GUNNER

An Alton Rhode Mystery

By

LAWRENCE DE MARIA

Gunner, a novel by Lawrence De Maria

Copyright © Lawrence De Maria 2014 (Revised 2015)

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this

book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

For information, email ljdemaria@aol.com.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by St. Austin’s Press

www.lawrencedemaria.com

Special thanks to my website designer, Nancy Kreisler, and to

Maryellen Alvarez and Deborah Thompson,

whose sharp eyes and insights have improved my work.

Dedicated to my wife, Patricia, without whose love, support and faith this book

– and others –

would not have been possible,

and to my sons,

Lawrence and Christopher.

Good men, both.

GUNNER

PROLOGUE

April

From his rental car across the street, the killer watched as the man clearing the snow from the driveway paused every few minutes to lean on the shovel handle to catch his breath.

The man in the car shook his head and mashed his cigarette in the ashtray, immediately lighting another one. It wasn’t a long driveway, but the old guy should know better. Typical of a spring snowstorm, the accumulation was wet and heavy. Each shovelful probably weighed 30 pounds. Kids were roaming the neighborhood asking residents if they wanted their sidewalks and driveways cleared. As a teen-ager, the assassin had made good money doing just that when he was sent to live with relatives in Boston. He wondered what the kids charged now. Probably a fortune. Hell, he thought, I once cleared over a hundred bucks in one day, and there were just two of us doing it. Whatever the cost now, the man should have hired some young muscle. He’s overweight and obviously out of shape. His face is mottled red with the exertion. Might have a damn heart attack.

And, the killer knew, he wouldn’t get paid if the man did a face plant in his driveway slush. He smiled. Maybe I should give him a hand, just to make sure he lives long enough for me to ace him.

It was getting dark, and that was good. The man lived, apparently alone, on a quiet street in a secluded neighborhood, Eltingville, on Staten Island’s south shore. The assassin in the car had reconnoitered the job for days. He was quite sure that no one would pay any attention to a well-dressed white man walking up to Panetta’s door. This would be a piece of cake. The guy didn’t even have a dog. He could never understand why anyone living alone didn’t have a dog. But he was happy when they didn’t. He loved dogs and didn’t like killing them, something he’d had to do a few times. Dogs didn’t turn on you like most of the people in his life. He smiled at the memory of the dogs he’d had before he went into the Army. Hunting dogs. Labs and pointers. Smart as all get out. He was a crack shot, with good dogs. Life in rural Kentucky was just about perfect before the family lost the farm to foreclosure. Maybe someday he’d get a job that involved killing some Wall Street types or bankers, who he blamed for all the country’s ills. He often fantasized about doing some pro bono work along those lines on the side. He lit another smoke. Shit. I’m probably working for some of those pricks half the time, he thought in disgust.

John Panetta finished his shoveling and slowly trudged into his house. Some cars turned onto the street. Most pulled into driveways. People probably coming home from work. There was a train station nearby with a commuter lot. The killer liked the neighborhood. It wasn’t what he expected on Staten Island, so near to Manhattan. It was his first time in the borough, although he did know someone who lived there. His platoon leader in Afghanistan. I wonder how the Skipper is doing, he thought. Love to see him. But that just wasn’t in the cards.

The killer waited another 45 minutes until the street quieted down and then got out of his car and calmly walked across the street to Panetta’s house. He carried no weapon on his person. There would be something suitable to use in the house. In his pocket was a plastic bag containing some hairs and skin fragments from a man long since buried. The dead man was black. The killer wasn’t a racist. He was only playing the racial card to throw the cops far off the scent. Staten Island was a conservative borough, he’d been told. His other instructions had also been clear. Make it look like a home invasion. Take some cash and the guy’s watch, which would go in the plastic bag, and then in the nearest body of water, which wouldn’t be a problem. It was an island, after all. The killer knew that murders were rare on Staten Island. He had done some homework with recent crime statistics. Only six people had been murdered the entire previous year in the borough. He had a hard time getting his head around that figure. Six! Out of a population approaching half a million. It was so safe, he might have to move here. True, robberies had jumped 16 percent, to 476, a figure that had local law enforcement in a froth. As he approached the front door, he smiled. He knew of cities with many fewer people that would have loved such a low robbery incidence. He wondered where the Panetta hit would fit in. Homicide or robbery? Probably both. Jesus, he was going to boost the murder rate in Staten Island by about 15%! If he were in sales, he could put that on his resume.

The killer had no idea who John Panetta was. Or who wanted him dead. It didn’t appear to be a mob hit, despite the victim’s name. Guy’s a nobody. Living too openly and too modestly. Shovels his own walk, for God’s sake.

Moreover, he didn’t care. All Panetta was to him was $20,000. He did wonder, however, why a nobody rated such premier treatment.

It started snowing again as the killer ascended the steps to the porch. Not that he was particularly worried about leaving any traces, but he appreciated the fact that the snow would cover any footprints. Looks like it would be a couple of more inches. He put a smile on his face and rang the doorbell.

Panetta opened the door. He looked past the man standing on his porch.

“Damn it! Wouldn’t you know? It never fails. I just finished shoveling.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” the killer said.

***

“Hey, Howie! Take a look at this.”

Howard Caduceus put down the prescription pill bottles in the dead man’s medicine cabinet.

“Nothing special in the bathroom,” he said, walking into the bedroom. His partner, another homicide detective named Charles Palermo, was standing by an old chest of drawers with his back to the door. The only other furniture in the room was a metal-framed bed. “Aspirin, Cipro and Crestor, the same statin I’m on for my cholesterol. I’ll check with his pharmacy and doctor to see if anything is missing, but my guess is whoever killed him never came up here. Probably panicked. Not that I think this guy had much to steal.”

Caduceus was an experienced homicide cop who always kept an open mind. But he was fairly certain that the murder they were investigating was straightforward. A break-in gone horribly wrong. The victim’s wallet had been rifled and his pockets turned inside out. From markings on his wrist it looked like his watch was also gone. The forensic boys downstairs were dusting for prints and bagging and tagging whatever they could find on the body and the room in which it was found. They’d come upstairs later. After the post, the M.E. would announce the official cause of death, but Caduceus knew strangulation when he saw it.

Palermo turned around. In his gloved hands was what looked like a black felt jewelry case.

“What’s that?” Caduceus said.

“This what I think it is?” Palermo said, handing the open case to Caduceus. “It was in there under his socks.”

Inside the case was a medal on a thick pale-blue ribbon. The medal itself was a five-pointed gold star surrounded by a green laurel wreath. It was suspended from a gold bar inscribed VALOR, on which stood an eagle.

Caduceus turned the medal over and saw another bar on which there was an engraving: THE CONGRESS TO JOHN PANETTA, U.S. ARMY.

“Oh, Christ,” he said. “Better tell the boys downstairs to be extra careful, Charlie.”

Caduceus knew that Panetta’s murder might still be straightforward, but it was also going to create a shit storm.

***

In Dallas, where he now lived, the hit man had been checking the Internet for any news related to the killing.

There was nothing the first day. Or the second. Apparently nobody missed the poor old guy.

Finally, on the third day, Panetta’s death was reported. Except it wasn’t on the Internet.

The killer was in his kitchen having his regular breakfast of black coffee, two poached eggs and rye toast while he watched CBS This Morning with Charlie Rose, the only news he could stand; all the others, in his opinion, having turned into entertainment shows. The broadcast started off with a 90-second recap of the day’s top headlines. The fourth item concerned “the brutal murder of a Medal of Honor winner in New York City.”

The killer stared at the screen. There was a clip of Panetta’s house, easily recognizable, now surrounded by yellow crime scene tape. Squad cars and media trucks were parked out front and officers could be seen walking in and out. Uniformed cops kept small clusters of the curious across the street.

A somber voice-over explained how Vietnam War vet John Panetta “winner of the nation’s highest award for valor” had saved his entire company during a North Vietnamese attack outside Saigon by sticking to his machine gun even after being severely wounded “only to be strangled during an apparent robbery in his own home.”

“Those cocksuckers,” the hit man said aloud. “Those rotten cocksuckers.”

CHAPTER 1– SOMETHING BREWING

Ordinarily, a team of Clydesdales couldn’t drag me to a political rally.

But Alice Watts could, and did.

Which is why I was sitting behind the first base dugout at the Richmond County Savings Bank Ballpark early on a warm Thursday evening in May. I cast a glance at the perfectly manicured field, with grass so green it almost hurt to look at it. It was the home field of the Staten Island Yankees, unfortunately known as the “Baby Bombers.” They were a Single-A minor league affiliate of the New York Yankees, and their home opener was but two weeks away. At this time of night they would be taking infield practice. Now, the infield was swarming with men in suits and women in nice dresses. Some of them were clumped around the pitcher’s mound setting up chairs and a podium. A high school band was assembling behind second base. A color guard stood at attention deep in center field, flags flapping.

“What?”

I turned to Alice, who was eating raw peanuts out of brown bag. Somehow she had managed to eat several of them without getting any shell pieces on her dress. When I ate peanuts out of a bag, my lap looked like I was collecting sawdust.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You sighed.”

“Hard-boiled detectives don’t sigh.”

She shelled a peanut and offered it to me.

“A peanut for your thoughts.”

I took the nut, and sighed, loudly, for effect.

“It’s a great night for a ballgame.”

“Please suck it up, Alt. It won’t last long.” Alice leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. “I owe you one.”

“A peanut?”

She laughed.

“I was thinking about doing something to satisfy one of your other cravings later tonight.”

“Does it have anything to do with politics making strange bedfellows?”

“I don’t know about strange. Kinky, maybe.”

Kinky? I decided to suck it up. Strangely enough, despite the fact that I’d rather have a root canal performed by Stevie Wonder than listen to political speeches, I was actually having a pretty good time. The free beer, peanuts and hot dogs might have had something to do with that.

“I think I’ll get another beer,” I said. “Want one?”

“No, thanks,” Alice said. She was barely through her first, which was warming in a cup holder on the back of the seat in front of her. My cup holder already had two empties. “And please go easy on the hot dogs. You are taking me out to dinner, remember.”

“What does one have to do with the other?”

She gave me the indulgent smile that all girls are taught at birth and I headed up the aisle. The ball park bash being thrown by the borough’s ruling Conservative Party was featuring several of the excellent local brews produced by the Flagship Brewing Company of Staten Island and I was democratically sampling all of them. I didn’t know where the hot dogs came from, but with hot dogs I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter.

On the way to the concession stand I spotted Mario Blovardi, Staten Island’s outgoing Borough President, walking in my direction. He was a fat little red-faced man with a small, oblong-shaped, bald head that from a distance looked like a pimple ready to burst. As he approached, I stifled an urge to squeeze it. He was too near the hot dogs and I didn’t want to get pus all over them.

Blovardi was being term-limited out of office and the ballpark rally was intended to introduce his putative successor, a newcomer to Staten Island named Nathaniel Yorke.

Ah, yes. Term limits. Constitutionally, I’m against them. But in pus head’s case, I made an exception. He should have been shown the door four years earlier but was reprieved when the City Council, ignoring legislation passed by the voters, added another term to the term-limits law by fiat. The ploy was as crooked as it looked, since it allowed many of the councilmen to stay in office.

There had been some discussion in the media about why Blovardi had not been able to anoint one of his political cronies to succeed him. And quite a bit of grumbling among those cronies, some of whom had been waiting for their chance almost as long as Prince Charles. But to my mind, anyone would be better than Blovardi or one of his hacks, even someone who sounded like a character in The Last of the Mohicans.

Blovardi and a few of his flunkies, one of whom was holding his sweating boss’s suit jacket, swept by. Blovardi was built so low to the ground it looked like he was rolling, rather than walking. I had never seen him mixing with the common people during a game. Usually he was ensconced in one of the private boxes owned by one of the banks or real estate developers whose pockets he was also in. I never could get my head around private, glass-enclosed, air-conditioned boxes in a minor league ballpark. It seemed vaguely un-American. But, then, the $1,000-a-game field seats at Yankee Stadium in the Bronx seemed un-American to me.

“Good evening, your boroughness,” I said as we passed each other.

Blovardi barely managed a smile. Why bother? No one could vote for him anymore. But even that fleeting smile evaporated when he realized it was me.

“Go fuck yourself, Rhode.”

He stormed off. Our dislike was mutual and well-deserved. We had a history. A few years ago he had created something called the Borough Economic Enterprise Corporation, a public/private hybrid whose ostensible purpose was to fund small start-up businesses in some of Staten Island’s industrially zoned areas where older factories had closed. The B.E.E.C. would purchase abandoned factory buildings and warehouses, break up the interiors into smaller areas called “incubators” and provide “seed money” to entrepreneurs, artists and other small businesses. The corporation’s $21 million operating budget was to be provided, in equal shares, by city and state government, and local banks.

One of the banks that were being strong-armed to participate smelled a rat and asked the law firm that owns my building to do a little due diligence. The firm hired me to sniff around. It didn’t take me long to find out that the bulk of the $21 million was earmarked to buy the abandoned buildings, most of which were moldering and wouldn’t have been suitable as a Nike factory in Bangladesh. It wasn’t bad budgeting; it was an old-fashioned boondoggle. The factories and warehouses had been purchased by a consortium of “investors,” all of who just happened to be political contributors and supporters of Blovardi. Believe it or not, there was apparently nothing illegal about the scheme — this was New York City, after all. But the ensuing uproar and media firestorm was so great that Blovardi’s “incubator” collapsed like a house of cards. I probably cost him at least a million bucks and he’s hated me ever since, so I like to think he would have told me to fuck off even if he was running for office.

***

I got a better reception at the concession stand, where one of the owners of Flagship Brewing, a good-looking young guy named Jay Sykes, was behind one of four taps.

“Which one this time, Mr. Rhode?’

“I’m working my way left to right,” I said, pointing at the third tap.

“Are you going to stop at four?”

“Don’t know. If the speeches get unbearable, I may start again at the other end.”

“This is slightly darker than the rest,” he said, filling a cup for me.

He handed me the cup and I took a sip. It was excellent.

“Pity I won’t be able to drink it after Memorial Day,” I said.

Wayne Miller walked up and ordered a beer. Wayne is the Artistic Director and Production Manager at the St. George Theater on Hyatt Street, just up the street from the ballpark. He’s helped restore some of the luster to the venerable theater, once one of New York City’s premier vaudeville and cinema palaces. The St. George now attracts some of the biggest acts in New York City and has recently been showcasing some local playwrights. Alice has also dragged me to a couple of shows by new dramatists, which ranged from the dreadful to the not-too-bad.

“How’s Scar?” Wayne asked. “Brought home any zebras lately?”

Wayne, who lives in my neighborhood, has occasionally cat sat for the feral feline who has made my house the base of his operations. Scar, named after his many wounds, may be the largest tomcat I’ve ever seen.

“He’s fine. Slowing down some. Sticks to wildebeests.”

“I just ran into Alice,” Wayne said. “Gave her a couple of tickets to a play we’re putting on Sunday afternoon.”

Wayne was fond of Alice, especially since after returning from Europe she temporarily moved into my place while waiting for the lease to run out for the people subletting her Manhattan apartment. She had taken over much of the Scar-watching reins. I tried to smile. I knew that most of the theater’s open dates were on Sundays, with afternoons usually reserved for productions that wouldn’t attract an audience of lifers on Devil’s Island.

“Really? What’s it called?”

“Dying Is Wasted on Corpses,” he said. “We classify it as experimental dramaturgy.”

He saw the look on my face.

“I know. But some of our funding from the city is tied to the development of local talent. A certain number of our productions must showcase them.”

“Even if they are untalented?”

“What was the last thing you wrote, wise guy?”

“Does a shopping list count?”

“Alice is looking forward to Sunday.”

“I think she may have used up all her Alton Rhode torture credits for the month with this rally,” I said. “I’m inclined to pass.”

Wayne finished his beer and smiled.

“Did I ask you how Scar was? Oh, yes, I think I did. I hear Alice will be moving back into her apartment soon.”

“Blackmail? Don’t you think I can find someone else to watch him?”

“I prefer catmail. Alton. I’ll save you two good seats. Should be a couple of thousands of them. I’m fairly certain we won’t sell out.”

I was debating whether to sneak another hot dog when I heard the band strike up some Souza. As I walked back to my row, I saw Alice deep in conversation with Michael Sullivan and a woman. I was momentarily startled, since the woman had auburn hair. It brought back memories of another night at the same ball park with Sullivan and his late wife, also a redhead. They all turned at my approach.

Sullivan looked better than he had in months. His eyes appeared brighter and his skin had a healthier glow. Someone had told me they spotted him working out at a local gym. We shook hands and he introduced me to the woman. Her name was Linda Cronin. She was smaller and less stunning than Sharon Sullivan had been, but that was no knock on her. Sharon had been a Rockette. Linda was merely very good-looking. She had a pleasant, cultured voice and I could sense that Alice liked her. Which meant I probably would.

“Mike wants to know if we want to grab a bite after this,” Alice said.

“Sounds good to me.”

“I was just telling them how tough it was to get you here tonight.” Alice said.

“It probably got easier when you mentioned the free beer,” Sullivan said.

“Don’t you like politics, Alton?” Linda asked.

“Politics, yes. Most politicians, no.”

“Does that include Mike?”

“He’s the best District Attorney we’ve had since Hector was a pup.”

“What a nice thing to say.”

“Faint praise, Linda,” Sullivan said. “He’s marking me on a curve.”

I turned to Alice.

“Just saw Wayne Miller.,” I said. “Death Is Wasted on Corpses? You do know the Yankees and the Red Sox are on TV Sunday, don’t you?”

“I’ve got your six, honeybun,” Alice said with the smile that cannot be denied. “It’s an 8 P.M. game. We’ll be home in plenty of time.”

She leaned up and kissed me. Goner. Then she turned to continue chatting with Linda Cronin.

“Any progress on Panetta, Mike?”

The murder of the Medal of Honor winner had roiled the borough as few homicides in recent memory. Staten Island takes its war heroes seriously. At one time, those that were home-grown had ferries named after them. That has since changed. Now ultra-patriotic politicians, most of whom had been no closer to combat than fighting over the last hors d'oeuvre at a cocktail party, name the boats after themselves. But when it was revealed that Panetta, who only recently moved to the borough, was brutally slain in his home, there was genuine outrage, particularly among veterans groups.

“We have DNA evidence,” Sullivan said, “but no suspects. It appears to be what everyone assumes. A home invasion.”

“Robbery?”

“Looks that way. The guy lived simply and apparently didn’t have much, so it’s hard to tell what might be missing, other than some cash and maybe a watch.”

“Hell of a way for a war hero to wind up.”

“I’ll say. We’re pulling out all the stops on this one, but I have to tell you it doesn’t look good.”

“The hairs don’t help?”

“All we know is that they came from an African-American male. But that doesn’t help us unless we can find someone to match them with.”

“No one noticed a black man in that neighborhood?”

Staten Island has become more racially tolerant in recent years, but Panetta lived in a neighborhood where blacks were virtually nonexistent.

“Nobody even noticed a white man,” Sullivan said. “Anyone. Coming or going. The M.E. put the time of death around the dinner hour. It was nasty out, too. Not many people roaming around outside.”

“The cause of death was strangulation. A bit unusual for a home invasion and robbery, isn’t it? Didn’t Panetta put up any kind of fight?”

“Apparently not. We think the killer knocked him out with one punch after he opened the door. His jaw was broken. Then the bastard finished him off with what was handy. In this case, a cord from a lamp.”

CHAPTER 2 - SPEECHES

The high school band had been playing a medley of service anthems, each one greeted by applause from the crowd, which had thickened to several thousand. The final anthem was the Marine Corps Hymn and it predictably received the loudest ovation. During the medley, the honor guard, made up of men and women from all the services, had been marching toward second base. As opposed to the pot-bellied veterans usually trotted out for such local rallies, the military personnel in this honor guard all looked young and trim. We all grabbed seats.

“I don’t think they got those kids from the local V.F.W. hall, Mike” I said.

“Yorke has a lot of pull. War hero and all. I’m surprised he went with a high school band. I guess the London Philharmonic was booked.”

“Beer and hot dogs? No caviar?”

“It’s a ball park. If he’d staged this in the Ritz, it would be Cristal and Beluga.”

I was getting the impression that Sullivan didn’t much like Nathanial Yorke. After all, his name had been floated as a potential candidate for the office Yorke was seeking. I don’t like working on assumptions, so I asked him.

“I wouldn’t want the job. I’m not even sure I want to run for District Attorney again in two years.”

He left unsaid the reason. It had taken the combined efforts of several people, me included, and the bending of a few laws, to keep Sullivan from resigning after his wife’s mysterious death.

The music stopped and the speeches began. After the usual palaver from several local pols, the outgoing borough president moved toward the microphone. In addition to everything else, he was an atrociously bad speaker, given to grammatical lapses and frequent malapropisms. I began to tune everything out, until he was introduced as “Dr. Mario Blovardi.”

I looked at Sullivan.

“Doctor?”

There was a look of genuine pleasure on his face.

“I didn’t know he was a physician,” Linda Cronin said.

“He’s not,” Mike said.

“Then, he has a Ph.D.?”

“Nope.”

“He never went to college,” I said. “He made his money selling used cars in New Jersey before he moved to Staten Island and made the easy transition to politics.”

“Then why are they calling him a doctor, if he’s not?”

“He really doesn’t rate the title,” Sullivan said. “But the Governor just appointed him to a Board of Trustees and he wants people to call him that.”

“You must be joking,” I said. “Unless you’re talking about the state prison farm system.”

Sullivan’s grin grew wider.

“Actually, the Board of Trustees of the State University of New York.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

“I know, I know,” Sullivan said. “It makes no sense. But Blovardi isn’t as dumb as he sounds. I happen to know he even believes in evolution, despite the fact that his physical appearance argues against natural selection.”

“You two sound like a pair of snobs,” Alice said. “Educational elitists. It’s unbecoming, especially from someone with peanut shells all over his shirt.” For emphasis, she brushed them off me. “He’ll probably make more sense than some of those blowhards in Albany with five advanced degrees to their name.”

As usual, she had a point. Alice shared my jaundiced view of academia, a trait I found particularly admirable in a college professor. I worried her candor on the subject would be a hindrance to her career, which was taking off. She had already received some feelers from the Ivies.

“Sorry,” I said. “You’re right. I’d be willing to pay admission to see that tough little conniver run amok at a board meeting full of academic poseurs.”

“Maybe he’d be able to do something about the spiraling sticker prices on state college tuition,” Alice said. It was one of her pet peeves. “At one time, kids who qualified got a free ride in state schools. Now, most have to go into hock, just like private school students. It’s a damn disgrace.”

“I thought the money from the state lottery funded education in New York,” Linda said. “It’s billions and billions.”

The three of us looked at her.

“Oh,” she said.

“Doctor” Blovardi’s speech, meant to introduce his successor, was blessedly short and noticeably lukewarm. I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Finally, Nathaniel Yorke took the microphone.

He was a good-looking guy in his 60’s, tall with wavy silver hair and a confident mien. An excellent speaker, he started off by acknowledging everyone standing near him, and then thanked the crowd for coming out “on such a beautiful New York evening, when I’m sure you’d rather be doing something, anything, else.”  He introduced his wife, a handsome woman with dark hair who looked years his junior. Then he made his campaign pitch, promising a “clean sweep” and a “new beginning,” which would be followed by “startling initiatives” on education, transportation and crime. Yorke didn’t mention that those were three areas over which the city’s five borough presidents had little control ever since the new City Charter stripped them of much of their real power. Undeterred, he noted that while Staten Island students had some of the highest test scores in the city “we can do better.” He expressed disbelief, which seemed genuine, of the latest toll hike on the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge to $13.

Then he brought up the Panetta murder.

“As a Vietnam veteran myself and the proud recipient of the Silver Star,” Yorke intoned, “I mourn the loss of a man who won our nation’s highest honor in the war we both fought. If elected as your Borough President, I will do everything in my power to ensure that the perpetrator of this evil deed is brought to justice and punished.”

“Well, that must be a comfort, Mike,” I said.

“God help us.”

I ate more peanuts. Finally, Yorke got to a topic where a borough president did have some clout: real estate development.

“Under my administration,” Yorke said, “St. George will no longer be known as just a place where the ferry stops. It will be a destination for not only New Yorkers, but for the people who visit our great city.”

He then went on to outline the “Renaissance Harbor, the vast redevelopment of the entire North Shore waterfront that represents the biggest private investment — almost $2 billion — since the construction of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge almost a half century ago.”

Yorke noted that the plan had the backing of the Mayor and City Council, which, he stated, promised to repair crumbling infrastructure and provide transportation improvements to mitigate its effects on the North Shore.

“The centerpieces of the project, developed by Atlantic partners, a consortium of American and European companies,” he said, “are a 350,000-square-foot mall containing 120 designer outlet stores, a 145,000-square-foot hotel with 320 rooms and a 700-foot-high Ferris wheel designed to carry 1,600 riders at one time in 40 massive capsules. The so-called St. George Wheel will be almost twice the size as the famous London Eye. There will be a high-speed monorail linking the ferry terminal and adjacent bus depot to Brooklyn over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, constructed by Deutsch Eisenbahn, a German company that is the leader in the field.”

Yorke spread his arms.

“In two years, this lovely ball park will be surrounded by some of the most magnificent edifices on the face of the earth. Finally, Staten Island will be getting the recognition and wealth that it has long deserved.”

There was long, and apparently sincere, applause. I nudged Sullivan in the ribs.

“What do you think, Mike?”

“Who knows? Maybe it’s not all smoke and mirrors this time. It will all come down to whether they can get the unions on board.”

“Why wouldn’t they go along? It will mean plenty of jobs.”

“Atlantic Partners and the Germans want to keep union participation to less than 25 percent. The unions want 100 percent. That’s quite a gap.”

Finally, the speeches were over. Yorke walked into the stands and began working the crowd. He soon spotted Sullivan and came over to us, followed on his heels by a short, stocky man holding a clipboard.

“Mike, thanks for coming,” Yorke said. “I hope I wasn’t out of line by mentioning the Panetta murder. I know your office is doing everything possible.”

“No problem, Nat. I’d like you to meet some friends of mine.”

I got the impression Yorke wasn’t crazy about the “Nat.”

Sullivan introduced the three of us. Close up, I could see that Yorke sported a tan deeper than could have been accounted for by the local weather, which had only warmed up recently. It set his silver mane off nicely and was undoubtedly the result of time spent in warmer climes. Yorke, who didn’t introduce the man who was with him, was polite and said all the right things. I did think he spent a little too much time smiling at Alice, but I decided not to hold that against him. She made a lot of men smile. Some even pawed the ground and whinnied. His wife joined our little group. Her name was Teresa and close up didn’t appear as young as I’d originally thought. Probably mid-40’s. She had a nice figure, a pleasant manner and an accent that said Boston.

So, after another round of introductions, I said, “Boston?”

“Close enough. Wellesley Hills. Just west of Boston.”

I turned to her husband.

“But you’re not.”

“No,” Yorke said, “I’m a New Yorker, through and through. Upstate. Near Oswego.”

“What brought you to Staten Island, Mr. Yorke?” Alice asked.

“Please call me Nathaniel, Alice” he replied. “And to answer your question, it was a combination of things. I believe this borough has great potential, especially after the closure of the landfill. Staten Island’s proximity to Manhattan and its position at the nexus of the Northeast Corridor ensure its prosperity. It has beautiful neighborhoods and a vibrant populace. And, of course, there is one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Naked ambition.” Yorke laughed. At least I think it was a laugh. “Terry and I haven’t even unpacked our carpetbags.”

It was a good line, meant to disarm, and it did.

“Nathaniel, we’re running late.” It was the man behind Yorke. “We’ve got to move this along. There are a lot of people anxious to meet you.”

It was true. The line of well-wishers was building up in the aisle. Yorke looked at him.

“OK, Claude, hold your water. I’ll be right with you.”

He turned back to us and smiled.

“I don’t run my campaign. My staff does. Terry and I are going out for a bite to eat after this. Would you care to join us?” Yorke was looking at Mike Sullivan but quickly added, “All four of you, of course.”

“Nathaniel, you have a busy day ahead of you tomorrow.” It was Yorke’s staffer. “I’m sure these nice people would understand.”

“Claude, all the more reason we need a little break tonight. What do you say, Mike?” He looked at me. “Mr. Rhode?”

We agreed to all meet at La Strada, a reliable Italian restaurant on New Dorp Lane in New Dorp, at 8 P.M.

“I’ll make a reservation,” the staffer said. He didn’t look happy.

“Make it for six people, Claude,” Teresa Yorke said. “Take the night off. You’ve earned it.”

Now the man really looked unhappy. He looked at the candidate.

“We could discuss some matters over dinner, Nathaniel,” he said.

“I think you should really take the night off,” Teresa Yorke said, with an edge to her voice. “Isn’t that right, Nathaniel?”

“Yes, that’s a good idea, Claude. The campaign can wait a day. Go on home. Come on, Terry, once more into the breach.”

He and his wife left and started shaking hands. The staffer glared at us as they walked away and then followed. Alice and Linda Cronin began chatting. I looked at Sullivan.

“Who was the flunky with Yorke, Mike? I don’t think I’ve seen him around.”

“He’s no flunky. That was Claude Bowles. Campaign manager.”

“He from upstate, too?”

“Yeah. Been with Yorke since the beginning, when he was an alderman in the city of Oswego. Claude’s a pain in this ass but he knows his stuff. Yorke has never lost an election.”

It had been all over the media. Nathaniel Yorke’s political career was as varied as it was successful: alderman, mayor of Oswego, county manager, two as an assemblyman and three terms as a state senator.

“Why the hell is he running for Borough President of Staten Island?”

Sullivan smiled.

“The $64-million-dollar question. Or, more likely, the billion-dollar question. You heard him talk about the project, didn’t you? Staten Island is where the money is. And who knows, maybe he has bigger ambitions. Some people would rather be mayor of New York than Governor or U.S. Senator. There’s half a million people living in our quiet little burg. We’re bigger than Cincinnati. Why do you think Blovardi and his boys were pushed aside? Staten Island is changing. Too much money at stake to leave things to the local yokels. We’re no longer the undiscovered county.”

“A Star Trek pun, Mike. I’m impressed.”

“I stole it from your pal, Levine.”

“I would have thought the Blovardi crowd had a lock on development here. They have as long as I can remember.”

I knew it was a touchy subject for Sullivan. He came from the same side of the political divide as Blovardi, although I knew he despised the man and his minions. For years there had been rumors of political payoffs and shady real estate deals, and questions about why so many members of the current administration had Florida and Caribbean condos in resort areas that also housed many developers. But Mike Sullivan had not looked too closely at the shenanigans of the Borough hall crowd. He was a good, decent District Attorney, as were most of his predecessors, but the “old boy” network is very strong on Staten Island. It didn’t matter what party was in power, the D.A.’s office concentrated on street and quality-of-life crime and steered away from the political shoals. It would be interesting to see how Mike treated outsiders like Yorke and his backers. I was about to ask him about that when Alice slipped her arm through mine.

“If you two are through talking politics, Linda and I are starving.”

“We’re meeting a politician for dinner,” I reminded her. “It’s a safe bet we’ll talk politics.”

“But at least we won’t be starving.”

CHAPTER 3 - SNAPPER

Alice and I were the first to arrive at La Strada. We sat at the small intimate bar at the front of the restaurant and I ordered a bottle of Sorelle Bronca Prosecco. Alice likes the Italian sparkling wine and I can live with it, especially the Sorelle, which has a nice bite. Some Prosecco’s are too sweet for me.

“I’m sorry you got roped into dinner with Yorke,” I said. “But you are on his bandwagon.”

“No, it’s fine,” she said, as we clinked our flute glasses. “And I’m not on anyone’s bandwagon, present company excepted, sweetie pie. Bradley got an invite to the stadium thing but had something else going on tonight so he asked me if I’d be interested in coming.”

Spencer Bradley was the President of Wagner College.

“Why you? Why not someone in the Political Science Department or Community Relations?”

“He said he was intrigued by Yorke and wanted input from someone he trusted.”

“He trusts a philosophy professor? You only make sense to each other.”

Alice kicked me in the shin. Alice’s kicks, either to shin or ankle, range from “you’re an idiot but I love you” kicks to “shut up, you’re making an ass out of yourself in front of everyone” kicks. This one was an idiot/love tap. We both liked Bradley, the college’s first black president and a man who was known to be unhappy at the way the previous Borough Hall administration had catered to some of the borough’s racist constituencies. Bradley thought highly of Alice, and I knew he was worried about losing her.

“At least Bradley knows I don’t have a vested interest,” she said. “I can’t even vote for Yorke. I’m registered in the Village. But truth be told, I am intrigued by him. He seems such a change from the current mob running things out here.”

A waiter came to the bar and put a small plate of hot Italian delicacies in front of us.

“The owner says he hopes you enjoy these,” he said. “On the house.”

“Quick,” I said, “lock the door and let’s eat these before the others show up.”

Just then, the door opened and Mike Sullivan and Linda walked in, ruining my perfectly good plan. Both were fine with Prosecco, so I had the bartender provide two more flute glasses. It turned out that I didn’t need a plan. The women each had only one appetizer. I have observed that, in the hors d’oeuvres department, when Alice and I are alone she tends to eat like a normal person. Add another female to the mix and each tends to under-eat the other. It worked out well: Mike and I were able to canapé graze at will. By the time the Yorkes showed up, the plate was empty and we decided to grab our table. The walk through the dining room was slow, with both Mike and Yorke stopping to greet people they knew or, in Yorke’s case, potential voters. That meant just about everyone. Luckily, the place hadn’t filled up yet. I didn’t see anyone I knew, but comforted myself by watching all the men at various tables stare at Alice. As we passed one group I heard one man ask, “Isn’t that Amy Adams?”

When we finally got to our table, I wound up sitting next to Teresa Yorke. The owner soon appeared and told us we didn’t need menus. He wanted to prepare our meal himself and promised we wouldn’t be disappointed. We, of course, gave him the go-ahead. Sometimes it helps to dine with the District Attorney and someone who might be the next Borough President. We briefly debated a wine and decided on a couple of bottles of Ruffino Reserve Ducale Chianti.

“When in Rome,” Yorke said. He looked at his wife. “I think you will like it, honey. Andrew stocks it for special occasions.”

“Nathaniel is dropping names,” Teresa said to the table. “He means Cuomo.”

Yorke laughed.

“I guess I am. I get along great with the Governor. Even if I hardly ever agree with him.”

“I think I would like a real drink before the wine,” Teresa said. “Will anyone join me in a martini?”

The others demurred but, as is my wont when martinis are concerned, I volunteered.

“Stoli, splash of vermouth, two olives,” she told a hovering waiter.

She looked at me. I nodded. The waiter left.

“Thank you, Alton,” she whispered, leaning in to me. “My husband can be a stick in the mud. I’m glad someone manned up.”

We all engaged in table chit-chat until the wine and drinks came. After the usual glass-clinking routine, Teresa downed half her martini and then turned to me.

“God, I needed that.”

“Tough day?”

“You have no idea. I don’t know where Nathaniel gets his energy.” She laughed. “From not using it elsewhere, I suppose.”

“You’ve both been doing this a long time. I’m curious. Why did he give up his career in Albany to run for office on Staten Island?”

“Life upstate can be so limiting. This presented a unique opportunity. New York City is a much bigger stage.”

The owner started us out with small bowls of Tuscan bread soup and a salad. Our first course consisted of Linguini Puttanesca made with olives, peppers, anchovies, capers and red plum tomatoes.

“This is delicious,” Linda Cronin said. “I’ve never tasted a sauce like it.”

“It’s called the ‘sauce of the whores’,” I said. “The name is derived from the Italian word for prostitute, puttana.”

“Indeed,” Teresa said. “I thought us girls were dressed appropriately.”

We all laughed.

“You all look wonderful,” I said. “The name refers to something that a lower stratum of society threw together with whatever was handy in the kitchen, or so the story goes.”

“I don’t care what they call it,” Mike said. “It’s great.”

“You’re Irish,” I said. “You can call it Gravy Puttanesca.”

“Well,” Teresa Yorke said, “whatever it’s called, I think it goes wonderfully with vodka. I think I will have another martini.”

She held her glass up and twirled it to get a waiter’s attention.

“I think wine would go better, Terry,” her husband said. “Don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.” A waiter came over. She looked at me. “How about it, pardner? Still game?”

It was an awkward moment. Alice shot me a glance. It was as if I was choosing sides between the two Yorkes. I would have preferred switching to wine, but I wanted to see where the little domestic dynamic was going.

“Sure,” I said. “Just one more.”

Nathaniel Yorke looked annoyed. The others looked slightly embarrassed. The drinks came. As if in retaliation, Yorke started chatting up Alice. Teresa nudged me.

“Don’t worry about Nathaniel showing so much attention to your girlfriend,” she whispered. “He likes to flirt. Men his age have to convince themselves they still have it. He doesn’t. He’s harmless.”

The second martini was apparently doing its job. I got the impression that Teresa Yorke still had it, even if her husband didn’t.

“Are you harmless, Alton? I bet you’re not. Big, handsome private eye. I bet you have lots of interesting stories. The women must swoon. Do they?”

I was saved from answering when the first course arrived: veal scaloppini and filet mignon sautéed with peas and mushrooms in a sherry wine sauce. The waiter poured wine for everyone. Teresa had thankfully finished her martini and started on the wine.

“You must be wondering at the obvious age difference between Nathaniel and me,” she said.

I hadn’t. I knew from what I’d read that Yorke had married relatively late in life. Beyond that, I didn’t particularly care.

“We met at a wedding in Boston,” she said. “I was 27 and he was 49. I’d just come out of an unsatisfying relationship and Nathaniel seemed so strong and mature. Such a vibrant, handsome man. He’s still quite handsome, don’t you think?”

I said I did. And I also noticed that she left out the word ‘vibrant’.”

“I was quite swept off my feet,” she continued. “That was 15 years ago. Neither of us wanted kids, which has helped me keep my figure. That, and working out. I run, swim and do Pilates. It seems to be working. What do you think? Would you guess I’m in my 40’s?”

There is only one answer to that question when a woman asks it. So I told her what she wanted to hear. In fact, on closer inspection, Teresa Yorke did have a splendid body. As if to emphasize the point, she leaned forward.

“I’m not wearing a bra. I bet you thought I was.” She was slightly drunk. “Your girlfriend has a nice figure, too. But, then, she’s young.”

“Alice was on her college swim team. She coaches the sport at Wagner.”

“How nice,” she said, her mouth turning down at the corners, revealing some 40-ish age lines. “A real jock.”

“She’s also a tenured professor of philosophy. She can both think and swim rings around me.”

Teresa drummed her fingers on my arm.

“I bet I could teach her a thing or two. You look like you are in shape.” She had a strange cast in her eyes that I didn’t think was the result of the wine. She was now on her third glass. “It’s important to keep your body in shape. Mine is in the best it’s ever been. You should see me in a bikini. Too bad it goes to waste so often.”

“What are you two so engrossed in?”

It was Nathaniel Yorke, who was looking daggers at us. Then he emitted a funny little laugh. Alice looked amused. She was used to women throwing themselves at me, “especially when they are drunk and can’t see straight.”

The next course arrived. I was never so glad to see a red snapper. The rest of the meal went along uneventfully. Mike and Yorke steered the conversation toward politics. Teresa Yorke yawned and looked bored, but at least she didn’t undress.

After we finished a meal that would have embarrassed Caligula, none of us wanted dessert. Until the kitchen sent out a complimentary tiramisu. We demolished it.

***

“Well, that was certainly interesting,” Alice said. We were driving home after the dinner. “I thought the snapper was a bit much.”

“I guess the owner wanted to impress us. It was delicious.”

“I wasn’t talking about the fish. I meant Teresa Yorke. She did everything but gobble you up at the table.”

“Ah, you noticed.”

“Everyone noticed. I thought one of the waiters was going to douse her with a pitcher of ice water. I kept waiting for her hand to slip under the table.”

“As you’ve uncharitably pointed out in the past, it was probably the booze.”

“Ordinarily I’d agree with you. But not this time. That lady is on the prowl. There didn’t seem to be much warmth between her and her husband. I don’t know how they once were, but I’d say it’s a marriage of convenience now.”

She said it with assurance. I tended to agree with her on matters of the heart. Alice was usually spot-on when her female antenna picked something up.

“Well, he’s a good deal older than she is,” I said. “Mid-60’s by my estimation. Maybe the fire is going out.”

“His, maybe. But not hers. Gal like that needs her embers constantly stoked.”

***

“I think that was a pretty good stoke,” I said an hour later, a bit breathlessly.

Alice looked down at me. We were in bed. She had been particularly energetic in her lovemaking.

“I knew I shouldn’t have used that word,” she said. “You’re like a dog with a bone when you hear something you like.”

“Arf. Have you ever noticed how much harder you stoke after another women pays a lot of attention to me?”

“Would you rather I pull a Lorena Bobbitt?”

Alice did something with one of her internal muscles to reinforce her point. The word ‘snapper’ came unbidden into my mind.

“You’d never do anything to endanger your chief stoker,” I said.

I leaned up and licked one of her nipples.

“Well, there’s that,” Alice said, laughing. She began to move her hips. “How old did you say that Yorke broad was?”

CHAPTER 4 - STAGE FRIGHT

I woke up Sunday morning to the smell of breakfast sausage. If there are better smells to wake up to, I’d like to find out. The only downside was knowing that unless there was a fire in the kitchen that had reached the meat drawer in the fridge, Alice was cooking breakfast. Of course, that didn’t rule out the possibility of fire. Deciding to hope for the best, I threw on some shorts and a t-shirt and headed downstairs. As I got closer, I also detected the odor of biscuits, as yet unburnt. What the hell was going on? I sped up.

She was standing over the stove, putting the sausage on paper towels, wearing her own shorts and one of my t-shirts. When I had last seen her a few hours earlier, she was naked and sleeping contently with one arm on my chest. Life was good.

“Life is good,” I said.

She looked at me and smiled.

“Can you do the coffee?”

Ten minutes later we were eating on my deck. Eggs, sunny side up, no yolks broken; sausage; buttermilk biscuits with butter and maple syrup; orange juice and coffee with cream. It was a tad chilly, but I couldn’t have cared less. Neither did Scar, “my” feral cat. He was on his third sausage. My coffee had cooled. I went over and poured what was left in my mug into his bowl. Then I refilled my mug from the porcelain pitcher on the table.

“I never knew a cat that drank coffee,” Alice said.

“He would drink Sterno.”

“I have some raspberry Kringle warming in the oven,” she said.

I order the traditional Danish pastry from Wisconsin. It comes in a big ring and I cut it into sections and freeze them. Thawed and warmed in the oven they taste just as good as fresh. I have no idea why.

“All right, lady. What have you done with Alice?”

I moved my legs out of kicking range.

“It’s our last morning together, for a while,” she said, laughing. “I wanted to do something special for you.”

“I thought you took care of that last night.”

“Oh, that. I thought you didn’t notice.”

“Notice? I just made an appointment with my chiropractor.”

She colored slightly. I had noticed that her blushes diminished in direct proportion to her growing sexual capacity.

“I’ll get the Kringle,” she said. “Then I have to pack a few things.”

Having sublet her Greenwich Village apartment, Alice had been living with me since returning from France from her sabbatical. After the play we were attending that afternoon, she was heading into the city to check on the apartment her tenants had just vacated. She was bringing a few clothes and some toiletries to the theater. I’d drive to Manhattan later in the week with more of her stuff. We had both agreed that having two apartments, and somewhat separate lives, was what suited us best. For now.

Alice returned with the Kringle. She dropped a piece off to Scar, who actually rubbed against her leg.

“Good Lord,” I said. “A cat whisperer.”

She gave me the larger piece of Kringle.

“If I had known you could cook like this,” I said, “I would never have thrown you out.”

“There’s a roast beef in the fridge,” she said sweetly. “Want me to cook it before I leave?”

Alice’s last roast had the appearance, and consistency, of a meteorite. I ate it and said all the right things, but the leftovers went to Scar. He ate it, too, but I could tell he wasn’t overwhelmed.

“Not necessary,” I said quickly. “I wouldn’t want you to miss your ferry.”

***

Dying Is Wasted on Corpses wasn’t as bad as I expected.

It was infinitely worse. When the curtain opened, to an offstage recording of John Lennon’s Imagine, it revealed four men and four women, all seated. The song ended abruptly, amid a cacophony of recorded gunshots.

“Everyone is sitting on coffins,” I whispered to Alice.

“I can see that,” she whispered back. “Please keep your voice down.”

The eight coffins were labeled, in blood red: MARRIAGE, MASTURBATION, WALL STREET, ORGASM, PENTAGON, RACISM, CONGRESS and GAY RIGHTS.

“The men are wearing jockstraps and the women bras, all outside their clothing.”

Someone behind us shushed me. For the next two hours, I watched the eight actors spew racial, religious and sexual vulgarities, insults and epithets at each other, and, occasionally, the audience. Every few minutes, the actors jumped up and ran about in a frenzy, changing coffin seats. Whenever a woman landed on the coffin labeled ORGASM, she yelled out, “I fake it!”

I looked around the audience, which filled about a third of the seats in the St. George. That meant everyone, unfortunately, was close to the stage. I spotted several guys I knew who looked like they wanted to be in Cleveland.

***

There was a wine-and-cheese party in the lobby after the performance. After what I had just sat through, I was ready for a hemlock-and-poison-mushroom party. But the cheese was good and the wine excellent, which surprised me.

Wayne Miller came over to us, accompanied by a short, dark, intense man with enough facial hair to win a tryout with the Boston Red Sox.

“This is Adrian Trethewly,” Wayne said. “He wrote Dying Is Wasted on Corpses.”

We shook hands and introduced ourselves. At least I shook his hand, which felt like a wet noodle. He took Alice’s hand and bent to kiss it.

“Charmed,” he said, gazing deeply into her eyes. “I do hope you enjoyed the play.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Alice said.

He glanced at me.

“And you?”

Both Wayne and Alice shot me looks.

“You might want to consider real gunshots.”

It went right over his head, as I suspected most remarks did. He turned to Wayne.

“Interesting idea. Do you think we could get a permit for that?”

“I’ll look into it, Adrian,” Wayne said, with a look of disbelief on his face.

Trethewly turned his gaze back to Alice. I’m sure he meant to look seductive. He came off looking like a lecherous walrus.

“Do you have any stage experience, Alice? I am thinking of taking my play Off-Broadway and I just know I could find a part for a woman of your beauty.”

“Would she have to wear her bra outside her clothing?” I asked.

Alice shifted her weight. No one noticed that she kicked me in the ankle. Except me. It hurt.

“Well,” Trethewly said, “of course.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any acting experience,” Alice said.

“You have bras,” I said, moving just out of ankle-kicking range. “Cute lace ones.”

“All women can act,” the little twerp said. “I thought I made that clear with the ORGASM coffin. Men are always fooled in bed. On stage, all it takes is professional direction to bring a woman’s full potential out.”

Wayne made some sort of strangled noise.

“Sorry,” he said. “Something in my throat.”

“Have you thought about setting your play to music,” I said.

“It’s a serious work of art,” Trethewly sniffed.

“You could sell it to Hasbro or Mattel as a parlor game,” I continued, as Alice tried to suppress a giggle. “They could market it as ‘Musical Crypts’. Or maybe a TV producer might see it and turn it into ‘Dancing with the Cadavers’.”

“I fail to see the humor,” he said.

“Then there’s Hollywood. How about ‘Gone With the Sarcophagus’?”

“Adrian,” Wayne said quickly, “I think those folks over there want your autograph.”

As Trethewly huffed away, Wayne looked at me and smiled. He twirled his finger around his ear in the universal signal of nuttiness. For once, I knew he didn’t mean me.

“Well, the food and wine are good,” I said. “Top drawer.”

“I had to do something,” Wayne said. “I didn’t want to get lynched. Listen, I’ll make this up to you guys. We have Chris Botti in July. I’ll get you some tickets.” He looked across the lobby. “I better fetch Adrian. Those people didn’t really ask for his autograph. They look confused.”

***

I walked Alice down to the 7 P.M. ferry.

“See, you’ll have plenty of time to stop for a pizza and still see the Yankee game.”

“What makes you think I’m still hungry?”

She gave me a look. We were a little early for the boat, so we stood in the knot of people waiting for the doors to the ferry slip to open. Workers heading into Manhattan for the night shift. Couples on a date. Noisy high school kids. Some touristy type families. Above the slip doors was a huge display board with a picture of Nathaniel Yorke against a background map of Staten Island. The logo said: “A New Yorke for New York’s Best Borough!” We both looked up at it.

“I never asked you, Alice. What did you think of Yorke the other night? I already know what you think about his wife.”

“I’m not crazy about him, now that I’ve met him.”

I was surprised.

“I thought you enjoyed yourself. He seemed very nice at dinner. A little too attentive to you. I considered shooting him, but my salad came. Besides, I figured he was just retaliating for Teresa trying to talk me into a quickie in the ladies’ room.”

“It’s not always about you, you egotist. Men occasionally notice me.”

“Only if they’re breathing.”

“What a nice thing to say. But I did enjoy myself. Still, there was something a bit off about Yorke. He seemed, I don’t know, so guarded.”

“He was probably not used to being out without his handler.”

“You mean that disagreeable man who tried to prevent him from going to dinner?”

“Yes. Claude Bowles. His campaign manager.”

“He gave me the creeps at the ballpark. He just stood there, glowering, like a vulture, listening to every word.”

“He’s supposed to run interference for his candidate. That’s his job.”

“Still, I’m glad Yorke ditched him.”

“More like Teresa ditched him. I don’t think it was Yorke’s idea.”

A shabbily dressed old woman pushing a small grocery cart walked past us. The cart was piled high with paper and plastic bags, presumably her belongings. We caught her unpleasant odor as she went by. People gave her a wide berth and some teen-agers started laughing. Alice started toward her but I grabbed her arm.

“I got this,” I said.

First, I told the kids to shut up. They did. Then I walked up to the old woman and gave her 20 bucks. She just stared at me and kept going. I went back to Alice.

“Thank you,” she said.

“When I was a kid, my dad and I were picking someone up at the ferry. It was freezing, with snow piling up. As we drove out there was a guy standing there in his shirtsleeves, shivering. I said something about him being a bum. My father stopped the car, got out and gave him his coat, which he’d just gotten for Christmas. Got back in the car and didn’t say a word. I’ll never forget that.”

Alice kissed me.

“I’ve got lots of other stories.”

“I’m sure you do. But there was something else.”

“What?”

“His laugh?”

“Bowles? I don’t remember him laughing. Or even smiling.”

“No, not Bowles. Yorke. He chortled. I distrust people who chortle. It sounds so, I don’t know, insincere.”

“All politicians are insincere. But I’m not quite sure what a ‘chortle’ is.”

“It’s a word coined by Lewis Carroll in Through the Looking Glass, a combination of a chuckle and a snort.”

One of the advantages, or disadvantages, of sleeping with a college professor is that they know things you don’t.

“I presume I don’t chortle.”

“You often chuckle. And, on occasion, snort. But I don’t think you have every chortled, at least in my presence.”

“When the hell do I snort?”

“Rarely, and only during sex. And given the circumstances, I much prefer it to a chuckle.”

The bell for the ferry sounded. We headed toward the doors leading to the slips. I spotted one of the kids that I yelled at walk over to the old woman and give her some money. Hot dog!

“Just for the record,” I said, “I can always tell when you fake it. You never put the remote down.”

Alice kissed me again.

“Only during Downton Abbey.”

I handed her the overnight bag and she started to walk through the doors. Then, she turned.

“Musical Crypts?”

CHAPTER 5 - SKIPPER

I drove home from the ferry with that guilty sense of freedom all men experience when they are released, even temporarily, from the bonds of domesticity, no matter how blissful it is. And my relationship with Alice Watts would qualify as blissful in anyone’s book. She made few demands on me, and most of them were sexual, of which I graciously decided not to make an issue. She had moved into my house on my suggestion, and made it clear that it was a temporary, if delightful, accommodation. We both knew that her days as a professor at Wagner College were probably numbered. A couple of Ivies wanted her and underneath her normally sweet exterior was, I knew, a burning ambition. It was probably only a matter of time before she moved from New York City.

That thought obliterated most of my euphoria at being a “free” man. I found myself needing some solace. So, instead of turning for home, I headed to Castleton Corners, where Joe & Pat’s Pizzeria and Restaurant makes a thin-crust pie that always ranks in the top 10 in all of New York City. I didn’t bother calling ahead. I like to sit at the counter and drink some Chianti and talk to the kitchen crew while they make my pie. I’m a regular. They pour my Chianti into short little glasses that used to hold jelly. Half the time they don’t charge me for the wine.

By the time I pulled down the driveway in my back yard, the aroma of fresh, hot pizza emanating from the back seat was making me dizzy. I looked around for Scar. He likes pizza almost as much as sausage. No Scar. Probably had brought down a wart hog. I opened the back door to my house and was half way through my kitchen when I registered a whiff of cigarettes over the pizza smell. Neither Alice nor I smoke, although I occasionally grub a butt if the occasion demands it. I put the pizza down on the table and slid my hand toward my gun.

“Don’t.”

The voice came from behind me. Whoever it was had been waiting in the dining room, just off the kitchen.

“Hands behind your head.”

No inflection. No nerves. Professional. But strangely familiar. I put my hands behind my neck. I caught a hint of good cologne as he came up behind me and reached around and took my gun. It took less than two seconds. He’d done this many times. I was glad I didn’t try anything stupid.

“You shouldn’t smoke on the job,” I said. “It’s a dead giveaway. If it wasn’t for the pizza smell, I would have had you.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You weren’t expecting to be rousted. Pizza didn’t hurt, though. It really does smell delicious. Thin crust?”

“Of course.”

“Outstanding. Glad you didn’t drop it on the floor. Most guys in your situation would have. But then most aren’t as cool as you are.”

Did he know me? Again, I tried to place the voice.

“Bottom line,” he continued, “pizza didn’t matter. If I was here to kill you, I might have played it different.”

I found that somewhat consoling.

“Put your hands in your pockets. Head into the living room. Sit on the couch by the window.”

I did as I was told. He sat in the Bennington Pine rocking chair in front of my fireplace. The same chair Nando Carlucci sat in when he came to my house and then tried to cut me into sausage. I may have to get rid of that rocking chair, even if it did belong to my grandmother and was sturdy enough to hold the late and very fat Nando. My latest guest had moved a small pedestal table from my TV room next to the rocker and placed a Waterford Crystal wine coaster on it to use as an ashtray. The coaster looked like it already had half a dozen butts in it. On the coffee table in front of me was a thick envelope. My mind raced. Then I looked up at the man holding a silenced automatic on me. It had a rosewood grip and looked like a SIG Sauer .380. The man liked his guns. In his other hand he balanced the Taurus revolver he’d taken from me.

“A .38 with only five chambers,” he said, smiling. “You always were a confident bastard, Skipper. Pretty good shot, too, as I recall.”

He saw my look of almost recognition.

“It’s good to see you again, Skip,” he said as he flicked open my revolver and let the rounds fall to the floor.

Then he casually flipped my empty gun onto the couch next to me. He had a look of anticipation on his face.

“Maples? Corporal Maples?”

He gave me a genuine smile of pleasure.

“I knew you’d remember, Skip. You were always good with faces. Always took the time to know all your men, even replacements like me. I can’t tell you how much that meant to us. You really cared.”

He was dressed in designer jeans and a black turtleneck. His silver-and-black boots gleamed with polish.

“Why the gun, Vernon?”

He smiled grew even broader at my use of his first name. He waved the gun casually.

“Let’s just call it a necessary inconvenience, Skip. This is not your normal reunion. I have to tell you something. Something you might think you have to act on right away. I know you. You’re a tough guy. One of the toughest I ever met. You might want to do the right thing. Always liked you. Took care of your troops. Including me when I got wounded. But that was then, and this is now. So, don’t make any mistakes. I’ll give you a chance to do the right thing. Just not now, and not with me.”

He put his gun in his lap and lit another cigarette. He wasn’t worried about me making a move. There were 10 feet and a table separating us. The fact that he wasn’t worried told me volumes. He’d figured the distance and calculated the odds, and knew I would, too. It was in his eyes. Vernon Maples didn’t want to kill me, but wouldn’t hesitate to shoot me if it came down to me or him. I respected that. It just happened to be my philosophy, too.

“How about one of those cigarettes?”

“Sorry, Skip. Too much hand movement. I remember how quick you were. Don’t worry. I’ll clean up the butts before I leave.” He smiled. “No D.N.A.”

He was taking no chances. Truth was, I could have used a cigarette. It was one of those special occasions.

“Tell you what, Skip. You can take your hands out of your pockets. Just keep them where I can see them.”

“Thanks.”

“I have to ask you, Skipper. What the fuck was that god-awful play about?”

“You were at the St. George?”

“Beautiful theater. One of the prettiest I’ve seen. Yeah, I was there. Sat through the whole thing. Two hours of my life I’ll never get back. What was the playwright trying to say, other than that he has no talent?”

“I could make something up, Vernon, but your guess is as good as mine. I was shanghaied into going.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Skip. You never appeared to be the type to put up with that kind of bullshit.” He smiled. “Who shanghaied you? That lady you dropped at the ferry? Nice-looking filly. Don’t think I’d let that one get away.”

I recalled Maples more clearly now. He was the kid from Kentucky always talking about hunting dogs and horses. I only had him in my outfit for a couple of months in Afghanistan before he got banged up and sent home. I remembered him as a good soldier. Tall, skinny kid, with chiseled features and pale blond hair.  A born killer who could shoot with the best of them, like a lot of kids who come out of the South. Every platoon needs a couple of Vernon Maples. You might not want them to marry your sister, but in a firefight you want them on your side.

“You followed me?”

“Sure did. For two days.”

“That’s just terrific. I never caught a sniff.”

He looked embarrassed.

“Hey, Skip. Don’t sweat it. I do this kind of thing for a living. And it was a real loose tail. Not round the clock or anything. Just popped around occasionally to get your routine. I would have had to be wearing a clown suit for you to notice me. I thought the gal would be a problem, seeing how she’s been staying here with you. I didn’t want to involve her, so I was real happy when you took her to the ferry. Saw her overnight bag. Works out nice. She your main squeeze?”

“How about we leave her out of this?”

“Sure. Sure. Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry. Like I said. I didn’t want her involved. Always do my damndest to leave civilians out of the equation.”

“What’s this about, Vernon?”

He lit another cigarette.

“I was on Staten Island recently. Even thought about looking you up then, Skipper. But I was on a job. Turned out a bit more complicated than I expected. That’s why I’m here.”

He paused.

“I killed John Panetta.”

CHAPTER 6 - BLOOD MONEY

“You don’t have any idea who ordered the hit?”

Maples had spent the previous five minutes explaining, in clinical detail, how he’d killed Panetta.

“Doesn’t work that way. I get a name. They get a numbered bank account in an offshore bank. The money clears and somebody dies. Guy who contacts me is just a middleman. Who the hell knows? Maybe he has a middleman.”

I heard a car drive up the street. A neighbor’s dog barked. A moment later I saw why. A woman walked by the front of my house with another dog on a leash. The mutt stopped and urinated on the tree by my curb. Anyone on the sidewalk could look in the bay window near where we were sitting. But all they would see was two men having a friendly conversation. And, in fact, I didn’t want any interruptions. I was caught up in the story Vernon Maples had just told me.

“The cops have hairs and D.N.A. from a black man,” I said.

“I planted that. A little misdirection.”

“What happens if they nab the wrong guy?’

Maples smiled.

“He’ll have a pretty good defense, unless he’s a zombie. The D.N.A. won’t match. Guy it came from is dead.’

He saw the look on my face.

“Hey. I didn’t kill him. I have people who can supply that kind of stuff to me. Comes in handy in my line of work. This batch came from a lifer in prison who had terminal cancer. You’d be surprised how much dead-end D.N.A. is harvested from prisons by the people in my profession. Has a lot of cops and D.A.s running around in circles.”

“What does all this have to do with me, Vernon?”

For the first time, a look of animation came to his face.

“I loved the Army, Skip. You knew that. Everybody treated me right. It damn near killed me when they mustered me out because of my wounds. Yeah, I know, they probably could have found me a desk job, given my record. But combat was out. Hell, I’m in better shape now than I ever was. Worked out like a bandit for years. Thought about trying to go back, but by then I had found this gig. Changed my name and some other things.” Maples held up his free hand to show me the tips of his fingers. “Did you know there’s a place in Mexico where they can erase your fingerprints? Anyway, when you’re making six figures a year, tax-free, taking care of other people’s problems, there’s no reason for nostalgia. Got no family anymore. I don’t even know where my disability payments are going. But that don’t mean I like some sonsabitches using me to kill a Medal of Honor winner. Never would have done it had I known.” He paused and leaned slightly forward. “I want you to find out who the cocksuckers who ordered the hit are, and see that they are punished.”

I stared at Maples. Despite his hardness and disrespect for life, he had that “trooper” look on his face I remembered well from him and others of my men in Afghanistan. Whenever the shit hit the fan, all eyes, even those of the most grizzled veterans, shifted toward their commander, especially if he’d won their respect. The “Skipper” would figure things out. Just tell us what to do, and we’ll do it. And, by God, they did. Despite the obvious delicacy of my current situation, I couldn’t help but feel a bit pleased.

“Why don’t you take care of this yourself?”

“Reasons I gave you, Skip. I don’t know who is behind the hit. I’m a shooter, not a detective like you. Hell, this is the first time I ever even came back to the scene of the crime, as they call it. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Why not go to the cops, even anonymously,” I said. “Tell them Panetta was a hit. They’ll start turning over rocks.”

“Come on, Skip. I hate cops. For me, that would be like going to the Taliban back in the day. Besides, you know as well as I do that they’ll only clomp around in their muddy boots and fuck things up. It will get back to the people who ordered the hit and they’ll cover their tracks even more than they already have.”

“What’s to prevent me from just going to the cops with this?”

“Nothing. But I don’t think you will, for the same reasons I just gave you.”

“Withholding evidence of a felony is a felony,” I pointed out. “I could lose my license.”

That got a real laugh out of Maples.

“Skip, you’re still a pisser. Withholding evidence is what you private eyes do. You could put it on your business card.”

I’d almost forgotten that Maples probably knew more about the criminal justice system than I did.

“Whatever I do, it’s bound to get back to the guys who hired you, the middlemen? And then get to you.”

Maples shrugged.

“I work off burner phones and numbered accounts that I change every week or so. To my contacts, I’m just a voice on a phone. Hell, like I said, I’m not even Vernon Maples anymore, in case you’re thinking of tracking me down. That name is dead and buried.”

“Those contacts will know what you did.”

“Not necessarily. But, hell, nothing is perfect. Even if they put it together, I may lose one source of income. I have several, none of whom know about the others. I’ve been thinking of cutting back, anyway. I got a couple of million in the bank. I could retire right now. Go to the cops if you want. It’s your call, but I think you’re too smart for that.”

“What makes you think I want to get involved in this at all? I didn’t know Panetta.”

“Like I say. It’s your call. But I did a little research on you. When I learned you were a private dick, it made up my mind. You’re a gift from heaven. I know guys who know guys. The word on the street is that you’re still a straight shooter. You won’t let this rest. Personally, I have my doubts you can get to the bottom of it, but it’s the best I can do under the circumstances. Hell, maybe you have a chance. I mean, you found someone in witness protection once.” Maples laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. That one made the rounds.”

Maples took a quick glance at his watch. It was a Rolex. Business was indeed good.

“I have to wrap this up, Skip.” He pointed at the table in front of me. “There’s 20 grand in that envelope. Untraceable.”

“I don’t want your money.”

He ignored me.

“It’s what I earned for killing Panetta. I don’t want blood money for killing a Medal of Honor winner, even if it’s been laundered.”

“What makes you think I want it?”

“Because you didn’t do anything to earn it, yet. And now you can use it against the scumbags who wanted Panetta dead.”

Maples stood.

“Well, I’ve got to be going. Have a plane to catch. Skip, despite everything, it’s been great seeing you. I know you’ll try your best. You always did. Please be careful. You might have to go up against some really bad dudes. Shoot first and ask questions later.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out another gun. It looked like a target pistol.

“Sorry about this, Skip.”

He pointed the pistol at me and shot me in the left side. It made a “thutt” sound and I realized it used compressed air. I felt a sharp sting in my side. I looked down. There was something with red plastic feathers dangling from my shirt. I started to rise.

“Don’t,” Maples said, calmly. “You might fall over and hurt yourself. Give it time to work. Maybe a minute.”

He saw the look on my face.

“Tranquilizer gun. I had to estimate your weight for the dose in the dart. Brought some epinephrine in case I gave you too much. I’ll stick around to make sure you don’t asphyxiate. When you wake up, I’ll be a thousand miles away and you’ll have a small headache. Take a couple of Advil. Had to be done.”

My legs had already begun to feel heavy. The room started to swim.

“I’m really glad your lady friend isn’t here,” Maples said. His voice was very hollow. “I had a dart for her but I wouldn’t have liked using it.”

I stared at Vernon Maples, who slowly started to disappear down a long tunnel. I was having trouble keeping my head up. And I don't mean in polite society. Something was wrong with my neck. The last thing I heard him say was, “Just relax. It can’t be as bad as that fucking play.”

***

I woke up lying on the couch, with my head propped on two pillows. I sat up, and was rewarded with the promised headache. On the table next to the envelope with the money was a bottle of my Maker’s Mark bourbon and a fresh glass. Also a couple of Advil. Thoughtful. I poured myself a stiff drink and downed the pills. I’m pretty sure there is a warning on Advil boxes about doing that. When I stood up, I felt a small sting in my side where the dart had gone in. I wobbled out to the kitchen to throw some water on my face. The wine coaster Maples had used as an ashtray was in the sink rack, washed. The pizza wasn’t on the kitchen table. I looked in the fridge. The box was there. I opened it.

Three slices were missing. There was a note in the box.

“Outstanding. Now I know why you didn’t drop the box.”

CHAPTER 7 - CROSSROADS

I spent the next morning in my office on my computer and phone gathering every piece of information I could about the murder of John Panetta. I gave Abby, my office manager, the task of finding out if “Vernon Maples” was indeed “dead.”  Abby, born Habika Jones, was a former Army Military Police staff sergeant who was languishing as a security guard in my building before I realized that her talents were being wasted. She had already helped me solve several cases and was working toward her own private investigator’s license. She knew things that I didn’t. She even knew things that some good homicide cops and medical examiners missed. Like how far a body, depending on its weight, has to drop before a noose breaks the neck. That bit of arcane information proved that a client of mine was a murder victim and not a suicide, as everyone else, including me, surmised.

I also called Cormac Levine at the D.A.’s office and asked him if I could buy him lunch.

“I believe that’s what they call a rhetorical question,” Mac said. “Ruddy & Dean’s at 12:30.”

There was a lot of information, or at least coverage, about the murder. It had for a while been a national story, although naturally it made the biggest splash locally. By 11:30, I had printed perhaps two dozen articles from the Internet and built up quite a file on the dead man. He was, indeed a hero, and one of the last of the 248 Americans who were awarded the Medal of Honor for service in the Vietnam War. He was a Specialist 4th Class serving as a machine gunner with A Company in the 198th brigade, a unit of the 23rd (Americal) Division, during the battle of Kham Hoac in Quang Nai Province, when he won his medal during his second tour in the battle zone. I read the official Medal of Honor Citation:

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty on 14 July 1971. While serving as a machine gunner with Company A, Sp4c. Panetta accompanied his unit on a combat mission near Kham Hoac. Suddenly his company came under small arms, automatic weapons, mortar and rocket propelled grenade fire from a battalion-size enemy unit. With communication with his own battalion lost and many of his comrades wounded in the initial attack, Sp4c. Panetta observed that his outnumbered company was pinned down and disorganized. He immediately moved to the front with complete disregard for his safety, firing his machine gun at the charging enemy, giving the pinned-down Americans a chance to regroup and evacuate their wounded. Although seriously wounded in both legs, Sp4c. Panetta maintained a steady volume of fire, killing several enemy soldiers and blunting the North Vietnamese attack. When his own machine gun was disabled by incoming rounds, he crawled through a hail of enemy fire to an operable machine gun and resumed the defensive fire, giving his company commander time to move to a safer position from which to organize a counterattack. Sp4c. Panetta remained at his position until relief arrived. He was found unconscious, surrounded by enemy dead, after an artillery barrage beat back the North Vietnamese forces. Sp4c. Panetta’s gallantry and extraordinary heroism were in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflect great credit upon himself, his unit, and the U.S. Army.

Panetta’s obituaries naturally repeated the accounts of his valor. The local paper, the Staten Island Advance, noted that Panetta, who was born in 1949 in Pulaski, near Lake Ontario in upstate New York, had moved to the borough only 14 months ago, buying a run-down house in foreclosure. A carpenter by trade, he did much of the work to fix it up himself. Some of his neighbors were quoted as saying he lived a quiet life but was always willing to help out when they needed some carpentry work. He had one survivor, a first cousin named Victoria Gustafson, who came down from Pulaski to handle the funeral arrangements. Panetta was buried in Arlington National Cemetery, although there was a memorial service in Our Lady Help of Christians, a Catholic Church in Tottenville where Panetta attended mass. It brought out hundreds of neighbors, members of local veterans’ organizations and, of course, camera-ready politicians.

The obituaries and other stories were vague about what Panetta did after he left the Army and where he lived before moving to Staten Island. His cousin, Gustafson, was quoted saying that after leaving his home town Panetta “lived out west,” working in several states as an itinerant carpenter. “He never married. He traveled extensively at home and abroad, because I got postcards from all over. He came back home every few years and stayed with me in Pulaski for a short visit. Last time was about a year ago, just before he moved to Staten Island.”

There was no speculation as to why Panetta chose Staten Island as a place to “retire,” as the obits termed it. He apparently had no contacts in the borough, or even the city, prior to buying the house in Eltingville. I wondered about that. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had. If he moved here for a reason, maybe the reason got him killed. I would have Abby try to track Panetta’s whereabouts in the years before he moved to Staten Island, but my gut told me the answer to his murder was to be found in New York, either in Pulaski or Staten Island, or both.

I wasn’t too concerned with learning how he’d accumulated the money to buy a house and travel so much. I’d have Abby work on that, too. But I also knew that a single man with no dependents, a good carpenter, could accumulate a lot of money. Traveling would be no problem. One of the “perks” of winning the Medal of Honor includes free transportation on military aircraft and the use of military recreation facilities such as pools, bowling allies and golf courses worldwide. His retirement income, from Social Security, disability payments and the special Medal of Honor pension benefit, would be substantial. No American could begrudge such perks, which even included lifetime invitations to all presidential inaugurations and inauguration balls. Soldiers who hold off human wave attacks or throw themselves on grenades to save their comrades aren’t thinking about dancing at an inauguration ball, which is why almost 70 percent of all Medals of Honor are awarded posthumously.

After Panetta’s murder, the police, pressured by veterans’ organizations and always-patriotic politicians, had pulled out all the stops. As Mike Sullivan had intimated, the cops had drawn a blank and were going with the home-invasion story: Panetta’s death was a terrible tragedy, and just bad luck. Hopefully, some stolen items might turn up, or the killer would get careless and brag. I knew that neither of those things would happen. Word was leaked that the police suspected an African-American male. That didn’t go over well in certain parts of Staten Island. Doors were double-bolted. Bottom line: The cops were chasing a phantom.

A fact that was confirmed when Abby walked into my office.

“I called some old pals in the MP’s,” she said, sitting down across from me. “And they called some of their friends, or gave me the numbers to call. I checked some databases I have access to, and some I don’t. Your boy, Vernon Maples, went missing eight years ago and is presumed dead. In fact, he has been declared legally dead. His disability checks had been going to a nursing home in Sadieville, Kentucky, while his mother was alive.” Abby smiled. “And they kept going there for two years after she died. The asshole running the nursing home was still cashing them. Not just hers, either. A lot of other dead people’s. He’s doing five-to-ten in Federal prison for Social Security and Medicaid fraud.”

Abby picked up the plastic photo cube on my desk. She was constantly trying to spruce up my office and make it more “homey.” The cube was her idea. I had finally put some pictures in it. She twirled it around.

“Derek Jeter? Eli Manning? Mickey Mantle?” She looked at the last photo, then at me. “Secre-fuckin’-tariat?”

I’d cut out photos of Jeter, Manning and the greatest thoroughbred in history from magazines. The Mantle was a yellowed old baseball card I’d found in a box of old family memorabilia in my basement.

““I bought this so you could put family and personal photos in it,” Abby sniffed. “This is so tacky.”

I thought that was unkind. Jeter and Manning were terrific athletes and solid citizens. And while the Mick’s reputation as a person had suffered in recent years, my grandfather had regaled me with stories about how the great Yankee had blasted tape measure home runs while basically bandaged from head to toe. Most modern ballplayers — not Jeter, of course, — went on the disabled list with hangnails. And Secretariat won the Belmont by 31 lengths.

“I don’t have any family, any close family, still around,” I said. “Just some cousins, but I wouldn’t know where to get shots of them.”

“You don’t put cousins in a photo cube. And not a horse!”

“I have lots of photos of my parents at home,” I said defensively. “Grandparents, too. I don’t consider them cube material.”

“What about Alice?”

“I don’t have any pictures of her.”

“Get one, for God’s sake.”

In truth, I had been thinking of doing just that, even though I realized that putting a photo of your lover in your office was a sign of commitment.

“Maybe.”

“Just do it, boss. And when you put it in the cube, lose the nag. Alice might get the wrong impression.”

Abby put the cube down.

“So, what’s this Maples guy to you? If it’s a missing person’s case, I don’t like our chances. I know you think you can find a virgin in a whore house, but this guy ain’t gonna be found.”

“Vernon Maples was in my outfit in Afghanistan. He was also in my living room last night. He shot me with a tranquilizer dart and ate three slices of my Joe & Pat’s pizza.”

“No wonder you want to find him. Best pizza on Staten Island.”

Abby stared at me.

“You’re not joking, are you?”

I stood up and opened my shirt to show her the bruise where the dart went in.

“I’ll say one thing for you, boss. You’re never boring. What did he want?”

“If I tell you, you might be involved in a crime that could lose you that license you don’t even have yet. So, for now, I’m going to keep you in the dark.”

“I know what you’ve been downloading from the Internet, boss. I can put two and two together.”

“Conjecture isn’t knowledge, Abs. Let’s keep it that way.”

“The cops are looking for a black man. The one thing I know for sure about Vernon Maples is that he was white.”

“That bother you? The black man thing?”

“Only if they scapegoat a brother.”

“Not going to happen, Abs.”

“How can you be so sure?”

I gave her what I thought was my most enigmatic smile.

“Never mind,” she said.

***

Mac was already seated when I got to the restaurant. He was deep into a book and only looked up when I slid into our booth.

“More Civil War?”

He held up the book so I could see the title: Crossroads of Freedom: Antietam (Pivotal Moments in American History) by James M. McPherson. Mac’s enthusiasms were usually short-lived, but intense. Currently, he was devouring everything he could get his hands on about the Civil War.

“Did you know, Alton, that more Americans died at Antietam than died on D-Day at Normandy. About 6,000. Only about 2,500 at Normandy.”

“Double your pleasure, double your fun.”

“What does a Doublemint slogan have to do with anything?”

“In the Civil War, both sides were Americans. Tends to inflate the casualties.”

Cormac sighed.

“Even taking that into account,” he said, “The casualties were higher, considering the number of troops involved. It was a pivotal moment in American history. Dashed the South’s hope of British intervention because it allowed Lincoln to issue the Emancipation Proclamation. The Brits wanted to fight for cotton, but not for slavery.”

A waitress appeared propitiously and Mac ditched the Civil War, the prospect of food vanquishing both the Army of the Potomac and the Army of Northern Virginia. We ordered mugs of Lionshead Lager and cheeseburgers.

“You are looking particularly dapper, today, Mac.”

A big man, with big appetites and a waist to prove it, Mac had a full head of reddish gray hair, with long sideburns and a thick mustache that served mainly as a crumb catcher. He usually sported a mismatched jacket and trouser combination that was set off with a mismatched shirt and tie. It was his way of rebelling against Mike Sullivan’s edict that all his investigators wear a jacket and tie. But today he had on a brown suit, tan shirt and light blue tie. And the suit almost fit.

“I’m taking Irene to dinner in Manhattan after work,” he said. “It’s our anniversary.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “Lunch is on me.”

“Lunch was always on you. What’s up?”

I pointed at his book.

“I’m at a bit of a crossroads myself, Mac. I need some help.”

“Stop the presses!”

Our beers came. We clinked glasses and drank. Mac licked his lips in appreciation.

“This might call for another,” he said. “Lay it on me.”

“Technically, if I tell you what I’m about to tell you, I won’t be withholding evidence, since you’re a cop. But then I don’t want you to tell anyone.”

“You want me to withhold the evidence? That’s fucking beautiful.”

“You’re a cop. You can withhold evidence if divulging it would compromise an ongoing investigation. It happens all the time. I did it myself when I was a cop.”

“You still do it.”

“That’s what Vernon Maples said. Suggested I could use that fact on my business card.”

“Smart guy. Who is he?”

“In a minute. What I’m saying is that I can’t go to the cops with what I know, but I want one cop, that’s you, to know what I’m doing, in case I get my tit in a wringer.”

He took a large swig of his beer.

“You’re afraid we’ll fuck it up before you get a chance to fuck it up. That about it?”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

Mac and I went back a long way. He’s always felt indebted to me ever since I testified that the child molester and baby killer who fell from a high-rise balcony had been trying to escape from the both of us. I didn’t know what happened in the apartment, since I arrived moments later, and only heard the pervert scream on the way down. Plus the thud on the pavement, of course. More recently, we were also both parties to a cover up that saved the reputation of Mike Sullivan’s wife when she died. Both Mac and Mike have shown their gratitude in a number of ways, despite my best efforts to tell them they didn’t owe me anything. When you abuse people’s trust, you don’t have any. So I tried not to. And Mac knew it.

“OK. I’m listening.”

“Vernon Maples.”

“That name again.”

“He was in my house last night.”

“And?”

“He copped to killing John Panetta.”

Our cheeseburgers arrived. For the first time since I’d known him, Cormac Levine ignored his food.

CHAPTER 8 - UNION RULES

“I can’t sit on this forever, even for you, bubula.”

Mac had recovered sufficiently to finish his burger, and half of mine. But having heard my story, he wasn’t happy.

“I know. And I don’t want you to sit on it, personally. I need you to find out everything you can about Panetta from your end. But keep it under the radar. Then we can compare notes. He obviously did something to warrant a $20,000 contract on his life. I bet the cops who caught the case concentrated more on trying to find the killer than on Panetta’s background. To them it was a random act of violence. They didn’t have to dig up anything on an old war hero. But now we know it wasn’t random.”

“You think someone local ordered the hit?”

“I don’t know. Maples is from out of town, although that doesn’t prove anything. Panetta only moved here recently. He traveled a lot. Maybe someone tracked him down. But my gut tells me there was a reason he decided to move here.”

“Maybe he got in too deep with the shylocks.”

“You know any shylocks who will lay out 20 grand to hire an out-of-town hit man? Maples is no off-the-shelf gunny. He’s a pro’s pro. Whoever ordered the hit wanted the very best. And there’s something else. He was specifically told to make it look like a robbery gone bad. Nobody was looking to make a point or an example out of Panetta. They just wanted him dead. And they would have gotten away with it, except they used the wrong assassin.”

“Well, let’s say it is local, which at least gives us a working hypothesis.”

“Working hypothesis? You been talking to Alice?”

“Nah. Had to attend a seminar at One Police Plaza. Some crap the Commissioner set up. Anyway, if it’s local, we have to ask ourselves what’s so big that it justifies spending 20 grand to kill someone.”

I thought about that for a moment. Mac didn’t mind the pause. He nodded at my mostly untouched fries. I slid them across.

“The obvious thing is this big project in St. George,” I said. “We’re talking billions. But it’s hard to see how Panetta would be a threat to that. Everybody seems to be in favor of it. It has bipartisan support. The mayor and City Council wants it. Blovardi wants it. Both Yorke and the guy he’s running against, Mauriello, support it. Business and the unions are salivating about it, though a big sticking point is how much work will go to union labor. But they’ll work something out. Too many jobs are at stake.”

Mac pointed a French fry at me.

“Even the crazy liberal city councilwoman and her tree-hugger friends are for the plan,” he said. “Hell, the developers are throwing around so much money they don’t have to kill anyone. They could just buy them. I’ll sniff around, but it has to be something else. Maybe something in Panetta’s past.”

The waitress came back and we ordered coffee. Mac wanted to try the apple pie. It seemed like a good idea. I held up two fingers.

“You know I have to make my own run at Maples,” he said. “I can call in some favors with the Bureau. Maybe they can get a line on him.”

“Sure. I’ll even give you a description. But you’ll be spinning your wheels. Even if by some miracle you located him, it would be my word against his. I bet we couldn’t even prove he was ever on Staten Island, either for the murder or to eat my pizza.”

“Do you want to see the case file on the murder?”

I considered that.

“Is there anything in it that hasn’t been in the papers, or contradicts anything I just told you?”

“No.”

“Then what would be the point? Basically, we’re starting our own investigation, from scratch. With only one lead. The victim. Panetta. I’m going to talk to his neighbors and friends, if I can find any. He must have some old Army buddies. Find out where he lived before he came here. If you do the same, and sniff locally for anyone who might have wanted him dead, we may be able to shake something loose. How long do we have before you have to do your civic duty and report what Maples told me.”

“A week. Maybe two.”

“I appreciate this, Mac. I know you’re sticking your neck out.”

“Not the first time we’ve done it. In fact, it’s become a habit, for both of us. But let me ask you. Why do you want to be involved, Alt? I know it’s not for the money. You didn’t even want it.”

I thought about that long and hard before answering.

“Because one of my men asked me to.”

“Maples is a stone killer.”

“Probably always was, even when he was killing for me in the war. But he’s not as bad as the people who had him kill a Medal of Honor winner. And he wanted me to know that.”

***

After Mac went back to the D.A.’s office, I made a call and then drove to Silicone Valley, the local name for a two-block stretch in South Beach where most of Staten Island’s lap dance lounges are located and where natural breasts are rarer than parking spots on Saturday night. But it was a bit early for the groin-grinding crowd, so I was able to pull up right in front of Deep Gulag, the “gentleman’s club” owned and operated by the Rahm crime family. Say what you will for the Rahms, they have a sense of humor.

I nodded at the bouncer inside the vestibule.

“How’s it going Tony? Arman is expecting me.”

“Couldn’t be better, Mr. Rhode. Kind of quiet. Mr. Rahm is waiting for you in the back.”

Tony was 250 pounds of prime Italian-American beef. Formerly employed by the now-almost-defunct Carlucci family, he had found a home with the Russian mob, which has always been broad minded when it came to hiring good help. When business picked up later that night, there would be a couple of other Tonys or Ivans working the door.

I walked past the large oval bar where one bartender served about a dozen men who were drinking and occasionally glancing at three knockout women in high heels wearing purple G-strings dancing topless around poles. The girls were all young and fresh-faced. Arman Rahm told me that half of his pole and lap dancers were college students, or young professionals moonlighting. The Rahms let their girls keep more of their tips than the other tittie joints on Staten Island.

“Tuition is a killer, nowadays,” he said. “Besides, I get the best dancers that way.”

Of the six breasts currently on display, two looked natural. One of the surgically enhanced girls came down off the stage and started walking along the line of drinkers at the bar. Most of them casually pushed bills down her G-string. One man, however, held up his bill and the girl leaned forward and pressed her breasts together with her hands, capturing it. The man took the opportunity to lean in and bite one of her nipples.

“Ow!”

“Hey, no touching the dancers,” a bartender said. “If you want something more you have to pay for a lap dance in the lounge.”

“Who says?”

“I say.”

“Cut me a fucking break,” the guy said, obviously drunk. “Whaddya mean, no touching? They let us put bills down their snatch.”

Two men on either side of him laughed. There was only one pile of money on the bar in front of them so I figured they were together.

I was right behind the jerk when he lipped the bartender. He started to sit back down on his stool and I hooked a foot under it and slid it away. He fell on his ass, hard, and started cursing.

“What the fuck you do that for?” he said as his buddies helped him to his feet.

“Don’t touch the girls,” I said. It could have gone either way, so I added, “Don’t make a mistake here, boys.”

“Who the fuck are you,” one of the others said.

“Shop Steward of the Mammary Workers Union. Local 69. You want to touch, go to the lounge. That’s controlled by the Groin Grinders Union. They have a different set of workplace rules.”

They were all plastered and sat down.

“Sorry,” the third man mumbled. “We didn’t know.”

I motioned the bartender to meet me at the end of the bar. As I walked away I heard one of the men say, “Goddamn unions.”

“What will you have?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m here to meet Rahm.” I pulled out some cash and handed it to him. “Take a ten and split the rest with the girls.”

“Groin Grinders Union. I love it.”

Arman was in his office talking to a woman who was wearing all her clothes. I stood at the open door until he saw me. He waved me in.

“Alton, how nice to see you. This is Veronica.”

No last names. The blond woman who looked up at me with icy detachment was very beautiful. She reminded me a bit of Cameron Diaz. Her hand was cool when I shook it, her eyes cold.

“We can pick this up later, Ronnie,” Arman said. “But I think we are in agreement.”

She stood without a word and left. The room suddenly felt warmer.

“Jesus,” I said, taking a seat.

“Yes. She’s something, isn’t she?”

“An ice princess.”

“Alton, I’m told that she has the sexual appetite of a lioness in heat.”

“You’re told?”

Rahm laughed.

“I try not to mix business with pleasure. She works for me. That’s all. But enough about Veronica, what can I do for you? You sounded so mysterious over the phone.”

“That’s how everyone who calls you has to sound. You probably have more taps than a German brauhaus.” I looked around his office. “I presume it’s safe to talk in here.”

He gave me a condescending look.

“Swept daily.’

Arman’s father, Marat, the titular head of the family, had once been a top agent in the KGB before moving to the United States. What the Rahms didn’t know about surveillance hadn’t been discovered yet. Arman’s cell phone rang. Or, rather, it started playing “Lara’s Theme” from Doctor Zhivago. He picked it up and began speaking in Russian. I could tell from his body language and deferential tone who the caller was. I got up to leave, but he waved me back down to my seat. Arman mentioned my name, listened and then laughed.

“How is he?” I asked when he completed the call.

Marat was battling prostate cancer and had ceded much of the power and operational responsibilities of the family to Arman shortly after the murder of his eldest son, Stefan.

“He is tough,” Arman said affectionately. “He sends his regards. He wanted to know what kind of trouble you were in now.”

Maks Kalugin came into the office, threw his pea coat on a nearby couch and sat down next to me. The Rahm’s family assassin, a Russian Luca Brasi, he was built like a small refrigerator, with a mashed nose, cauliflower ears and the weathered visage of a Cossack. We had come a long way since our first meeting. The fact that he now sat and didn’t hover to the side staring at me like I was road kill was a testament to our grudging respect for each other. In fact, Maks had saved my life a couple of times, even taking a bullet for me and, in an action that embarrassed us both, gave me mouth-to-mouth. Alice thought he was adorable, and he was like putty in her hands.

“It’s all taken care of,” Maks said. “But we need a new maintenance man.”

Rahm looked at me.

“We had a little problem at one of our nursing homes,” he explained. “The previous owner let things go. A disgrace. Now this.”

The Rahms had recently branched into various medical enterprises, partly because in one of my prior cases I strong-armed them into taking care of the occupant of a nursing home who had no one else looking out for her. Since they basically were the reason she had no one, and since they owed me big-time, they did the right thing. Then they found out there was legitimate money to be made in nursing homes and medical clinics, so everyone was happy.

“What happened?”

“I kept on the maintenance guy who convinced me he was never given enough money to keep the place up. There were leaks everywhere. I did a walk-through of the entire building. The floor in the lobby is rotted out. You can hear it creak when you walk across it. Place was inspected and always passed. Someone was on the take. And they call me a crook! I told the maintenance man to spend what he needed to fix the place up. Next thing I know one of the nurses finds the pervert masturbating at the foot of some 90-year-old woman’s bed!”

“Jesus. Did you call the cops?”

Arman stared at me.

“Sorry,” I said.

“I called Maks.”

“Hard jerking off with no fingers,” Kalugin said.

“So,” Arman said, “enough of that. What do you need, Alton?”

I decided to level with the both of them. I knew the Rahms didn’t have anything to do with Panetta’s death. They never brought in outside help. When you have a Maks Kalugin, there is no need to farm out assassinations. And they don’t use misdirection. When they kill someone, it’s to make a statement. But they might have heard something. I told them about Maples and what Cormac Levine and I were doing. When I finished, Rahm looked at Kalugin.

“What do you think?”

“I’ve heard nothing,” Maks said. “But I, too, think it is local. And big. That’s why they brought in someone from the outside. I will ask around. I personally would like to find out who did it.”

I looked at him. His expression hadn’t changed, but I could tell he was angry. He had been a soldier much of his life. He didn’t like what happened to Panetta.

“I wouldn’t dismiss a connection to the St. George project out of hand,” Rahm said. “That’s the only thing I can think of worth killing someone over. But even that is a stretch. Everyone wants it. I half expect the Pope to endorse it soon.”

“Where do you stand on it?”

Rahm smiled.

“A lot of money will be flowing into Staten Island. I am in favor of that.”

“I bet you are. What about the unions? They could throw a monkey wrench into the deal.”

Another smile.

“They won’t.”

Maks walked me out to my car.

“It’s local,” he repeated.

CHAPTER 9 - FLOOZY

There was a squad car waiting for me outside Panetta’s small two-story colonial on Winchester Avenue, a quiet tree-lined street a few blocks from the Eltingville train station. As I pulled up behind it, two cops got out. So did I. The cop who got out the passenger side, a beefy African-American, wore sergeant stripes and a scowl. He walked over to me while his partner leaned against the prowlie.

“You Rhode?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t ask, but I took out my I.D. anyway. “Appreciate you taking the time, Sarge.”

He barely glanced at my I.D.

“Captain says you can look around, as long as one of us is with you.”

Cormac, who used to work in Boro Command in the New Dorp Precinct, had called in a favor.

“You guys in the 122?” I asked, using the numerical I.D. for the New Dorp house.

“Nah,” the cop said. “We’re from the 123.”

“You guys had your hands full after Sandy. Did a great job.”

The Tottenville Precinct was normally quietest in the city, crime-wise, with about one murder every Ice Age. But the superstorm had ravaged the community, particularly along the shoreline, and the cops worked round the clock to help residents.

“Never seen anything like it,” he said, softening a bit. He waved over to his partner. “Hey, Tommie, take him through the house.”

I followed the other cop up the walk, past a “FOR SALE” sign on the lawn. I memorized the realtor’s name. My escort unlocked the front door.

“Hey, Tommy,” the black cop called after us. “Make sure you count the silverware on the way out.”

“Don’t tell me you guys left something?” I yelled back.

Both cops laughed.

I didn’t expect to learn much, if anything, in Panetta’s home. Vernon Maples had left only what he wanted the homicide detectives to find. I was sure they had removed whatever else they thought relevant. None of which, I knew, was. It’s why I hadn’t bothered with the police file. But I make it a point, whenever possible, to visit crime scenes. I can’t explain why. It just seems the right thing to do. Even when you know who the killer is.

Maples told me he slugged Panetta right after the door was opened. Then he dragged him over to a table in the living room, where he used the cord from a lamp to strangle him. I quickly found the table, which Maples had described to me. The lamp was gone, undoubtedly taken as evidence. That didn’t help the decor. The place was sparsely furnished. But everything appeared spotless and the place smelled of fresh paint and shaved wood. The dining room had a small wooden table and four chairs. There was a sideboard under two windows that looked out over the back yard.

“Early-American Goodwill,” the cop muttered. “I read that the guy was a carpenter. “Probably bought the place to fix it up and flip it.”

“Maybe,” I said.

The family room had a lounge chair, a small couch, a pedestal table with a lamp and a 19-inch TV on a metal stand. There was a fold-up aluminum table in the kitchen and a few wooden chairs.

We went upstairs. Two of the three bedrooms were empty. The third had only a bed and a chest of drawers. I opened the drawers. They were empty.

***

After my brief tour, the cops left me standing on the sidewalk next to my car. I started going house-to-house on the block. A lot of people weren’t home, and those that were didn’t know much about their dead neighbor, other than that he was friendly.

“He didn’t live here long,” one woman from across the street told me, “and he kept to himself. None of us knew his war record until we read about it in the papers. But if you needed a favor or something, he was always available. Fixed the stairs on my deck in the back yard. Wouldn’t take a dime, even for materials. Maybe you should talk to Mailers, next door to him.” She pointed at the house. “I know he was close with Henry.” She smiled. “And Ethel knows everything that goes on around here.”

I had already tried the Mailer house. No one had been home. But by the time I had rung every other doorbell on both sides of the block, there was a car in their driveway.

Henry Mailer answered the door and invited me in after I explained who I was.

“Me and John were good pals,” he said as we took seats at his dining room table. “He helped me repair the fence between our yards.”

“Did he ever talk about his past?”

“Only in generalities. Nothing about the war. But I guess that’s not unusual. A lot of guys don’t like to talk about what happened to them.”

“What about his life after Vietnam?”

“I’ve been up to the Salmon River near where he told me he was born. Know the area. We swapped lies about the fish we caught. He told me he moved around a lot after he left upstate, mostly going to communities that were being developed. Del Webb in Palm Springs was one he mentioned. Said there was always work for a good carpenter. He was marvelous with his hands. I think he made a lot of money in Louisiana after Katrina. Volunteered in Haiti. He was a good man. I’m gonna miss him.”

“He talk about anything else? Family?”

“Said he had a cousin up in Pulaski he visited occasionally. I think I saw her once, outside the house with the realtor she gave the listing to.”

“What else?”

“Well, we discussed sports and politics over a beer or two. He did seem real interested in local politics. But was very cynical. Said they were all thieves, out to rape Staten Island. Wasn’t going to get any argument from me on that, I’ll tell you. I was a little surprised he was so passionate on the subject, him being so new to the borough and all.”

“What about friends? I mean, other than you.”

Mailer perked up.

“You mean a woman? Yeah. He had a real nice girlfriend.”

A woman wearing a shapeless black house dress came into the room.

“That’s a matter of opinion! Who is this man, Henry?”

“Mr. Rhode is a private detective, Ethel. He’s looking into John’s murder.”

I stood and offered my hand, which she took, reluctantly.

“Why is a private investigator interested in what happened next door?” She sat, and so did I. “Some Negro did it. It’s getting so nobody is safe anymore, even in their own home.”

It had been a while since I’d heard the term “Negro,” but I suspected from her tone that it could have been worse.

“There are insurance considerations,” I lied. “I’m just gathering background information on the deceased.”

Ethel Mailer was the opposite of her husband. Where he was round and jolly-looking, she was thin to the point of gauntness and with her narrow face and hook nose bore a striking resemblance to Margaret Hamilton, who played Almira Gulch in The Wizard of Oz.

“Well, I can give you an earful,” she said. “Henry, didn’t you offer the man any coffee? Where are your manners?”

I could tell she wasn’t being gracious. She just wanted to embarrass her husband.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Nonsense. I’ll be right back.”

She headed to the kitchen. I heard her at the sink. She was back quickly, with a tray with three mugs and a container of skim milk. There was a pile of artificial sweetener packets on the tray.

“It’s instant coffee,” she said. “Only kind we drink.”

I took a sip. I wondered how it was possible to make lukewarm instant coffee. I hadn't heard a kettle boiling or a microwave. I suspected she used hot water from the tap.

“Don’t you want milk?” she asked.

“This is great,” I said. “So, what can you tell me about John Panetta?”

“He was a whore-monger,” Ethel said.

I damn near dropped my cup.

“Ethel, that’s not right,” her husband said. “That’s no way to talk about a war hero. John was a friend.’

She waved away his objection and looked at me.

“Oh, I know about his medals and all. I’m not saying he didn’t have some good points. And I certainly don’t mean he deserved to be murdered by some no-account Negro. But I never liked the way he flaunted that floozy he was seeing.”

“Floozy?”

“Well, what else can you call a woman like that who gives it away?”

“A home run,” Henry said under his breath.

Not far enough under his breath.

“Oh, for Christ sake, Henry, act your age. That old fart should have, too. It was unseemly, him and a younger woman.” She gave me a knowing look. “Some men get a whiff of it and can’t control themselves.”

I was pretty sure any man who got a whiff of Ethel Mailer was able to control himself.

“Jesus, Ethel,” Henry said, “She isn’t that young.”

“Young enough that you never could keep her eyes off her ass.” She turned back to me. “It drove him crazy that Panetta had a woman like that sleeping over.”

“What are you talking about? I’m five years younger than John was. Joan Tolentine is a nice lady. I met her a couple of times. Very refined and pleasant. I think you do her an injustice labeling her like that. I believe they really cared for each other.”

Ethel wasn’t buying it. I doubted she bought anything poor Henry said.

“She struck me as shifty. After something.”

“For God’s sake, Ethel, you only met her once.”

“That’s all it takes sometimes. And if they really cared for each other that much, why didn’t they get married?” She looked at me. “What do you think?”

“At least a triple,” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind. How often did she stay with him?”

“Only on weekends,” Henry said. “They didn’t bother anyone. They’re both adults, for God’s sake. I was happy for John. Man like that deserves some happiness.”

“God was watching,” his wife said. “Might explain what happened to him.”

“Ethel!”

“I’m just saying. More coffee, Mr. Rose?”

“It’s Rhode. And no thank you.” I turned to Henry. “Did you ever speak to Panetta’s cousin when she was here with the realtor?”

“No. Just saw her through the window.”

“Not a very attractive woman,” Ethel said. I bit my tongue. “Wears her hair too long for someone her age.”

“I didn’t think she was so bad, Ethel.”

His wife gave him a withering look.

“I just hope and pray she doesn’t sell the place to some Negro or wetback.”

I must have stepped through a time warp. I took a deep breath.

“Do either of you know where I might find Ms. Tolentine?”

“She runs a Pilates school in Grant City,” Henry said, and immediately realized his mistake.

“How do you know that, Henry?” his wife barked.

“She told me,” he said meekly. “I pass her studio all the time. On Hylan Boulevard near Seaview. By the hospital. Tolentine Pilates.”

Ethel looked like she was about to go full yoga on poor Henry, so I got up to leave.

“Well, thanks for the coffee. You’ve been very helpful.” I gave Henry my card. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”

Ethel snatched the card from his hand.

“Why don’t you walk the man to the door, Henry, while I clean up? Then we have shopping to do. And don’t forget we have to go over to mother’s for dinner.”

At the door, Henry grabbed my elbow.

“I really liked John,” he said. “We could talk, you know. Ethel and me never had any kids, and neither did he, so we had that in common. Other stuff, too. He didn’t have much family, and never mentioned any old friends or anything. Guess he lost touch the way he traveled so much. Me, I used to have lots of pals when I ran around here in my younger days. Gals, too.” He gave me a man-to-man wink. “But a lot of my buddies moved to Jersey. I tried to stay in touch. But they all have grandkids and such. I got tired of being the only one making the phone calls. John and me really hit it off. It’s like we knew each other all our lives. Not the same as childhood buddies, but damn close. Ethel didn’t get it.”

We shook and I started walking away. Then, I turned.

“Pilates instructor?”

Henry Mailer smiled.

“Home run,” we said in unison.

CHAPTER - 10 PILATES

It was easy to find Tolentine Pilates. It was also easy to understand why Panetta’s henpecked neighbor drooled over its owner. Joan Tolentine was a lean, attractive woman with a ready smile and a firm handshake.

“I’ll be with you in a minute, Mr. Rhode,” she said after I told her who I was and what I wanted. “Let me just make sure everyone knows what they are doing and then we can go into my office.”

She went over to an assistant and they both made the rounds, stopping to talk to each of the half dozen or so men and women who were working out on a variety of machines, some of which looked like they would have come in handy for Torquemada during the Inquisition. Nearest to me was a chrome-plated, trapeze-like frame with cross-bars. There were several barrel-shaped contraptions connected to ladders and something with leather straps, springs and handles. All had sliding platforms. But no one was screaming and admitting they were heretics. In fact, they all looked like they were enjoying themselves.

I studied a chart on the wall next to a Culligan water dispenser. The chart explained how the machines, and the exercises they promoted, helped “students” build flexibility, muscle strength and endurance in their “Powerhouse, the center, or core, of the body that, if strengthened, offers a solid foundation for any movement.” The core was described as the “power engine, a muscular network which provides control over the body and comprises all the front, lateral and back muscles found between the upper inner thighs and arm pits.”

I was fascinated. I had known men whose arm pits could stop an enraged water buffalo, but not because of musculature. I read on.

“By drawing the navel back into the spine, from the pubic bone to the breast bone, the Powerhouse engages the heels, the back of the inner thighs, the deep, lower-back muscles, and the muscles surrounding the sitting bones and coccyx area without student holdings their breath, stretching the body in many directions to reduce weight in the upper body and place the center of gravity again at its most efficient position.”

An attractive young woman in her twenties walked over to the water dispenser and filled a paper cup. As a kid I was fascinated by the big bubble made inside the big plastic container when cups were filled. I still like the sound.

“Looks like a good workout,” I said, just to be sociable. I’m often more sociable to young women who looked like they were poured into tank tops and leggings. “Is it?”

“It’s a bitch,” she said. “I wouldn’t be doing it if I wasn’t getting married in two weeks. I have a wedding dress to fit into.”

“Congratulations.”

She thanked me and walked away. I tried not to stare at her rear end. Almost succeeded.

“Have you ever tried Pilates?”

Joan Tolentine was standing at my side.

“No. But it sounds interesting.” I pointed at the chart.  “I feel out of shape just reading this stuff.”

She laughed.

“You don’t look out of shape to me. Come into my office.”

She shut the door, which reduced the sounds of clanking and sliding from the gym area, and offered me some Chai tea. I declined.

The office was spare, with a simple metal desk, a few chairs and some metal filing cabinets. The walls were adorned with diplomas and photos of people working out on some of the machines I’d seen in the gym. On her desk was a framed photo John Panetta, who I recognized from the news stories I’d read.

“Looks like business is good,” I said, as we sat.

“Yes. This is a good spot, so near Staten Island University Hospital. We get a lot of referrals from doctors.” She smiled. “In fact, we get a lot of doctors.”

Joan Tolentine looked to be about 50. But it was a Sandra Bullock 50, which meant that her tank top and tight workout pants looked very good on her. Not as good as the girl at the water cooler, but John Panetta had done all right. I’d have bet her hair came out of a bottle, but the rest of her appeared home-grown and she had the skin tone and clear eyes of a much-younger woman. Perhaps there was something to the Pilates palaver. Suddenly conscious of my core, I tightened my stomach.

“I suppose I should ask for some sort of identification.”

I took out my wallet and showed her my license.

“This says you are a private investigator. Is that the same as a private detective?”

“In reality, yes. But, legally, only police officers are allowed to use the term detective in New York. I used to be a cop, so sometimes even I get confused.”

I didn’t bother to mention that I also had a quasi-official status with the N.Y.P.D. Mike Sullivan had pulled some strings for me and made me a consultant to his office, as a way of thanking me for what I did for him when his wife died. It wasn’t necessary, but the perk came in handy, especially when traveling with a weapon. I tried not to abuse my status in the legal netherworld between private eye and police consultant unless absolutely necessary. Which meant all the time.

“Well, whatever the terminology, why are you interested in what happened to John?”

I hesitated. It’s one thing to lie to a neighbor, especially one with a nosy wife who would spread the truth all over the Western Hemisphere. But quite another to mislead a woman who may have been in love with Panetta. I opted for a version of the truth.

“There are some inconsistencies in the evidence the police recovered in his house.”

“What kind of inconsistencies?”

“I’m afraid I can’t go into that. Let’s just say that there may be a chance the attack wasn’t a random break-in. More than that, I can’t say.”

Joan Tolentine was nobody’s fool. She gave me an appraising look.

“And why, Mr. Rhode, are you involved?”

“Again, I can’t say. But certainly there can’t be any harm in talking to me.” I gave her my most winsome smile. “I promise to keep anything you tell me in confidence.”

It’s a promise I’m usually able to keep.

She seemed satisfied.

“Well, what do you want to know?”

“Were you interviewed by the police?”

“Yes. Of course. Briefly. They mainly wanted to know if I had seen anyone or anything suspicious when I was with John. I told them I hadn’t.”

I was sure the interview had been pro forma. While everyone who knew Panetta would initially be considered a suspect, it was likely that the police doubted that a woman, even a strong Pilates instructor, could break a man’s jaw and then strangle him with an electrical cord. Most women would just shoot a lover, if it came to that. And Vernon Maples had done his job well. Once the D.N.A. evidence pointed toward an unknown black man, the cops would have drawn an obvious conclusion.

“The police knew you occasionally stayed the weekend at his house?”

I thought she might get angry, but, instead, she laughed.

“Of course. I think Ethel, the witch next door, put in on the Internet. I don’t know why the police even bothered to ask me what I’d seen. They should have just interviewed Ethel. You couldn’t fart on that block without her knowing about it.”

I laughed.

“If it’s any consolation,” I said, “Her husband thought you were the cat’s meow.”

“Henry was a sweetheart.”

“How did you meet Panetta?”

“At Trader Joe’s, the food market. I shop there all the time. Their products are so much healthier than a regular supermarket. John was on one of his health kicks, which never lasted that long.” She laughed. “But this one lasted long enough for me to see him in the store a few times. We’d get to talking. I told him what I did and he showed up here and said he wanted to take some classes. Later, he admitted he just wanted to see me. He was new in town and lonely. I was recently divorced. We’d go for coffee. He was a good bit older than me, so I wasn’t particularly interested in a relationship. But I checked him out on the Internet. Can’t be too careful, nowadays. And when I found out about his war record, well, he was a real hero, so I started looking at him differently. We started dating and one thing led to another.” She laughed. “He was a funny guy. Said if we hadn’t taken up with each other he didn’t know what he’d do. The Pilates was killing him.”

“Did he talk about the war?”

“He never mentioned it when I first met him, can you imagine? Even after we started dating, he didn’t like to talk about it. Asked me not to tell anyone about his decorations.”

“Did he ever talk about his life before or after Vietnam?”

“A little. I know he came from upstate and after the Army he bounced around a lot. He even wanted to know if I wanted to go with him when he made his next visit to see his cousin. She still lives in the town he was born. I met her at the funeral in D.C. John was buried in Arlington, you know. It’s strange. We had only gone down there a few weeks earlier. He wanted to visit the Vietnam memorial. It was very emotional for him, looking at the names of some of his friends on the Wall. And we went to Arlington, to see JFK’s grave. And now John’s buried there, too.”

Joan Tolentine’s voice broke and her eyes welled up.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Joan. And I’m sorry if my questions have dredged up painful memories.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” There was a box of tissues on the cabinet behind her desk. She took one and blew her nose. “The memories aren’t painful. They are good memories. I only wish I’d had more time to make more with him. And thank you for saying that. To most people I’m just the girlfriend. They don’t really understand that two people who are older can become very fond of each other.”

“Did John tell you why he moved to Staten Island?”

“Because it was close to Manhattan and affordable. He liked the idea of being in a big city. He said he was going to rent at first but when he found the house in Eltingville he knew he could fix it up himself and resell it.”

“Who did the two of you socialize with?’

She laughed.

“Each other. I tried to get John to meet some of my friends, but he always found an excuse. We went to movies, out to dinner, occasionally went into Manhattan for a show.”

“What about his politics? Henry Mailer said he could get pretty worked up about that.”

She shook her head.

“John never talked politics with me. If I had to guess I’d bet Henry did most of the talking. With that wife of his he probably couldn’t get a word in edgewise half the time. John was probably his only outlet.”

“Did he ever speak of anyone who might have it in for him? Did he mention any problems at all? Money? Business? Anything?”

Joan Tolentine shook her head.

“No. Do you really think someone besides a burglar killed John?”

“I don’t think anything, Joan,” I lied. “That’s still the most reasonable explanation. I’m just covering all the bases.”

I got up to leave.

“You have my card. If you think of anything, anything at all, please call me.”

“Of course.” Her eyes welled up. “I wish John had stuck with the Pilates. He wasn’t in the greatest of shape. Maybe he could have fought off whoever attacked him.”

I didn’t want to tell her that he could have looked like Vin Diesel and it wouldn’t have made a difference to a pro like Vernon Maples.

John Panetta was a dead man when he opened his front door.

CHAPTER 11 - THE VILLAGE

The next morning I loaded up my car with Alice’s “stuff.” Al Lambert, my vehicle maven, had recently talked me into ditching my old car and buying a three-year-old Hyundai Santa Fe from his used-car dealership. It was a prescient purchase. Alice hadn’t lived with me all that long while waiting for her Greenwich Village subletters to finish their lease, but I had to fold up the rear seats in the SUV to fit everything she wanted to move back to her apartment. It always amazed me how much clothing and accessories a woman, even one as organized as Alice, could accumulate. One box contained nothing but pocketbooks; another, shoes. I was meeting her for lunch at Knickerbockers on University Place at noon and had some time to kill. I threw an overnight bag on the seat next to me and drove up to Wagner College on Grymes Hill for a long-overdue workout.

I have a parking spot and a locker at the Wagner athletic complex. Two of my best friends, Dom DeRenzi, the Athletic Director, and Dave Clapper, the Chief of Staff to Spencer Bradley, the school President, basically run the show on Grymes Hill. I’ve done a few favors for Bradley, as well, and he approved my lifetime membership to all the school facilities, on the assumption, he said, that given my capacity for getting into trouble, it wouldn’t last very long. I think he was kidding.

I stopped by to say hello to Dom in his office, and told him I’d come by again when I finished my routine. I changed into running clothes in the locker room. I briefly debated leaving my workout gun, a small .25-caliber Beretta, in the locker. I had crafted a small belt/holster combination that ran around my waist but sometimes it rubs against my abdomen and chafes. But I’d rather be rubbed the wrong way than rubbed out, so I finally decided to take it. I left the gym and headed out to Howard Avenue. I ran a half mile to a road whose name I never knew but which was universally known as “Snake Hill,” because it meandered almost vertically down Grymes Hill to Targee Street for another mile. I was smiling at a memory when I began my descent. Porgie Carmichael, then working for the Carlucci crime family, had once tried to tail me in his wife’s Volvo down Snake Hill. It didn’t work out too well for the Volvo, or Porgie’s relationship with his wife. Funny thing was, I eventually helped poor Porgie patch things up (Volvo and wife) and we became pretty good friends.

By the time I got to the bottom of the hill this time, I was no longer smiling. My thighs were on fire and I was cursing myself. If a cab had come along I would have flagged it down. But I kept running. At least it was flat going for another mile, although I was already dreading the run up Hillside Avenue back up to Wagner. I made the turn up Hillside by a halfway house that in a previous incarnation had been a bucket-of-blood bar called the Clover Club, which in its heyday did its best to fill up halfway houses. Another mile up Hillside, with a pitch only slightly less brutal than Snake Hill. It was warm and I was sweating bullets. Speaking of which, the Beretta was wearing a hole in my stomach. I slid it around to my back, resisting the temptation to take the gun out and shoot myself. By the time I made it back to the gym I was thoroughly whipped. I leaned up against the building trying to catch my breath, hoping that some comely coeds would pass by and admire my fortitude. Except the school was between semesters and some men tending the lawn and foliage were the only ones witnessing my agony. They looked at me like I was nuts and I wouldn’t have argued with them. Then some post-running endorphins kicked in and I started feeling pretty good about what I’d just accomplished. Next time, I vowed, I’d reverse the course and run up Snake Hill! But perhaps I should write a will first.

I went into the gym and did an hour on the weight machines, concentrating on my upper body. I knew my legs couldn’t take much more abuse. Then I went to Dom’s office. He was sitting at his desk reading the newspaper. I grabbed a towel off a rack.

“Jesus, Alton, you look like you just finished the Bataan Death March.” He reached into the small fridge behind him and threw me a bottle of water. Then he put a bottle of Sam Adams Light beer on his desk. “Hydration is important.”

I inhaled the water and then started on the beer.

“Oh, fuck it,” he said. “A man can’t drink alone.”

He grabbed a beer for himself and we shot the breeze for a half hour. He told me about a sexual “sandwich” he’d recently had with two women of his acquaintance.

“I was the lunch meat,” he said happily.

“Aren’t you getting a little old for that kind of thing, Dom?”

“I’ll know when I’m too old.”

The college athletic complex had an Olympic-quality pool and after leaving Dom’s office and taking a shower I decided to go for a swim. That’s where I’d met Alice, who in addition to being a philosophy professor, coached the women’s swim team. She was originally from Mission Viejo, California, and had been a scholarship swimmer at UCLA. I was still rehabbing from some recently acquired war wounds and she was huddled with a group of sinewy college kids in clinging racing suits. But even with all the distractions of the nubile young flesh, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. I noticed her legs; she noticed my bullet holes. At first, our relationship, complicated by the fact she was involved with a Wagner professor, hit a few snags. Fortunately for me, the professor turned out to be criminally involved in a case I was working on that had the potential to embarrass the school. He was going down anyway, but I took great pleasure in running him out of town on a rail. After that, I pursued Alice like a shark after a sea lion, and she slowed down enough for her to catch me. My bullet holes are filling in, but she still has the legs.

I did 30 laps, leisurely, took another shower, and headed into Manhattan.

***

I beat Alice to Knickerbocker’s and ordered a beer at the bar, after receiving assurances I’d get a table when I wanted it. I loved the place. The bar was small and homey and there was always someone interesting to talk to, usually a writer on the way up or down the publishing food chain. The restaurant was clubby and served everything from meatloaf to things I couldn’t pronounce. I once sat in a booth next to Susan Sarandon, who was having lunch with a handsome young man who looked young enough to be her son. I saw their picture in the papers a while later. It was her son. That made me happy.

Alice walked in and came over to the bar. A few men sitting at nearby tables glanced at her as she passed. She gave me a peck on the cheek and I asked her if she wanted a drink before lunch.

“No. I may have a glass of wine at the table, but we have too much work to do this afternoon.”

I caught the “we.” My worst fears were confirmed when she added, “And I wouldn’t mind if you behaved yourself, drink-wise.”

I paid my bar tab and we followed a waiter to our table. Alice ordered a chardonnay; I stuck with beer. Figuring I would need all my strength for whatever domestic horrors Alice had planned for me at her apartment, I decided to go with the Black Angus meatloaf. Alice opted for the Chicken Paillard. We clinked glasses and she asked what was new on Staten Island. I told her. When I finished, she asked for another glass of wine.

“I guess I don’t have to behave myself,” I said.

“I can’t believe that after you dropped me at the ferry you went home and a hired killer was waiting for you.”

“Well, on the plus side, he wasn’t waiting to kill me.”

“He shot you with a dart!”

“It could have been worse.”

“And he had a dart for me!”

“He said he would have regretted shooting you. He liked the cut of your jib.”

“Wonderful. A professional assassin has the hots for me.”

“You should be honored. Most of the really good assassins I’ve known have exquisite taste.”

Our meals and second round of drinks came. Alice was fully involved in lunch now, fascinated by my story. The chances of talking her into some of Knickerbocker’s signature cheesecake, baked in a mason jar and topped with fruit compote, were improving.

“And now this Maples character wants you to find out who ordered the murder of Panetta? Just because you two served together? And you are going to do it? Why?”

“He called me skipper.”

Alice looked at me. We probably knew and understood more about each other than anyone else, but I’d probably never be able to explain to her the loyalty that men in close combat feel for each other. Given the chance, Maples and I might try to kill each other someday. But in the meantime he’d asked for my help to right a wrong and I had no choice.

She opened her mouth to say something. Hesitated, and then, as usual, said the right thing.

“I don’t understand. But as long as you do, you have no choice.”

She reached across the table and took my hand.

“Will it be dangerous?”

“Probably. But I’m not in this alone. Cormac is working behind the scenes, and so is Arman.”

“Arman? Why him?”

“He knows things. Promised to keep his ears to the ground. Maks was a soldier. Didn’t like what happened to Panetta.”

“I love Maks.”

I was pretty sure that was a sentence never uttered about Kalugin, maybe not even by his mother.

“What will you do now?”

“Try to talk you into the cheesecake.”

“I mean with the case, Sherlock.”

“Head up to Panetta’s home town. See what I can find out.”

“They probably don’t have good cheesecake upstate. I think we’d better order some.”

***

“We have a lot of work to do,” Alice said when we got to her apartment and dropped some boxes on the floor. The rest were downstairs with the concierge. “But I’m a little buzzed. How about we burn off the alcohol with sex first?”

“I don’t know. You ate half my cheesecake.”

My voice was hoarse and we were both almost out of our clothes, helping each other undress. A moment later Alice stood naked before me. My legs felt weak, but I knew it had nothing to do with my run up and down Grymes Hill that morning. Small-breasted, Alice has the taut body of a competitive swimmer.

“Let me just look at you,” I rasped.

“Stop pointing,” she said.

“I’m not …” then I looked down and realized what she meant.

I quickly picked her up and headed to the bedroom.

“Is that a gun in your pocket,” she teased, “or are you glad to see me.”

“I don’t have any clothes on,” I said, easing her onto the bed. “Hence, no pockets.”

“Well, let’s see if we can find someplace to put whatever it is.”

We did. The perfect spot.

***

Almost two hours later, we lay in each other’s arms, our heart rates almost back to normal.

“If you have any energy left,” Alice murmured. “Perhaps we can get to work on the apartment.”

“Right now, you could get me to paint the outside of this building.”

“It was good, wasn’t it?”

I lapped a nipple and said, “yowza.”

“You always know the right thing to say.” She kissed me. “I want to take a shower.”

“I’ll join you. I’m going for a personal best. Three showers in one day.”

“But no hanky-panky in the shower, lover boy. We have work to do.”

“I think you’re safe. I’d need a blood transfusion. Or a transplant.”

She laughed and reached down and touched me.

“Ouch,” I said.

“Oh, you poor baby.”

***

The rest of the day, and most of the next, we worked around Alice’s apartment. Her tenants had been fairly neat, but not as neat as Alice, whose standard of cleanliness rivals that found in labs that make computer chips. When living with me, our only real disputes involved her opinion that while I was very neat for the male of the species, I was still a male. We scrubbed floors, sinks, tubs and toilets. Alice vacuumed and dusted, since my efforts in those areas left her tut-tutting. She did allow me to hang pictures, photos and plaques, and she actually said I had some talent as a touch-up painter. We ate all of our meals at local Village restaurants, visited bookstores and boutiques, and even took in an off-off-off Broadway show that seemed Tony-worthy when compared to Dying Is Wasted on Corpses. On my last night, we brought in Chinese and watched Elementary, the TV show featuring Jonny Lee Miller as a modern-day Sherlock Holmes in New York City with Lucy Liu as his Watson.

“You know,” I said with a mouthful of moo shoo pork, “Miller is terrific, but I had my doubts about Lucy. But she’s won me over.” I reached over and took some lo mien off Alice’s plate. She hit my hand with a chopstick. “Did you know he was married to Angelina Jolie?”

“How would you know that?”

“I’m a trained detective. There’s not much I don’t know about Angelina Jolie.”

“Is that who you think about when you are making love to me?”

“Actually, most of the time I’m wondering if Derek Jeter’s ankle will hold up for an entire season.”

Laughing, Alice threw a fortune cookie at me.

“Speaking of holding up,” she said. “How’s your ‘thingie’ after yesterday afternoon?”

“Why don’t we find out?”

“Can we finish Elementary first?”

I was hoping she’d say that.

CHAPTER 12 - SYRNIKIS

I got up Friday morning just before dawn, kissed a sleeping Alice, and headed back to Staten Island. Traffic was minimal and I was home by 7:30 AM. I wanted to get an early start to Pulaski and figured I’d grab a bite on the road. I was packing for my trip when my doorbell rang. When I opened the door, I saw Arman Rahm holding a white paper bag in one hand and a brown one in the other. Maks Kalugin stood behind him. A black Mercedes sedan was in my driveway.

“This would have been too easy,” Rahm said casually. “If I was so inclined, I could have shot you dead.”

“Not holding two bags.”

“Yes. Of course. I meant Maks could have shot you.”

“Much obliged,” I said as I waved them past me into the house. “Your point?”

“Be more cautious opening your door.” He put the bags on my kitchen table. “In fact, just be more cautious, period. I have it from a reliable source that you are to be killed.”

I closed the door and followed them into my kitchen. The smell of pastry was strong.

“First things first,” I said. “What’s in the bags?”

“Coffee and some syrnikis. Traditional Russian delicacy.”

Arman put the bags on the table and Maks opened them, first taking three large coffees in steaming containers out of the white one with the big clown on it. I put some plates, utensils and napkins on my small kitchen table and Kalugin started to distribute the pastries from the other bag. His movements were efficient, even dainty, considering that his hands were rough and scarred. Garroting will do that.

“My cook made them,” Rahm said. “They go very well with coffee.”

“No Russian coffee?”

“MacDonald’s. It’s the best.”

I picked up one of the pastries, which looked like a small, oblong-shaped pancake. It was crispy on the outside but was obviously filed with something.

“What’s inside? Borscht?”

“I don’t know why we bother,” Kalugin muttered.

“Just eat it,” Rahm said.

I took a bite and was rewarded with a soft creamy center. No one had to shoot me. I could feel my arteries hardening. But it was delicious, and I said so. Arman passed me a coffee.

“Alton, do you know that it doesn’t matter what size coffee you order at MacDonald’s, it still only costs a dollar? It doesn’t make any sense. Why would anyone order a small or medium?”

I had often wondered about that myself.

“How sure are you?”

He looked at me.

“I just bought them. A dollar each. Same as the other sizes.”

“No. I mean how sure are you that someone wants to kill me?”

“Someone probably always wants to kill you,” Kalugin said with a mouthful of syrnikis, “but this is a paid job.”

“How reliable is your source?”

“I trust her implicitly,” Rahm said.

“Her?”

“Veronica. You met the lady in my office.”

“The lioness.”

“Yes. I allow her a certain amount of freedom to pursue outside work, as long as it does not interfere with my interests. She was recently offered the contract on you and came to me for approval.” He smiled. “Which, of course, I did not give.”

“Thank you. Or was it a question of money?”

“You are being flip. It was a great deal of money.”

“More than you are worth,” Kalugin chimed in.

“Just eat your slinky.”

“It’s a syrniki,” Maks said.

“I’m curious, Arman. I thought Maks took care of all your problems. Why is the she working for you? Or all the slinkies finally slowing him down.”

“That $20,000 is looking better all the time,” Kalugin said.

“Maks has not lost a step,” Rahm said. “But it occurred to me that some assignments are better handled with a woman’s touch. Maks would agree that his powers of seduction are probably somewhat crude. And he’s not very good at pillow talk.”

“But I am good with pillows,” Kalugin interjected.

“Twenty grand,” I said. “I think I see a pattern here.”

“I thought you might,” Arman said, wiping some cream off his upper lip.

“Does Miss Personality know who wants me dead?”

“No. The request came through a middleman working for another middleman.”

“A lot of that going around. So, not much chance of finding out. Now, for the $20,000 question. Does she know who eventually got the contract?”

“She does not. But since they approached Veronica we can assume that it is someone else local. Apparently, speed is of the essence.”

There was a pastry left. I knew Rahm was a one-syrniki kind of guy. I looked at Kalugin.

“Want to split it?”

He nodded, and I did.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “I haven’t found out a damn thing. And neither has Levine.”

“Just the fact that you are asking questions about Panetta is apparently enough to put a target on your back,” Rahm said. “Which means his death was almost surely ordered locally, or at least by someone trying to protect a local interest. We were circumspect in making inquiries, as I am sure you and your fat detective friend were, but it was inevitable someone would get wind of the situation.”

“He wanted someone to find out,” Kalugin said.

“Of course,” Rahm said. “Kick the hornet’s nest and see what happens. A good plan, if a bit shortsighted.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” I said, with a bit more confidence than I actually felt.

“I know you won’t listen, but might I suggest you lay low for a while, or at least take some precautions. Things are quiet in my world. I could lend Maks to you.”

“Thanks, but no. If he saves my life any more, I’ll have to marry him. Besides, as it happens I’m going out of town.”

“Where?”

“Upstate. Near Lake Ontario. Where Panetta came from.”

“What do you expect to find?”

“I don’t know. But whatever it is will be more than I’ve found out here.”

“Don’t assume you won’t be followed there,” Kalugin said. “The people who want you dead may figure that’s your next move.”

“I may have a chance of spotting them better up there if they do follow me. Not as many people in the boondocks.”

Maks gave me one of his rare smiles.

“How good are you at spotting a rifle with a telescopic sight a mile away?”

He always knew the right thing to say.

I walked them out.

“I appreciate the heads up, Arman.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Rahm said. “Alice would kill me if I let someone shoot you.”

***

I drove to my office to pick up the files on Panetta that Abby had assembled. When I got there she looked at me and cocked her head toward my door.

“You have a visitor. She said she’d wait in your office.”

“Who is it?”

“Teresa Yorke.”

Abby smiled. I hadn’t told her anything about my dinner with the Yorkes but I sensed that she had picked up some vibrations. What is it about women?

I walked toward my office.

“Maybe you should leave the door ajar,” Abby said.

“Just keep the fire extinguisher handy,” I said.

I went into my office, shutting my door behind me.

“Mrs. Yorke, what a pleasant surprise.”

She was sitting in one of my client chairs, bouncing one shapely leg on the other. She had very good ankles. I walked up to her and extended my hand. She took it and held on a moment longer than necessary.

“Please, Alton, call me Terry.”

I sat behind my desk. She was wearing a green floral sun dress with a pleated, flared skirt and a thin black belt. I thought it was a bit too early in the season and she was a little old for the look, but I couldn’t argue with the result. She was stunning. I recalled her comment about her bra and it was soon evident that she again wasn’t wearing one. When she recrossed her legs I caught a glimpse of thigh that made me suspect that her bra wasn’t the only undergarment missing in action. I wondered if we weren’t headed toward a Basic Instinct moment. I cleared my throat.

“What can I do for you, Terry?”

“I’ve been meaning to call you ever since our dinner. I was very impressed with you. Such an interesting man. I knew you were a private investigator, of course, but then I did a little research. You really have had some interesting cases. I think you might be just the man for us.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I’m not happy with the security for Nathaniel’s campaign. I would like you to come on board and supervise it. Make changes where you think they are needed.”

She recrossed her legs again. Maybe she was uncomfortable. I know I was.

“I didn’t notice any security at the ball park, Terry, other than the regular police that come out for any political event. And you came to the restaurant without security. Forgive me, but running for Borough President of Staten Island isn’t exactly a dangerous proposition. I’m not sure I could be of any help.”

“There have been threats.”

“What kind of threats?”

“Oh, phone calls. Emails. Some very nasty.”

She reached into her purse and passed a printout across to me. Yes, definitely braless. I looked at the printout. It contained some vicious comments, mostly about Nathaniel Yorke’s conservative politics and carpetbagger status. But none were worse than some of the email comments and letters to the editor printed in the local paper. They were similar to most of the comments made about any candidate by the yahoos who used the Internet to vent their spleens.

“Anything specific? Threatening violence?”

“Not overtly. Otherwise we would have gone to the police. But I don’t want to make a big thing out of it and have Nathaniel look like a wimp. I thought if you hung around the campaign, unobtrusively, you might be able to thwart any real problems.”

She did the leg routine again. That verdict was also in. No panties.

“Terry,” I said, trying to keep the hoarseness out of my voice, “I can thwart with the best of them. But it seems that what you are experiencing is normal for any campaign. People just being stupid. You don’t need me. If you are really worried, hire a couple of security people. But I think it would be a waste of time and money.”

“It’s our time, and we have plenty of money.”

“What does Bowles think about the idea?”

“Claude? He works for us. He’ll do what I tell him.”

Especially if you cross your legs, I thought. I decided I wanted no part of the Yorke campaign.

“Terry, I’m afraid I have to pass. I’m leaving today on a case I’m working. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

She looked more interested than annoyed.

“It must be pretty important to turn me down. Not many men do.”

I smiled noncommittally and stood. So did she. I walked her to the door. She suddenly turned and stood close to me. I could smell her perfume and feel the heat radiating from her body. She reached up suddenly and pulled me down for a kiss. Her tongue snaked into my mouth and her breasts pressed into my chest. I could feel her erect nipples through her thin sun dress. She ground her pelvis into mine, felt what she wanted to feel and broke the kiss.

“I thought so,” she said. “You are attracted to me.”

I pulled her arms away, gently.

“That’s because I’m not dead. You are quite a woman, Terry. But I’m spoken for. And last time I looked, so are you.”

She took it well. She smoothed her dress and wiped lipstick from my face with her thumb.

“You don’t know what you are missing.”

I opened the door and she walked briskly away. Abby looked at me and then reached down and picked something up. I laughed. It was a small red cylinder.

“You need a bigger fire extinguisher,” I said.

CHAPTER 13 - PULASKI

I broke up the six-hour drive to Pulaski, through some of the most-beautiful country in the United States, with a stop for lunch in a town a few miles off I-81 south of Syracuse. I had hoped to find a charming local restaurant, maybe one with Norman Rockwell posters on the wall and a wood-paneled bar. Instead, I found strip mall after strip mall with the usual run of sub, donut, and bagel shops interspersed with fast-food restaurants: Perkins, Applebee’s, Wendy’s, White Castle, Burger King, Chili’s, Carabba’s, Longhorn’s, Outback, MacDonald’s, Quiznos and Taco Bell. I have to admit I was sorely tempted by the White Castle. I finally settled on Luigi’s, a small Italian restaurant across the street from LaCivita’s, a Bada-Bing wannabee strip club with a full parking lot. How did I decide? I went into the strip club and, ignoring the gravity-defying boobs of the pole dancers, asked one of the roaming bouncers, who could have been a clone of Tony at the Deep Gulag, how the chow was at Luigi’s.

“Best Italian food in 20 miles,” he said. “Only place the bosses will eat. Try the eggplant.”

That was a good enough recommendation for me. Luigi’s wouldn’t have lasted long serving mediocre Italian food to the bent-noses who ran LaCivita’s.

I skipped the eggplant in favor of the best veal piccata I’ve ever eaten. There was actually a Luigi, who sat down with me during my second glass of the excellent house white wine. I wasn’t like his run-of-the-mill customers from across the street and he enjoyed chatting with me, especially after I told him he knocked the piccata out of the park. He even sent me out a homemade cannoli, on the house, to go with my espresso. Who needs Norman Rockwell and a wood-paneled bar?

***

Pulaski, population 2,365 according to the sign on US Route 11 leading into it, is on the eastern shore of Lake Ontario. After passing the usual assortment of furniture stores, car washes, liquor stores, delis, motels, car dealers and trailer parks, I spotted a sign in front of a small two-story Colonial that said “Chamber of Commerce.” I pulled into a small parking lot next to the Chamber.

You can find out everything you need to know about a town on the Internet, but I still like to pick up some local color locally. A stand just inside the front door was loaded with brochures. There was a woman behind a reception desk, where more material was piled. I smiled at her and began looking at the brochures. Many of them had photos of large fish and animals with antlers. But when I twirled the stand I found one pamphlet that started off with a brief history of the town:

“Pulaski was incorporated on April 26, 1832, taking its current name from General Casimir Pulaski, a hero of the Revolutionary War. Prior to that, the city was known by various names, including Fishville and Salmon River. During most of its 181-year history, Pulaski was the site of hundreds of factories, thanks to its proximity to both the Salmon River and Lake Ontario, which greatly facilitated the movement of goods, particular wood and iron products. But the days when Pulaski was an industrial hub are long gone. Only a few large companies now call it home, including the Fulton Companies, Heathway, and Schoeller Technical Paper. Today, commerce in Pulaski revolves heavily around fishing and tourism. The Salmon River is named for the salmon that return to the river during the salmon run each fall, and is a major draw for sport fishing, as is nearby Lake Ontario. The fishing season’s highlight is the famous Salmon River Festival, held each year at the end of the season at the farmers' market. Summer tourism is also augmented because of the many parks and resorts in the area catering to thousands of campers. Pulaski’s extensive snowmobile trail system is connected to other trail systems throughout central and northern New York. Given the heavy amounts of lake-effect snow, there has been a large increase in winter tourism.”

The woman came out from behind her desk and asked me if I’d like a cup of coffee.

“We have a new Keurig,” she said proudly. “Makes one cup at a time. Regular, decaf and Hazelnut. Cocoa and tea, too.”

She was wearing a name tag that said “Kay.” I politely declined.

“Then how about a map of the area?”

I’m one of those people who can never turn down a map. My cars are always full of them. Open a glove compartment and it would look like an airbag deployed. You might be knocked into the rear seat.

“That would be great.”

It turned out to be a map put out by the Pulaski Chamber, with plenty of advertising from its members. I looked at the small print. The map was published by the Atlantic Publishing Company of Philadelphia. I was surprised and mentioned that to Kay.

“Atlantic Publishing produces most of the Chamber maps in the Northeast,” she said. “Hayden Wilbur, the owner, visits all the Chambers personally. Hundreds of them. Quite the salesman. We used to pay people to print our maps. We were getting robbed. Now, he pays us a cut of the proceeds he gets from all the advertisers. Win, win.”

It was a damn fine map. I thanked her and was about to leave when I had a thought.

“Have you lived in Pulaski long?”

“Oh, dear, yes. I was born here.”

“Would you know anyone in the Panetta family? Particularly John Panetta?”

She gave me a curious look.

“Why, yes. Just about everyone in town knows who Gunner was.”

“Gunner?”

“Sure. That’s what everyone used to call him, after he got back from Vietnam. He’s a local hero. Won the Medal of Honor. What’s your interest in him?”

I took out my card, the one that says I’m a consultant to the N.Y.P.D. People can be prickly in upstate New York. I figured I’d better act semi-official.

“Does this have anything to do with his murder?”

“So, you know about that.”

“Of course. We were all outraged. What the hell is the matter with you people in New York City? A man like that not even safe in his own home.”

I could have pointed out that New York had one of the lowest big-city homicide rates in the nation, and that, in comparison, murder rates on Staten Island made the other four boroughs look like Beirut. But what would be the point?

“I came up here to talk to his cousin, Victoria Gustafson. Do you know her?”

“Sure. To speak to. See her at church and at the farmer’s market. Vicki keeps to herself. Doesn’t live in town. Her house is out near the Selkirk Lighthouse, a few miles to the west of the village at the mouth of the Salmon River. Everyone around here knows about the Gustafson place. It’s come up at the city council a couple of times. People complaining about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kind of an eyesore, some people say. Not appropriate for the tourist trade. I don’t think it’s all Vicki’s fault. More like her no-account husband’s. Or ex-husband, I should say. You’ll see what I mean when you get there. Luckily, it’s not the easiest place to find and you can’t see it from the road, so I don’t understand what the busybodies are so worked up about. I mean, is something an eyesore if nobody really sees it? Like does a tree falling in the woods make a sound?”

I was afraid Kay was about to launch into an existential debate, but she merely shrugged and said, “I could give you directions, if you like.”

The address was already plugged into my GPS system, but Gladys, that’s the name I’ve assigned to the voice on my GPS, has occasionally steered me wrong in rural areas. And when someone who has lived in an area all her life and works for a Chamber of Commerce says a place is hard to find, it probably is.

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Give me back that map.”

I did and Kay started tracing the route.

“You should visit the lighthouse while you’re out there. Selkirk is only one of four lighthouses in the United States that has a birdcage lantern, you know.”

“Maybe I’ll do that,” I said. “I may be staying a couple of days. Can you recommend a motel?”

“Well, the lighthouse actually has a few rooms. Place is supposed to be haunted, so people are intrigued. Not that you look like someone who gets scared. But no matter, I’m sure they’re all booked.”

Kay looked around like the place was bugged, and then lowered her voice.

“I’m not supposed to recommend one Chamber member over another.” She tapped the map. “There’s a couple of them advertised on this. But for my money the nicest of the bunch is on the road just before the cutoff to the Gustafson house. And Fred and Angie could use the business. Don’t get me wrong, place is spotless and has a nice view of the river. I keep telling them to change the name. I think it turns people off.”

She circled one of the advertisements and handed the map back to me. I looked at what she’d circled: the Salmon Villa Motel.

“Sounds like an intestinal disease,” she said. “Might as well have called it Montezuma’s Revenge, for goodness sake. Thank God, they don’t have a restaurant.”

I thanked her and left. When I got to the parking lot a police car was just pulling out. It hadn’t been there when I arrived.

CHAPTER 14 - VICTORIA

The Salmon Villas Motel was as advertised: badly named, almost vacant and well-kept, with a wide lawn that swept down through the trees to a small inlet on the Salmon River. Adirondack chairs lined the bank and a small sandy beach. A rowboat was tied to a small dock, and two canoes lay overturned and tethered to a tree. At the entrance to the motel office there was a bicycle rack with three bicycles. A sign on the wall said that the bicycles and boats were for the use of guests on “a first-come, first-serve” basis. It reminded me of an inn down the New Jersey shore where Alice and I had spent a weekend. There, the bikes had baskets on the handlebars that the management would fill with a picnic lunch gratis if you wanted. Alice and I were just getting to know each other. We went swimming in the ocean. I’m a strong swimmer, having in the past contended with a pack and a rifle, but I quickly learned that Alice, a swimming coach who once competed against kids who later went on to the Olympics, was a dolphin to my walrus. It was early in the season. The water was cold but later, back at the inn, Alice was warm. It was a good weekend.

There was no one in the motel office when I entered, but when I hit the bell on the desk a man appeared promptly from somewhere in back. He looked both surprised and happy to see me. He identified himself as the owner and I asked for a room. I guess he decided to push his luck because he mentioned that the two end “suites” were only $100 more a night than a regular room. When I told him that a regular room would do, he dropped the suite price by $25. While I thought that over, he chopped off another $25. I’m not a haggler, and I felt sorry for the guy. I took the suite before he decided to pay me for it. I was spending the blood money Vernon Maples gave me. Supporting the local economy in Panetta’s home town seemed the right thing to do.

“You here to do some fishing?” he asked. “You can fish off the dock or take out a boat. And you can wade downstream along the gravel banks. Just be careful. Every year winter ice flow gouges out some new channels near the shore that can surprise you. Water comes over the top of your waders and you might be in trouble.”

“I’m just passing through,” I said, handing over my credit card.

“Too bad. It’s not really good salmon season yet but I hear they’re killing the steelheads.”

“You have a nice place here,” I said, diplomatically, “almost could pass for a little resort. Did you ever think about changing the name to something a bit sexier?”

He gave me a look that told me I wasn’t the first to broach the subject.

“Did Kay down at the Chamber recommend us?”

“Yes. She said she’s not supposed to show favoritism, but she thinks this is a great place.”

He smiled.

“She’s right, of course. But I can’t change the name until I pay off the note. The company that owned the place before me and Angie bought it still has the rights to it. Should be all ours by this time next year. If we last that long.”

I dropped my luggage in my suite, which had a bedroom, a sitting area, small kitchen and a nice view of the Salmon River. Not 50 yards away on the opposite bank two fisherman wearing campaign hats, vests and waders were fly casting. It looked like a scene in an L.L. Bean catalog. I liked to fish and had always wanted to try fly fishing, which looked so elegant. As if reading my mind, one of the fishermen executed a graceful roll cast into a still patch of water that undoubtedly lay above a deep pool. I waited to see if he would get a hit. He didn’t. It has been my experience that you never see fisherman catch anything. But I know they do, just not when you want them to. The other fisherman stripped line from his reel as he whipped his long rod back and forth. The line made long, graceful arcs through the air to his rear and front before he finally let it settle in the water almost halfway across the river. He watched it for a minute and occasionally twitched his rod tip before bringing some line in and starting over.

I made a mental note to buy a fly rod and then I headed out to see Victoria Gustafson.

The directions Kay had sketched out on the Chamber map were helpful. The unnamed cutoff, which GPS Gladys missed, was about two miles from the motel and just past a sign indicating that the Selkirk Lighthouse was four miles ahead. I drove through thick forest down a barely paved road that dead ended in a clearing and a one-story red clapboard house. The house itself looked fine, but I understood why even a blind man might consider the land surrounding it an eyesore. The entire front yard was a jumble of  refrigerators and ice chests; bed frames; rocking and straight-back chairs, couches; deck furniture, washers and dryers, televisions and television stands; cabinets; computers; dressers, window frames; sleighs and kiddie wagons; lamps with and without shades; ornate mailboxes and bird houses, and some things I couldn’t identify. The path up to the porch and front door was clear. As I walked through the yard past all the rusting and molding detritus, I braced myself for meeting Victoria Gustafson, who in my mind’s eye, had to weigh three hundred pounds and would be wearing a shapeless dress designed by Omar the Tent Maker. The front door was open. I knocked on the screen door.

The woman who came to the door didn’t weigh 300 pounds. In fact, she was very thin. And even through the screening I could tell she had fine features.

“Can I help you?”

She had a well-modulated, educated voice.

“My name is Alton Rhode. I’m an investigator from New York City. Are you Victoria Gustafson?”

“Yes.”

“I would like to ask you some questions about your cousin, John.”

“Do you have some identification, Mr. Rhode?”

I took out my wallet and pressed my license against the screen. She glanced at it for a moment then unlatched the door. I opened it and she stepped back.

“Please come in. Would you like some coffee?’

“Yes, thank you.”

She led me into a small dining area. There was a small dark-wood table with a marble top surrounded by four matching chairs with espresso-colored leather backs. On the table were some notebooks, open, with a small coffee cup filled with pencils. There was also an iPad on a stand playing a piano version of a lyrical ballad. She tapped the screen and the song went off. She closed the notebooks and moved them and iPad to the side.

“You didn’t have to shut the music on my account,” I said. “Greensleeves, wasn’t it?”

Victoria Gustafson smiled.

“Yes. Perhaps the oldest traditional English folk song, dating back to 1580. Some people believe that it was composed by Henry VIII for Anne Boleyn. But scholars have pointed out that the Italian structure of the music did not reach England until after Henry's death. It’s more likely that Lady Green Sleeves was a prostitute. The green may refer to the grass stains on her gown that resulted from a tryst out of doors.”

“So it just as easily have been called Mudsleeves. Or Manuresleeves.”

She laughed.

“I will have to tell my students that. They like the hooker version a lot better than the royal version as it is. Please take a seat. I’ll put on a fresh pot. It won’t take a moment.”

She went into a kitchen and I sat. I looked around. The house was immaculate. The furniture wasn’t new, but everything seemed to be freshly dusted or polished. The odor of Pine Sol was strong. More important, I could also smell something freshly baked. I could hear drawers opening and closing, and the sound of percolating coffee.

On the dining room wall under a bay window was a sideboard, also with a marble top, in which two doors flanked shelves for wine bottles. Resting atop the sideboard was a triangular wooden case with a glass front containing a crisply folded American flag.

I walked over to the sideboard. Next to the flag case, but lying flat, was another wooden case, this one rectangular. Behind the cases were two silver picture frames. One held a color photo of John Panetta standing next to Victoria Gustafson in front of what looked to be a church. The resemblance was striking. The other frame contained a faded and dog-eared photo of Panetta in his jungle fatigues crossing a small stream with an M-60 machine gun slung across his shoulders. He was easily recognizable as a younger, and much gaunter, version of the man in the more recent photo. He was just coming up the bank, with other troopers lined up behind him a few feet apart. There was a pack of cigarettes attached by a band to his helmet. The grunts in the middle of the stream were in water up to their chest and all had their rifles held above their heads. When you looked very closely at the photo, you could see that Panetta had the middle finger of his right hand extended. But he was smiling into the camera.

The photo wasn’t very clear. I’d bet it was taken by a buddy. Hence, the finger and the grin. The frames and the cases were highly buffed. The flag case had a small plaque with Panetta’s name engraved on it. The other case contained his medals and service ribbons. The Medal of Honor, with the distinctive blue ribbon, was in the center. I’d seen photos of the medal, but never one up close. I felt a small chill run up my spine. Harry Truman, a World War I veteran, once said he’d rather have won a Medal of Honor than be President.

Victoria Gustafson finally emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray with a coffee pot, two cups, milk and sugar, and dish piled with blueberry muffins.

“You know they call him ‘Gunner’ Panetta around here because of what he did with that machine gun,” she said. “It took me a long time to come to grips with that, being antiwar like I was. But as I got older I realized that Johnny only did what he was told and from his medal citation it looks like he saved a lot of his buddies. He never bragged about it. And he never badmouthed me or anyone else, even those who ran off to Canada or dodged the draft. Said everyone was too young to be held accountable for what old fools in Washington or Hanoi did. He never cut me off. It was me who did that. After I made up with Johnny I asked for a photo of him in the service. He gave me that one. Said a friend took it. It’s a bit grainy because I had it blown up, but you can still see he was a good-looking boy.”

I sat back down.

“Sorry I took so long,” she said. “But I just made these muffins and they deserve perked coffee. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Worth the wait, I’m sure.”

“It may ruin your dinner.”

“I’ll chance it.”

As she poured the coffee I took her in. My first impression through the screen was correct. She was a handsome woman, with dark skin, gray hair cut short and dark eyes. Her lips were full and she had strong cheekbones. She would have been a knockout when young, and wasn’t bad to look at now as a woman presumably in her 60’s. I could tell by the way she glanced up at me when she was pouring that she knew I was sizing her up. I saw her lip curl into a small smile. She liked being admired.

Once they were poured, we each fixed our own coffee the way we liked. It was strong and good, as perked coffee usually is when fresh. I took a muffin. It was worth the wait and I told her so.

“Thank you. Now, perhaps you can tell me why a private investigator is involved in John’s case. Has someone been apprehended? Are you working for the defense?”

Victoria Gustafson was a sharp woman.

“No. In fact, just the opposite.”

I gave her the same version of the truth I’d given Joan Tolentine. She appeared to accept it.

“Well, I don’t know how I can help, but I’ll try. But I’d like to ask you a question first. Why did you ask who I was when I answered the door?”

When I hesitated she said, “Because of the yard?”

“Yes,” I replied. “You don’t seem to be the kind of person who would have a yard like that.” I waved my muffin-free hand. “I mean, this house is spotless.”

I thought that I offended her and was about to apologize when she smiled.

“It is terribly disgusting, isn’t it? Just about all of those things belong to Otto. My ex-husband. He owned a small consignment business downtown that went under and he moved all that stuff here. There was a freak snowstorm before he could put up a tent to protect it all, and he said the hell with it. Then we got divorced and he just left it here. Court wouldn’t let me get rid of it until our divorce was final, since he claimed some of the stuff was still valuable. Who knows, maybe the mailboxes and birdhouses will bring something. He’s been ordered to take it all away but he keeps stalling. I’ll probably have to pay to do it myself.”

Otto sounded like a real winner.

CHAPTER 15 - OTTO

“I’ve taught at the Pulaski Academy and Central School for more than 30 years. I married late. I was 40. Maybe it was a mistake. I miscarried twice and that was that. Otto and I never had children. But the kids at the academy keep me busy.”

We were on our second cups of coffee and Victoria Gustafson was telling me about her life. I was paying attention, but I was also considering a second blueberry muffin. Where food is concerned, I can multitask with the best of them. I thought I’d wait a few minutes. No sense in acting like a hog. I also didn’t want to break her train of thought. Living alone in the boonies like she did, she probably relished the chance to have an intelligent conversation.

“Until his murder, Johnnie was my only living relative. All our people are gone. We didn’t come from archetypal Italian families with a slew of kids. I was an only child, as was he, and his folks had both died fairly young. He came to live with us, so growing up we were more like brother and sister than first cousins. We did everything together. Fished, played cowboys and Indians, you name it. But once we got into high school, we drifted apart. He moved into an apartment with some of his buddies. All they talked about was joining the Army to get out of Pulaski. I mean there wasn’t much work up here. We never got along after that. I was what you’d call a free spirit. You know, peace, love and controlled substances. Anti-everything, especially the war and the people fighting it. I mean I didn’t spit at the guys coming home or anything.” She paused and looked sad. “I might have called him a baby killer, though. Not my finest hour. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

“I wouldn’t beat yourself up too much, Mrs. Gustafson. Thinking isn’t something that any of us do particularly well at that age.”

“You’re kind to say that. And, please, it’s Vicki. And may I call you Alton?”

“Of course. When did you reconcile with your cousin?”

“Not for a long time. After he came back from his second tour, when he won the medal, we hardly spoke, even though I had rethought some of my positions. I tried to mend fences. But he wasn’t interested. I don’t think it was because of anything I’d done. He wasn’t rude or anything. I think his second tour changed him. He’d seen too much. He just up and left. Dropped off some stuff at my place — I was living in an apartment by then — and said he might send for it. He never did, so I put it in a trunk. Sill have it. It’s up in the attic.” She smiled. “Otto isn’t the only pack rat around here. I don’t like to throw things out.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Army stuff. It was all jumbled up in a box. I didn’t even go through it until a couple of years ago. That’s when I found his medals and ribbons and things, and thought I’d do something with them. I put those in that little case over there I bought at a flea market. I showed it to him when he came by on one of his visits. Asked him if he wanted it. He told me that for all he cared it all could go back up in the attic. But he wasn’t mad or anything. I think he was actually touched. But I put the display in a drawer whenever he came over. Otto wanted me to sell them, especially the big one, but I said that wouldn’t be right. Otto is always looking to make a buck.”

“I think it may be illegal to sell a Medal of Honor.”

“Wouldn’t stop Otto. Anyway, I guess I’ve come a long way from my Woodstock days. Come in here and see Johnny’s medals and flag from his funeral and you’d think I was a Gold Star mother, not just a cousin who felt badly about how I treated him when he came home from Vietnam.”

“When was the last time you saw John?”

She thought a moment.

“About a year and a half ago.” She looked over at the sideboard. “That’s when that picture was taken. After some sort of church function. I’d gotten him going to Sunday mass with me when he was around. He was planning to come up again a few weeks ago, but then he was killed. I spoke to him on the phone. I think he was going to bring up his lady friend. Joan. I met her at the funeral. I think he was quite fond of her. I almost felt badly about getting the flag from his casket, and not her, but I’m family. Have you met her? Wanted to know all about John and what he was like growing up. Said he never spoke to her about the war and wondered if he ever opened up about it with me. Of course, he never really did. Only thing he ever told me was that he hated officers and was always getting into trouble, which was why he was never promoted. Of course, after he got the medal, they wanted to make him a sergeant or something, but he left the Army.”

I had wondered why a man with two tours was still a Specialist 4th Class. Panetta had probably been a hard case, some of whom make the best soldiers in a crunch. I thought of Vernon Maples. A man you wouldn’t turn your back on, except in combat when you wanted him watching your back.

“You probably should speak to Joan,” Vicki said. “Nice woman.”

“I already have. You said you had other material about John’s service still in the attic. Do you think I could see it?”

“I don’t see why not. If the squirrels haven’t gotten to it. Ever have squirrels in your house? Pain in the rear to get rid of. That’s one thing Otto is good at, I’ll give him that.” She laughed. “But if I have to choose, I’ll take the squirrels.”

She got up.

“I’ll go see if I can find the trunk. Please, have another muffin.”

I heard the screen door behind me open and then slam shut.

“Whore you?”

I turned to see a man holding a single-barrel shotgun. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I presumed he’d said, “Who are you?” The shotgun wasn’t pointed at me. But he held it in the crook of his arm like he knew how to use it. It was a 12-gauge. Even someone who doesn’t know how to use such a cannon can do a lot of damage.

“Name is Rhode,” I said. I didn’t stand. As long as the shotgun remained pointed in the general direction of the floor, I wasn’t going to make a move to my own gun. I’d see how it played out. “I came out to talk to Victoria.”

“Victoria, huh? What are doin’ on my property?” He looked at the woman. “This your latest, Vicki? Kind of young, ain’t he?”

“Otto, behave yourself,” she said. “And don’t be crude. I haven’t had a ‘latest’ in years. And this isn’t your property, anymore. I got it in the divorce.”

“Well, it’s still my stuff outside there.”

“And I wish you’d get all that crap out of the yard. Nobody is going to buy this place with it looking like a junkyard.”

“I don’t want you to sell. This was our home, damn it!”

Somehow I had gotten myself into the middle of a domestic dispute. I knew how that usually worked out. Now, I stood up, figuring I’d be able to draw my gun faster, if it came to that. I kept my eye on the shotgun. If Otto made a move, I was ready. He was a tall, rangy man with sideburns and a three-day growth of beard. He was wearing overalls and a work shirt, with a tan hunter’s cap that matched his boots. Otto might have been a pain in the ass, and many years my senior, but he looked capable enough and I wasn’t about to underestimate him.

Vicki sighed.

“Let’s talk about that later. Mr. Rhode is a detective from New York. He’s looking into some things about Gunner’s death.”

Otto looked at me.

“Vicki, I want to talk about it now,” he said. But he put the gun down, leaning it against a chair. “It’s important.” There was a pleading tone in his voice.

I could see that she was torn.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ll come back later. Maybe you can get those photos out of the attic.”

She smiled in gratitude.

“I have to go to Albany tomorrow morning for some continuing education classes and a teachers’ conference,” she said. “I’m staying overnight. I should be back by noon on Sunday. Will that be all right? Will you still be here?”

“I’ll stick around.” I gave her my card. “Just call me and I’ll come over.”

Otto walked me out on the porch.

“Isn’t a 12-gauge overkill for squirrels?”

“What are you talking about? Oh, Vicki told you about them. Nah. I trap them. The shotgun’s loaded with deer slugs. Don’t like to use a rifle too close to town.”

“I didn’t think it was deer season.”

“It ain’t. Now, why are you bothering my wife about Gunner?”

I didn’t correct him about his marital status.

“That’s confidential. Did you know him?”

“Sure. He was a good guy. We got along. I liked it when he came around. Made Vicki happy. And we’d go out for a couple of belts at the VFW hall. Neither of us were members, but everyone knew who he was and, hell, we just about always drank for free.”

“He ever talk about the war with you?”

“Nah.”

“He ever mention he had any problems up here with anyone? Someone who might have held a grudge?”

He thought about it.

“Nah. Gunner had mellowed. We mostly talked hunting and fishing. Guy stuff. Old times, you know.”

“You knew him before he went to Vietnam?”

“No. But we were about the same age, so we knew some of the same people. It’s a small town. He left before I got drafted. He had it a lot rougher than me. I never left the States. Wound up in the quartermaster corps at Fort Lee, in Virginia.”

“Where’s the VFW?”

I thought the post might be worth a visit. Panetta might have opened up to some veterans, or the bartender.

“Block or two past the Salina Street bridge on the river. Sometimes me and Gunner would take a boat up there and dock right at the post. Rather than drive home shit-faced, if you know what I mean. Cops around here can be a pain in the ass, but they don’t patrol the Salmon.” He laughed. “Course, we almost sunk a couple of times.”

“Anyone else from the old days that he kept in touch with?”

“Not that I know of. Vicki might know. You might ask her.”

“I was about to, when you showed up.”

“Sorry, about that, inside” he said. “I get kind of crazy around Vicki. Never shoulda married an Eye-talian. Shoulda stuck to my own kind, a square head. But she got into my blood, you know?”

I couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so I gave him my card and told him to call me if he remembered anything else. Then I left.

I was hungry. Vicki’s blueberry muffin, good as it was, hadn’t put the slightest dent in my appetite. Two might have, but Otto and his shotgun had stopped me from having another. I got into my car and pulled out one of the brochures I’d picked up at the Chamber of Commerce. In it was a large ad for “The Riverfront” restaurant in Pulaski, which claimed to have “the freshest seafood and best steaks on Lake Ontario.” How could I go wrong? I plugged the address into my GPS and headed into town, visions of broiled salmon or steelhead trout swimming in my head. A half hour later I was seated at a nice table overlooking Lake Ontario, a martini in one hand and a massive menu in the other.

That’s when reality set in. The seafood special of the day was mahi-mahi. I called my waiter over.

“Mahi-mahi is the freshest seafood you have? What about salmon or trout. Or, maybe, a nice largemouth bass?”

“I’m sorry, sir. None of the restaurants around here serve local fish.”

“But mahi-mahi is dolphin. The name is Hawaiian. Hawaii is about 4,500 miles from here.”

“I believe we source our mahi-mahi from Florida, sir. It’s not a mammal, you know. Dolphin is also the name of a fish, in case you are worried.”

“I know damn well you’re not serving Flipper! But I’ll also be dammed if I’ll eat fish on Lake Ontario if it has to get here by air. I mean, you advertise ‘the freshest seafood’ on the lake.”

“And it is,” the waiter said. “It comes from the ocean. See that water out there. It’s Lake Ontario. We don’t advertise the freshest lake fish. That would be misleading.”

He said it with such a rural smugness that I wished I had one of John Panetta’s machine guns.

“The baked haddock is excellent, sir, as are the broiled South African lobster tails.”

He knew he made a mistake when he brought up another continent. I gave up on the “seafood.” His next recommendation might be from another planet.

“Bring me another martini, please.”

In the end, I had a prime rib.

CHAPTER 16– THE CHIEF

I woke up the next morning to pounding at my door. I told whoever it was to hold the horses and threw on a pair of pants. I looked through the peep hole. A young cop was standing outside.

“Chief wants to see you,” he said when I opened the door.

He was a good-looking kid. A patrol car was parked sideways behind my car.

“Why?”

He gave me a just-following-orders shrug.

“Chief of what?”

“Selkirk Police Department.”

“Where’s the station.”

“Block before the lighthouse. Why?”

“Tell him I’ll be there in a half hour. I want to take a shower.”

“I’m supposed to bring you.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No.”

“Then I’m driving my own car there. If you want to wait, I’ll follow you.”

He hesitated.

“That going to be a problem?”

“No. I’ll wait.”

“I should warn you, I’m going to stop for coffee.”

“We have coffee.”

I looked at him.

“There’s a place just before we get to the station,” he said, with a small grin. “Mom and Pop. They know how to make real coffee.”

“How do you take yours?”

“Milk, two sugars. Chief likes it black. He uses Splenda, but we have a lot of that crap in the office.”

He walked back to his car and I closed the door. Twenty minutes later I followed him out of the motel. After a few miles he pulled into a small country store. I went in and got three large coffees. They didn’t have any donuts but I got a half dozen bear claws, still warm.  When in Rome.

I didn’t know what the Chief wanted me for, but I played it safe. By the time we got to the station, there were only five bear claws left in the bag. I followed the young cop into the building, a one-story brick affair. A woman civilian behind a counter smiled at him. There was another cop sitting behind a desk working on a computer. He didn’t bother to look up.

“Follow me,” my cop said.

I held up the two bags I was holding. He smiled.

“Bear claws?”

I saw the other cop look up. I nodded.

“Leave the claws and my coffee with Sally.”

I did and he took me to the back of the station to an office. The door was closed. A plaque next to it said: “CHIEF OF POLICE, Vito F. Rizzuto.” He knocked and opened the door.

“Here’s the private eye, Chief.”

He stepped aside and I went in. He left, shutting the door behind me.

The man who glowered at me from behind a big metal desk was a lot older than I expected. He had a fleshy face and an oversize red-veined nose that comes from a hard-liquor life. His hair was white and cut short. He wore his tan uniform badly, the bottom portion of his Sam Browne belt digging into an ample gut. A holster with a pearl-handled revolver hung from a coat rack against the wall behind him.

“Lemme see your I.D.”

I put two containers of coffee on his desk and handed over my license and my card identifying me as a consultant to the N.Y.P.D.

“Thought you might want some coffee.”

He looked annoyed.

“Where’s it from?”

I told him. He grunted and took the coffee. Didn’t say thanks.

“Brought some bear claws there, too. Left them with your deputy.”

He picked up his phone and punched a button.

“Save me a claw,” he growled, then put the phone down and looked at me. He reached into his top drawer and took out some little yellow packets and emptied their content into his coffee. I love fat people who try to keep their caloric intake below 4,000 by using artificial sweeteners. He drank some coffee. “This doesn’t make us pals, pal. What are you doing in my town?”

I was pretty sure he already knew the answer. There was one chair in front of his desk. I sat. That annoyed him some more.

“I hear you have the best bear claws in upstate New York.”

He ignored me and scanned my I.D. He held up the consultant card.

“Whose dick did you suck to get this? Doesn’t mean jackshit to me. You carrying a piece?”

I opened my jacket.

“Got a license for that?”

“Yeah. And the bullets, too.”

“Lemme see.”

I knew I was in trouble the moment I saw the Sam Browne belt and the pearl-handled revolver. There may be nothing more dangerous than a small-town police chief who thinks he’s George Patton. Although I don’t think Patton wore a Sam Browne. That might have been Pershing. I dug out my permit and flipped it on his desk.

“Anybody in your family play shortstop for the Yankees, Chief?”

He threw all my I.D. back across the desk.

“I hate the fuckin’ Yankees. I’m a Red Sox fan. Now, I asked you a question, and I want an answer. Why are you bothering Vicki Gustafson?”

“I wasn’t aware I was bothering her,” I said, sipping my coffee. “She even invited me back.” I looked at my watch. “Look, Chief, you’re not my only fan. If you want an autograph, fine. But I’ve got places to go, people to see. Can we wrap this up, whatever this is?”

“I got a right to know what’s going on around here.”

“Actually, you don’t. You have the right to ask me what I’m up to. And I have the right to tell you to suck farts. But since you are a cop, and I used to be one, if you ask me politely maybe I’ll tell you. I was going to ask the cops in Pulaski for some info, and I have no problem having a nice conversation with you boys in Selkirk, as well, but if you piss me off I’ll just leave and take my bear claws with me.”

His neck reddened and he gave me what he probably thought was a killer stare. I stared back and smiled. There was no way I was going to be out-glared by someone who used Splenda. Finally, he looked away, using a sip of coffee to cover his capitulation in the staring contest.

“OK,” he said finally. “Maybe I came on too strong. So, now I’m askin’ nice. What’s goin’ on?”

I decided that I might have to use the bear claw threat more often. I also decided that there was no harm in having the local gendarmes on my side. Hell, he might even know something useful. So, I told him what I was doing.

“What makes you think Panetta wasn’t killed by a robber? I read about the case, him being a local boy and all. Made some calls down there. I thought they had D.N.A. evidence. A spook.”

I was running out of variations of the lie I’d been telling. Rizzuto might be dim, but he was still a cop. I certainly couldn’t tell him that the killer had confessed to me and I was looking for the people that hired him.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t a robber. Probably is. But the D.A. has zilch and is under a lot of pressure to solve this thing.  It’s a long shot, but he doesn’t want any surprises. He wouldn’t send someone up here, officially, on what’s probably a wild-goose chase. But I owe him some favors, like that card I showed you. So, here I am. Who knows? Maybe it’s someone from his past who happens to be black.”

Rizzuto thought about it.

“Not too many of those around here. They tend to stick out. Especially when it snows. Get my drift?”

I didn’t know what was worse. The racist joke or the drift reference, which he probably didn’t get even though he said it. But I let it go.

“Did you know Panetta?”

“Not really. Knew of him, of course.”

How long you been a cop up here?”

“Born here. Gonna retire when I hit 70. Two more years. Started out on patrol in Oswego. Been chief here 20 years.”

“That makes you about the same age as Panetta. You know him when you were younger?”

“Maybe to say hello to. Knew a lot of kids back then. High school. You know how it is.”

“You seemed pretty concerned about Victoria Gustafson.”

“Well, hell, everybody knows Vicki and Otto. Her ex. Real loser. You seen their place? I get complaints, you know. Not that I blame Vicki. She’s a nice lady. Taught one of my kids. I was just concerned when I heard a private detective was talking to her. Thought it might have something to do with Otto. When are you gonna see her again?””

“Sometime tomorrow afternoon. She’s going to Albany. I have to call her. In the meantime, can you think of anyone I might talk to who might know anything about Panetta, either recently or from the old days?”

“Not off the top of my head. If I do, I’ll call you. Got a card?”

I gave him one.

“You said you’re gonna talk to the Pulaski cops?”

“Probably.”

“Want me to make a call? Kind of let them know I’m OK with it. Can’t hurt.”

It wasn’t a bad idea.

“Sure, thanks.”

He picked up his phone and punched in some numbers. He said his piece, then covered the receiver and looked at me. “Monday morning at 9? Their chief is off tomorrow.”

I figured I’d be stuck overnight Sunday anyway, so I nodded. Rizzuto hung up. He stood, and so did I. He put out his hand. We shook.

CHAPTER 17 - A NEW SKILL

I drove into Pulaski. VFW Post 7289 was right off State Route 11, also known as Salina Street. It was pretty hard to miss. The post itself was a standard one-story building, but there was a small lawn next to it on which sat a decommissioned M-60 Abrams tank decked out in camouflage green.

It was still pretty early in the day and I wasn’t expecting to find out much, and I wasn’t disappointed. I found out next to nothing. The hall was basically closed, except for a couple of young guys painting some shutters. They explained that they had recently left the Army and joined the post.

“Most of the guys are pretty old,” one of them said. “But we figured we’d see what it was like. Beers are only a buck. Thought we’d help out by doing a little sprucing up. If you want to talk to somebody, come back tonight. Better yet, tomorrow around 11. They have a kick-ass brunch. Lots of guys show up for that.”

I thanked them and headed back to my car. I resigned myself to taking the rest of the day off when I spotted a sports shop called the “Yankee Fly & Tackle” next door. I decided to go fishing. Hell, I was on the damn Salmon River with time on my hands.

The man behind the counter was happy to sell me a fly rod, reel and some streamer flies. I passed on the waders, vests and hats he also wanted to sell. When I said I didn’t know the first thing about fly fishing, he told a clerk to mind the store and took me out back into a parking lot and taught me the basics in about 20 minutes. For his trouble, I did buy a vest before I left.

An hour later I was wading barefoot near the dock at my motel. The Salmon River wasn’t a parking lot and many of my initial casts wound up in trees along the shoreline. I even managed to catch the dock before I put some distance between it and me. But I finally was able to put most of my flies where I wanted them. That’s not to say the fish wanted them. The current wasn’t too bad, but it took me a while to figure out that I had to take it into account when casting. In fly fishing, the heavy line is stripped from the reel by hand and then whipped back and forth in the air until finally it is allowed to settle gently on the water. At its business end is a small leader to which is attached an almost weightless fly or streamer. You cast upstream and allow the line to drift slowly downstream, perhaps giving the line an occasional twitch to make the fly or streamer simulate life.

I remembered the motel owner’s warning about falling into a hole so I didn’t stray too far from the shore. The gravel hurt my feet, but the water was cold enough so that it numbed the pain. That sounds like I was having a bad time, but I wasn’t. The river and the foliage were beautiful, and learning a new skill is never a waste of time. I’d filled a thermos with hot coffee and bought a couple of ham sandwiches on the way out of town. I wolfed a quick lunch on the dock and went back to fishing. It didn’t even bother me that I was having trouble catching anything. Fly fishing is an art, so I wasn’t surprised when I lost a couple of fish I’d actually hooked. But late in the afternoon I finally landed a small steelhead that weighed about three pounds. I knew enough about steelheads to know that they are really rainbow trout that have spent some time in the ocean and return to tributaries to spawn. The one I caught still had a distinctive red band along its flanks. I also knew it would be delicious.

Recalling my contretemps the night before at the restaurant that airmailed its fish, I decided to cook my trout. I cleaned it on the shore and went back to my suite and stuck it in the fridge. Then I drove into Pulaski, found a supermarket and bought some butter, flour, cheddar cheese, olives, lemons, leeks, a baguette, some potato salad and coleslaw. I stopped in a liquor store and bought a small bottle of Pinnacle vodka, which I stuck in the freezer in my suite’s kitchen. After showering, I turned on the Golf Channel and caught the last few holes of the third round of the FedEx St. Jude Classic in Memphis. It had a pretty good field, with many top PGA Tour players tuning up for the upcoming U.S. Open. I sipped the cold vodka while eating some of the cheese, olives and a hunk of the baguette. If there is anything that doesn’t taste better when accompanied by a baguette, I haven’t found it.

Then, I sautéed the leeks and then dusted the trout inside and out with flour, leaving the skin on. When the leeks were just translucent, I added the trout and pan fried it, adding some lemon after I flipped it over once. I made up a plate with my salads and ate in front of the TV. The Classic had been replaced by something called “Big Break Guadalcanal,” in which a group of wannabee golf professionals, male and female, competed against each other. Most of the golf was bogus, with artificially arranged challenges involving sand traps and other obstacles. The contestants spent most of the time sniping at each other in “off-camera” interviews on camera. It was like “Survivor” meets “The View,” except with golf clubs. I wondered what the Marine Corps thought about it. But I can’t say I was having a bad time. The vodka gave me a nice glow and my trout was spectacular. The local restaurants should be ashamed of themselves. Then again, the man at the tackle shop told me that cormorants, big, black, long-necked diving birds, had been devastating the local fishery in the Great Lakes, so perhaps commercial catches for restaurants were prohibited.

“Cormorants were a protected species,” he’d said. “It’s nuts. Some mornings their flocks can blot out the sun. Friend of mine and his sons just got six months in jail for going over to one of the islands and killing about 3,000 of the suckers with shotguns. He runs a charter business. Says he was just protecting his livelihood. I’m not saying it was right, but that still leaves about a billion of them.”

After I cleaned up the kitchen, I poured myself another drink and decided that another visit to the VFW could wait. I called Alice.

“What are you doing?”

“I was just about to step into the shower,” she said. “I’m meeting Joyce for dinner and then we’re going to see a play at the Lynn Redgrave on Bleecker Street. Her current boyfriend is in it.”

Joyce was an aspiring actress who lived in Alice’s building who rotated current boyfriends.

“I hope it’s better than Dying Is Wasted on Corpses.”

“Listening to Donald Trump would be better than Dying Is Wasted on Corpses.”

“That’s harsh.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying not to think about you wrapped in a towel.”

“What towel?”

“Oh, God. You had to say that.”

“You sound a little buzzed,” Alice said, laughing.

“I caught my first steelhead. I’m celebrating.”

“Is a steelhead some sort of criminal? Like a gang member?”

“No. It’s a fish. A big rainbow trout.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be catching criminals?”

“Fish are dumber. It’s less work.”

“Why don’t they call it a rainbow trout?”

“Because it has lived in the ocean.”

“Aren’t you basically on Lake Ontario? What’s the ocean have to do with it.”

“I should have known better than to talk fish with a philosophy professor.”

“I didn’t ask you how many trout could fit through the eye of a needle.”

“Let’s just say that things are a little complicated in upstate New York.”

“I take it you’re not making much progress.”

“Not so. I learned how to fly fish. In addition to the steelhead, I caught six trees and a dock. The dock season is closed, so I didn’t keep it.”

“You are buzzed.”

“A tad. But to answer your question, I think Pulaski is a dead end. I have a few more things to check, but I’m not optimistic.”

“When are you coming home?”

“Monday.”

“I miss you.”

“I’ve only been gone two days.”

“Does that mean you don’t miss me?”

“Of course I miss you. Why do you think I’m sitting alone in my motel room in Pulaski drinking vodka out of a water glass?”

“That’s one of the nicest things a man has ever said to me.”

“I can also talk dirty.”

“Oh, please do. But you will have to hurry. I don’t want to be late. Joyce may change boyfriends.”

CHAPTER 18 - SUNK

I got up late Sunday morning feeling a little hung over. I made some instant coffee in a Krups set up in the kitchen just for that purpose and buttered up what was left of the baguette. I needed some exercise. I thought about running but then remembered the canoes. I called the desk and asked the owner how long it would take to paddle to the VFW post.

“About an hour, I would think. You’ll be going with the current. Coming back will be a lot tougher. Might take you a half hour longer. Be quite a workout.”

Just what the doctor ordered. I took a shower and put on some clothes I thought would be appropriate for both my river cruise and a VFW post. Jeans, golf shirt and sneakers, no socks. I also took a small windbreaker, with my gun in one of its pockets. Despite the price on my head, I wasn’t expecting trouble. But, then, it’s not the trouble you expect that gets you killed.

I walked down to the river and righted one of the canoes. It was a sturdy aluminum Pelican Dakota and looked brand new. Inside were the paddle and two life preservers. I shoved the preservers in the bow and took off my sneakers and threw them in the bottom of the canoe. Then I pushed the canoe along the grass into the water, jumping in at the last second. I paddled out into the middle of the river and headed downstream. A lone fisherman on the far bank gave me a wave, which I reciprocated. The sun was up, but it was cool on the water. I was having a wonderful time. I’d have to talk Alice into doing this sometime. I passed several other fishermen, but there were long stretches where the river bent and there was so much brush and the trees so thick along the banks that I saw no one. Those were the stretches I liked the most. The isolation was as welcome as it was unexpected.

With the current as my friend, the paddling was easy. Finally, I reached a built up area, with buildings and stores and docks along the river. I soon came to the Salina Street bridge. As I passed under it I spotted the Army tank by the VFW post. I paddled over to a dock by the post and tied up next to a couple of outboards. I put on my sneakers and windbreaker and went into the VFW.

The place was jammed and the brunch smells strong. There were kids running around, looking like they’d been dressed for church. Tables had been set up and I could see family groups eating. There was a long line at a buffet set in the back by a wall. Two men wearing Army berets were sitting at a smaller table just inside the door taking money. A sign said “Buffet Brunch, $10. Kids, FREE!”

When it was my turn I said, “Do I have to prove I’m a veteran?”

“You have to prove you have ten bucks,” one of the men said. “Everyone is welcome.”

I paid my $10 and he put it in a metal box. He gave me a blue ticket from a big roll. In front of the other man was a roll of red tickets next to a sign that said “50-50.” I motioned to it and said, “How much?”

“Ten bucks a ticket, three for $25. Proceeds go to subsidize the brunch for vets who can’t afford it. Winner’s half usually comes out to about $500.”

I gave him $25 and headed to the bar. There’s always a bar at a VFW post, and it’s always open. A couple of old salts were sitting at the bar drinking boilermakers. I sat next to them. The bartender, a much younger guy with muscular, tattooed forearms came over.

“Whaddle ya have?”

“Can you make a Bloody Mary from scratch?”

I’m not a fan of prepared, bottled ingredients.

“Watch me.”

I did. Vodka, tomato juice, salt, pepper, Worcestershire sauce, dash of Tabasco, lemon and a big green olive.

“I don’t do celery,” he said, placing the glass in front of me. “There’s a supermarket down the street.”

It was a terrific drink, and I said so. Canoe paddling is good for a hangover, but so is a Bloody Mary. And usually more convenient. I asked him if he knew John Panetta.

“Sure. Used to come in occasionally. Scotch drinker. J&B. Nice guy. Shame what happened to him. Why?”

I took out my card.

“Just doing some background work, in case the cops ever get who did it. He ever talk about the old days, either when he lived here or when he was in Vietnam?”

“Not to me. He and the guy he was usually with mostly watched ballgames on TV. That’s what we usually talked about. Sports.” He looked over to the other guys at the bar. “Hey, Earl? Panetta ever talk the war with you guys?”

“Who wants to know?”

“This guy’s a private eye.”

I introduced myself to Earl and his buddy, Sam, and gave both of them my cards.

“I thought some nig,” Sam said, just catching himself as a woman walked by. “I thought it was a break-in.”

“Just covering all the bases,” I lied. I was getting used to it. “Can you help me out?”

“We were all in Nam,” Earl said, “but Panetta didn’t talk much about it. We wanted to hear how he won the Medal of Honor, of course, but he just gave us some shit about bein’ in the right place at the right time.”

“Actually,” Sam said, “he used to say he was in the wrong place at the right time.”

We all laughed.

“Point is, we didn’t press him or anything,” Earl said. “Man was a hero. He wanted to keep it to himself, that’s his prerogative. You in the service?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

I told them.

“I hear that was some deep shit,” Sam said. He looked at the bartender. “Wasn’t that where you were, Bobby?”

“Iraq,” the bartender said.

“Oh, yeah. Tough to keep all the wars apart.”

We were all buddies after that. I even hit the buffet with Earl and Sam and sat back at the bar eating with them. Bobby the bartender made me another Bloody Mary.

The food wasn’t that good, but there was plenty of it. Sam and Earl rounded up a couple of vets who also knew Panetta, but they didn’t add much to what I already knew. John Panetta was a good guy, liked his Scotch, talked a lot more sports than war and, as far as they knew, had no enemies.

I bought a couple of rounds of drinks for my new friends, but I strategically switched to coffee. I didn’t want to accidentally paddle to Manhattan on the way back to the motel.

I paid my bar tab and gave Bobby my 50-50 ticket, on the proviso that if he won he had to buy some celery.

“Go fuck yourself,” he said, laughing.

As I got up to leave, Earl said, “Did you talk to Panetta’s friend?”

‘What friend?”

“I don’t know. Some guy where he moved to. I asked him why he was moving to Long Island and he said he had an old Army buddy there.”

“You mean Staten Island?”

“Yeah, right. Whatever. Did you speak to him?”

It was the first I’d heard that Panetta even knew anyone on Staten Island before he moved there.

“Not yet,” I said easily. “He’s on my list.”

Earl shrugged, losing interest. Boilermakers in the morning will do that, pancakes or no pancakes.

***

I was glad I’d limited myself to two Blood Marys. The trip back upstream was no picnic. But I soon got into a good paddling rhythm, buoyed by the realization that I might have just stumbled onto a clue. Unless Panetta was being facetious when he spoke to his VFW drinking pals, he had a reason for moving to Staten Island. And that reason might just have gotten him killed.

When I was in an open stretch of the river, the sun felt good on my back as I strained against the current. I did a paddling experiment, trying to find the most efficient way to alternate strokes. Two on the left, then two on the right, seemed to provide the most headway without any veering. I was traveling at a good clip when I entered a heavily treed bend in the Salmon and had to slow. It was a particularly deserted stretch. There was a large sycamore on the bank off to my left. I like sycamores and this was a particularly beautiful one. Not as big as the giant growing through the flagstone patio in my back yard — I was going to have to do something about that someday — but it stood out with its mottled green and brown coloring.

It was pure chance that I just happened to be looking at the sycamore when the bullet smashed into it with a “thump” that sent a shower of bark in all directions.

A high-powered rifle bullet travels faster than the speed of sound, so the “thump” preceded the “whack” that was the round breaking the sound barrier as it passed over my head. Finally, there was the distinctive “pow” made by the gasses exiting the rifle barrel. To unpracticed ears, the last two sounds can be hard to discriminate. But my ears, for better or worse, had a lot of practice. I immediately looked across the river to where the “pow” had come from. I knew it wasn’t deer season, but that didn’t mean much. The economy upstate was depressed and the kind of people who would kill 3,000 cormorants at a clip to preserve their livelihood wouldn’t be above a little poaching to fill the larder with some venison. I couldn’t see anything. Then I caught a glint of reflected sunlight. The canoe shuddered as the next shot tore into the hull at the waterline just below my seat. A third round crashed into the stern.

I was the venison.

The canoe began taking on water. There was a copse of trees on the bank that I thought would offer enough cover and I paddled toward it furiously. I felt like Daniel Day-Lewis in The Last of the Mohicans trying to put distance between himself and several canoes full of Huron warriors. Except the Hurons didn’t have a high-power rifle with telescopic sights.

My dash for the shore had a major disadvantage. I was almost heading directly away from the shooter, which meant he’d have an easier shot. The hairs on my neck stood on end. I felt like I had a huge bull’s-eye on my back. It’s not easy to zig and zag in a canoe, especially when you hunker down, and I almost tipped over. Another shot whizzed by my ear and thudded into the bank, which was about 20 feet away. I actually felt a rush of air as the round passed me.

I wasn’t about to chance a fifth shot. I pitched out of the canoe into the water and dove under. I swam to the front of the canoe and, putting it between myself and the rifleman, pulled it into the brush lining the bank. I positioned myself behind it and a small log jutting out from the bank. It would take a lucky shot to do me any damage, although I wasn’t feeling particularly lucky at the moment. Someone, I think it was Churchill, said that getting shot at with no effect was very exhilarating. I didn’t feel particularly exhilarated, either.  There were more shots. The first few continued to splinter the canoe and, then, the shooter, probably assuming that I was making a run for it, sprayed the shoreline. But the rounds went wide and high. Whoever it was couldn’t see me now. The canoe, now well-holed, settled into the water. I was about to chance reaching into it for my windbreaker and the gun in its pocket when another shot rang out and a round whizzed by. I could tell from the sound of the shot and the angle of the bullet’s impact that the shooter was probably moving upstream on his side of the river for a clearer shot. He was a determined son of a bitch. Surely, all the racket would attract the cops; the area wasn’t that rural. The last couple of seconds had sounded like The Battle of Fallujah. Another shot. Closer. I hated leaving my Taurus revolver but I surged out of the water onto the bank and bolted into the brush, collecting several nasty cuts on my face and arms. Three more shots and then nothing. He had to be using a semi-automatic rifle. Not as accurate as a bolt-action deer rifle with a scope. Otherwise, I’d probably be dead.

About 50 yards into the woods I stopped. I couldn’t even see the river.

But now what? I was a cliché. Up the creek without a paddle. Hell, I was up the creek without a canoe. I estimated that I was about halfway back to the motel, which put me about a mile from the Salina Street bridge. I figured I was pretty safe on my side of the Salmon River, as long as I stayed away from the shoreline. I could hear traffic and I walked toward the sound. The woods and brush were still thick and I picked up a few more cuts and scrapes but I soon came upon a road that paralleled the river. I headed back toward town, where a man shooting at me with a high-powered rifle might stand out. I assumed that whoever had hired Vernon Maples, and tried to hire Veronica, Arman Rahm’s pet hit woman, had found a taker for the $20,000 on my head. They had obviously overpaid. I doubted Maples or Veronica would have missed me. Not that I was complaining.

A few cars passed me and I stuck out my thumb. They all sped up. I’m not sure I would have picked up someone looking as bedraggled as I did, dripping wet and cut up as I was. I eventually spotted a service station near the Salina Street bridge. The owner stared at me.

“What the hell happened to you?”

I said I’d overturned my canoe. He looked dubious until I took my dripping wallet out and flashed some cash. He let me wash off in a restroom while he called a cab for me.

“I wouldn’t try any white-water rafting, I was you,” he said when I left.

The boys in his shop got a kick out of that.

When I finally got back to the Salmon Villa Motel, I apologized to the owner for sinking half his canoe fleet.

“I must have hit a rock,” I said. “She went down like the Lusitania.”

“Gee,” he said, “I’m sorry. But that’s funny. I just bought those Dakotas. Cost me $500 each. Company says they’re almost impossible to sink.”

Not when someone turns them into Swiss cheese, I thought.

“I guess the emphasis is on ‘almost’,” I said.

He looked uncomfortable.

“Uh, technically you’re responsible for any damage to my property, Mr. Rhode. I carry insurance, of course, but there’s a hefty deductible.”

“How much is hefty?”

“Well, it’s $250, but then there’s the life preservers and paddles, unless you managed to save them.”

“No, they went down with the ship. How does $300 grab you?”

‘That sounds fair.”

“You have my card. Just add it to my bill. If you need me to sign something, I will.”

He looked relieved.

“I’m glad you’re taking it so well.”

“Hey, I made it back in one piece.”

“You really should have been wearing a life vest.”

Only if it was bullet-proof, I wanted to say.

“But, you are right, at least you are safe. That’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

I decided not to call the local cops. There would be too many questions. And there was nothing they could do. The sniper was a pro. The fact that he tracked me to Pulaski so easily bothered me. But he would probably assume I would call the police and would now be on guard. I didn’t think he’d make another run at me for a while. He could bide his time.

When I got back to my room I called Joan Tolentine at her Pilates gym. I got an answering machine. I didn’t leave a message. I’d talk to her when I got back to Staten Island. Perhaps Panetta had confided in her the identity of his Army “buddy.”  I doubted it, since it was the kind of information I was sure she would have told me. I figured I might have better luck with Victoria Gustafson.

I hated killing a whole afternoon and night doing nothing, but I thought it wise not to do any canoeing, swimming or sunbathing. I wanted to go back and look for my gun, but decided to wait until morning, just in case my sniper friend wasn’t the biding type. I watched some ball games on TV and ordered in a pizza.

I slept well, but wished I had my revolver under my pillow.

CHAPTER 19 - THE FRAME

I didn’t think anyone would be waiting for me to emerge from my room the next morning. But I didn’t waste any time getting into my car, either. I’d chance a bomb. It’s not that easy to car bomb someone anymore, what with sophisticated and sensitive vehicle alarms. Not that my car had anything more than the factory installed variety. A good demo expert could probably have rigged a Minuteman missile warhead to my manifold. But the car was parked right outside my door. And the fact that the Salmon Villa was virtually deserted worked in my favor. Anyone planting a device in my Hyundai would have stuck out like a sore thumb.

And the more I thought about it, killing me in public while I was asking questions about Panetta made no sense for anyone trying to keep a lid on things. Shooting me out of a canoe wasn’t the brightest idea, either, but the isolated area I’d been in suggested that whoever tried to kill me probably would have known what to do with my body. The river was narrow enough at that point so that the shooter could have retrieved me easily. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something didn’t fit.

I drove to town and crossed the Salina Bridge again, of which I was becoming quite fond. If they’d put up a toll booth I could probably revive the local economy all by myself. I drove to the approximate spot I’d entered the road after emerging from the woods the day before. It didn’t take me long to reach the shoreline and I quickly spotted the big sycamore by the spot where I’d been sunk.

The canoe was gone. I was surprised. It had seemed securely lodged on the bottom and stuck behind the logs and branches that had probably saved my life. The current looked a little swifter than I’d remembered, although I couldn’t be sure. I had other things on my mind at the time. But it seemed likely that the canoe had drifted downstream. That was a bit worrisome. Unless it was swept into Lake Ontario, it might be found and then I might have some explaining to do. My rock story wouldn’t hold up in the face of a canoe that had more holes in it than the Japanese Navy after World War II.

Thinking of those holes gave me an idea. It didn’t take me long to find several of the bullets that had impacted in the sycamore and elsewhere. I dug a few out. Or rather, I dug out grotesquely flattened hollow points. Had they hit an animal, or me, they probably would have been only half flattened, and there might have been enough pristine metal left to provide a forensic expert with striations that could have identified the weapon. These bullets looked like coins, totally worthless for identification. Not that I would have preferred better-looking bullets inside me. The expanding bullets also explained why I sank so fast. They passed through, but not before tearing out large chunks of my canoe.

The loss of my Taurus revolver bothered me. I was fond of that piece of iron. But there was nothing for it, so I went back to my car and drove into town. I found a crowded diner and killed a couple of hours eating, drinking coffee and listening to the locals complain about cormorants. I called Victoria Gustafson just after noon.

“Oh, Mr. Rhode. I got back earlier than I expected. I’ve been going through some of John’s old stuff. I found some pictures you might be interested in. Come on over. I’ll make us some sandwiches.”

“I just ate, Victoria. But I’ll be right out.”

“Well, you’ll have something, I’m sure. Chief Rizzuto will be here. I told him I’d have something.”

“Rizzuto? Why will he be there?”

“He called. Said he knew you were coming by and wanted to sit in. He’s known the family for years. He and Johnny were great friends. Went into the Army together.”

That didn’t make any sense. Rizzuto told me he hardly knew Panetta.

“Vito Rizzuto? The Selkirk Chief?”

“Yes, of course. He’s in one of the photos I found. Johnny and he and Nate all went to Vietnam together. Peas in a pod. They were inseparable in high school. Always getting in trouble. Just boys’ kicking up their heels, of course. They did everything together and when Nate got drafted the other two enlisted. Of course, Nate came from some money and became an officer, but he pulled some strings or something and Johnny and Vito wound up in his unit.”

“Who is Nate?”

“Nate Yorke.”

It took a second to register.

“Nate York? Nathaniel Yorke? The guy running for Borough President on Staten Island?”

“Staten Island? Where John settled? I hadn’t heard that. Last I knew, Nate was state senator. Are you sure we’re talking about the same person.”

Before I could reply, she said, “Oh, Vito just pulled up. I bet he’ll get a kick out of these photos. Hurry on out.”

“Victoria, wait.”

But she had hung up.

***

It took me 10 minutes to get to her house. All the time I had a funny feeling in my gut. When I pulled up I saw the Selkirk police car. I walked through the junk on the lawn and went up to the door. I heard a low, animal moan.

I went in. Vito Rizzuto was curled up in a ball in the middle of the living room. There was a pool of blood spreading from his midsection. He was still alive. It was his moaning I’d heard.

Victoria Gustafson was sprawled on her back by the dining room table. I went to her but knew right away that she was dead. Her eyes were open and a red stain had spread across her white blouse. She had been shot twice in the chest. One round must have gone into her heart and stopped it, because the stain wasn’t that large. Otto was sitting by the kitchen doorway, with his shotgun lying next to him. I could tell from the angle of his head and his slack jaw that he was also dead. He’d also taken one in the chest.

I felt the gorge rising from my stomach as the blood from all the wounds started to fill up the floor. There was so much of it I could smell its sour iron odor.

“For Christ’s, sake, help me! I’m gut shot. The fucker belly shot me.”

Chief Rizzuto had managed to push himself half upright against the wall by the front door. He had both his hands over his stomach wound. Brownish blood seeped through his fingers. I went to help him and saw the gun lying on the floor in front of him. My gun. My Taurus. I picked it up and sniffed. It was empty, and recently fired. His pearl-handle revolver was still in his holster. I took it out. It was a .38 Smith & Wesson Police Special. I put it in my belt. I looked into his eyes. He was having trouble focusing.

“Call an ambulance. I’m bleeding to death.”

I slapped him. Hard. He focused.

“You killed them. Why?”

“For the love of God, Rhode! An ambulance!”

“Only if you tell me why.”

He looked at me. I’m sure he didn’t like what he saw in my eyes.

“Otto went crazy. I had to protect myself.”

“What about Vicki?”

“It was an accident. Innocent bystander. I was shot.”

I slapped him again.

“With my gun? Where did you get it? You want to live? Tell me everything. Or I’ll let you bleed out. So help me, God.”

Rizzuto moaned.

“I found the canoe. And the gun.”

“You were the shooter on the river.”

“Yeah. I wanted to finish you there. I couldn’t believe I missed.”

The bastard had done pretty well with my handgun, I reflected bitterly.

“Then I didn’t know what to do.” He groaned. “Jesus, it hurts. I need a doctor.”

“Just press it tight,” I said, pushing down on his hand over the wound. He screamed in agony. Which was my intention. “So, you took my gun and killed Vicki and Otto with it. To pin it on me. What went wrong?”

His breathing was ragged.

“I only meant to kill Vicki. I knew she would tell you about me and John. I couldn’t have that. I figured if I shot her with your gun and then killed you, we’d be in the clear. But fuckin’ Otto walked in just when I did her. He’s not supposed to be here. I shot him but he got one off, too.” He groaned. “God, it hurts.”

Jesus! A deer slug in the gut. I didn’t think an ambulance would help. And I needed more information.

“Stay with me, Vito! What didn’t you want me to find out?’

He stared at me. I took out my cell phone.

“See this, Vito. I’m holding your life in my hands. Talk!”

“The three of us were in Nam together. We grew up together. Yorke fixed it so we’d serve with him. Me and Gunner kind of looked up to him, bein’ a college guy and an officer, comin’ from money, not like us. Only he was yellow, through and through.”

“What do you mean?”

Rizzuto’s breath was more ragged. I could tell from looking at his face and hearing his voice that his pain had lessened. But his color was worse. I knew from experience these were bad signs. He was dying.

“Nate was a fucking coward,” he rasped. “He ran away and left Johnny holding the bag when the gooks attacked us. I found him crying like a baby hiding behind a hooch. Our leader. Our captain. We could hear Johnny firing that machine gun all by his lonesome. I told Yorke to get his shit together. We had to go back and help Johnny. But he’d already wet his pants. He was useless. I told him I was gonna report him. Would have, too. Except Johnny held off about a million fuckin’ gooks and survived.”

A shudder went through Rizzuto’s body, but then he steadied himself.

“Nate told me he would get Johnny the Medal of Honor if I kept my mouth shut about his running away. Silver Star for me. Johnny about wanted to kill him but I talked him out of it and even told him that the Medal was more important than Yorke, who was due to rotate stateside anyway. Said we had our courageous Captain Yorke by the balls. We could drain him dry, money-wise. But Johnny wasn’t like that. Plus, the war had screwed his head up. He wanted nothin’ to do with Yorke. Or me, I guess. After he got his medal, he moved away. I lost track of him.”

“But you didn’t lose track of Yorke’s balls, did you?”

“No. The cocksucker got himself a Silver Star, too! I’ve been on the tit ever since. He was ambitious. Got elected over and over tellin’ people what a war hero he was. I kept my mouth shut as long as the checks kept comin’.”

“And now 20 grand to shut me up.”

Rizzuto looked at me.

“What the fuck you talkin’ about?”

He didn’t know about the contract on me.

“Who told you I was coming up here?”

He shook his head. I held up the cell phone. He started crying.

“Jesus.”

I just smiled.

“Bowles.”

Yorke’s campaign manager.

“How did he know?”

“I don’t know, man.”

I knew that was probably true.

“He told you to kill me?”

“Not like that. Just to stop you from finding out anything. But I knew what he meant. Shit, I’m gonna throw up.”

He did. Mostly blood. His face was pasty white now.

“Panetta went to Staten Island to blow the whistle on Yorke, didn’t he?’

Rizzuto nodded weakly.

“Yeah. Johnny came back for a visit and found out what Yorke was up to. Said he stood by long enough while Nate traded on his supposed heroism. I tried to reason with him, but it was no good.”

“So, you warned Yorke. And he killed Panetta.”

“I never saw that comin’. I didn’t think Nate had the balls. Still don’t. It had to be someone else. Someone behind Nate.”

He was whispering, now.

“What did you do with the canoe?”

“Gone. Pushed it into the channel.”

Despite his distress, he realized why I wanted to know about the canoe, and its telltale bullet holes.

“You son of a bitch. You were never gonna’ call for help, were you?”

I loved being called an S.O.B. by a dirty cop who had just shot a defenseless woman to death and planned to pin the murder on me — after killing me. A man who had already used me for target practice on the Salmon River.

Rizzuto hadn’t counted on loyal, lovesick Otto barging in on him. He would have shot me down with his service revolver and then put the Taurus in my hand. Maybe fired a couple of rounds to get gunshot residue on my hand. Probably didn’t even have to do that. The scene would have spoken for itself. No one could contradict his story. Chief Vito Rizzuto, local hero. And I knew he had a few cards left to play. I wasn’t about to bet my freedom on the forensic abilities of some upstate cops when it was my word against one of them. A wounded cop would be even more a local hero. It wasn’t like I could call Vernon Maples for a reference.

“Vito. I hate your guts. Or what’s left of them. But I’ll call an ambulance if I can figure out how you’re not going to pin these killings on me. I need time.”

“I ain’t got time.” I could barely make him out. “I swear. I’ll say you didn’t do it. I’ll confess.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die, Vito?” I saw the fear in his eyes. I didn’t feel too good about myself. “You dealt this hand, Vito.”

Funny thing, I finally did come up with a plan.

It was a little too late for Vito, however. And it probably wouldn’t have worked with him alive.

CHAPTER 20– 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.”

CHAPTER 22 - BUBBLES

The Dilly Dally Club on Victory Boulevard in Castleton Corners has been around forever, or at least as long as I could remember. It was dank, dark and nondescript, everything a neighborhood gin mill should be. You got an honest drink in the Dilly, and a hell of a roast beef sandwich if you wanted.

I nodded to the bartender when I walked in and he hooked a finger toward the back. Two guys at the bar didn’t even bother to look at me.

Pete “Bubbles” Belvin was sitting in his regular booth in the rear near the small kitchen, under a sign that said “No Smoking.” The sign was yellowed by the smoke from the million or so cigarettes he’d smoked over the years sitting in the same spot. The only concession to anyone else’s sensibilities was a small exhaust fan in the wall next to the booth. He spotted me and waved me over.

“Mister witness protection,” he said in a raspy whisper when I slid opposite him in the booth. That corner of the Dilly smelled of cigarettes and sauerkraut. “Get any clients killed lately?”

Coming from anyone else, the reference to one of my most notorious cases would have been insulting. But Belvin was a master of insults. I’d heard him demolish people when he was really on a roll. His remark to me was said in good humor and was probably as close as he came to an affectionate greeting.

“It’s nice to see you so cheerful, Bubbles” I said. “Business must be good. I see you have joined the 21st Century.”

When I last saw Bubbles, he ran his book out of several marble notebooks. The notebooks were still on the table in front of him, as was his ubiquitous mug of coffee, but so was an Apple laptop and an iPhone.

“I can’t believe this place has Wi-Fi,” I said.

“If I’d had this technology 20 years ago I would be a freakin’ millionaire, Rhode.”

“You are a millionaire, you old fraud.”

“Only on paper.” He smiled. “Maybe a little real estate. House in France. Condo in Palm Springs. You know, just the basics.”

“Then you should spring for an iPad. No bookie should be without one.”

“My granddaughter is getting me one for my birthday. She insists. Says it’s the least she can do for me footing the bill at Sarah Lawrence for four years. A $250,000 iPad. You think I may be overpaying?”

I laughed.

“It’s a good school, Bubbles.”

“Yeah. I’m sure. All I know is that if I charged a vig like some of these colleges, I’d be doing 20 years in Sing Sing. But whaddya gonna do?”

He put out his cigarette in the almost full ashtray in front of him and immediately lit another. His hand was so nicotine-stained it looked jaundiced. Luckily, the exhaust fan, while noisy, was effective. The plume of smoke was sucked away quickly, over the “No Smoking” sign and out to the alley.  From the outside it looked like the bar had a full head of steam and was leaving port whenever Belvin was in residence.

The bartender walked over and took the ashtray, replacing it with a big green one that said “Tavern on the Green.”

“More coffee, Bubbles?”

“Is the Pope Polish?”

“That one’s dead, Bubbles,” the bartender said. “You need new material.”

Belvin looked at me.

“Everyone’s a critic. Whaddle you have, Rhode?”

“Coffee is fine.”

“Bring us two coffees, Mickey. And a couple of shots of Jack.”

He held up his new ashtray.

“Remember this joint, the one on Hylan Boulevard.”

“Before my time, Bubbles. But I heard about it.”

“Yeah. At one time if you said Tavern on the Green nobody in Staten Island even thought about the place in Manhattan.” He twirled the thick glass ashtray affectionately. “I got engaged there. Been to a zillion weddings. Owner had a house on the property and we’d play poker there until the roosters woke up. Gals from the restaurant would bring in food around midnight. Steaks, lobsters, you name it. We’d break for an hour and eat. Top-shelf drinks. Back when this borough was civilized. There’s a fuckin’ bowling alley on the spot now, and a movie theater, a sexplex or something.”

“Times change, Bubbles. That’s why I’m here. What can you tell me about the new development in St. George?”

“I should ask you why you want to know, but you’re always in so much shit it doesn’t really matter. Besides, you’d lie. Am I right?”

“No,” I said, laughing.

“See. I was right.”

Our coffees and shots of sour mash came. We clinked glasses. Bubbles sipped half his shot and poured the rest in his coffee. It seemed like a good idea, so I followed suit.

“What do you want first? A history lesson or current events?”

“Start with the history,” I said. “I’m most interested in the politics.”

“Thought you might be,” Bubbles said, giving me a shrewd glance.

“Our esteemed soon-to-be-ex Borough President’s party has run the borough like a satrapy for more than 40 years, ever since the Rouse Corporation formulated a proposal for the planned development of much of the unoccupied land then on Staten Island.”

Bubbles was a former star basketball player at Wagner College in the 1960’s and played on a team that beat N.Y.U. when that Manhattan school was ranked No. 1 in the nation. He actually went to class and got his degree. When talking about a subject that interested him, Bubbles could sound like a college don.

“The so-called South Richmond Project,” he continued, “would have been modeled on Rouse’s world-famous planned community in Columbia, Maryland, and would have been the largest of its kind in the United States, with parks, open spaces, rational street grids, malls and entertainment centers serving a population limited by rational design. But local real estate interests, who knew unplanned development would be more lucrative, called it a socialist plot and land grab. Blovardi and some others created their own political party and drove Rouse out of town on a rail. You know the rest. What followed turned much of the bucolic southern section of Staten Island into a hodgepodge of scatter-shot communities so ill-conceived that the Fire Department complained about hydrants in the middle of streets. But the local developers made a fortune, which they funneled into their supporters in Borough Hall. Kept them in power until Yorke came along.”

Belvin’s computer beeped.

“Scuse me,” he said, looking at the screen. “Looks like the line on the Boston game is moving.” He hit a few keys. “OK. Where was I?”

“Yorke.”

“Yeah. Even I didn’t see that coming. Kind of makes sense, though. He’s a force upstate. Probably pretty friendly with the power brokers and money people behind the St. George thing. Proven vote getter. With term limits moving Blovardi out they saw a chance to put someone they knew and could work with in Borough Hall, rather than contend with some local yokels. St. George is a big deal and, I hate to say it, probably good for Staten Island now that we’ve already been fucked over six ways since Tuesday. Can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube, so we might as well get with the future.”

“What’s your take on Yorke?”

“Never met him.”

“Bubbles, please, give me a break. You’ve got more sources than the Nile.”

He sipped his coffee.

“Well, my friends tell me he’s not a bad guy, as politicians go. Has good instincts, generally means what he says. Of course, most of my friends are comparing him to Blovardi, so even Hannibal Lecter might come off looking pretty good.”

“Yorke chortles.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Never mind. Is he in anyone’s pocket?”

“Ever know a politician who wasn’t?”

“Anyone in particular? Maybe someone with a lot to lose if, say, Yorke isn’t our next borough president.”

“No.”

The simplicity of Belvin’s answer stunned me. He saw the look on my face.

“Look, Rhode. I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. Arman Rahm calls me and tells me to give you anything I have on Yorke and the St. George project. Be honest, he tells me, don’t hold nothing back, which I take to mean that whatever you’re after is important. The Rahms deal in dead bodies, which also happen to be your strong suit lately, from what I hear. So I extrapolate a little. I think I know what you’re asking without you actually asking. You want to know if anyone behind Yorke would do anything that might get them the needle if they got caught, assuming our fair state ever straps anyone down in a gurney again. And I’m telling you, no. The Yorkes of this world are a dime a dozen. Someone talked him into coming down here to run for borough president. Promises were made. Maybe money changed hands, but not necessarily. Could be he’s just ambitious. But whether he wins, loses or gets caught packing the poop chute of a Cub Scout, the St. George project will stand or fall on its own. He gets hit by a meteor and some local jerkwad gets in, the big boys will make do.”

“What about the Germans and the monorail?”

The waiter came over with two more shots of Jack Daniels and freshened our coffees from a decanter that had an orange ring around its mouth.

“Don’t worry,” Bubbles said. “It ain’t decaf. They just do it for effect. Now, what were you asking? The Germans? The freakin’ Rahms have a thing about the Krauts. Never met a Russian who didn’t. Jesus, I’m a Jew and I don’t have the hard-on for the Germans that they do.”

“So, no danger to the monorail if Yorke isn’t around to shepherd it through?”

“Aren’t you paying attention? You’re about to flunk the school of Bubbles. The monorail may or may not get built. The tree huggers and some civic groups along the planned route are starting to jump up and down. For all I know, some nuts will shoot down the wheel. But Yorke won’t matter one way or the other.  If he’s part of your problem, don’t go looking for some international conspiracy. You’re over-thinking whatever it is you’re involved in. This ain’t Jason Bourne. Now, buy me a roast beef sandwich.”

***

Arman Rahm called me from JFK.

“These people really want you out of the picture, my friend. They already wired in the money. Our lady friend will go through the motions but she would like you to clear this thing up fairly quickly. After all, she has a reputation to uphold.”

CHAPTER 23 - A PLAN

I was sitting in my office drinking coffee contemplating my next move. It was nice not worrying about being assassinated for a change.

I was alone. I had given Abby the day off to visit her half-brother in prison. She had a couple of half-brothers, each in his own way useful to my operation. Her cable-company brother kept my services up and running. Her gang-banging brother, Leon, was the one she was visiting. He was a guest in Northern State Prison in Newark, doing a one-year jolt for loansharking. To hear Abby tell it, Leon was loving every minute of his stay in the minimum-security facility.

“He needed a break from the criminal rat race,” she said. “First time he’s ever been convicted of anything. Not bad for a guy been arrested about a million times.”

Leon’s throwaway cell phones and other tools of his trade had come in handy on several of my cases. He really wasn’t such a bad guy. He was an avid reader — we both liked Jake Scarne thrillers — so I had bought a Kindle for him to use in prison after Abby told me the one he’d stolen had broken after he threw it at one of his girlfriends.

I do my best contemplating while reading the comics. Newspapers are dying out, but the Staten Island Advance still has a comics page. My favorites are Garfield, Doonesbury and Tundra. But I still miss The Far Side. Never understood why Gary Larson retired from cartooning. Maybe the 45 million books he sold had something to do with it. When I’d been stationed overseas the first time, The Far Side desk calendar, the kind you rip off a small sheet every day, not only marked the passage of time but also provided some of the few real laughs in a grim existence.

Abby had saved me the newspapers while I was away, so I had a few comics to go through, including the Sunday section.

I heard the outer door to my office open. I put down the papers and opened the right-hand drawer of my desk and picked up my gun. I was pretty sure no one was still trying to kill me, but recent events had my caution meter sensitized.

Cormac Levine walked in holding a brown paper bag. He dropped it on my desk and went over to my coffee machine and poured himself a cup. He pulled a few packets of sugar and artificial sweeteners from a small bowl by the coffeemaker and dumped them in his cup. He was the only person I ever met who mixed sugar and artificial sweetener. I don’t think he cared which went in his coffee; he grabbed whatever was available without really looking.

“Where’s Abby?”

“Visiting Leon.”

He settled his bulk in one of my client chairs while I opened the bag and parceled out the bagels that were in it. Both were slightly warm to the touch and had a “smear” of cream cheese. I suspected something was up. Cormac ate bagels I bought for him. I couldn’t remember a time when he bought one for me.

“Leon is a piece of work,” Cormac said. “We’ve been trying to put him away since his balls were hairless. I think he’s doing his year in Jersey so he’ll have 365 days of alibis for the crime wave his crew will be committing in his absence. He copped to a beef he could have beaten with a court-appointed lawyer, let alone that team of shysters he keeps on retainer.”

“Abby says he needs a rest.”

“Yeah. His arms must be tired from counting all his money.”

We chewed our bagels, drank our coffee and looked at each other.

“Great bagels,” I said. “Where did you get them?”

“Bagels by the Bay, near the Alice Austin House. They got some good donuts, too.”

“I’ll have to try it. Why do I get the impression this isn’t purely a social visit?”

“I thought you might call me when you got back.”

I pointed at the stack of newspapers.

“Would you believe I had to catch up on Doonesbury first?”

“Nah. I figured you were too embarrassed to fill me in on the upstate massacre you undoubtedly precipitated.”

“Oops.”

He smiled and wiped some cream cheese off his tie. He should have left it. It would have improved the color. Or at least complemented the other stains.

“I knew you had an ulterior motive,” I said, “when I saw the bag. How did you find out?”

“Funny thing, when you make some calls and hit some databases about a murder like Panetta’s, then three people in his hometown get shot to death and one of them is his cousin and another is a police chief. Next thing you know, some people remember you were asking.”

“I hope you told them it was probably a coincidence.”

“You know any cops who believe in coincidences like that? I told them thanks for the info, and I’d get back to them.”

‘Did my name come up?”

“No.”

That meant Rizzuto hadn’t told anyone what I was doing. Probably didn’t even tell the young cop he sent to roust me at the motel. Chief says go get someone, that’s enough. But my anonymity wouldn’t last long. The lady at the Chamber of Commerce and the boys at the VFW Hall knew that I’d been asking questions about Panetta.

“You’ll probably get a call about me soon.”

“You think?”

“I know I’ve put you in a pickle, Mac, but I need a little more time.”

“I’m a Jew. I like pickles almost as much as I like bagels. But I would like to know what’s going on. You saved my career once. I presume you’re not planning on ending it now.”

I told him everything. It took quite a while. I had to put on more coffee.

“You know, Alton,” he said when I finished, “for the first time in my life as a cop I can honestly say I’m sorry I asked.”

“It is a bit bizarre, I’ll give you that.”

“Bizarre! Medal of Honor winner is murdered by a hit man with a conscience. Said hit man knows you and wants you to set things right. You start asking questions and a police chief working in cahoots with a man running for Staten Island borough president tries to kill you, and then murders two other people. The chief dies conveniently, leaving no evidence we can use. And you cover up the murders because, well, I’m not too clear on that. I guess it’s just your nature.”

“Cahoots?”

“I love that fuckin’ word. I hardly ever get to use it. Oh yeah, you’ve also arranged to have a hit woman pretend to hunt you down. She a looker, by the way?”

“A knockout,” I said. “It would be an honor to be shot by her.” I leaned forward. “So, what’s your next move? Can you give me a few days?”

Cormac shook his head. But it was in resignation.

“I’ll write up what I have. That will take me a few days. Not that I’d ever submit it. They’d ship me off to a department psychiatrist. What will you be doing?”

“I think I’ll make myself a nuisance around the Yorke campaign, see what happens. I’m not convinced Yorke knows what’s going on. Rizzuto was shaking him down, but he said he doubted his old pal had the cojones to order a murder. And Bubbles Belvin said Yorke wasn’t really a bad guy, as far as politicians go.”

“Two wonderful recommendations.”

“I know. But my money is on Bowles. He actually spoke to Rizzuto. But it doesn’t really matter. I’ll make enough noise; something will shake loose. I just need a little leverage to justify an investigation that doesn’t lead back to Maples and what happened upstate. I’m sure a forensic audit of Rizzuto will uncover payoffs, and from there the string will start unraveling. I just feel I’m missing something. Like how Rizzuto got the word I was going to Pulaski so quickly.”

“Well, the old nuisance ploy has worked for you in the past. How long do you think it will take?”

“I’m hoping just a couple of days. I have Veronica to think about.”

“Veronica?”

“The hit lady. She has a reputation to protect. It won’t do her any good if I’m out in the open and any Girl Scout could take me out and she doesn’t. I certainly don’t want her mad at me.”

“Why should she be any different?”

CHAPTER 24 - BOWLES

Bowles wasn’t hard to locate, and then follow. Yorke’s campaign stops were public knowledge. I went to a Knights of Columbus hall on Kreisher Street in Tottenville where the candidate was speaking at a luncheon. It broke up just after 1 P.M. and Yorke and Bowles came out and got into a black Range Rover, Bowles driving. Five other people, two men and three women, obviously campaign workers, climbed into another car carrying placards and other electioneering materials. The little caravan made four more stops, all on the south shore of Staten Island. No one noticed me tagging along. Two of the stops were at assisted-living facilities and two were at busy strip malls, where Yorke went door to door, shaking hands as he went along, with the workers following in his wake handing out pamphlets. After the last stop, our three cars hopped on the Richmond Parkway and headed north. Traffic, as usual was abysmal, and almost 40 minutes later the Yorke team pulled into the St. George Ferry Terminal. Politicians are always promising to do something about the traffic, and I hoped a frustrated Yorke received an object lesson. Of course, given what I knew, I doubted he’d ever get elected.

The campaign must have arranged something in advance because the Yorke cars were allowed to park at the top of the ramp where commuters are normally dropped off. The group all got out and walked into the terminal. A cop stood by their cars. I assumed Yorke would spend the next couple of hours glad-handing commuters as they came off the evening rush-hour ferries on their way home.

I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so I drove up to Richmond Terrace and went into a bodega across from the ball park. I used the restroom while the counterman fixed me a Cuban sandwich. The restroom made me wonder about eating the sandwich, but I was hungry. I took the sandwich and two black coffees back to the terminal and pulled up behind the campaign cars. The cop came right over.

“These spots are restricted, bub,” he said. “You’ll have to move.”

I flashed my P.I. license and handed him one of the coffees.

“Yorke security,” I said.

He took the coffee with a nod and walked away. I ate my sandwich. It was pretty good.

If there is anything duller than watching commuters hurrying up a ramp and jumping into waiting autos, I’d like to hear about it. For distraction, I started ranking the legs of women on a one-to-ten scale as they passed my car and headed up the ramp. I was happy it was warm and there were a lot of short skirts, but it was a slow evening, gam-wise. For one thing, most of the commuters entered cars behind me, so I was only getting a long-distance view through a rear-view mirror, hardly an ideal way to judge something so important. I thought about getting out and leering over the top of the car, but I was pretty sure Yorke or one of his minions might notice me when they came back.

I was stuck on eight as the highest rank for the longest time when a young brunette in high heels clicked by. She didn’t get in any car and headed up the ramp toward Bay Street. She was a ten, leg-wise, and the rest of her might have gone even higher. The cop spotted her too, and he watched her until she disappeared from sight. When he turned around he smiled at me and shook his hand and mouthed a “wow.” I nodded.

About 10 minutes later the Yorke entourage came out. I scrunched down but they didn’t even bother looking into my vehicle. When they pulled away. I followed. The cop even held up ramp traffic for me.

The next stop was at Liedy’s, a popular blue-collar tavern on Richmond Terrace. Yorke emerged 15 minutes later and drove to the nearby Little League complex in Snug Harbor, where he caught the tail end of a couple of games and shook hands with parents and had his picture taken with a lot of kids. Then he was on to the Staaten, the popular North Shore restaurant and catering hall near my home in West Brighton. Yorke was the guest speaker at a Rotary meeting. I went in and asked one of the Rotarians when Yorke was due to speak and knew I had at least an hour. I shot home, showered and changed my clothes. I suspected it was going to be a long night.

I was right. Yorke was an indefatigable campaigner. He finally called it a night after stopping by another Rotary meeting, a Lions Club, a barbecue at Nansen Lodge, two funeral homes, three more taverns, an American Legion post and something called the Royal Palms Shuffleboard Club. His travels took him the length and breadth of Staten Island. I went into a couple of the venues and Yorke never looked tired. He shook hands, back-slapped and said a few words at each stop, and seemed to be enjoying himself. I couldn’t help but reflect that had he showed as much energy and initiative in Vietnam, I wouldn’t have been following him around. For my part, I was beat.

After his last stop, the car with the campaign workers peeled off and I followed the Range Rover to Todt Hill. It pulled into a large circular driveway in front of a large Tudor on Hunt Lane. There weren’t many cars around and I knew I was on the verge of being conspicuous so I drove past and pulled to the side two houses up. I pulled out a pair of binoculars from the center console and looked back. Just as I did so, another car, a silver Mercedes, pulled up behind the Range Rover. Yorke and Bowles got out of the Range Rover, and Teresa Yorke, the Mercedes. It was going on 11 P.M. and I wondered where she had been. I couldn’t hear anything but it seemed to me that husband and wife were arguing. Maybe Yorke was also wondering where she had been. Bowles got in his Range Rover and the other two walked stiffly into their house. I followed Bowles.

He drove to Grymes Hill and pulled into another circular driveway, this one in front of a large ranch house on Cunard Street behind Wagner College. I had done some research on Bowles. Divorced years earlier, he moved to Staten Island with his boss and now lived alone. He went into his house and shut the door. I watched lights go on and off and waited until I was pretty sure he was in for the night. That seemed like a good idea, so I went home to my more modest house on St. Austin’s Place. When I pulled in, I wondered if I had enough room to put in a circular driveway.

***

I spent most of the next week doing the same thing. I didn’t realize there were so many social clubs, civic organizations, ball fields, veterans’ organizations and old-age homes on Staten Island. We hit the ferry ever morning and afternoon. Churches, bars, restaurants, bodegas — anywhere there was more than two people was fair game for the Yorke campaign. After a couple of days all I had to show for my shadowing was a back seat full of literature handed to me by Yorke campaign workers at various stops.

Late Friday afternoon, I followed Bowles to Newark Airport, where he dropped Yorke off at one of the domestic terminals. I stayed with Bowles, and on the way back to Staten Island called someone I knew on the city desk at the Staten Island Advance to ask where Yorke might be going.

“Some sort of candidate seminar and strategy meeting in Albany. Guy’s a lock in the election, so they are already grooming him or something.”

“When is he due back?”

“He’s flying back with Wrobelski first thing Monday morning.”

Wrobelski was the paper’s political correspondent.

“Why do you want to know?”

“You’re breaking up. Must be between cell towers. Talk to you later.”

Bowles went straight home. I parked a few doors up from his house. I didn’t really know what the hell I was doing, or what I hoped to find out. I needed to get lucky and have Bowles do something really stupid. I sat there three hours, feeling really stupid myself, and was about to call it a night when a silver Mercedes pulled in behind Bowles’s car and Teresa Yorke got out. It was dark and I couldn’t be sure, but she was holding what appeared to be an overnight bag.

I actually said, “Ah, hah.”

But it was dark. I couldn’t be positive it was an overnight bag. I didn’t want to sit there all night to see how long she’d be in there. I had already spent half the night waiting for something to happen. Since something happened I felt obliged to do something myself. Looking in a window seemed the natural thing to do. I knew I was taking a chance. This part of Grymes Hill was very security conscious. There had been a rash of burglaries in some of the borough’s better enclaves in recent weeks. I wouldn’t have been surprised if there was a neighborhood watch and perhaps even a roving private security patrol. I was sure the cops would cruise by randomly, as well. Being nabbed as a Peeping Tom wouldn’t do my reputation any good. And I was pretty sure having Bowles knowing I was looking in one of his windows at night wouldn’t do my investigation any good, either.

My motto in such situations is “when in doubt, do it quickly before you talk yourself out of it.” I got out of my Hyundai and walked up the driveway, then went around the side of the house where I thought I saw some light coming from a window. I sidled up to the window and looked in. I should have saved my “ah, hah” for what I saw. But, actually, I think words would have failed me.

***

“I suppose she could have been bobbing for apples,” I said

It was Saturday and I was in Alice’s apartment in Greenwich Village. I had decided to take the rest of the weekend off. It’s a luxury you have when no one is hunting you. Besides, I wanted to think. I also wanted Alice, but I could still think. Most of the time. We were lying in bed after about an hour of me not thinking. The early afternoon sun was streaming in over the bed. She was making little doodles on my chest. I was getting hungry. I didn’t eat the night before. I had managed to get a cup of coffee and a fried egg sandwich in me before heading to the city but I needed more fuel, especially after a vigorous hour with a woman who was very glad to see me.

“You looked in a window? Like a Peeping Tom?”

“Sticks and stones. I even took a video with my cell phone.”

“You said it was dark.”

“It was dark outside. Inside, in the den or whatever it was, they had the lights on and a fire going in the fireplace.”

“Weren’t you afraid they’d see you?”

“She was on her knees with her back to the window and Bowles was sitting in a chair looking at the ceiling, slack-jawed.”

“And she was giving him a blow job? You’re sure?”

I looked at her and then reached over to the table next to the bed and grabbed my cell phone.

“Film at 11. I think the flickering shadows on the wall from the fireplace are a nice touch, don’t you. Very artistic.”

“She’s not bobbing for apples,” Alice said as she watched. “She’s polishing his bone. My God. The candidate’s wife with his campaign manager! I didn’t think they even liked each other.”

“You don’t have to like someone to polish his bone.” Alice punched me. “Although it certainly helps.”

“What happened next?”

“My, aren’t you the prurient one. A minute ago you called me a Peeping Tom and now you want a blow-by-blow description, pardon the pun.”

“Do you ever want to have sex with me again?”

“Of course.”

“Then answer the question.”

“It went Marx Brothers on me. My cell phone rang. I’d forgotten to turn it off. It was Cormac. Fortunately, Bowles had started to yodel at that moment, so I skedaddled before anyone heard the phone. Went home and got a few hours’ sleep and drove back around 6 A.M. Her car was still there. I stayed for a couple of hours. She never came out. I said the hell with it and came here. Why should everybody else have sex but me?”

“What does Cormac think?”

“Same thing I do. Now we have leverage to crack this thing wide open.”

“What’s your next move?”

“To a restaurant.”

CHAPTER 25 - ALBANY

I wanted some quality time with Nathaniel Yorke far from the prying eyes of his wife and Claude Bowles, who in any event were otherwise occupied. So, Sunday morning, while I made our breakfast of bourbon-laced French toast, I asked Alice to work her magic with her computer and find out where the Albany political conference was being held.

“Don’t forget to slice the bread on an angle,” she said.

The secret to good bourbon French toast is a day-old French baguette, sliced so that each piece is about an inch thick. A dash of any bourbon in the eggs will do — in a pinch, so will sour mash or dark rum — but the bread must be sliced at an angle. Or so the Foreign Legionnaire who taught me the recipe said. I don’t know why it makes a difference. But now Alice, who once probably would have put the slices in a toaster, never failed to remind me to cut at an angle.

“And not too much cream,” she added, her head buried in the computer.

I swallowed a remark about it being my damn recipe and dunked some slices in the egg mixture, then transferred them to the frying pan. I had just set out our plates when Alice shut her computer.

“It’s at the Albany Marriott,” she reported as she dug in, “and runs until 5 P.M. Yorke is one of the speakers on an afternoon panel.”

“Would you like to go to Albany with me?”

It didn’t have quite the ring to it of “would you like to go to Paris or London?” but I was hopeful. I poured each of us more coffee. The windows were open and I could hear the Village coming to life in the streets below Alice’s Christopher Street apartment.

“I’m scheduled to give a lecture tomorrow morning at the New School on the limits of sense and reason as explained in Kant's Critique of Pure Reason.”

“So, the answer is yes?”

“The answer is no. There will be people in the audience I want to impress.”

“Let me guess. From the Ivies.”

“See. I knew you are more than a Peeping Tom. Can I have that last slice of French toast? This is yummy. You did a good job. Sliced just right.”

“The world has a surplus of fat philosophers. Perhaps you should let me have it.”

Alice, who works out like a fiend and but for her swimmer’s shoulders would be something like a size 2, speared the slice and poured maple syrup on it.

“Kant would say you are being unreasonable,” I said.

She cut the slice in half and leaned forward to feed me with her fork. As she did, her robe opened and one breast peaked out, revealing a nipple.

Just why the hell was I going to Albany?

***

Jack's Oyster House at 42 State Street is an Albany institution, famous as a hangout for politicians and lobbyists, as well as tourists. I’d eaten there before and was pleasantly surprised to find out the food was better than touristy. In fact, it was damn good. But I wasn’t there to eat. It’s a three-and-a half-hour drive from Manhattan to the New York State Capital and I spent the time planning what I was going to say to Yorke. When I got to the Marriott, I still didn’t have a clue.

Yorke’s panel, in one of the hotel’s larger conference rooms, was at 4 P.M. and well-attended. Most of the discussion centered on how newly-elected officials at the state and city level could push political reform in the State Senate and Assembly. It was probably the same subject debated when there were Iroquois in the audience. And would have the same result: nothing would be done. The New York legislature resembles the Ukrainian parliament on a bad day. I wanted to raise my hand and ask them who they were kidding, but I didn’t want Yorke to spot me, just yet, so I sat in the back behind some ladies with big blue hair.

Yorke, presumably because of his many years in upstate politics, was apparently one of the stars on the panel and answered questions with a calm assurance. A born leader. Unless the North Vietnamese were shooting at him. I had hoped to catch him on the way out after the panel discussion ended but he and a few other speakers disappeared through a back door. I collared a conference staffer and asked him where they were all going. Which is how I wound up at Jack’s Oyster House.

Yorke and his group had a corner table and were having a great time. Lots of people stopped by to say hello. I sat at the bar and ordered a beer and crab cake sandwich. I had a clear view of Yorke’s table and kept staring over at him. Once or twice I thought I caught him looking my way but the joint was crowded and I wasn’t sure he spotted me. I grabbed a waiter as he walked past.

“I’d like to buy a round of drinks for that table over there,” I said, pointing. “That tall gentleman with the white hair is a friend of mine. Nathaniel Yorke.”

“Certainly, sir.”

He walked over to the table and leaned down and whispered something to Yorke, who looked toward the bar, smiling. I waved. He spotted me. And stopped smiling. A few minutes later the drinks I’d ordered were served and all the men except Yorke raised their glasses to me. I raised my beer glass and gave them a big smile. Yorke said something, got up and walked over to where I was sitting.

“Alton, how nice to see you.” The smile was back. “Thanks for the drinks. What are you doing in Albany?”

“Would you believe I just happened to be in the neighborhood?”

“Are you?”

“No. I’m working a case.”

“Really. Can I ask what it’s about?”

“John Panetta.”

I thought I saw his tan lighten by a shade or two.

“The man who was murdered?”

“Yeah. Good old Gunner Panetta. Your childhood pal. Who was in your outfit in Nam. With the recently deceased Vito Rizzuto. The guy who saved your cookies and your reputation when you left him alone in the bush. The guy you and Bowles had murdered when he inconveniently showed up on Staten Island and decided that it was time to end the fraud that is your political career.”

The tan was being replaced by gray. Not quite 50 shades, but enough for me to worry that he might stroke out.

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Sure you do, Nate. Right now, you’re wondering what I’m doing still alive. You’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since your boy Rizzuto got himself killed after murdering Panetta’s cousin and her husband in Pulaski. Well, let me clear it up for you. Rizzuto spilled the beans before he croaked. To me.”

Our voices had remained conversational. Just two pals talking at the bar, which was crowded and noisy. We could have been talking about the Yankees for all anyone knew, not mass murder. I didn’t think anyone overheard us, but Yorke looked around nervously and then leaned in to me.

“You’re insane,” he rasped. “Go back into the fucking hole you came out of. I never killed anyone. You have no proof. Sure, I knew Panetta. I just didn’t want to capitalize on our relationship to win an election. I’m a respected legislator who is going to be the next borough president of Staten Island.”

“Yeah. And the next mayor, and governor, and president, yada, yada, yada.” I took out my cell phone and held it up for him to see. “But you might want to tell your wife and campaign manager to be a bit more discreet.”

He stared at the video, His mouth opened and closed, in a pretty good imitation of a guppy. Some spittle formed at one corner. Then he turned abruptly and started to walk away. By the time he reached the door he was running and almost knocked over a couple just walking into the restaurant. One of the men at his table shouted after him and then they all stood up in shock. They looked at me and I went over to them.

“Don’t worry. He’s OK. He’s running home to give his wife the Heimlich Maneuver.”

***

I considered my visit to Albany an unqualified success, so I decided to drive back to Staten Island. I wondered if Yorke would keep his flight date the next day with the Advance reporter, or try to rush back himself. I was pretty sure I’d beat him and wanted to be around for the fireworks. I wasn’t particularly proud of showing him the video, but, then, I hadn’t orchestrated or caused the murder of three innocent people. And, of course, he had been trying to have me killed for weeks.

I called Cormac from the New York Thruway. I told him what I now knew about Bowles and Teresa Yorke, and what I’d done in Albany.

“You continue to spread cheer and joy upstate, don’t you?”

“They need it. It was a tough winter. Look, I’m going to stake out Bowles’s house. I think something may break.”

“You think?”

“Want to join me?”

“I’ll bring sandwiches and coffee.”

“I’ll pick you up when I hit the Island.”

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.”

“A Byelorussian Ovcharka fears nothing,” Kalugin intoned. “There will not be a problem.”

I looked at Arman.

“My father would consider it a favor,” he said.

With the Rahms I was losing track of who owed what to whom, but then I remembered the bullet that went in Yorke’s ear. I nodded.

Arman smiled.

“Now that that is settled, might I have a word, Alton?”

Alice took the hint.

“I can make some coffee. Will you have some?”

“That would be wonderful,” Arman said. “And I don’t mean to cut you out, Alice. But I also don’t want you to hear things that might compromise you legally. If Alton wants to tell you, that’s different.”

“I understand. And thank you.”

“I will help you with the coffee,” Kalugin said.

They went upstairs.

“He’s very fond of her,” Arman said. “I believe it’s one of the reasons he puts up with you.”

“Any reason will do.”

Rahm laughed.

“So, my friend, what happened? I’ve heard a few things, but they are hard to believe.”

I told him everything. When I finished, he shook his head.

“Tragedy or farce? I don’t know what to make of it, Alton. A story started by an assassin and ended by another assassin. Yes, it was Veronica, as you suspect. And in between, more dead bodies than an Agatha Christie novel. Maks will be disappointed. He was hoping it was the Germans. What did Freud say? Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. You do lead an interesting life. That dog will feel right at home here.”

***

After Arman and Kalugin left, Alice and I called it a day in the basement. We were sitting on the deck drinking Bloody Marys.

“To Veronica,” Alice said, raising her glass.

I’d told her what Arman said.

“Are you going to thank her?”

“That’s not how it’s done. But maybe I’ll send her some gift-wrapped bullets.”

My new puppy was clumping around the deck, sniffing everything and slowly closing in on Scar, who was still sleeping after his bacon-fest.

“Look at those paws,” Alice said. “Maks said he will look mostly like a German Shepherd but be slightly bigger.”

“Great.”

“What will you call him? He needs a good name.”

We watched the puppy nose up to Scar, who lazily raised his head and looked at him. The pup barked — it was more of a squeak — and Scar gave it a half-hearted swat with his paw. The pup backed off a second but then resumed “barking,” moving even closer to the cat. Scar looked at him and then went back to sleep. The pup lay down beside the big cat, which was probably three times his size, and also fell asleep.

“He’s not afraid,” Alice said. “I think they’ll get along fine. So, do you want me to pick a name? Or are we looking at the new Scruffy?”

“No, there will never be another Scruffy. That name is retired. Besides, I just decided on a name.”

“What?”

“Gunner.”

THE END

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***

Alton Rhode returns in THE ELSON LEGACY. Here is an excerpt:

CHAPTER 1 - DOUBLE VISION

Atlas, Virginia

April

Colver Elson picked up the remote and started flipping through his cable channels. He scrolled through a series of cop shows: CSI, NCIS, CSI Miami, NCIS Los Angeles, Law and Order, NCIS New Orleans, Castle, The Mentalist, Rizzoli & Isles, Law and Order SVU, Criminal Minds, Blue Bloods and a couple he did not recognize. He often joked to his golfing buddies that they should be happy they lived in a small town because everyone in America’s big cities was apparently murdered or raped. He’d stopped watching such shows. As someone who dealt with crime himself, Elson found the police and forensic expertise of TV sleuths unbelievable.

With almost 700 cable shows to choose from, Elson couldn’t believe he was having so much trouble finding something to watch on his brand-new, 55-inch, wall-mounted plasma TV set. The cop shows were bad enough, but for the $100 a month extra he was paying for “premium service” he’d be damned if he’d watch retards wrestle alligators,  idiots chasing tornadoes or disgusting obese people compete to see who lost hundreds of pounds the fastest!

Finally, he found something he liked on The Blitzkrieg Channel, which was devoted to German operations during World War II. It was 10 PM. The show, Wehrmacht: In Living Color, was just starting.

Elson reached over to make himself another mint julep. A frequent visitor to the Kentucky Derby, he considered his juleps superior to any he’d ever had at Churchill Downs. It was now his standard drink and he was very particular about its makeup. Cracked ice was a necessity. And not the shaved ice that came out of the ice maker on the refrigerator door. It wasn’t the right consistency and smelled of freezer food to boot. No sir. He bought spring water chunk ice from the supermarket, chopped it up and double bagged it separately, and then put what he needed each night in an ice bucket on a sturdy table next to his chair in the den. He rendered that ice down to chips, using an antique jade-handled ice pick that had been in the family since the War of Secession. Next to the bucket was a half-full bottle of Evan Williams Single Barrel bourbon that he’d opened when he sat down. Close by was a small bowl with fresh mint and a glass mesh soda siphon.

Elson was still a good-looking man, six-foot-two with a full head of white hair, piercing blue-gray eyes and the ruddy complexion of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors, either on a golf course or in the saddle. Of course, he wasn’t a spring chicken any more, and some of the ruddiness of his 69-year-old visage could be attributed to all the bourbon he drank. He still cut a swath with the ladies of a certain age, although he now often needed a boost from the little blue pills his doctor prescribed. And for a small town, Atlas, Virginia, provided a surprising number of willing bedmates, mainly widows and divorcees who felt sorry for such a vital man whose wife had passed on and who suffered the tragedy of a mentally disturbed daughter. Colver Elson felt absolutely no compunction playing the sympathy card. “Pity fucks”, as he called them, were still fucks, and he knew that some of his paramours were hoping to become the next Mrs. Colver Elson. His dance card was so full now he no longer needed to lure female lawyers and court-appointed “experts” to his bed with promises of fees from his nursing home connections. Elson had a jaundiced view of the legal profession in Atlas. My God, he often thought, if he was bisexual he would never have gotten any sleep!

Elson was having a hard time focusing on the TV screen. As usual when he drank too much, which was whenever he drank, Colver Elson was afflicted with double vision. His ophthalmologist said it was caused by a weakness in one of his optic nerves. Nothing could be done and it was only a minor irritation, except when he played golf or drove one of his cars. Putts were a bitch when aiming at two holes. And driving on a two-lane road that became a four-lane road was a challenge. But Elson was a lousy golfer even when sober, anyway. And as for driving a car while impaired, well, he was not concerned about being arrested. All the cops knew his car. None would have the temerity to stop him, or in the case of an accident, suggest a Breathalyzer or blood test.

Three more mint juleps later, the Nazis invaded France. Elson struggled to keep his eyes open. He enjoyed watching the Frogs getting their clock cleaned by Hitler’s Wehrmacht. There was a flash of lightning outside, almost immediately followed by a sharp crack of thunder that drowned out the artillery barrage on his TV screen. Elson looked out the large bay window of his study. The small grove of Eastern White Pine trees in his front yard began swaying in the wind and rain began to splatter against the window. Elson hoped the early spring thunderstorm would dissipate by morning. Sunday was the opening-day tournament at his golf club.

Well, the rain would be good for the Highbush Blueberry, Sweetfern, Partridgeberry, Jack-in-the-Pulpit, and Wild Sarsaparilla shrubs and plants he’d carefully planted in his yard around the pines. They were hardy enough to flourish in shade. Elson was proud of his gardens. He was always bragging about his green thumb.

***

Elson awoke with a snort. He’d fallen asleep. He glanced out the window. The rain had slackened off to a steady drizzle. He was not crazy about playing golf in the rain, but knew it would take a monsoon to cancel opening day.

Elson frowned. On wet grass, he would probably be allowed to “lift, clean and place” his ball on the fairway. That would negate his main advantage and strategy. Which was to cheat. He always improved his lie when no one was looking. Now everybody could do it!

He turned back to the TV screen. The images were now very blurry but he could still see that the Germans were still on the move. They seemed to have a hell of a lot more tanks. Elson laughed. Probably my double vision. The Krauts would have won the war with that much armor. But they were raising a lot of dust and the huts the Wehrmacht soldiers were torching seemed too dilapidated for France. The Nazis were apparently invading Russia. Elson looked at his watch. He had to bring it almost to his nose to read it. It was after midnight. He’d been out for almost an hour. I should go to bed, he thought. We tee off at 8 AM. Clyde is picking me up at 7:30.

But he wanted a nightcap julep. He lifted the lid off the ice bucket. There was just enough ice for another drink. His hand swept the tray for the ice pick. Where the hell was it? Must have dropped it.

Elson began pulling himself up so he could lean down to see where it had fallen when he noticed that he couldn’t see the TV screen anymore. He looked up and was startled to see two figures, dressed all in white, standing between him and the screen. He almost screamed in fright at the ghostly apparition. For a moment he believed he might be dreaming, or hallucinating. But the sounds of gunfire and martial music emanating from the TV behind the two spectral figures convinced him he wasn’t.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

He closed his right eye and squinted. It was a trick he used on the highway. What he lost in depth perception he made up in missed trees.

The two specters merged into one and moved toward him. He sat up and leaned forward and emitted a harsh laugh.

“What the hell are you doing here? Jesus, you scared the hell out of me.”

He was no longer afraid, and despite his inebriation Colver Elson felt an erotic stirring. The feeling was more intense for the forbidden memories it recalled. He stretched out his arms.

“Come here,” he said huskily.

The eight-inch ice pick entered his open eye and only stopped traveling when its hilt jammed into the bone that surrounded the socket. The solid steel shaft pierced his eyeball and then plunged five more inches into his brain. The first inch blinded the eye and caused excruciating pain. Now he did scream, and then was silent, as the damage caused by the next two inches of steel paralyzed him, although his other eyelid reflexively popped open. He slumped back in the chair as the ice pick severed more billions of neurons and insured that he would never leave the chair alive. Blood shot out of the ravaged eye and sprayed over the ice pick handle, as well as the hand that wielded it. The hand let go of the hilt, almost reluctantly.

The gruesome wound was not necessarily fatal. The human brain needs more oxygen to function than any other organ and is thus well supplied with blood, much of which now traveled down the shaft and ran off the end in a steady, crimson stream. Elson might have survived had quick and expert medical attention been available. In 1940 an assassin sent by Stalin to Mexico plunged an ice pick into Leon Trotsky’s head. Trotsky was lucid enough to tell his bodyguards to keep the assassin alive for questioning, but died the next day in the hospital from brain injuries and blood loss. Modern medicine might have saved Trotsky, although he probably no longer would have been a rival that Stalin feared.

But nothing would save Colver Elson. With its nerve pathways to his damaged brain severed, his diaphragm was now only working spasmodically. He would suffocate or bleed out, whichever came first.

Ironically, the ice pick had cured his double vision. With his one operative eye he could see quite clearly now.

Unable to move, speak or even blink, Elson watched his life drip off the end of the ice pick in living, or, rather, dying color.

***

If you would like to read all of THE ELSON LEGACY, you can use this link:

THE ELSON LEGACY

And we hope you will try all the author’s thrillers and mysteries available on Amazon or his website, www.lawrencedemaria.com. He can be contacted at ljdemaria@aol.com, and welcomes your comments.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lawrence De Maria began his career as a general interest reporter (winning an Associated Press award for his crime reporting) and eventually became a Pulitzer-nominated senior editor and financial writer The New York Times, where he wrote hundreds of stories and features, often on Page 1. After he left the Times, De Maria became an Executive Director at Forbes. Following a stint in corporate America – during which he helped uncover the $7 billion Allen Stanford Ponzi scheme and was widely quoted in the national media – he returned to journalism as Managing Editor of the Naples Sun Times, a Florida weekly, until its sale to the Scripps chain in 2007. Since then, he has been a full-time fiction writer. De Maria is on the board of directors of the Washington Independent Review of Books, where, when he’s not killing people in his novels, he writes features, reviews and a column.

***

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Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1 – SOMETHING BREWING

CHAPTER 2 - SPEECHES

CHAPTER 3 - SNAPPER

CHAPTER 4 - STAGE FRIGHT

CHAPTER 5 - SKIPPER

CHAPTER 6 - BLOOD MONEY

CHAPTER 7 - CROSSROADS

CHAPTER 8 - UNION RULES

CHAPTER 9 - FLOOZY

CHAPTER - 10 PILATES

CHAPTER 11 - THE VILLAGE

CHAPTER 12 - SYRNIKIS

CHAPTER 13 - PULASKI

CHAPTER 14 - VICTORIA

CHAPTER 15 - OTTO

CHAPTER 16 – THE CHIEF

CHAPTER 17 - A NEW SKILL

CHAPTER 18 - SUNK

CHAPTER 19 - THE FRAME

CHAPTER 20 – THE COVERUP

CHAPTER 21 - RUSSIA

CHAPTER 22 - BUBBLES

CHAPTER 23 - A PLAN

CHAPTER 24 - BOWLES

CHAPTER 25 - ALBANY

CHAPTER 26 - THREESOME

EPILOGUE

ALSO BY LAWRENCE DE MARIA

ABOUT THE AUTHOR