer. It sounds nicer.”

We’d had this semantic battle before.

“But if only two of them fall out,” I said, “then ‘between’ is correct.”

Alice gave me a look of pity.

“So, the third party simply disappears? That’s illogical. He or she would have to take one side or another, so there would be a disagreement ‘among’ them all.”

Arguing logic with a philosophy professor was, on the face of it, illogical. I would lose no matter how irrefutable my position, which I had already begun to doubt in any case. Besides, I did not want to antagonize Alice. There was half of a BLT sandwich at stake.

“Anyway,” I said, surrendering, “one or more of their attorneys would find the photos useful. They know they are out there. Be hard for anyone to deny collusion when they can be seen filling up each other’s orifices.”

“Oh, yuckie. Sex aside, I’m still unclear what the personal dynamics were.”

“It’s simple. While everyone who knew what really happened to Panetta assumed some vast corporate or international conspiracy, it was sweet little Teresa Yorke who didn’t want her husband outed as a coward and a phony. She’s been covering for him for years, pushing him higher and higher up the political ladder. You should have heard her before she realized she should keep her trap shut. I guess the shootings unnerved her temporarily. Her marriage had been sexless for years but she had everything invested in poor Nathaniel. If Panetta had blown the whistle on him he would have been finished, disgraced. And so would she. If I had to guess, I’d say she and Bowles had arranged some cushy payoffs from the people behind the St. George project, deals that maybe her husband wasn’t even aware of. If there is a Sad Sack in this whole affair, it’s Nathaniel Yorke, war phony, professional politician and sucker extraordinaire. “

“When did the Tolentine woman become involved? Before or after she took up with Panetta?”

“Before. Teresa Yorke and Joan Tolentine had been lovers for years. Joan followed Terry to Staten Island and opened that Pilates studio. Terry mentioned to me that she was a Pilates buff when we went out for that dinner, but I never put two-and-two together.”

“You had other things on your mind at that dinner, as I recall. But even if you didn’t, there’s no way you could have known. Half the world is into Pilates.”

“You’re not.”

“Do I need it?”

“Hell, no. If you were any more athletic, I’d be in traction.”

“What a romantic thing to say.”

“Anyway, when Panetta showed up and threatened to go to the media about her hubby, Teresa had Joan seduce him to find out how serious he was, and to keep tabs on him. She played the part to the hilt. Even went to his funeral in Arlington.”

“Where did Bowles fit in?”

“I’d have to see some of Cormac’s photos to refresh my memory. I think he fit in Joan Tolentine, but I can’t be sure.”

“No, you idiot. I mean in the scheme. Oh, stop laughing.”

“Apparently Teresa has a lot of sexual outlets, male and female, and Claude was one of them. Joan was broadminded, or maybe I should say not completely broadminded, and didn’t seem to mind an occasional threesome. They started making a habit out of it. Probably to keep their hooks in one another.”   

“How utterly sordid. I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather have an international cabal behind all of it. Five people dead!”

“Don’t forget the eunuch.”

“Do the police have any idea who fired the shot that killed Yorke?”

“No,” I replied. “If you don’t count Cormac and Mike as the police.”

“And they think it’s the same person you do. That Veronica woman, who works for the Rahms.”

“Makes the most sense. The stray-bullet theory is a non-starter. We don’t have a hunting season, at least for animals. No one heard a shot, which probably means a silencer.”

“Yorke could have other enemies.”

“Who just happened to be in the neighborhood, at night, when I needed a crack shot the most?”

A yellow jacket hovered over the sandwich plate. I hate yellow jackets. I swatted at it. It looked like it wanted a fight, but then flew away. 

“Why would she do it?”

“I don’t know. Professional courtesy? She may have been tracking me as part of her cover as my putative assassin. She had already been paid to act the part. Maybe she has a sense of irony.”

“Have you asked Arman?”

“He’s still in Russia.”

“Is the St. George project in jeopardy?”

“Some of the community activists are making hay over what happened, but the general consensus seems to be that there is no connection.”

“But you think payoffs motivated Teresa Yorke and Bowles.”

“There are always payoffs. But that’s no reason to murder people. No, it was sex and greed. Like it usually is.” 

“The media is going berserk.”

“That’s a good thing. They’re floating so many scenarios the real story will probably get lost in all the chatter.”

“What are they going to do about a Borough President?”

“I don’t know. The opposition is salivating, of course. But their candidate was a sacrificial lamb to begin with. He runs every four years and his vote count usually lags behind the bond initiatives on the ballot. I hear that there is a move to draft Mike Sullivan.”

“Really? Would he give up being District Attorney?”

“Rather than try to prosecute the case I just handed him? Maybe. We’ll see.”

Alice slid the remaining BLT my way.

“I’m full,” she said.

“You shouldn’t have gorged yourself on potato chips,” I said, digging into the sandwich.

“Don’t press your luck, buddy boy. I knew what you were doing. Now finish up. Break’s over. We have work to do.”

The yellow jacket was back, but he had no chance.

***

An hour or so later, we heard the front doorbell.

“I’ll get it,” Alice said.

I heard murmured voices and a moment later she came down the basement stairs.

“Look who is back,” she said happily.

Arman Rahm followed her, dressed like he just stepped out of GQ. Behind him was Max Kalugin, looking like he’d just stepped out of a tank. He was holding a puppy, which was lapping his face. I reached for my iPhone to take a picture, but thought better of it. Maks didn’t like his picture taken.

“It is about time you did something with this dungeon,” Rahm said, looking around. “Alice is obviously a good influence on you.”

“How was Russia?”

“It was good for my father. He met some old friends, some of whom have become very rich. Did you know that there are more than 100 Russian billionaires?”

“And I bet your father has something on half of them.”

Arman smiled.

“Yes, his time in the KGB was not wasted. He is no Hoover, but some of his files are very interesting, to say the least.”

No wonder the old crook felt so secure in returning to his homeland.

“What did you think about the country?”

“Russia is still Russia. Paranoid and looking for trouble. I’m glad to be back home.”

I crooked a finger toward the puppy, which was squirming in Kalugin’s arms.

“What’s with the hound?”

“Hound, indeed. This is a Byelorussian Ovcharka, or East European Shepherd, a mix of East Siberian Laika dogs and German Shepherds confiscated by the Russian Army from the territory of Germany at the end of World War II. A rare breed noted for their loyalty and superior intelligence. One of two pups that the Russian Government gave my father as a gift.”

“The Russian Government?”

“Long story,” Arman said. “But we can only keep one of the dogs.”

Kalugin put the puppy down and it began scampering about, stopping only to sniff a large but mostly faded brown spot in the middle of the floor. The pup squatted over it and took a leak before continuing its explorations.

Alice laughed.

“Maybe that will work,” she said. “I can’t seem to get that spot up.”

Rahm, Maks and I looked at each other. We knew what had caused the stain. I thought Rahm’s crew had done a pretty good job on it after Nando Carlucci had bled out. But the pole lamps I brought down for more light while Alice and I worked made the stain obvious.

“They should have used Neutrex,” Kalugin mumbled.

“I’m sorry,” Alice said, “what was that?”

“You should use Neutrex,” Kalugin said in a gentle voice he only used for Alice. “Just put some in water and use a scrub brush. I have some in the car. I’ll give it to you when we leave.”

“What is it? How do you know it will work on this?”

“I have a cleaning business,” Rahm said quickly. “Maks knows all about such things.”

None of us wanted to explain to Alice that Kalugin probably had a PhD.in blood-splatter removal. Or why he just happened to have some Neutrex in Rahm’s Mercedes.

We heard something crash. The puppy had knocked over an empty bucket. Startled, he ran over to Alice, who picked him up.

“Oh, he’s adorable. Just the sweetest thing, Alton.”

I saw Maks and Arman smile at each other. Arman winked. I had an uneasy feeling.  A feeling confirmed by his next statement.

“The pup seems to like it here.”

“What will I do with a dog?”

“You’re always talking about Scruffy, that dog you grew up with,” Alice said. “It’s obvious you like them.”

“They take a lot of work.”

“You take a lot of work,” Kalugin said.

I wasn’t about to give up that easily.

“What about Scar? He’ll think that puppy is an hors d'oeuvre.”