CAPRIATI’S BLOOD

A Novel By

Lawrence De Maria

Capriati’s Blood, a novel by Lawrence De Maria

Copyright © Lawrence De Maria 2012 (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.

Special thanks to Nancy Kreisler, Maryellen Alvarez and Deborah Thompson.

Dedicated:

To Patti, without whose love, support and faith this book

– and others –

would not have been possible,

and to my two sons, Lawrence and Christopher, good men, both.

CAPRIATI’S BLOOD

PROLOGUE

“They look smaller than the last bunch.”

“You’ll get more in the box,” the elderly woman working the counter said. “Same price. You can’t beat it.”

“They taste the same?”

“If anything, they are sweeter.” She pointed to a stand a few feet away. “We have some free samples cut up over there. Try them.”

The man looked over at the table and saw that some flies hadn’t needed an invitation.

“I’ll take your word for it.” His mother probably wouldn’t know the difference. At least that was what he’d been told. The information had eased his conscience. Why risk a visit to someone who wouldn’t even recognize her own son? But perhaps the occasional – and anonymous – gifts would soon be unnecessary. But just the thought of what he was going to do sent rivulets of sweat down the man’s sides. “What do I owe you?”

“It comes to $34.95, shipping included east of the Mississippi.”

Prices were going up on everything.

“Where’s it going?”

The customer recited the address. Three times. Like everyone else in the goddamn town, the clerk was a few years past her expiration date. That was one reason he was about to take the biggest risk of his life.

“Want to include a card?”

“No.”

“What’s the return address?”

“If it doesn’t get there,” he said, smiling. “I don’t want them back.”

“I know, but we can apply a refund to your account.”

“I don’t have an account.”

“It would be credited to your card. We take them all. American Express, MasterCard, Visa, Discover. Debit cards, too.”

“I’m paying cash, don’t worry about it.”

“Well, if you give us your address, phone number and email, we can contact you.”

He wanted to throttle the old crone. But long ago, for safety’s sake, the man learned not to make a scene.

“No, thanks.”

“We send out emails about our specials. People love them.”

He took a deep breath and forced another smile. Then he pulled out his wallet and handed the woman $40.

“Just send the box. Keep the change.”

***

It took the man an hour and a half to drive to Fort Lauderdale and settle in at the rundown motel off Dixie Highway straight out of the 1980’s and run by a couple of Russians, which he thought was ironic considering what he was about to do. He registered using one of the many phony I.D.’s he’d collected over the years. They’d wanted a credit card at the desk “for incidentals,” which from the look of the place might include pest control, but the extra hundred bucks he gave them along with the room charge he prepaid shut the Russkies up. They assumed he just wanted to get laid and didn’t want to leave a paper trail. They were half right.

The call he planned to make on the room phone wasn’t going to cost a hundred bucks. It would be short, sweet and to the point. A previous call, made a few days earlier from a similar dump in Sarasota, had insured that the lawyer would be in at 4 P.M. to take his call. The lawyer’s secretary was a dim bulb but the mention that he had important information about the lawyer’s main client finally sealed the deal.

The man looked at his watch. An hour to go. There was a bar across the street from the motel. He walked across and had three stiff bourbons. The last one barely managed to stop the tremor in his hand. One of the rummies sitting on a nearby stool smiled in commiseration. He pegs me as an alky like him, the man thought. He doesn’t know I’m just scared shitless.

***

“It’s that call you’ve been expecting, Mr. Rosenberg.”

Samuel Rosenberg’s secretary stood in the doorway to his office and could have announced the arrival of the Messiah with less fanfare. She was all of 22 and proof to him that the New York City public education system had gone into the toilet. He had tried to get her to use his first name and the phone intercom, with no luck on either.

Rosenberg sighed. She had only recently mastered the basic legal forms he rarely produced. His previous secretary was canned for running her mouth in the wrong places and the lawyer decided that if he had to choose between stupid and indiscreet, stupid was the way to go.

“Thank you, Francine,” he said. “That’s a fetching outfit you are wearing today.”

She smiled and twirled away. Her clothes were still terrible, he knew, but at least they now covered her midriff. That was one battle won.

“This is Samuel Rosenberg,” he said into the phone. He looked at the calendar on his desk for the name. “What can I do for you, er, Mr. Wagner?”He put his feet up on his desk and rocked back in his chair. “You mentioned something about one of my clients. I have many. Can you be more specific.”

“Quit dicking around, counselor. You don’t want me to be specific. We both know who we’re talking about. I want you to be an intermediary between us. I have a proposal, a trade.”

“I’m listening.”

“I know who killed Fred Jarvis.”

Rosenberg’s feet came off the desk as he sat up. Like every attorney on Staten Island, he remembered the unsolved killing. Jarvis was a piece of crap, a crook, but a lawyer nonetheless. If crooked lawyers became targets on Staten Island, who was safe?

“If it wasn’t you,” Rosenberg said coldly, “then I suggest you contact the police. If you need representation, I can suggest someone. What does this have to do with my client?”

“You’re client was with me. He saw everything, too.”

Jesus H. Christ. He reached for a pad and noted the time, just because he felt he had to do something. He looked at the caller I.D. It said “Unknown Number.”

“I thought that might get your attention. I guess he forgot to mention it. We were young, and just along for the ride, so to speak. Even so, we might have been implicated as accessories. Not that we were inclined to say anything back then. We were all just one happy family. But things have changed. I read the papers. He’s got a shitpot of reasons why he’d want the murder solved now, capische? He would probably love to blow the whistle, but can’t, not without corroboration. So, here’s the deal.”

After the man finished speaking, Rosenberg said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“It won’t be easy, pal, there is a slight problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Your client wants to kill me.”

***

A half hour later Rosenberg pulled into the Crooke’s Point Marina in Great Kills Harbor. Not for the first time he reflected that, considering who owned many of the boats docked there, the “e” could have been dropped from the marina’s name.

Nando Carlucci was standing on the bridge of a Grady White whose engine was just then rumbling to life. Rosenberg climbed aboard clumsily. He didn’t like boats, or fishing. But it was hard to bug a boat, especially when his client belonged to a boat club that allowed him the use of dozens of crafts of varying sizes on short notice. At least the Grady White was big enough to have an interior cabin. It really was cold. Ten minutes later he and Carlucci, the grossly overweight head of Staten Island’s last remaining Italian crime family, were cruising a half mile offshore, far from any possible listening devices aimed their way. Yes, thank God for the Grady, Rosenbrg thought. Nando in anything smaller was an invitation to capsize.

“So, what the fuck is so urgent?”

The lawyer told him. Carlucci stared at him for a full minute.

“I can’t believe the balls on the guy. After what he did to me. He’s right, I’ll kill him. What did he call himself?”

“Said his name was Wagner.”

“Son of a bitch.”

When Carlucci calmed down, he said, “What does he want?”

Rosenberg braced himself for another tirade.

“One million dollars and a head start after the trial.”

Carlucci erupted again, flinging charts and ashtrays around the cabin. When he stopped, he said, “What do you think? Can you swing the deal?”

“I think so. It would be a feather in the D.A.’s cap. Can you swing the million?”

“Yeah, but tell him some of it has to be in jewelry, mostly diamonds.”

Rosenberg didn’t want to know where the jewelry was coming from. There had been a rash of burglaries in some of the borough’s most upscale neighborhoods over the past few months. The cops were stumped, since some of the homes had state-of-the-art alarm systems. But the burglars vanished before the response cars arrived on the scene.

***

Wary at first, the D.A. and his assistants had grown more interested and animated as Carlucci and his lawyer outlined his plan in more detail during several secret meetings.

“We insist on full immunity for Mr. Carlucci,” Rosenberg said, “as well as for the corroborating witness.”

That had been the sticking point during the weeks of negotiations. The D.A. and his subordinates loathed Nando Carlucci. The idea of letting the fat mobster off the hook for a murder was repugnant to them.

“But you still won’t tell us who this alleged witness is,” one of the A.D.A’s said.

“You don’t have to know that now,” Rosenberg said. “You have nothing to lose. We’re the ones who have to produce. Mr. Carlucci wants to do his civic duty and clear his conscience, even though he was but an innocent bystander in the lamentable affair.”

In the end, the D.A. went along with it.

“We’ll get Carlucci eventually,” he said after the meeting. “One big fish at a time.”

As they drove away from the D.A.’s office, Rosenberg said, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Nando. This is a big risk. Opens up a can of worms. He’d better produce.”

“Don’t you worry, counselor. He’ll produce. He wants it bad.”

“It’s not just you, Nando. I’ve got my reputation to think of. My name will be anathema with the D.A. if we stiff him on this.”

Carlucci looked at his lawyer with ill-concealed contempt.

“Your fuckin’ name is an enema. You got no reputation to protect. Just do your job and wrap up the immunity thing tighter than a virgin’s pussy. I don’t have to remind you what happened to the last lawyer that fucked with my family, do I? That’s how we got here, ain’t it?”

CHAPTER 1 – THE RED LANTERN

Two Months Later

The workmen wheeled the last of the potted plant life into my office on hand dollies.

“You sure you don’t want us to put some out in the reception area, Mr. Rhode?”

“I haven’t finished painting it and the carpet is coming next week,” I said. “I’d only have to move them all.”

He shrugged and handed me an envelope.

“Miss Robart wrote down some instructions on how to care for them. She said if you have any questions, just call.”

I’m not a plant guy. I’d keep the hardiest. The best shot at survival for the rest was my plan to donate them to other offices in the building. I called Nancy Robart at the Staten Island Botanical Garden to thank her for the foliage. She was the Executive Director and had donated the plants to give my new digs “some much needed class.” She was at a luncheon, so I left the thank you on her voice mail.

Lunch sounded good to me. I opened a drawer in my desk, dropped Nancy’s instructions in it and pulled out the holster containing my .38 Taurus Special. A lot of people in my line of work don’t carry guns. Most of them have never been shot at, in war or peace. I have, in both, and like the comforting feel of iron on my hip. Besides, with all the hoops you have to jump through to get a permit in New York City (if you fill out the paperwork wrong they send you to Guantanamo), it seems silly not to carry. The Taurus revolver has only five chambers in its cylinder, to keep the weight down. But the bullets are big. The gun is meant for close-in work. Presumably if you need more than five shots a sixth won’t matter.

I clipped the holster on my belt and shrugged into the brown corduroy jacket that was draped on the back of my chair. The jacket felt a little tight around the shoulders. I wasn’t back to my old weight but my rehab, which included lifting iron, was redistributing muscle. I’d have to get my clothes altered soon. Or, assuming I got some clients, buy some new threads. But the jacket still fell nicely, even if it didn’t quite cover the paint smudges on my jeans, and there was no gun bulge.

I walked down the stairs to the building lobby. The docs at the V.A. hospital said it would help strengthen my leg and it seemed to be working. The limp was barely noticeable. I stopped at the security station by the elevators and told the guard that I’d left my office unlocked because the cable company was scheduled to install my high-speed Internet and phone system sometime in the afternoon.

“You’re the private eye on eight,” she said. “Rhode.” Her name tag said “H. Jones” and she was sturdily stout without being fat. Her skin color was only slightly darker than her tan uniform. “What time they give you?”

“Sometime between 1 PM and the next ice age,” I said.

“I hear you.” She wrote something in a large cloth-bound ledger, the kind that used to sit on hotel check-in counters and private eyes were able to read upside down in noir movies. I never could read upside down, so the move to hotel computers made no difference to me. “You coming back?”

“Yeah. Just running out to pick up some lunch.”

“Where you headed?”

“Red Lantern, in Rosebank. You know it?”

“Oh, man. Best eggplant hero in the borough.”

“Can I bring one back for you?”

“Sure.”

She bent to get her purse.

“Forget it. My treat. What’s the ‘H’ stand for?”

“Habika. It means ‘sweetheart,’ in some African language I have no clue about. My folks had just seen Roots when I was born. Coulda been worse, I guess.”

“Alton,” I said, extending my hand.

“Like I said, it coulda been worse,” she said. “You can call me ‘Abby’. Everyone else does. Abby Jones.”

“Why not sweetheart, or sweetie?”

“Cause then I hit you upside your head. Listen, my brother works at the cable company. I’ll give him a call to make sure they don’t forget about you.”

A Rhode rule: It never hurts to buy an eggplant hero for a security guard.

There was a bank branch in the lobby. It had an ATM but the daily limit was $400 and I had a bar tab to square. I was working off the cash from a dwindling home equity line of credit inexplicably approved by the same bank. I wondered if I could be nailed for trading on inside information if I shorted its stock because it lent me the money.

The branch manager came out of his cubbyhole to shake my hand, smiling effusively. He led me over to a cute little redhead teller who thanked me before, during and after the transaction. If I’d wanted a toaster, she would have gone home and taken one from her own kitchen. The banks had a lot of PR ground to make up.

I now had a grand in my pocket. Flush and hungry; a combination that always works for me. I planned to walk the mile or so along Bay Street to the Red Lantern. But it was drizzling, with the imminent promise of something heavier. With a corduroy jacket I’d weigh as much as Donald Trump’s hairdo by the time I arrived. I don’t use an umbrella unless animals are lining up two-by-two on the ark ramp.

My three-year old light blue Chevy Malibu is distinguished only by several round indentations on its trunk and rear panels. I’d bought it at Honest Al Lambert’s Used Car Lot in Tottenville. Al had acquired six almost-pristine Malibus at auction from a rental fleet, but hadn’t counted on the car carrier transporting them from Denver running into a vicious hail storm in Indiana. The vehicles on top had their windshields smashed and their bodywork turned into the far side of the moon. Undaunted, Al tried to sell me one of those. But even the dimmest suspect might notice being followed by a car with more dimples than a golf ball. So I opted for one of the Malibus on the carrier’s first level, which sustained little damage but were still heavily discounted. It looked like every third car on the road. Still, I made a few modifications, including a passenger-side ejector seat activated by a red button hidden in the gear shift. I didn’t actually do that.

At the Red Lantern all the parking spots, including those next to fire hydrants, bus stops and “No Parking” signs, were filled with cars that had official stickers or emblems: police, fire, sanitation, court officers, judges, Borough Hall, Coast Guard. Coast Guard? The NFL season was in full swing. It was Friday and the regular lunchtime crowd was inflated by dozens of people dropping off betting slips for Sunday’s games in the bar’s huge football pool. My glove compartment was full of phony decals and emblems that I would have used in an illegal spot if one was available, but I couldn’t chance double parking and blocking in some Supreme Court judge. I settled for a spot two blocks away.

This section of Rosebank, once almost exclusively Italian, with a sprinkling of Jewish delis and bakeries, now had businesses run by more recent immigrants. I passed a Korean nail salon flanked by an Indian restaurant and a Pakistani convenience store. Across the street was something called the Somali-American Social Club, where a tall man in a white dashiki stood outside smoking. Probably didn’t want to light up inside near the explosives. Two doors down, Gottleib’s Bakery, a local institution for 80 years, still held the fort. If World War III broke out, I was pretty certain it would start here.

Inside the Red, patrons were two-deep at the rail keeping three bartenders hopping. All the tables in the front and back rooms were occupied and I pushed my way to the bar. The front room had dimpled tin ceilings that tended to amplify and redirect noise. In fact, because of an acoustic anomaly, something said at one end of the bar might be heard clearly at the other end. Of course, most conversations were lost in the mix of babble, but people still tended to be discreet. If you wanted to ask for a quick blow job in the car, or you were a city councilman asking five large in cash from a contractor who needed a zoning variance, you might as well put it on cable. The half-oval bar ran the length of the front room and had a dark green leather border matched by the upholstery of high-back swivel stools. A large silver trophy depicting a crouching man with his hand swept back occupied a place of honor next to the register. Its nameplate read “R. Kane.” Underneath that, “1973 Tri-State Handball Championships.” A third line said “Second Place.”

Roscoe Kane, 60 pounds past his handball prime, lumbered over. I reached in my pocket, counted off $500 and put it on the bar.

“Take me off the books.”

“Business picking up?”

“I’m being optimistic.”

Reaching behind the register, Roscoe pulled out a beat-up marble notebook of the type your mother bought for your first day of school. He laid it on the bar, flipped some pages, picked up a pencil and crossed something out. He took $420 from the pile and put it in the cash drawer. At the same time he reached down into a cooler, lifted out a bottle of Sam Adams Light, twisted off the cap with one hand and slid it down to me. Ex-handball champs don’t lack for manual dexterity. He put the notebook away. I knew that dozens, maybe hundreds, of similar notebooks had served the same purpose since the Red Lantern, one of the oldest taverns in the city, opened its doors back when the Kings Rifles garrisoned Staten Island.

Roscoe put some bar nuts in front of me and said, “Glass? Lunch?”

“No, and yes,” I said through a mouthful of nuts. “Two eggplant heroes to go.”

I took a long draw on my beer. It was ice cold. Not too many people drank Sam Adams in the Red, let alone Sam Adams Light, but Roscoe kept in a stash for me. It was the only light beer I’d ever had that didn’t taste light.

I said, “Is it true that the Algonquins ran a tab in here?”

“Never. Bastards stiffed us.”

“Yeah,” one of the regulars at the bar snorted, “and this place hasn’t bought back a drink since.”

As I sipped my beer, I turned to scan the opposite wall, which was covered floor to ceiling with tally sheets for the 1,400 people in the football pool. The alphabetically-listed entrants were a democratic cross section of the populace, including just about every elected and appointed official, several judges, a smattering of assistant district attorneys, college professors, scores of cops and half the hoods in the borough. The sheets were taken down after the Monday night games and updated by the three elderly Italian ladies who also ran the kitchen. No one questioned their cooking or their accuracy.

I felt a blast of chilly air. The bar’s cheerful hubbub eased a bit and one of the other bartenders said “shit” under his breath. I turned as Arman Rahm and a fire hydrant entered the bar. The fire hydrant’s name was Maks Kalugin and had more bullet holes in him than Emperor Maximilian.

CHAPTER 2 – THE RUSSIANS

It wasn’t quite the parting of the Red Sea, but people moved out of their way as Rahm and his bodyguard moved toward me. My five-shooter suddenly seemed inadequate.

“Stolichnaya, no ice,” Rahm said, slapping a betting slip on the bar. “Maybe Washington Red Sox win this week and I get them all, hey Rooscoo, my friend? Just wait until I know how to spread the punts.”

The restaurant chatter noise had returned to its normal level. Genghis Kahn on horseback would only arouse passing notice during football Friday.

“It’s the Washington Redskins, you dumb commie bastard, and the term is point spreads,” Roscoe growled, picking up the slip. Normally dour at best, he now looked like he was sucking a lemon.

Rahm laughed; being insulted by Roscoe was a rite of passage and sign of respect in the Red Lantern, which served all comers and had a clientele as diverse as the cantina in Star Wars, except that it was human. With the possible exception of two thugs sitting down at the end of the bar. Kalugin spotted them, nudged his boss and said “Carlucci.”

“Soviet Union dead long time, Rooscoo,” Rahm said. “We capitalists now, although I do share your wealth when I win pool. And I like to buy my friend here a drink, welcome him home.” He looked at me. “What you say, Alton?”

“Sure,” I said.

Stoli and Sam Adams. Détente on a bar stool. Roscoe brought the vodka and poured it into two glasses. Kalugin was on duty and not drinking. Rahm and I clinked.

“Za Zdrovia,” he said.

“Spasibo.”

We knocked them back. Prepped by the beer, I felt a warm glow. I’d be happy to have another. A hard-drinking friend of mine once told me he often wondered why he was so fond of liquor, considering how bad he felt after a bender. “Then I have a drink and I remember why.” I’d have to be careful. The consulting shrink at the VA hospital in Dyker Heights in Brooklyn said I was still combat-stressed and in danger of abusing alcohol. I told her my leg hurt less after a couple of drinks. She looked at me for a long minute and then prescribed some pills. Turned out they go pretty well with booze.

Roscoe refilled our glasses. Kalugin kept his eyes on the two men at the end of the bar, glancing at the front door every time it opened. Short, bald and brutish, with a mashed nose and cauliflower ears, he had the weathered visage of a peasant with piles and could have been anywhere from 40 to 80. He was wearing a pea coat and turtleneck, both black, as were his pants and hobnailed boots. Rahm, on the other hand, was elegant in a dark brown Ferragamo shearling jacket, heather green crew sweater, designer jeans and Italian suede boots. Tall, slim of waist but broad through the shoulders, he had slicked-back dark hair and high-cheekboned, chiseled features. He looked like a Czarist cavalry officer from a 1920’s silent film. I said as much.

“And you look like someone who shops at Goodwill,” he replied, in perfect English.

“I’m painting my office.”

“Or vice versa,” he said, looking at my hands and signaling for two more vodkas.

“Arman, I was sorry to hear about Stefan.”

Stefan Rahm, older brother and heir apparent to the family “business,” had been shot to death by assailants unknown almost a year earlier as he stepped from his car in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, after reportedly visiting a mistress. The Carluccis were on the very long list of suspects that included other ethnic mobs. I never liked Stefan. But a brother is a brother.

“Thank you, Alton.”

We clinked glasses again.

“Stefan” I said.

“Stefan.”

The Carlucci wise guys were staring at Rahm, as were two women Assistant District Attorneys at a nearby table, one of them an attractive blonde. The women’s glances did not seem to be purely professional. Rahm ignored the men and stared boldly at the women. Then he raised his glass to them. One quickly turned her head. The blonde didn’t. She smiled and raised her glass before going back to her meal.

“Gorbachev here hit 15 out of 16 the second week,” Roscoe said, pouring two more vodkas. “Wouldn’t know a point spread from a beaver spread. Didn’t even have to split the four grand with anyone else.”

“Hey, Roscoe, the booze is flowing like molasses over here,” one of the regulars on our end of the bar groused. “You retire or something?”

“Hold your water, I’m coming,” he said as he shuffled off, mumbling, “Washington fucking Red Sox. Jesus.”

Rahm was about my age. He had inherited his brother’s portfolio and served as “cabet” – counsel – to his father, Marat Rahm, the head of the borough’s Russian “Bratva,” or brotherhood. Marat was not your typical mob boss. Highly educated and reportedly also a former intelligence agent for the Russian GRU, he recruited talent from outside his natural ethnic circle.

“Surprised to see you here at all, Arman, let alone in an NFL pool. And what’s with the Russian accent? You sounded like Sig Ruman in Ninotchka. You were born here, went to Columbia and Wharton, for Crissakes.”

He laughed and leaned in to me, lowering his voice.

“Played freshman football at Columbia until my mother found out. Was afraid I’d break my fingers and waste all my piano lessons. She had visions of me going to Carnegie Hall; being an American Van Cliburn. I just like to break Roscoe’s balls.”

“Van Cliburn was an American.” I said.

He gave me a wintry smile.

“Funny how things work out. I don’t play much piano these days. I know more about football than these idiots. So I make an exception to my rule about never wagering on any sporting event where the participants have two legs. Besides, I love the food here.”

The attractive blonde A.D.A. got up from her table and walked by, stumbling slightly into Rahm. He put out his hand to steady her and she took it.

“Thank you,” she said.

“My pleasure,” he replied.

As she headed past Rahm on her way to the ladies’ room, he opened his palm. In it was a slip of paper, with what looked like a phone number.

“Not to mention that there are some high-class women in here,” he said, pocketing the slip. “Better than in our topless dives in Midland Beach.”

Midland Beach was the center of Russian mob operations on Staten Island. Russian and Ukrainian immigrants, as well as political and religious refugees, had initially gravitated to Brooklyn, especially Brighton Beach. Perhaps it’s a Dardanelles complex, but I’d never met a Russian who didn’t want to be near the ocean, any ocean. There was a strong underworld presence in the Russian community, outgrowths of the “vor v zakone” – or “thieves in law” – gangs that gestated in Soviet gulags. Loosely organized murder-for-hire and extortion bratvas using “Moscow rules” killed indiscriminately. They soon evolved into various families, frankly emulating the Italian Mafia, or at least the Mafia portrayed in The Godfather. This cut down on the murders, but now Russians were enthusiastically engaging in prostitution, gambling, securities fraud, hijacking and drugs, as well as every sort of legitimate business, only some of which was designed to launder criminal income. For Brighton Beach Russians, mobsters and otherwise, the natural progression was to Staten Island. Presumably the next stop is that Nirvana of all emigrant Brooklynites – New “Joy-sie.” They had settled in Arrochar, South Beach and Midland Beach, and were slowly spreading along the Island’s southern shore. Rahm’s family ran most of the illegal activities on Staten Island not held by the remnants of the Mafia.

“From the looks on their faces, you’re giving our friends over there indigestion,” I said, nodding at the two men staring at Rahm. “Not worried about them?”

“Those two clowns? What can they do? Even the Carluccis know this is neutral territory. Besides half the people in here are cops.”

I looked at the other Russian.

“Still brought Quasimodo with you.”

Kalugin had been Marat Rahm’s personal bodyguard. After  Stefan’s assassination, Marat probably told him to stay close to his remaining son.

Rahm shrugged.

“It’s a long walk from the car.”

Apparently even Russians didn’t double-park in front of the Red Lantern.

Rahm’s eyes were still on the A.D.A.

“You know, I’ve never fucked a District Attorney, at least literally.”

“Aren’t you worried it might be a setup? She could wear a wire.”

He looked at me. His dark eyes were mischievous.

“I’ll do a full cavity search.” He leaned back against the bar. “I heard you were wounded in that Muslim shit hole. Roadside bomb?”

“AK-47. Thanks for that, by the way. You guys left a few lying around after you skedaddled.”

Kalugin growled, “How many times?”

“How many times what?”

“You shot.”

“Twice.”

“Pizda!”

“Yoda just called me a pussy,” I said.

“I was there,” Kalugin said. “In 1987. The 58th Motorized Rifle Division. Taliban shot me four times. And it was with one of the million fucking Kalashnikovs you assholes gave to the rag heads. Where you hit?”

“Leg and side.”

Pizda!”

Two pussies is my absolute limit.

“Potselui mou zhopy,” I said. Kiss my ass.

I got off the bar stool. Might as well find out how my rehab program was working out, although I’d rather have tested it against someone who didn’t have the pain threshold of a mollusk. Legend had it that Kalugin once fell asleep in a dentist chair getting his teeth cleaned. Rahm said something sharply in Russian that I didn’t catch. Kalugin looked at me and smiled. The teeth cleaning had apparently been some time ago. Rahm patted my arm.

“Ignore him, Alton. Reminds me of my grandfather. He fought the Germans. Nobody could tell him anything, either. Speaking of which, why did you go back? Didn’t you have enough the last time?”

“Reserve unit was called up,” I said, sitting down. “I had a specialty they needed.”

“What was that?”

“Target.”

Even Kalugin liked that.

“Who order eggplant?”

We turned to see an old Italian women, who would have given Kalugin a run for his money in the girth department, holding a paper bag. I took the bag from her and she gave me the bill, which I put on top of my remaining money on the bar. She looked Kalugin up and down, wiped her hands on her stained apron and snorted before walking away.

“Lady killer,” I said.

“Smells delicious,” Rahm said. “Glad you’re back in one piece. Again. Maybe we can shoot a few hoops some day. ”

“But not at Cromwell,” I said.

Cromwell Center was a huge city-run athletic facility where generations of kids played basketball on 20 courts and mostly stayed out of trouble. Until recently it had stood on a pier jutting into the harbor. It had suffered years of neglect from politicians while receiving the undivided attention of thousands of wormlike salt-water wood borers that gorged themselves on the pier’s pilings. Only the fact that it began listing slowly, giving people a chance to run for it, prevented a tragedy when it fell into the harbor.

“So, you’ve heard about that,” Rahm said. “The new Yankee Stadium cost a billion dollars, and the city is falling apart.” He tossed some bills on the bar. “And they say I’m a crook. Well, I’ve got to go.” He put out his hand and I took it. “By the way, my great-grandfather was a Czarist officer. A Rahmanov. He shortened the name when the Bolsheviks won. Sounded too much like everyone Lenin and Stalin were shooting.”

Half the restaurant watched them leave. As Rahm passed the blonde’s table they nodded imperceptibly to each other. I swiveled back to the bar to settle up my bill.

“I didn’t know you and the Red Menace were such pals,” Roscoe said as he gave me my change.

I thought that over. Just what were Rahm and I? I hadn’t seen him in almost two years. But we were certainly more than acquaintances. Our paths crossed frequently in high school and during college breaks, usually during pickup basketball games at Cromwell. After a game, we’d almost always wind up in the same gin mill.

“He supplied me and my buddies with fake proof after they raised the drinking age to 21. Always had a stack of them handy.”

“Somebody in Albany musta owned a factory turning out fake proofs,” Roscoe said. “Always changing the age on us. Couldn’t ever keep up.”

“Who you kidding, Roscoe,” a guy next to us said, “You’d serve a fetus.”

“Why not,” Roscoe replied. “I serve abortions like you, don’t I?”

It is impossible to get the better of Roscoe in the insult department. The guy didn’t even try and Roscoe turned back to me.

“So? You and the Russkie still close?”

“Hardly.”

“Could have fooled me. Rahm’s been asking about you for weeks.”

***

The rain had picked up when I left the Red, so I hugged the buildings. I could never figure out why that worked. Halfway to my car, someone behind me said, “Hey, pal.”

It was the two Carlucci guys. Both were sensibly wearing raincoats but their hair was already plastered to their heads. Both had mean, jowly faces.

“If you stand near the buildings, you’ll get less rain on you,” I said.

“What’s your business with Rahm,” the bigger of the two said. I had maybe an inch on him but he was well ahead of me in the Italian food department. I could have told him the truth: I had no business with Rahm. But maybe they knew something I didn’t. The world is discouragingly full of people like that.

“Who wants to know?”

It was lame but it was raining harder and the food was getting cold.

“Me, asshole.”

They both moved in on me.

“You, asshole, me Tarzan.”

That was marginally better.

“He’s a fucking riot, Benny,” the other guy said.

“I asked you a question, fuckwad. What did Rahm want?”

“I thought your name was Asshole. Well, if you must know, Rahm wants to hire me to find ugly, stupid, overweight thugs for his organization. You meatballs interested?”

“I’m through fucking with you,” Benny said, pushing me up against a door. “You think you got a limp now, I’ll tear your fucking leg off.”

“Wait,” I said, in what I hoped was a frightened voice. “I was just kidding. I’ll tell. Here, hold this.”

I handed him the bag. He probably never turned down a hero sandwich in his life. That was perhaps unkind. He was just taken aback. No matter, when he held the bag I hit him in the throat with the bent fingers of my right hand. I caught the bag with my left before it hit the ground. He staggered back, gurgling. His partner came at me but stopped when he saw what I was holding. Not the sandwich; the gun in my other hand.

“Am I going to have a problem with you?” He shook his head. “Didn’t think so. Now, I get to ask a question. Why so curious about what Rahm and I were talking about?”

Benny had his hands at his throat and seemed to have trouble breathing. I hoped I hadn’t over-quelled him. If I’d broken his windpipe he could be in serious trouble. I was out of practice. It’s been a while since a woman Marine Gunnery Sergeant running an unarmed combat class taught me the move. She was quite attractive, but none of us in the class ever asked her out. Benny made a sound like a turkey call. But his face wasn’t purple and the animal sounds were a good sign. But maybe thug No. 2 didn’t know that.

“We can stand here all day in the rain while Benny asphyxiates. I can always heat this sandwich up later.”

Benny made a timely “awk awk” sound and sank to his knees. The other guy caved.

“We were just told to see who he talks to. He’s been going to the Red lately. Never saw you before today.” Benny continued to provide sound effects. “C’mon, man. He’s dying. Give me a break. He’s my cousin.”

That complicated things. Gun or no, the guy might make a rash move with a relative in danger, so I decided to let it go.

“Want me to call 911?”  He shook his head again. “OK. Your cuz will probably be all right, but get him to an emergency room in case his throat starts swelling. Vamoose.”

I waved my gun to prod him and he bent to help Benny stand. They trundled off down the street. I holstered the Taurus and went on my way. A couple of Somali guys across the street looked at me. They’d seen the whole thing. I hoped they caught my sandwich grab in mid-air. Even I was impressed.

When I got back to my building I dropped off one of the heroes at the security desk and Abby Jones said, “A couple of cable guys are in your office.” Multiple cable guys? Abby had real clout.

There was a pile of mail just inside my door. I picked it up just as the cable guys came out of my office. One of them was sucking the back of his hand. I could see blood.

“I told him he shoulda moved the cactus,” the other one said.

I gave them each $20. I was going to need a separate line of credit soon just for tips.

After they left, I sat at my desk and went through the mail as I ate my lunch. There was a thick, glossy envelope from Omaha Steaks (“12 free burgers”). I looked at the envelope with something approaching affection. I admired the company’s persistence. One of the brochures had even followed me into combat, although the enclosed offer had expired by the time I got it. Indeed, I had almost expired.

There were also assorted bills, an offer to join the Wall Street Journal Wine Club, four credit card solicitations, a menu from a nearby Chinese restaurant and a magazine: Gay Lifestyle. I threw everything but the bills in the trash, including the magazine. I’d subscribed to it by mistake when filling out a form to trade frequent flier miles for various publications. Gay Lifestyle was listed just above Golf Lifestyle. The type was small, although the scotch I’d mixed with my pain meds might have had more to do with it, since I was also now getting New Zealand Life, Archery Unlimited and Muscle Car. I was beginning to enjoy those, but I’d tried to stop the other subscription. There is nothing wrong with a gay private eye, but the magazine was left outside my door where all the secretaries on the floor could see it. One even came by to ask my opinion on decorating her apartment!

I took off my jacket, dropped my gun in the drawer and got a Coke from a small refrigerator sitting by its lonesome in a corner without plants. I dug into my eggplant hero, which was everything it should have been.

CHAPTER 3 – ELLEN JAMES

A week later, I was watching two Moran tugboats shepherd the Yokahama Maru up the Narrows when the pounding stopped and I heard Scarlett O’Hara ask for me. Twice.

“I said, is Mr. Rhode in?”

It probably wasn’t Scarlett. Or even Vivien Leigh. But from the way the two carpet guys in my reception area started stammering I suspected she wasn’t a Clydesdale either.

I was standing at my window between two piles of boxes. I had a hell of a view of New York harbor. Only the law firm on the ninth, and top, floor, had a better one. It owned the building and I scored a corner office by promising to help out with an occasional skip trace, pro bono, probably the first time that phrase had been uttered by any of the lawyers. They liked the plants I gave them.

Even with binoculars the big seagoing tugs looked like a pair of dachshunds nipping at a rhino. The massive cargo carrier was piled high with hundreds of containers, hopefully none of them concealing a 20-megaton hydrogen bomb with “Death to the Infidels” etched on its casing. The incoming tide was battling both the East and Hudson Rivers and the wind wasn’t helping. The harbor water was choppy, the way it gets when a cold front comes through. Rain clouds were scudding in from the west. Drops were already splattering against my windows. I heard her laugh. The workmen appeared to be tongue-tied. I was conflicted. I wanted to see how the tugs would get the Maru around the bend into the Kill van Kull channel. But hers wasn’t the kind of voice I could ignore. It wasn’t just that I liked the way my name sounded when she said it – she might be a client. The first in a long while. Things in my office weren’t progressing as planned. The carpet guys had started three days later than scheduled.

I slipped the binoculars into a drawer of my desk. You can tell people you’re just looking at the harbor; they’ll still assume you are a Peeping Tom. When I peered out to the reception area all I could see were a pair of gorgeous legs. The Yokahama Maru was now on its own. The rest of her was blocked by the Hawaiian umbrella trees, Pigmy date palms and other exotic foliage still thriving in my office while the carpeters carpeted.

“Mr. Rhode?” The woman had pushed a frond aside and was looking at me. I was suddenly aware I hadn’t shaved in a while, and was wearing paint-splotched jeans and an old tan golf shirt with more paint streaks on the right sleeve. I smelled of sweat with a delicate overlay of enamel. “May we come in?”

She wasn’t alone. A waiflike young girl stood behind her smiling shyly. I realized I hadn’t said anything.

“Yes, of course. Please.”

Then I remembered the fresh paint on the door jamb.

“Stop!” I shouted, as I ran around the desk, bumping into a tower of boxes, which toppled over in slow motion with a loud crash, then played dominoes with a large cactus. I caught it just before it hit them.

“Son of a…!”

The spines hurt like hell. The young girl’s smile faded and her eyes widened as she shrank against the woman.

“The doorway may still be a little wet,” I said lamely. “Please sit, Ms…”

“James. Ellen James.”

She extended her hand. I checked mine to make sure I wasn’t bleeding. It wasn’t.

“This is my daughter, Savannah.”

“That’s a lovely name,” I said to the child, trying to regain some high ground.

“It’s where Mom is from,” she said. Her hand fluttered in my own like a small bird. Her eyes were downcast.

The hammering hadn’t resumed. The carpet guys were staring at Ellen James. From their vantage point, on hands and knees, they had a lot to stare at. As I started to close my office door, the man stenciling on the glass of the hallway door called out to me.

“Hey, pal, can I see you a second?”

“Excuse me,” I said to the woman.

As I brushed past her I caught a heady whiff of vanilla and jasmine. It beat the hell out of my Eau du Sherwin-Williams.

“It’s not on the work order,” the man said when I reached him, “but I got plenty of room for a middle initial. Whole middle name would be better, actually. Look real nice, balance things out.” He stood back, framing the still blank glass with his hands. A true artiste. “It’d be $15 extra for each letter.”

“I’d love to,” I said. “But I don’t want to pay for Bartholomew.”

That’s not my middle name.

“You get a 10 percent discount when it’s more than eight letters.”

He put his stencil in his mouth and started counting out the letters on his hand. Then,  his other hand.

“Thanks, anyway,” I said quickly. “Just what’s on the order is fine.”

“What about just ‘B’? The period is free.” He made a dotting motion with his finger. “My treat.” A little stencil humor.

He’d followed me to my office. Having made up a name, I couldn’t now give him a different initial. What a tangled web we stencil.

“No, just what’s on the work order. Thanks.”

He gave me a disappointed look as I closed my office door in his face.

“I’m sorry about this,” I said to the woman. “I just moved into this suite.” I liked the sound of that. My previous office qualified as a closet. “Please sit.” Luckily, some chairs had arrived the day before. Their plastic wrapping was still piled in a corner. I smiled at the young girl, who looked like she was about to cry. “Can I get either of you something to drink? I have some soda and bottled water.”

They both declined and I sat as Ellen James looked around the room.

“Are you an amateur botanist? Or perhaps you are going for an Avatar look?”

“Most of this will go in my reception area when it’s finished.”

Her teasing smile told me she had already figured that out. She crossed her long legs, accenting toned calves and providing a delicious glimpse of thigh. Her lustrous blond hair fell in waves her shoulders. Blue-green eyes framed a slightly upturned nose. Her mouth was wide and generous and she had a strong chin. She was wearing a cobalt blue dress with white dots that fringed below the waist. The modest roll neckline of the dress accentuated her long neck and hid her cleavage, but the swell of her breasts was, well, swell. Black onyx earrings and matching necklace. There was a sapphire ring on her left hand. No wedding band.

“I got paint on my dress,” the kid said, her voice quavering as she touched a small streak of blue on the light yellow pinafore. She had fine, delicate features but was unnervingly thin. Blue eyes that were actually not a bad match for the paint. I kept my mouth shut about that. Blonde hair, cut very short, stuck out from a red beret that gave her the look of a street urchin in a French movie.

Ellen James patted the girl on one knee.

“It’s all right, Savannah,” she said. “It was an accident. We can probably get it out. If not, we’ll buy another. Look, it happened to Mr. Rhode, too. On his sleeve.”

“I was hoping I could pass it off as a sports logo.”

“Perhaps if Rorschach made golf shirts, it might work. But it does go well with the spot on your collar.”

I hadn’t noticed that one. The girl wasn’t finding any of this funny.

“It’s the only one I liked,” she said, plucking at the paint on her dress. No accent that I could identify. Sounded like every kid her age.

Her mother looked at me and smiled.

“My daughter is upset. It’s her first new outfit in a long time. Her other clothes have gotten too big.”

Close up, the girl’s delicate beauty was compromised by hollow cheeks and an unhealthy pallor to her skin that makeup didn’t quite obscure.

“I think the paint is water-soluble,” I said, as if made a difference to a kid with a new frock. “And I’ll be glad to pay for a cleaning, or new dress.”

Well, not gladly. While a waterfront address on Staten Island cost a third the going rate in Manhattan, I had yet to rebuild my business. For now, paint, carpet, furnishings, computers, and just about everything but the phone system was on my home equity line.

“That’s kind of you, but unnecessary.” Ellen James looked me over. “I guess we caught you at a bad time. I tried to call, but your phone doesn’t appear to be working.”

“I’m still in a shakedown mode, using my cell. The phone company is coming this afternoon. How did you find me, Ms. James? I haven’t started advertising. I’ve been away for a while.”

“I saw an article in the local paper, about how reservists called back to duty for the war were re-adjusting to civilian life. Their jobs and so forth. You were mentioned. I have to say the photo didn’t do you justice.”

“That story sat around for a month. I’ve filled out a bit since they took the photo.”

“Oh, that’s right, you were wounded. How are you doing?”

“Fine. Just enough damage to ensure I won’t be called back unless we’re attacked by the Martians. But the story was local. Don’t tell me it made the papers in Georgia.”

She laughed.

“No, we have been staying in Manhattan and I was doing a little research about Staten Island and signed on to the paper’s website to look for someone in your line. That’s where I saw it. Just chance. A lucky one, I hope.”

“So do I.” I reached into my top drawer and pulled out one of my new business cards. “This has my new office number, and my cell.”

“Can I have one, too?” the girl said.

I gave her one and got a small smile in return. Progress.

“Now, Ms. James, how can I help you?”

“I would like you to find Savannah’s father. Do you do that kind of work?”

“I do a lot of things. That’s one of them.”

“Can you find people quickly?”

“Well, in this business you can’t make promises, but with computers, databases and search engines, it’s a lot easier to find people than in the past. That old boxing maxim, ‘he can run, but he can’t hide,’ has taken on a new meaning. People leave electronic trails on Twitter, Facebook, with IP addresses and emails, credit cards, cell phones. And, of course, there are more mundane avenues. Social Security numbers and bank records. Sooner or later they pop up on the grid.”  I was overcompensating for the unkempt appearance of myself and my office. “It’s actually frightening when you think about it.”

There was a yellow legal pad and a pen with a Holiday Inn logo on my desk. The only thing on the pad was a list of New York Jet draft picks who over the past 10 years didn’t even make the taxi squad. I had thought of jotting down all the women I’d slept with and was discouraged to realize it would be much shorter than the Jet list. I ripped off the top sheet of the pad, folded it and put it in my desk.

“What’s his name?”

“William Capriati.”

The pen ran out of ink on “Willia.” I went through some drawers looking for another.

“Will this help?”

I looked up. She was holding a gold Cartier pen that was probably worth more than my car. That was promising.

“Thanks.” I finished “William” and she spelled “Capriati” for me.

“Middle initial?”

“I don’t know.”

I looked at her.

“Do you have a recent address for him?”

“No.”

“Well, how about any address? Or phone numbers.”

“No, sorry”

“Family, friends, acquaintances?”

She shook her head.

“Can you hazard a guess where he might be? Last known whereabouts?”

“I’m afraid I can’t be much help in that regard.”

The next obvious question was whether she had any idea if he was still alive. But I didn’t want to ask it in front of the kid.

“I guess a Social Security number is out of the question.”

“I know very little about Billy,” she said, coloring slightly. “We weren’t together very long. I haven’t seen or heard from him since he ran off 14 years ago. He doesn’t even know Savannah exists.”

It sounded like Capriati was pretty good at running and hiding.

“What makes you think he is around here?”

“He may not be. But he told me he was born here. I’d never heard of Staten Island. I didn’t even know it was a borough of New York.”

“Some people still don’t think it is.”

“Yes, well, I’ve since found that out. You tried to secede from the city, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Didn’t quite work out.”

“As a Southerner, I can relate,” she said. “It didn’t work out for Georgia, either. At least you didn’t have Sherman.”

I resisted the urge to tell her about the Albany politicians who treated the borough like a leper colony.

“Did Capriati mention a specific section on the Island?”

Even today, Islanders identified with the “towns” or hills they lived in or on: Grymes Hill, Todt Hill, Emerson Hill, Tottenville, Huguenot, St. George, New Springville and a dozen others.

She brightened.

“No. But he did tell me he graduated from Wagner College and played football. He was very proud of that. Does that help?”

Wagner was on Grymes Hill, not far from my office.

“Maybe. College alumni associations are better than the C.I.A. at keeping track of people. Is there anything else I should know?”

“Only that you must locate him quickly. I can’t emphasize that enough, Mr. Rhode.”

“How quickly?”

Ellen James hesitated and looked at her daughter.

“Before,” Savannah said.

I turned to her.

“Before what, honey?”

“Before I die.”

CHAPTER 4 – LAST HOPE

As a conversation stopper, it was hard to beat. Savannah finally broke the uncomfortable silence.

“Mom, can I go watch the man working on the door? I think it’s neat how he does the letters.” Then she turned to me. “She finds it easier to talk about it when I’m not around.”

I looked at her closely and realized she was older than I’d thought. She could have been 14, maybe 15.

“Sure, sweetheart, if it’s OK with Mr. Rhode.”

Thank God.

“Of course it is. She can make sure he spells everything right.”

The girl, clutching my card, got up and walked out the door, shutting it behind her.

“I’m sorry about that, Mr. Rhode. Sometimes Savannah can be too direct. We don’t keep secrets from each other, but she should be more tactful in front of strangers.”

A pigeon fluttered to a landing outside my window. It was an older building, which meant it had ledges. And windows that opened. That made it easier to clean off the pigeon crap. Some of it had been there since Prohibition, and it took a chisel. The pigeon looked into my office and flew away, looking for a more upscale ledge.

“What did she mean, Ms. James?”

“Savannah has leukemia, a particularly virulent form. It was in remission but it’s come back. None of the drugs work anymore. She’s getting weaker and there’s the threat of infection and other complications. She needs her father.”

That explained the girl’s short hair. Chemo? A wig? Great. I’d scared a dying child. There was a pet shop down the block. Maybe I could borrow a puppy to kick.

“I’m sorry.” I cleared my throat. “I can understand why Savannah wants to find him. And maybe he would like to know, even help. But it’s just as likely that after so many years, he might not care. How would she take that?”

Ellen James leaned forward and placed her hands on her knees. The outline of her breasts became more prominent. I tried not to notice. Really.

“You don’t understand. The doctors at Sloane say that her only chance is a bone marrow transplant. She has no siblings.” She took in a lot of air. “And I’m not a match. I don’t have any living relatives we could type. It’s possible they can find someone – unrelated – genetically similar, but it’s a long shot. Sometimes it takes months and there are often complications with a stranger’s marrow. Immune responses are never fully suppressed.” Her voice took on a determined intensity. She sat back suddenly and her eyes radiated a fervor that was almost palpable. “My daughter has suffered enough! She’s had so many drugs, so many shunts and transfusions. It’s why she keeps her arms covered most of the time. She’s embarrassed at how they look. She’s getting to that age where those things are important to a girl. Look how she reacted to getting a little paint on her dress? No, Billy is her best hope. Maybe her last hope. I must find him. His marrow can save Savannah. I won’t lose her. I can’t. She’s all I have in this world.”

Tears formed in her eyes and began rolling down her cheeks. She reached into her pocketbook for a tissue and began dabbing them. She stood and walked to the window. Her shoulders were shaking. I got up and stood next to her and stared at New York Harbor. It was alive with fishing boats, small freighters, water taxis, cabin cruisers, skiffs, private yachts, sailboats, cruise ships, and NYPD and Coast Guard patrol boats. Because of the paint fumes, I had cracked my windows and I heard a distinctive horn blast as a yellow Staten Island ferry edged out of its slip at the St. George terminal.

“I’m sorry,” she said, blowing her nose. “You’d think it would get easier.” She took a deep breath. “I’m OK now. That’s certainly a huge ship. Almost seems too wide for that channel. We never got them that big in Savannah. Do the tugs ever miscalculate?”

The Yokahama Maru and the tugs were making the turn into the Kill, their captains earning every cent they made. I resisted the impulse to get my spyglasses.

“We have the best tug crews in the world,” I said, indulging in a little hometown pride. “They haven’t missed yet, which is why the Statue of Liberty is still there.”

She smiled. We sat. The tears hadn’t done much damage and I realized she wore little makeup. Her face softened and I got a glimpse of what she must have looked like as a young girl. Even more beautiful, and that was saying a lot.

“Do you have children, Mr. Rhode?”

I shook my head. My throat was a little constricted.

“Well, when you do, you will know how I feel.”

“I’m pretty sure I know that anyway.”

She looked at me appraisingly.

“Of course you do. Forgive me. That was unkind. We get into our own little world, don’t we? No one else is important. It’s selfish, I know.”

“Sometimes you have to be. Tell me about Capriati. Start at the beginning.”

She took another deep breath and then started speaking. With a voice like hers, she could have recited the Congressional Record and I would have listened all day. If I could have whipped up a julep, I would have. There was a bottle of Woodford Reserve Sweet Mash in the binocular drawer but I was a tad short of mint.

***

Ellen James said she was born in Savannah and like many Georgia belles headed to Atlanta right after graduating high school. She met Capriati when opening an account at the bank where he worked in Buckhead.

“I had just started my first job, for a company that built shopping malls throughout the South. I was so proud, having my own bank account and living independently, if you can call rooming with three other girls in a garden apartment complex independent living. And this vice president of a bank took an interest in me.”

“Bank vice presidents are usually one step up from teller,” I said.

“I know that now.”

Capriati swept her off her feet. There was even talk of marriage, sometime.

“Although, to be fair to Billy,” she added, “I did most of the talking.”

They’d been together for several months when one Friday he failed to pick her up.

“We were going out for a movie. He loved movies. After a couple of hours I called him. Left a message on his machine. He didn’t call back. When I couldn’t reach him the next day, I went over to his apartment. His car was still in its assigned slot. I rang his buzzer but there was no answer. Neighbors didn’t know anything. I was worried. Perhaps he had been in an accident. My girlfriends said I was overreacting. But if I was really concerned, I could contact the police. I did, and they told me, politely of course, that they had better things to do then look for a boyfriend missing one day. They suggested I call back if he didn’t show up for work.”

“And he didn’t.”

“No. I called the bank first thing Monday. Billy hadn’t come in. They didn’t seem worried. Probably figured he had a tough weekend. I left a message. But he didn’t call and I went over to the bank on my lunch hour. When I asked for him, their whole demeanor had changed. I was taken into the manager’s office. There were a lot of detectives in the room.”

“The bank reported him missing?”

“Yes, and a lot of money as well. Money Billy controlled. Wired out under his authorization. They asked me a million questions. What was my relationship? I must know where he was. That sort of thing. I told them everything I knew, but they still treated me like a common criminal, threatened to arrest me for withholding information. That’s when I realized I hardly knew anything about Billy. Thank God one of my roommates had a father who was an attorney. I couldn’t afford one. He came to the bank and they finally left me alone.”

“How much money was involved?”

“The papers said $90,000, but it must have been much more for them to get so worked up over it.”

“Not necessarily. Banks can steal billions and pay a fine. But steal a few grand from them they sic Eliot Ness and the Hound of the Baskervilles on you. Did they get him?”

“I don’t think so. There was nothing in the papers. He just disappeared. I even went back to the police and F.B.I. to inquire. By that time they knew I was just a fool. A few of them even took pity on me and told me they really had no leads. If he contacted me, would I, well, you know. But he never did.”

I sat back and looked at her. She read my expression.

“I know. If the F.B.I. couldn’t find him 14 years ago, when they had his address and everything, what chance do I have now?”

“They knew he was born here?”

“I guess so. I probably told them, if they didn’t know already.”

“He might have lied to you.”

“I thought of that. But he seemed to know Staten Island. He’d talk about growing up here. He knew I didn’t know anything about this place. Why would he make things up?”

“Listen, Ms. James.”

“Please, call me Ellen.”

“Ellen, I didn’t want to say this in front of your daughter, but Capriati could be dead.”

She sighed and gave a small wave with her hand.

“Yes. I know that’s a possibility. I’ve put it out of my mind for Savannah’s sake. But Billy would still be young and he was in great shape.”

“Young, healthy and a crook, with a lot of bad habits and perhaps nasty friends. He might be in a landfill.”

“Or coaching little league in some suburb and a member of the Chamber of Commerce,” she retorted. “Maybe he found Jesus.”

“Have you?”

“No, I found Nordstrom’s,” she said, smiling her wonderful smile.

“Have you gone back to the F.B.I. recently?”

“Yes, and they said the statute of limitations on Billy’s crime has run out. I told them about Savannah. They are sympathetic, of course. But what Billy did is pretty small potatoes in the current environment. He wasn’t John Dillinger. No guns, no leaping over the counter, just a keystroke. And apparently he never did it again, at least that they know about. They said they have more on their plate now, with everything that’s going on in the world, terrorists and all the billion-dollar Ponzis. They’d send out a memo, or something. But they can’t spare the resources to do much more.”

“What about the Atlanta police?”

“They can’t even find the files, it’s so long ago.”

“What was the name of the bank?”

“I think it was called Buckhead Savings & Loan. It was bought out years ago by a big national bank. Naturally, they never heard of a William Capriati.”

“What about the media. They are always looking for a story like this, especially if it involves a child.”

There was a knock.

“Excuse me.”

I went to the door and opened it. A carpet guy was standing there with a clipboard.

“We’re done. Just need your signature.”

I signed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw stencilman and Savannah in animated conversation. I closed the door and went back to my desk.

“Sorry.”

“I understand,” Ellen James said. “We know the feeling. We’ve been living out of suitcases for a while. As for the media, I’ve tried. Again, a lot of sympathy, but without a photo of Billy, they don’t think it has much sex appeal. I think I might be able to get a local station to do something, but who knows if he’s even still around here. And getting a national story? One reporter told me that transplant stories are a dime a dozen.” She smiled. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very diplomatic with him.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him he was an insensitive prick.”

CHAPTER 5 – HAIR TODAY, GONE TOMORROW

“Mother!”

We hadn’t heard Savannah come in. The stencil guy was just behind her.

I looked at Ellen James and we both laughed.

The stencil guy said, “We may have a problem.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“I don’t think so,” Savannah said.

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

Savannah followed the two of us out.

“What now?”

He pointed at the door: ALTEN RHODES/INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES. Then he handed me my business card.

“Kid noticed it. On your card it’s Alton. But my work order says Alten.” He whipped out a yellow sheet of paper and pointed a grimy finger at Alten. “See, right there.”

“I’m sure I spelled my name correctly over the phone,” I said. “I’ve been using it for quite some time. Your office must have made a mistake. You’ll have to do it over. It’s only one letter.”

“Not like Margie to screw up,” he said accusingly. “Now the spacing will be off. The ‘o’ will touch the ‘t’ and the ‘n’.”

“Call your office.” I turned to Savannah. “You OK out here for a few more minutes?”

“No problemo.”

I shut the door to my office and sat.

“Ellen, what happens if Savannah’s father isn’t a match?”

Her face became animated.

“Oh, he’s a match, all right. Not as good as a twin, but as close as you can get.”

“How can you be sure?”

She smiled, not at me, but at a memory. She looked out the window. We sat in silence for a moment.

“I was just 17,” she said, turning back to face me, her voice full of remembered wonder, “and in love with Billy, or thought I was. I’d kept a diary. You know how romantic a young girl can be about that sort of thing.”

“A diary? I don’t understand.”

“We’ve moved around a lot, Savannah and I, but I still had it. I went through it to see if I’d written something that could help me find him.” She opened her purse and pulled out a small white envelope. She reached across and shook something out onto my desk. “I hadn’t, but I found this between some pages. It’s from Billy.” She made that delicate gesture with her hand again. “It sometimes pays to be silly. I had a mitochondrial DNA test run on this. Thank God for progress. They don’t even need roots anymore.”

It was lock of fine brown hair. I suddenly remembered going through my mother’s secretary after she died. It was her favorite piece of furniture, a beautiful walnut Chippendale with lattice-work glass doors, claw feet and a drop-down desk that revealed a myriad of drawers and cubbyholes. In the bottom drawer, under a pile of old photos, birth and baptismal certificates, diplomas, newspaper clippings, grammar school report cards and assorted letters (including a frantic one I wrote from an Adirondack summer camp when I was eight, begging to come home) was a cloth-bound family journal. Pressed between the pages was a lock of my baby hair.

“I don’t think you are silly,” I said.

“The doctors say Billy is a close match, much better than any stranger’s would be. His bone marrow can save Savannah.”

I put the hair back in the envelope and handed it to her.

“Even if you find him, how do you know he’ll go through with it?”

“It’s not like asking him for a kidney or a piece of his liver. People contribute marrow to help total strangers. There’s some discomfort involved when they harvest it, but it’s not a dangerous procedure. What man wouldn’t try to save his child’s life? Any child’s? Wouldn’t you?”

I realized that I would. And felt pretty good about it.

She leaned forward.

“Billy wasn’t a bad man. A little wild, maybe. That’s what attracted me to him. But down deep he was sweet natured. I’m sure he’ll do the right thing. We – you – just have to find him.”

“I have to level with you,” I said. “Given what you’ve told me, the chances of my finding Savannah’s father quickly are slim. There might be better ways for you to spend your time and money. Perhaps a large Manhattan or national firm with dozens of investigators would be a better bet. I’d be happy to recommend some.”

“I’m not concerned about money, Mr. Rhode. I have plenty of that. When I found out I was pregnant, I went back home to live with my mother. My father was dead. After Savannah was born I went back to work while my mother looked after her. I was a hostess at the Pink House, that’s a famous restaurant off Reynolds Square.”

“I’ve been there,” I said.

“Some movie people came in for dinner. They were filming Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, the Clint Eastwood film, and one of them offered me a small part. I wound up on the cutting room floor, but one of the other actresses introduced me to her agent. I left Savannah with my mother and flew to New York. I got lucky. I wasn’t much of an actress but I signed with a top modeling agency. It was good timing. I had whatever look was ‘in’ that year. Pretty soon I was making very good money, and have ever since. Perhaps you’ve seen me in Vogue, or Vanity Fair?”

“No, I’m sorry. But I’m not surprised. You are a very beautiful woman.”

She barely smiled. It was probably the millionth time she’d heard that.

“Thank you. Most of my recent work has been in European magazines. I’ve even had small parts in movies in Italy.”

“Do you live in Europe?’

“After my mother died, I kept her place in Savannah. But I also have a small apartment in London. We spend a lot of time there.”

That explained the modulated accent.

“I’ll be honest with you, too” she said. “I’m not putting all my eggs in one basket. I have hired other investigators. Most of them, at least the ones in big firms, seem to rely on computers and databases. But you know Staten Island. It said in the papers you were born here. If you only work the local angle, what do I have to lose?”

It made sense. She needed hope and I needed a client. Conscience salved, I told her my rates, minus a hefty discount. She could undoubtedly afford me, but who charges full freight for a case where a child’s life may be at stake? Ellen James took out another envelope and passed it across to me.

“Is that enough for you to start?”

It was full of crisp $100 bills.

“More than enough.”

There was another knock and the stencil guy stuck his head in. He looked concerned.

“Little girl should probably sit down. Says she’s not feeling too good.”

Savannah walked in and sat.

“I’m OK. Just a little tired. And I’m thirsty. Can I have that Coke now?”

Luckily I had one left in the fridge.

“I’m afraid I’m a little short of glasses.”

“That’s OK,” she said and started drinking from the can.

“We’re almost done, darling,” her mother said. Then she looked at me. “Is there anything else you need from us?”

“I don’t suppose you have an old photo of Savannah’s dad.”

“No, I’m sorry. He was kind of funny about that. Never liked to take photos.” She smiled. “There may be yearbook photos available from before we met. I can describe him, or at least what he looked like 14 years ago. He was very handsome. And well built. A little shorter than you, light skinned but Italian looks. Great smile. Light brown hair and brown eyes. I thought he was the cat’s meow when I first met him.”

“I’m proof of that,” Savannah piped up.

“Savannah!”

But we all laughed.

“Mr. Rhode, when can you start?”

“Right away. I expect to get my computers up and running today. But many of the people I have to contact won’t be in until Monday. Where can I reach you?”

“We’re at the Carlyle, off Central Park. You’d better take my cell number, as well.”

I wrote it down on the pad that had the other notes I’d been taking.

“Don’t they have facilities at the hospital for parents?” I saw the look on her face. I could have kicked myself. Savannah’s illness hadn’t quite progressed to that point yet.

“The hotel is more convenient,” she said, quietly. “And I thought Savannah might enjoy some luxury. It’s a nice little vacation for her.”

I handed back her pen and stood when they did.

“Will you allow me to take you both to lunch? Then I can drop you at the ferry.”

“That’s very kind. But we have car service waiting downstairs. Savannah tires easily and she needs a nap. And I promised her that we would have tea at the Plaza afterwards. We do it every time we’re in New York. She’s been looking forward to it.”

“I like those little sandwiches,” Savannah said.

“I’m a sucker for the scones,” I said.

When we left my office, Ellen James let Savannah walk ahead, then turned and put a hand on my arm. Keeping her voice barely above a whisper, she said, “I know you are the one who can find Billy. You will, won’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, without really knowing why. Or how.

The stencil guy held the door for us when I walked them to the elevators. When I got back to my office he was gazing reverently at his handiwork, as if he were El Greco deciding that The Burial of Count Orgaz needed more detail.

“I checked with the office,” he said. “Margie remembers that you did say ‘o,’ not ‘e’. Our bad. So the middle initial is on me. Had to redo the whole thing anyway. Looks great now, don’t you think?”

I was now Alton B. Rhode. He was so proud of his artistry that I didn’t have the heart.

“It’s a beautiful job,” I said, looking at what was soon to become the most expensive stenciling project in the borough.

“Anything else you need from me? Maybe a business logo or quotation above or below the names. A lot of people do that.”

“How about Death to the Infidels?”

“Catchy. Want me to price it out?”

Good Lord.

“Maybe some other time,” I said quickly.

He reached into his bag. I faced another clipboard. I signed with a flourish, even adding my new initial.

I didn’t feel like battling another Friday lunchtime scrum at the Red Lantern. Besides, I was still letting the dust settle after my run-in with the Carlucci thugs. So I grabbed a quick burger at the McDonalds down the street and brought back a large black coffee. McDonalds coffee is far superior to anyone else’s in my opinion, even those that charge three times as much for a fancy name.

After I moved most of the plants to the reception area, I spent the rest of the afternoon emptying boxes and assembling bookcases and furniture I’d purchased from IKEA. The last thing I put together was a computer workstation. I laid out all its components, as well as the plastic bags containing the nuts, bolts, screws, washers, plugs, dowels, castors and rollers that would hopefully turn the piles of laminated wood into something vaguely resembling the picture on the front of the box. The instruction booklet was 36 pages, and was divided into Swedish, German, French, Spanish, English and something that looked like Urdu. There was also a thick schematic folded in on itself like a Hagstrom map. I knelt down and spread out the schematic, which took up half the room. It was obvious I had inadvertently purchased a high-energy particle accelerator. The single Allen wrench included in the supplies did not seem up to the task. I’d gone this route before, so I’d taken the precaution of bringing my tool chest.

It was going to be a slog. My takeout coffee was gone, so I rummaged through some other boxes until I found the12-cup drip coffeemaker with which no respectable private eye office can function. Luckily the box with the Newman’s Own Organic Green Mountain Roast – another gift from Nancy the plant lady – was at the top of another pile. I took the carafe out to the men’s room in the hallway and filled it. I know I was supposed to run plain water through the machine first, but I thought a little dust and plastic shavings might give the caffeine a boost. I brewed all 12 cups.

It was well into evening when I finally finished the workstation. All the cabinets and drawers opened, even the one that slid out on rollers below the level of the desk to hold a computer keyboard so I wouldn’t get carpal tunnel. It did bang my knees, though. I hooked up my computer and attached all the cables and was mildly surprised that the high-speed Internet connection worked perfectly. I was tempted to begin a search for William Capriati on the web, but decided it could wait for the morning. The coffee was eating a hole in my stomach. I needed food and a hot shower.

There was a new guard in the lobby when I signed out, a frail-looking white guy who looked old enough to have been a sentry at Stonehenge. He wanted to chat. I was probably the last person in the building and it was going to be lonely overnight. I was dog tired, but I gave him 15 minutes. I’d been alone on post in much worse places – but alone on post was alone on post. I finally escaped after looking at photos of his seven grandkids. I was glad I didn’t have to lie about how cute they were. I bent my head into the rain and ran to my car. Ten minutes later I pulled into the driveway of the large side-hall Colonial I owned on St. Austins Place in West Brighton. St. Austins is a small street divided by a well-tended island strip. Well-tended because one of the families living on the block is related to the Borough Park Commissioner. The block is heavily canopied by trees, some of the oldest in the borough, and is anchored on one end by a 100-year-old Lutheran church and on the other by a Mormon meeting hall built a few years ago on the site of a home owned by a descendant of Sally Hemmings, reputedly Thomas Jefferson’s slave mistress. Both are beautifully landscaped, as are most of the homes on the block. Just keeping up with the median strip is a challenge.

I parked the car and went in through the kitchen, which is off an illegal rear deck that two firemen built for me in their spare time. The house has been in my family since 1910 and is basically my inheritance. I thought I’d fix up the old place, sell it at a substantial profit and pay off the second mortgage my folks had taken out to put me through college. Might have, except for the year I spent in uniform and hospital pajamas, during which a crumbling real estate market made my plan moot. So now I just fix it up when I can afford to and live there. Old houses keep you busy. What isn’t broken or leaking soon will be. I got out of my wet clothes and fixed myself a martini, using olives I’d bought in a specialty shop. They were pickled in vermouth, thus saving me valuable time. I used 96-proof Bombay Sapphire gin, which also saves time.

There wasn’t much in the larder. Tomatoes, onions, asparagus and mushrooms, all of which had seen better days and looked like they were trying to mate. But that didn’t stop them from smelling delicious sizzling in the Tuscan herb-infused olive oil from the same shop where I’d found my soused olives. I whipped three eggs, added some parmesan cheese and sliced up some day-old Italian bread. After the frittata was done, I fried the bread in the same pan, cracked open a bottle of cheap Chardonnay and watched an Asian Tour golf tournament on my kitchen TV. Then I went upstairs, stood under a steaming shower for 10 minutes, took some sort of pill and fell into bed. With caffeine, alcohol, cholesterol and a prescribed chemical I couldn’t pronounce sending mixed signals to my exhausted body, I slept fitfully, dreaming of dowels and cacti – and Ellen James.

CHAPTER 6 – POISONS

I felt like bear crap when I woke up. My head was pounding. I shook it and suddenly realized that some of the pounding was coming from downstairs. I looked at the clock. Just past 8 a.m. I stumbled downstairs and yanked the door open. Al Johnsen, still gripping the big brass door knocker, stumbled into the foyer.

“Jesus, Alton, you almost pulled my goddamn arm off!”

In his wake was a slight, bespectacled man wearing a dark suit and a religious collar. It was Norbert Kittelsen, pastor of the Lutheran church up the block. He hesitated on my stoop, looking befuddled.

“Won’t you come in, Father,” I said.

I wasn’t sure what one called Lutheran ministers, but I thought formal was the way to go since I also didn’t know why he and Al were visiting me at the crack of dawn. I hoped it wasn’t some sort of intervention.

“Thank you, Mr. Rhode. And please call me Norbert.”

Johnsen and his wife, Barbara, lived directly across the street. They had a fondness for drinking gin and tonics on their front porch to watch the sun go down, weather permitting. Otherwise, they did it indoors. I was often invited. Al’s ancestors hail from Norway and we usually ended the night drinking Svengluten, a potent liquor he brings back from his frequent trips there. I think it’s made from fermented tundra and whale blubber. One shot is my limit. More than that and everything starts to disappear down a long tunnel. I don’t know how he gets the stuff into the country. He gave me a bottle, which I’ve kept, unopened, in case I run out of paint thinner.

“I got a letter,” Al said, waving paper in my face before heading to my kitchen. I closed the door and we followed him. A letter?

“I’m happy for you,” I said. “Emails can be so impersonal. Want some coffee?”

“That would be nice,” Rev. Kittelsen said as Al slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. I offered the minister a seat and put on the coffee.

“We’ve got to nail this scumbag,” Al said, flinging the letter on the table like it was poison. Kittelsen looked uncomfortable. “Barbara thinks it’s hysterical, but I’m humiliated. I know some of the others have asked for your help.”

I suddenly realized what he was talking about. It was poison.

There were 10 families living on St. Austins, five on each side of the street. The houses are Tudors or Victorians, except for a brick ranch at the north end that must have made a wrong turn. The one next door to mine was designed by Stanford White, the famous pre-World War I architect shot by a jealous rival. I’m fairly certain that the hanky- panky on the block never reached Stanford’s libidinous level, but stories of wife-swapping, illicit affairs, secret passageways between homes and hidden attic love nests fueled many a fevered adolescent dream. I searched our house high and low for passages and secret rooms, and was terribly disappointed (if somewhat relieved) not to find any. But there was apparently still something in the water on the block because four of the 10 homes had received “poison pen” letters over the past year or so.

The Johnsens and I were among the six households that had until now been spared. Everyone assumed someone on the block sent them. They contained too much inside information and were driving a wedge between neighbors. Suspicions naturally devolved on those residents who were letter-free. The letters were always short and to the point, usually accusing a husband of sexual indiscretions ranging from drunken groping to outright adultery, and in the case of one woman’s pre-pubescent daughter, pedophilia.

I gave Al and Kittelsen each a mug of coffee.

“What’s your interest in this, Father?”

Old habits are hard to break.

“Al came to me for advice,” he said.

“I thought maybe he’d heard something, you know, from one of his flock.”

Kittelsen was known to be a busybody and a gossip, who dropped in for coffee and a chat with many of the women on the block.. Unmarried and pushing 50, there were rumors about his sexual orientation.

“Of course, I wouldn’t have been able to reveal a confidence,” the minister said. “However, I assured him that I had no information at all.”

I went to a desk in a small alcove off the kitchen and pulled out a folder with the copies I’d made of the earlier letters. I was apparently above suspicion as the letter writer, having fortuitously been away during all of the alleged incidents. Fortuitousness being relative, of course, considering that my absences were mostly related to being shot at by various insurgents. In any event, some of the letter targets had asked me to lend my expertise, pro bono of course, in the pursuit of the man or woman responsible. No one wanted to involve the police. I glanced at the most recent of the letters.

“Dear Rosalie,

You might consider spending less time in the kitchen making those bourbon baked beans that are the highlight of your annual Kentucky Derby party (they are wonderful!) and more keeping an eye on Chet, who spent most of the race rubbing Amanda Delfonti’s substantial ass. Really, the woman looks like Secretariat. Of course, I probably should be grateful he’s dropped down in class and is finally leaving me alone. The horn dog rubbed his woody against me during the Christmas brunch at the Conroy’s.”

A Friend.”

I thought the Secretariat reference unkind, although the writer was right on the money about Mrs. Delfonti’s butt. Otherwise the letter was fairly typical. Al’s letter was lying on the table. Even from a distance I could tell that it was written by the same person.

“Listen, Al, I know you must be upset. But you must be relieved that you finally got a letter. At least you and Barbara can’t be accused of writing them.”

“Read it,” he said morosely.

I picked it up.

“Dear Barb,

Perhaps if your husband spent less time sipping cocktails on his deck and more time with his lawn mower and hedge clippers, your place wouldn’t look like Yucca Flats. It’s a disgrace to the neighborhood. Even some of the perverts on the block take better care of their property.”

“A Friend”

I had to read it twice.

“Yucca Flats?”

“It’s where they tested the A-bomb in 1945,” Kittelsen said.

“I know. I wonder if it refers to before or after the blast.”

“I know you think that’s funny, but he’s gone too far this time,” Al said. “How can I ever hold my head up around here?”

I must have looked clueless, which considering my recent activities, wasn’t hard, because Al grabbed my arm.

“Don’t you get it? All the other guys have been accused of chasing skirts, feeling asses and, well, being guys. Whoever wrote that says I’m ignoring my fucking rhododendrons! Sorry, Norbert. Apparently I don’t even have the balls to make a pass at someone at a neighborhood party. If this gets out…”

I would have laughed, but what he said made sense. At least to another man. It was a low blow.

“When’s the next block shindig? Maybe you can pinch a few asses, to get on the board, so to speak.”

“That’s what Barbara said. You’re as screwy as she is. I need help here. And you know what’s really aggravating? I just hired a landscaper to clean up the place. He’s coming next week. Now I have to cancel him because whoever wrote that letter will think it worked. I won’t give the prick the satisfaction.”

This time I did laugh.

“It’s probably a prickess.”

Kittelsen cleared his throat in embarrassment. Al looked at me. Then he laughed.

“So, any luck finding out who it is?”

We kicked around a few likely suspects. Kittelsen threw in a couple of names. That surprised me. We were doing exactly what the letter writer hoped everyone was doing. Pretty soon no one on the block would be speaking to each other. Their kids wouldn’t be allowed to play together, and when they tricked or treated on the block that candy would be ditched, lest it really be poisoned.

“Don’t tell anyone about your letter,” I said finally. “And tell Barbara to keep her mouth shut. I’ll figure something out. I’ll even let my yard go to seed for a while so yours doesn’t look too bad.”

The good humor I felt thinking about Al’s predicament only lasted a few minutes after they left. Then my general physical malaise returned. I needed a good workout. Running was out, at least for a few more weeks. But the docs encouraged upper body work and swimming.

I packed a small gym bag. Ten minutes later I entered the campus of Wagner College. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The cool front had left behind the kind of brisk and breezy autumn day that invariably makes people remember their childhood. Grymes Hill, one of the highest points on the entire Eastern seaboard, was a good place to be on such a day. Manhattan glittered in the distance. I could see New Jersey’s Watchung Mountains 20 miles away. I used my key card to raise the gate at the faculty parking lot behind the gym. I wasn’t on the faculty but Dom DeRenzi, the Athletic Director, had wrangled a parking pass to go along with my free membership to the gym. The locker room was deserted. I changed into swimming trunks and threw my other stuff into a vacant locker, securing it with an old-fashioned rotating combination lock. I always thought of high school when I did that. I really wasn’t worried about being robbed but I couldn’t fit my gun in my suit without someone making an obscene remark. I didn’t expect trouble on a college campus. But then again, neither had anyone at Virginia Tech.

The gym was almost empty. Most college kids were sleeping off their hangovers, as I would have liked. I headed to “natatorium,” which was the Latin name for what normal people called a swimming pool. I was surprised to find I wasn’t alone. Five girls, wearing red, high-neck competition bathing suits, were bunched in the far end talking to an older woman who was sitting on her heels holding a clipboard. I never could figure out how women could do that and still look graceful. I’d have fallen backwards or, when trying to compensate, into the pool. Perhaps their center of gravity was more forward. I reflected on that as I walked closer to them. It soon became apparent that the woman’s center of gravity was admirable. She looked up at me and smiled.

“An early riser,” she said. “How refreshing. But don’t worry. We’ll just use the first five lanes. I know they like to keep the pool clear for members on the weekends, but we need a little work on our turns. We have a meet coming up.”

She was a handsome woman, strong featured, in a simple one-piece dark blue bathing suit, cut normally. Unlike her charges, she wasn’t wearing a swim cap and her medium-length brown hair was loosely tied in a pony tail.

“Well, good luck,” I said.

“Thank you,” she replied, scanning my face thoughtfully. “You, too.”

I slid into the water in the eighth lane. I’m a strong swimmer and soon got into a pleasant rhythm. I could feel my head clearing and adhesions stretching. I heard splashing and shouted instructions. The girls were also doing laps. They were probably just warming up. Discouraging, since when we were headed in the same direction, it looked like I was treading water. When they got to the end, they barrel-rolled and shot off the wall. They didn’t look like they needed any practice. I’d tried that somersault move once and damn near knocked myself out. A couple of the girls sprang effortlessly out of the pool to stretch. They were sturdy kids, with ropey arms. Their firm buttocks and legs were enhanced by their high-cut water-dynamic suits. I tried not to look at them too long. I also tried not to stare at their coach, who was walking the pool perimeter. She didn’t need a special suit to accentuate her long legs.

I did 50 laps, the last one entirely under the surface without breathing, as I’d been taught by a lunatic Navy SEAL. No rifle and pack this time but I bet the girls couldn’t do it. I hoped they, and their coach, had noticed. I also hoped they didn’t notice how long it took me to re-oxygenate before I headed to my locker. I changed into shorts and a sweatshirt with its arms cut off and walked to the weight room. It was empty. I spent a half hour stretching and warming up on the Nautilus, then hit the weight bench. I was feeling human again and wasn’t going to kill myself with the barbells. I was looking forward to the steam room, a hot shower and a good lunch.

Dom DeRenzi walked in about halfway through my sets and without asking started to spot me on the bench. That should have made the second half easier but didn’t. DeRenzi automatically went into his coaching mode, which meant he pushed his victims to the limit, and well past. I had been doing sets of 10 reps, barely, and now he upped each set to 13. Why 13, and not a normal 12? He’d explained once that if the bar slipped and crushed my larynx, I could blame bad luck and not failure.

“Come on, Shirley, you can do it,” he said 45 minutes later on my last set as I grunted past 10. I’ve noticed that it’s always easy to say, “you can do it.” By the 12th rep I sounded like Serena Williams blasting a forehand. “One more, put something in it,” he said, both hands on top of the bar. I knew he wouldn’t let it fall on my throat, unless maybe he got a call from one of his many girlfriends. The weight felt like the Hoover Dam, but I somehow stretched it out and Dom yanked it onto the safety brackets. When I sat up, the room was spinning and I my upper torso looked like I’d been water boarded.

“Not bad, Rhode,” Dom said. “Come into my office. If you can.”

He walked away and I sat there to catch my breath. A couple of burly college kids were sitting on a nearby bench doing bicep curls with what looked to be 35-pound weights. Football team. During my near-death workout with Dom, I hadn’t even noticed them come in. They grinned at me. One of them gave me a thumbs-up with his free hand.

“Coach Dom’s a ball buster, ain’t he,” the kid said.

When I got to the office, Dom was popping a K-Cup into one of those single-serving coffee makers. He poured water in, shut the lid, placed a mug in the machine and hit a button. It started humming.

“Three minutes,” he said, reaching into a chest and flipping me a bottle of water. “But drink that first.”

I did. The humming had evolved into an ominous-sounding gurgling. Soon the aroma of freshly brewed … something … came from the direction of the machine.

“What the hell is that,” I said.

“Pomegranate Berry Fusion Tea.”

“That’s enough! What have you done with Coach DeRenzi?”

“Very funny. This stuff is good. With a little help.” He put a couple of heaping teaspoons of sugar in the mug and handed it to me.

“Sugar?”

“If you work out, you can enjoy life,” he said. “Artificial crap will make your dick fall off.”

I took a tentative sip. It was pretty good. I said so.

“But it feels weird drinking pomegranate whatever from a mug that has a grizzly bear snarling on it.” The Wagner College mascot is a bear.

“Machine makes great coffee and hot cocoa, too.” He went to a cabinet and opened it. There were dozens of brightly-colored K-Cups jutting out from a stainless steel stand.

“Please don’t tell me you have those little marshmallows.”

He smiled and reached behind the stand and showed me a silver flask.

“Jack Daniels,” he said. “Beats marshmallows every time.”

Dom is 20 years older than me and looked like Ichabod Crane would if Ichabod Crane could bench press a Volkswagen. He had a prominent nose, jutting jaw and a full head of black hair that probably had help from a bottle. It was cut a little long for his age, but Dom fancies himself a ladies man, and rumors abound that even with three divorces under his belt he still is. Arthritis has bent his six-foot-three-inch frame, but the his designer t-shirt looked like it might burst. And while he’s normally gentle of disposition, I’d seen him twist guys who annoyed him into pretzels. We shot the bull for a few minutes. I could hear the gym filling up behind me. The school sold memberships to alumni, and gave complimentary passes to politicians, clergy and law-enforcement types. The policy was so popular (some would say, abused) that the school was planning separate facilities for its major sports teams.

“Listen, Dom. You’ve been here since the flood. Ever come across a student named William Capriati? Went here maybe 18-20 years ago. Played football.”

“Sure, Billy Capriati. Real piece of work.”

It’s not supposed to be that easy.

“You knew him?”

“I just said I did, didn’t I. Kid was on my wrestling team.”

“I didn’t know you coached wrestling.”

“Coached a little of everything here. Baseball, tennis, golf. I filled in when the wrestling coach quit. Interim appointment, they said. Interim was two fucking years. We used to wear all sorts of hats before a lot of Federal money kicked in and the school raised salaries. Taught English Lit too.”

“A Renaissance man.”

“An alimony man.”

“What did you know about wrestling?”

“Outside the boudoir, not much. But I’m a quick learner. Read some books. Billy Cap, that’s what we called him, he was pretty sharp too. One of my better wrestlers. Football coach kept trying to recruit him, the prick. Billy was built solid, and quick as a cat. But he wanted no part of football. Said he liked his nose the way it was.”

Ellen James had told me that Capriati bragged about his college football days. He’d probably lied to impress her. Football is a religion in the Deep South.

“Damn good lookin’ kid,” Dom continued. “Always had the girls around him.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Nah. Used them up like candy. Might have pounded a teacher or two, as well. Didn’t seem to affect his stamina any. He won a lot of matches for me. Why do you want to know about Capriati?”

“I have to find him. Do you know where he is now?”

“No clue. Never heard from him after he graduated.”

Well, it wasn’t going to be that easy.

“Most of the kids keep in touch, at least for a while,” he said. “Send me pictures of their kids. Or I see them at an alumni reunion. But Billy never did any of that.”

“Where did he live?”

“I think he was born on the Island, but I seem to remember his family moved to Jersey his senior year. Maybe junior. It’s been a while.”

“You’re doing pretty well for an old fart. I don’t know I’d remember a kid from 20 years ago. Don’t they all blur?”

“Most do, the ones who don’t keep in touch. But there’s always a couple that stick in your mind. Billy Cap anchored my wrestling team, made me look good, considering I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. He had a presence.”

DeRenzi smiled at a memory.

“He was a pistol, though. Had to get him out of some minor scrapes, bar fights, and such.” He looked at me. “He in some kind of trouble?”

“I don’t think so. It’s a paternity thing.”

Dom laughed.

“Figures. He was co-ed catnip.”

“Do you remember where his family lived before they moved?”

“I want to say Port Richmond. But maybe it was Mariners Harbor. They owned a deli or something.”

I got up to leave.

“Listen,” DeRenzi said. “Why don’t you check with the Clap? He can probably get you his file, or transcript or something. And I’m sure they have his yearbook. Be a bunch of photos from the team, and his graduation shot.”

If you had a last name that Dom could have fun with, you were in trouble. Dave Clapper was the Chief of Staff to the college president. He had been the commanding officer of the Coast Guard base in Fort Wadsworth. The VA had arranged the use of the base gym for rehabbing the wounded and we’d become friendly. He put in his papers when the college recruited him. Right after he started the new job, he green-lighted my membership in the college gym. The old boy network on Staten Island was very strong.

“I’ll call him Monday,” I said. “By the way, what’s the name of the swim team coach?”

“Leslie Tierney.”

“Married?”

I hadn’t seen a ring.

“No, why?”

“Good looking. Great legs. Thought I might give it a shot.”

Dom gave me a look of genuine horror. It was a long moment before he spoke.

“What the fuck happened to you over there? Jesus, that goddamn war.”

He grabbed a tissue from a box on his desk and blew his nose.

“What are you talking about?”

“Where were you wounded? Never mind. I don’t wanna know.” Dom looked like he was about to cry. “Anyway, I’m sorry, Alton. Les is straight as an arrow. He and his wife have three kids, another on the way. You got no chance.”

It hit me.

“Leslie is a man?”

I started to laugh. Dom looked confused.

“What’s so damn funny?” He reached for the flask and took a swallow. “This is fucking tragic!”

“I meant the coach of the women’s team. I saw her at the pool.”

The relief on his face was palpable. He put the bourbon back behind the coffee stand.

“Oh, thank God!”

“What’s her name?”

“Alice Watts.” He smiled. “And she’s not married. I think she’s straight, too, although she never came on to me, which made me wonder for a while.”

“Just proves she has taste. I don’t suppose you’ve got her number?”

He swiveled in his chair and did something on his computer.

“Faculty directory,” he said. “Home numbers.” He wrote on a pad, ripped off the sheet and passed it to me. “Cell number, too. Good luck. Alice is choice. Hard worker. Not full of herself like a lot of them. She also teaches philosophy here. Somehow makes that crap interesting, I hear. Kids love her.”

He walked me to the door and clapped me on the back.

“Jumpin’ Jesus, boy, you had me worried.”

The workout had restored my appetite and after leaving Wagner I stopped at the Kings Arms diner on Forest Avenue for some bacon and eggs. Then I went home to shower and change.

I had stored furniture and boxes from my old office in my wreck of a basement and I spent most of the rest of Saturday shuttling back and forth from my house to my new office. The basement didn’t look much better afterwards and I resolved to spend more effort down there cleaning it up. Sometime. It was late afternoon and I was in the midst of rearranging my office for the fifth time – I was feng shui deprived and had no idea how to position plants in relation to the universe – when Nancy Robart called.

“What are you up to?” she asked.

“I’m earning a masters degree in botany in my office.”

She laughed.

“You poor boy. How about a break tonight? I need a date for one of my cocktail parties. We’re announcing the deal we just made with Wagner College. Lots of booze, good food and plenty of academics you can deflate.”

“Want me to pick you up?”

“No. I have some things to do for the party. I’ll meet you there. Come around 7.”

CHAPTER 7 – GARDEN PARTY

I never liked the term “friends with benefits,” since it implies sexual availability without commitment and often puts vulnerable young girls at a disadvantage. That probably makes me an old hypocrite, because the phrase describes my relationship with Nancy Robart. We have been benefiting from each other on and off since a memorable fling down on the Jersey shore during our 20’s. Mostly off, since I only see Nancy between husbands. She doesn’t like the term either.

“We’re just fuck buddies,” she said. “Leave it at that.”

Now I’m not so sure I don’t prefer “friends with benefits.”

Our relationship transcends sex, or at least our kind. A couple of years ago Nancy came to me for help shortly after she was hired to run the Garden. In the dog-eat-dog world of Staten Island not-for-profits, all of which make profits for a lot of people – especially board members – executive directors without an edge have the tenure of a mayfly. The edge normally involves steering certain contracts, hiring certain relatives and occasionally sleeping with certain board members. Nancy adores sex, but in her own way is choosy about who she has it with. And she runs a tight, honest ship. The Robarts of Staten Island fought in the Revolutionary War, although it’s not too clear on which side. But the family has a long history of public service in the borough and a reputation for honesty. That brought Nancy into almost immediate conflict at the Garden.

As at most Island nonprofits, her board was controlled by an all-male executive committee that gave lip service to the bylaws and basically ignored the other board members, who were mostly recruited for their bank accounts and constantly dunned at various luncheons, galas, golf outings, casino nights, days at the races and cocktail hours. The executive committee was headed by a builder who was in the Building Code Violations Hall of Fame. He’d stacked the exec committee with his handpicked cronies from the construction trades and financial industry and made it clear to Nancy early on that she was expected to rubberstamp their contract and hiring decisions. A couple of them also said that an occasional blow job behind the fuchsia would also be nice.

“I’m caught between a rock and a hard-on,” she’d told me. “I love the job and don’t want to quit. If I go public, it’s my word against the old boys’ network. They’ll smear me. I have been known to fool around a bit. If I sue, the same thing and I’ll never get hired anywhere. I don’t go along, they’ll find a reason to fire me.”

I disliked doing a J. Edgar Hoover on people, but the word scumbag was invented for men like those pressuring Nancy. So blackmail it was. But even I’d been surprised at the number of mistresses, love pads, hidden bankruptcies, DUI’s, S.E.C. sanctions and other potential embarrassments her exec committee had accumulated. Armed with the information I provided, Nancy now ran the show and the exec rubberstamped her decisions. Nancy’s performance reviews read like she wrote them, which she probably did. Amazingly, she forced the entire committee to stay on.

“I don’t want to have to do this again,” she explained. “Now they’re my bitches.”

I’d thought about advertising her strategy to attract clients: “Are You an Executive Director at a Not-For-Profit? Want Lifetime Job Security? Contact Alton Rhode, Professional Snoop.” That probably wouldn’t cut it. Discreet word of mouth was probably the way to go.

Given that background, I was actually looking forward to the cocktail party as I pulled into the parking lot of the Botanical Garden. I’d been to several of Nancy’s events as part of my vetting of her problem directors. It’s helpful to meet the people you are investigating, especially when they – and their significant others – are getting smashed. A lot of other prominent and wealthy are also usually in attendance, and in the past I’ve even picked up some clients along the way. I usually go solo, and I’ve also met some interesting and available women, some of who are even unmarried. But since I was with Nancy, I was determined to be a perfect consort, even though I know she would ignore me for much of the evening as she schmoozed donors.

Weather permitting, most Garden events are held outdoors, on the lawns and terraces surrounding the facility’s huge greenhouse, which was also utilized for mingling and munching. But it was cold and the crowd was too large to fit in the greenhouse, which was fine by me. It can get pretty stuffy in there and the martinis reach room temperature almost as fast as you can drink them. And it’s a bit disconcerting to chat with people among plants and vines that could hide a platoon of Viet Cong sappers. One guest once claimed he lost a shrimp to a Venus Fly Trap, but he was very drunk. So the party was switched to the main hall of the Snug Harbor Cultural Center, a 44-acre sylvan paradise of gardens, theaters, artist studios, museums and galleries that has somehow avoided the wrecking balls and backhoes of the Island’s rapacious developers. The Botanical Garden is one of the Harbor’s five constituent non-profits.

A group of volunteer ladies sitting behind a table just outside the hall were checking arrivals against several alphabetical lists. Suits predominated among the men, with a sprinkling of sports jackets and a few tuxedoes. The poor bastards wearing the tuxes probably had another function to attend later. Staten Island would stop functioning without its functions. Most of the women were wearing short, brightly colored dresses and enough jewelry to make the Pink Panther plan early retirement. I was wearing a mid-weight grey worsted wool single-breasted suit with peak lapels that set me apart from the notch-lapel herd, or so the guy at Barney’s told me. A dark blue silk tie was set off nicely by a light-pink pinstriped Charles Terwhitt shirt. My black hip holster didn’t match my tasseled cordovan loafers, but I didn’t think anyone would notice. I was feeling pretty good about myself and was almost through the door when one of the volunteers stopped me. Actually, apprehended is probably the better word.

“Pardon me sir, but we have to check your name off the list.”

She had to be at least 80 and spoke in that loud voice used by the hard of hearing. I explained that I was a guest of Ms. Robart and probably wasn’t on the list. She didn’t give any sign that she heard me.

“What’s your name?”

People looked our way. I should have kept walking, but it’s not easy to blow off a senior citizen whose gnarled hand is clamped around your jacket sleeve. So I told her. She went over to the appropriate list. She traced a bony finger down the sheet. Her other hand still had hold of me. I half expected her to pick up a ruler and whack me for not doing my homework.

“Randazzo, Randolph, Rendt, Richman, Riccio, Russell. Nope, no Road.”

“Not that it matters, ma’am,” I said. “but I spell my name R-h-o-d-e.”

“The only thing that matters, sonny, is that you’re not on the list, however it’s spelled.” She looked at me as if I was something on the bottom of her shoe. “You didn’t pay.” Loud. “Did you?” Louder. She looked at the other people in line and shook her head in abject disapproval and triumph.

“I said I’m a guest.” I had to raise my voice for her to hear me. “The ticket has been taken care of.” That didn’t go over well with some of the paying customers who had shelled out $100 each. Neither did yelling at someone who looked like the grandmother in a Norman Rockwell painting.

This went on for another minute and there was some grumbling from people in line behind me, who undoubtedly thought I was either a deadbeat or a senior molester. I reached in my pocket for money. It was better than being lynched. I was counting out some twenties when I was spotted by Fran and Bob Huber, who were just inside the door greeting arrivals. Fran is the Executive Director of Snug Harbor and one of the few people Nancy trusts. Bob is a journalist and we’ve always hit it off. Fran nudged him and he galloped to my rescue.

“It’s all right, Eloise,” he said. “Mr. Rhode is with us.”

Eloise looked dubious. Nobody had ever given her a freebie in her life. But she wasn’t done with me. She’d caught sight of the cash in my hand and whipped out a raffle book faster than Wyatt Earp on a good day.

“Well, then, the least you can do is buy a raffle ticket for a chance to win a cruise to the Bahamas?” I’m pretty sure people in Bayonne heard her. “It’s $5 for one, $25 for a whole book.”

I gave her $25.

“Darling,” I said. “Fill in your own name on the stubs.”

She looked startled. But now she had a freebie.

“Sorry about that,” Bob said, as we headed toward one of the four bars set up in the cavernous hall. “Nancy told me you were coming. Hell hath no fury like a volunteer who thinks someone is trying to cheat their not-for-profit. Eloise can be a pain, but her heart is in the right place.”

“As is her wallet, I presume.”

We had reached the bar.

“You’re a cynical bastard, Alton.” He looked at the bartender. “Two Beefeater martinis, straight up. The way I like them.”

That meant that the vermouth was only barely allowed in the same room.

“And, as usual, you are right,” he continued. “She is one of our biggest contributors and the Harbor is in her will.” He handed me my drink and raised his glass. “To Eloise.”

“She should be working security at JFK.”

“It’s the only job we can give her. We tried her as a docent, but her tours were a disaster. She knows her stuff, but people were suffering hearing damage during her spiels. Look, Fran is giving me the high sign. I’ll catch you later.”

I was content to hover near the bar and exterminate any hors d’oeuvres that entered my killing zone. Unlike some executive directors, Nancy fed her guests well at her events. Martha Stewart would have approved her selection of canapés. I was often tempted to replace a tray of Beef Wellington with a smuggled-in platter of pigs in a blanket just to see her reaction.

I looked around the room, which was filling up. I spotted a tall good-looking black man in a tuxedo who I recognized from news photos as Spencer Bradley, president of Wagner College. His selection the previous year to run the school, which had never had a black administrator and even today had few black professors, had been a surprise. He was quickly putting his own stamp on the college, even to the point of hiring non-educators to manage the educators. I’d been told that spurred considerable grumbling from entrenched professors. Which I thought placed Bradley firmly on the side of the angels.

CHAPTER 8 – HORS AND PEDERASTS

I was on my second martini when I spotted Nancy across the floor, near one of the other bars. She noticed me at the same time and waved. One bar is as good as another, I figured. When I got nearer I saw she was talking with Clive and Lucille Pendergast. Lucille was a nice lady, but lost her battle with Krispy Kremes a long time ago and nobody would have blamed Clive, a financial advisor, for stepping out on her or spending so much time on Botanical Garden business. But Clive, who was on the Executive Committee, liked to step out with underage boys. That was his secret, and ours. He’d never been convicted, or even charged, in New York, but I’d found a few nolo contendere deals he cut in Illinois, Ohio and Pennsylvania as he and the long-suffering Lucille made their way east.

“Well, if it isn’t Clive Pederast and the lovely Lucille,” I said.

Clive blanched and Nancy looked daggers at me at first, then suppressed a smile.

“It’s Pendergast,” Lucille said brightly.

She was blotto, as I knew she would be.

“That’s what I said.”

Clive’s color had returned but he was looking at me with suspicion. I tried to liven the conversation by asking him if had seen the latest Harry Potter movie and all that got was a kick in the shins from Nancy.

“Oh, we never go to the movies,” Lucille said. “Clive spends all his free time in the den on his computer, surfing the web.”

I filed that away. If I ever had to bring Clive down, evidence was probably only a hard drive away.

“C’mon Lucy,” Clive said quickly. “Let’s get something at the buffet table.”

He didn’t have to tell her twice.

“You’re a son of a bitch,” Nancy said when they’d left. “Are you going to spend the whole night insulting my board members?”

“Only the perverts on your exec committee.”

“Clive is the only real pervert in the group, and now he’s my pet pervert. And I keep him on a short leash. Votes my way any time I ask him.”

“How did you use the information I got for you?”

“I had to be subtle. He kept pressuring me about letting him manage our investment portfolio, or else.”

“Or else, what?”

“Or else he’d make sure I got a lousy performance review.”

“What did you do?”

“I told him that if he was so unhappy with me I could arrange for him to get on the board at the Snug Harbor Children’s Museum, which has a much bigger portfolio.” I waited for the punch line. “After all, I said, a chicken fucker like him would be perfect for the job.”

I laughed so hard people stared at us.

“If I’m a son of a bitch,” I said. “What are you?”

“Just a bitch. I’ve got to mingle. Why don’t you? But for God’s sake stay out of trouble.” She smiled. “I’ll make it worth your while later.” As she walked away she gave me what I hoped was a surreptitious pat on the ass.

I mingle well with two martinis in me, but with three I could qualify for the Olympic mingling team, so I ordered another. On the rocks this time, lest some of the academic blatherers begin to make sense. I started across the room assuming I’d eventually run into someone I knew or a hors d’oeuvre. I hadn’t gone very far when I approached a cluster of people standing around a waiter holding a tray. One of them was a woman who looked very familiar. She was staring at me. It had every indication of being a productive place to drop anchor. When I reached the group I recognized her. Alice Watts. She was still trying to place me.

“It can be hard to picture someone with clothes on,” I said.

That damn third martini. The others in the group, including the waiter, stared at me. But Alice laughed. It was a great laugh, unaffected and appreciative.

“You were the man in lane eight this morning, the one with the bullet holes.”

“You noticed?”

“Hard not to. My girls did, too. They thought you were dashing.” Dashing? “One of them said you looked like a bank robber.”

“I’m not sure how to take that.”

The laugh again.

“It’s a compliment. They all loved Johnny Depp in that Dillinger film. There is a slight resemblance, you know.”

“Alice. Who is this fellow?”

It was the man at her elbow.

“I’m sorry, Pierce. This is…”

She realized she didn’t know my name.

“Alton Rhode,” I said and held out my hand. “I met Ms. Watts this morning at the Wagner College pool.”

He hesitated but then gave me a perfunctory shake.

“Professor Lancaster,” he said, with the emphasis on ‘Professor.”

Pierce Lancaster? We both had parents who had a lot to answer for in the name game. He was dressed in jeans and a black shirt, over which he wore a grey woolen sports jacket with dark grey elbow patches. His flowing, but carefully coiffed, white locks spread to his collar. He was about 50 but trying to look younger.

The waiter who had been serving our little band ran out of his canapés and departed but was immediately replaced by another bearing a platter of shrimp the size of small lobsters. I took one happily. So did Alice Watts. I held mine up before biting into it.

“This must be genus oxymoron,” I said.

I was hoping to pass as an academic.

“What?” Lancaster said.

“He means that there is no such thing as a jumbo shrimp,” Alice Watts said.

“Well, Rhode,” Lancaster said archly, “what brings you to this soiree?”

“Cactus.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You know, those big green plants with the sharp spines? Apparently they have aphrodisiac effects and their spines may even be used in primitive, if admittedly painful, fertility rituals.”

“Where did you study? Are you an expert in the field?”

Taking into account that the shrimp remark went over his head, the fact that Lancaster didn’t even question the blarney I’d just spouted confirmed all I needed to know about him. I noticed Alice cover an incipient laugh with a cough.

“Actually, it’s more of an amateur avocation of mine that the Garden lets me indulge. I’m here as a guest of Nancy Robart.”

“Well, then, what do you do in real life?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“Indeed.”

It was said with just the right amount of condescension.

“Would that explain the bullet wounds?” Alice said.

“No.”

“Were you a police officer?”

“What happened to dashing bank robber?”

“I don’t think they can get a private eye license.”

“True. I was a cop, but emerged relatively unscathed. My wounds are more prosaic.” Prosaic? Who was I trying to impress? Alice or Professor Pain-in-the Ass? “I used to be in the reserves and I got called up. Forgot to duck.”

“Indeed,” Lancaster said. “Such are the wages of imperialism.”

I’d almost forgotten about Pierce. He didn’t like to be cut out of any conversation, even when he found it beneath him. I also got the impression that he did not like me talking to Alice Watts. Perhaps it was the two “indeeds” back to back. I was about to offer a witty riposte when Dr. Bradley walked over to join us. He knew everyone but me, so Alice made an introduction.

“He’s a private eye,” Lancaster said with a “heh, heh.”

To his credit, Bradley did not say, “indeed.” Instead he shook my hand firmly and mentioned that he was thinking about introducing a criminal justice curriculum at Wagner. What did I think of the idea? Lancaster looked deflated as Bradley and I chatted a few minutes.

“We have a mutual acquaintance, Dr. Bradley,” I said. “Dave Clapper.”

Might as well piss Lancaster off some more.

“Dave is doing a terrific job as my chief of staff,” Bradley said. “Don’t you agree, Pierce?”

It was obvious that Lancaster didn’t agree. He tried to change the subject.

“Do you carry a gun, shamus?”

The “shamus” was meant to be derogatory. I kind of liked the word.

“Always.”

“Even now?”

He raised his eyebrows and looked at Bradley for collegial condemnation. I looked around and spotted some executive board members.

“Especially now.”

Bradley had noticed my room survey and laughed. Lancaster looked confused. It was a good look for him. He had been asking all the questions. I decided to do some detecting of my own.

“How long have you been at Wagner College, Pierce?”

He didn’t like me using his first name. Which is why I did.

“I celebrate my 20th anniversary at the institution this year,” he said.

From the look Bradley gave him I’d bet he didn’t think that was a reason to celebrate.

“Excuse me,” Bradley said. “I see Nancy at the podium shushing the crowd. I believe it’s time to pay the piper. Alice, you are lovelier every time I see you.”

He walked to the podium where Nancy introduced him and explained that henceforth Wagner science students who interned at the botanical garden would now earn real college credits as part of the new alliance between the two entities. After appropriate applause, Bradley made a few remarks. More applause and then the both of them began working the room and everyone went back to drinking and eating.

“Sounds like a wonderful idea,” Alice said.

“Another Bradley brainstorm,” Lancaster sniffed. “Gardening 101.”

I’d just about had my fill of Professor Pierce.

“I don’t suppose you remember a student named William Capriati by any chance?”

He hesitated a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

“No.”

“Would have been at Wagner about 14 years ago.”

“I’ve had hundreds of students over the years. You can’t expect me to remember all of them.”

“He was on the wrestling team.”

“My classes don’t attract many jocks. What I teach is rather esoteric to the muscle-bound mentality.”

Alice Watts finished her wine and looked at him steadily.

“Pierce, will you get me another Sauvignon Blanc, please?”

It was obvious that he didn’t want to leave us together, but there wasn’t anything he could do. He went off without asking if I needed a refill. I watched him look for a bar with a short line, but they were all crowded. He’d be gone a while.

“Nicely done,” I said to Alice Watts.

“How did you know my name,” she said.

“Coach DeRenzi told me.”

“You asked him?”

“Yes. Gave him quite a scare.”

“Why?”

I told her about the gender mixup.

“That’s priceless,” she said. “I must tease him about it. But why were you asking about me?”

“I wanted to call you and ask you to dinner. Meeting you here saves me the trouble.”

“You mean this counts as dinner?”

“I mean I don’t have to call you. Will you have dinner with me sometime? I’ve never dated a philosopher who could swim. We can discuss how many dolphins can fit through the eye of a needle.”

Over her shoulder I could see Pierce leaving the bar with two glasses. From the looks some of the other people in line gave him I’d bet he’d cut it in his haste to get back to us.

“You seem like a nice man, if a bit insane. What would Nancy say? You are with her tonight, aren’t you?”

“We’re just good friends. Known each other forever.”

“Ah. That explains the pat on the butt.”

So much for surreptitious. Alice Watts didn’t miss much.

“And I am also here with someone. We’re in a relationship, sort of.”

“Pierce the precious?”

“You don’t have to be snide. Pierce can be a little over the top on occasion. But he is an interesting man.”

“Do you think it would ruin the cocktail party if I took out my gun and shot myself?”

“With this crowd? I doubt it. But I think that would be an overreaction, don’t you? We’ve only just met. Besides, I said ‘sort of.’ I would have thought a detective would pick up on that.”

“I did,” I said, as Pierce hurried toward us, spilling some of their wine.

She smiled.

“Why were you asking Pierce about that student? Cap something?”

“Capriati. William Capriati. He’s involved in a case I’m working on. I have to do some research on him at the college.”

“Good. Perhaps we will bump into each other again.”

She held out her hand. I shook it. And then Lancaster’s. He looked relieved. I went to get another drink.

***

“Do you always smoke after sex?”

We were lying naked in Nancy’s huge four poster bed. She blew a fragrant and almost perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling, then sat up and looked closely at her shaved nether region.

“I don’t know,” she said with a leer. “I never looked before.”

I laughed and she handed me her cigarette. Which wasn’t exactly a cigarette. It was one of Nancy’s personal blends she rolled from a combination of tobacco and illegal plants that thrived in a small shed behind her house, which bordered Snug Harbor. I took a drag, just to be polite.

“Alt, have you ever tried screwing while on LSD?”

“I imagine it would be tough. I mostly use an Allen wrench and had enough trouble putting together a computer station sober.”

“No, you idiot. I mean sex, on acid.”

“I know what you mean. The answer is still no.” I had a sudden terrifying thought. “What the hell is in these cigarettes?”

She laughed.

“Don’t worry. They’re harmless. Maybe a touch of peyote. I did acid once and the sex was incredible. I came forever.”

That thought was conjuring a vision of Dante’s Second Circle of Hell when there was a fluttering of wings and a squawk from a cage in the corner of the room.

“Elvis disapproves of the smoke,” she said.

The green-and-yellow Elvis did look annoyed and was scuttling back and forth on his perch bobbing his head the way parrots do.

“I would have thought you had your hands full taking care of all the plant life around this place.” But for the fence separating the properties, Nancy’s home and grounds so resembled Botanical Garden exhibits she could have charged admission. “Why the bird?”

She took in another lungful of smoke, held it, and let it hiss out appreciatively. The smoke wafted toward Elvis. I thought I saw him wobble.

“He flew into the greenhouse at work a couple of months ago. Probably escaped from somebody’s home. I put an ad in the paper, but nobody claimed him. And no one on my staff wanted the poor thing, so I’ve adopted him.”

“Why do you keep him in here,” I said.

“I had him in the kitchen, but he just moped around.”

“Probably got lonely.”

Cooking was not among Nancy’s many talents.

“Whatever. But he seems happier in here.”

“More to see.”

“What, are you shy? I can always cover the cage, if that bothers you so much.”

“He can still hear, for crissake.”

“Don’t worry. He’s never spoken a word. I don’t think he can. Probably why nobody wanted him back.”

“You’d better hope he isn’t biding his time.”

“Forget the fucking Maltese Parrot, will you.” She put out her cigarette. “You looked like you enjoyed yourself at the party tonight,” Nancy said. “Who was that good-looking broad you were capering around?”

“I don’t caper.”

“Who was it?”

I told her as I slid my hand down her stomach.

“Don’t tell me you are jealous.”

She laughed.

“I hate to break it to you, Alt. But you weren’t my first choice tonight.”

“I’m crushed.”

She sat up a bit on her elbows, but carefully, so as not to dislodge my hand. She looked at me appraisingly.

“Please don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Alton. We’re just pals. If I thought you were auditioning to be my next ex-husband I’d be very disappointed. You aren’t, are you?”

The look on my face made her laugh.

“Thank God. Even if you were the marrying kind, which you’re not, you’re not my type of husband material. Don’t get me wrong, honeybun. You are a terrific guy, one of the best I’ve known. But you’re such a boy scout. I prefer men without too many principles. You would drive a wife crazy.”

“Boy scout?”

“Oh, I know. You don’t think of yourself that way. You will bend the rules, but only in the service of a good cause or to help a friend. Or, saints preserve us, because it’s the honorable thing to do. Look how you ran off when they called you up.”

“I didn’t have much say in the matter, Nance.”

“Yeah, I know. But you did it with such goddamn enthusiasm. Like I said, poor marriage material.” She moaned. “Jesus, don’t stop, I like that.”

She lay back, arranging herself to give me greater access and maneuvering my hand the way she preferred.

“Oh, God.” She moaned, and then shuddered. “It’s so nice to have a friend with benefits. “Oh, God.”

Just then Elvis said, “Oh, God.”

Clear as a bell.

“Shit,” Nancy said.

“Shit,” Elvis parroted.

***

The next morning Nancy mumbled something about making me breakfast but was back asleep before I’d finished dressing. As I closed the bedroom door Elvis said, “Oh, God.” He left it at that. Maybe he didn’t curse on the Sabbath.

I went home, showered and changed into work clothes. Then I drove to my office, stopping at a deli on Bay Street to pick up a couple of bacon and egg sandwiches and a container of coffee. The guard at the desk was the old fellow from Friday night.

“You still here?” I kidded him, then gave him one of the sandwiches and the coffee. I escaped without seeing any more pictures of his grandkids.

When I got upstairs I put on my own pot of coffee and spent the rest of the day cleaning, polishing, vacuuming and otherwise putting the finishing touches on my office. By late afternoon I was sweaty and tired, and feeling pretty good about it.

I then devoted an hour to searching various databases on the web for any references for William Capriati. Private investigators, lawyers, accountants and the just-plain nosey typically sign up for specialized fee-based search engines. And as a former law enforcement officer I had access to certain sites not available to the general public. I wasn’t supposed to use some of them but did, and would as long as my passwords still worked. I wasn’t particularly worried about a Government computer watchdog back tracking my inquiries. Contrary to common belief and television shows, the Feds aren’t all that good at that sort of thing. Their computers are usually a generation behind current and their top technicians quickly leave for lucrative jobs in the private sector. If the Government was serious about uncovering billion-dollar investment frauds it would ask Bill Gates to sign on as a $1-a-year man to bring its systems up to speed.

I turned up a surprising number of male Capriatis, including several Williams, all the wrong age by a long shot. My Billy apparently didn’t exist, except in Ellen James’s memory. I couldn’t even find any references to his life on Staten Island, subsequent bank embezzlement or any other crimes. That didn’t particularly surprise me, given the amount of time that had elapsed. All his notable activities might have been basically pre-web. Post-web he might have reformed and bought himself a new identity. He could be married with six kids and coaching Little League in Iowa. Or soccer in Italy. He might be dead. Of course, I still lacked his Social Security Number. But I had the suspicion that wouldn’t be a game changer. None of this helped Savannah James. All I basically had was Wagner College and a general idea where his family came from on the Island. So that’s where I would look.

It was late afternoon when I closed up my office and headed home. Abby was now on the desk in my lobby.

“That was the second-greatest eggplant sandwich in history,” she said.

“What’s the first?”

“The next one.”

I got in my car and headed up Bay Street in a steady drizzle. The light at Water Street was changing and I would have made it but for a bus whose turn was halted by a pedestrian. I jammed on my brakes and was lucky not to skid on the slick road through the intersection. I heard a screech behind me and braced for an impact that never came. At least it never came to me. But the car following me was rear-ended. Even with my windows up, I heard the tinkle of glass.

Feeling somewhat responsible, I got out. By the time I reached the second car, the third one, a red Volvo, had backed up, done a sliding U-Turn and fishtailed away, leaving the driver of the other car in the middle of the street waving his arms and shouting. I couldn’t see the plate in the dark and drizzle. I asked him if he’d gotten it. He hadn’t.

The damage to his car was minimal. The glass on the street had apparently come from the Volvo.

“What the hell did you stop short for?”

He was just venting and we both knew it. He would have seen the bus. I let him go on for a bit until he realized neither of us was to blame.

“Oh, fuck it,” he said. “The fender was already pushed in. The other car lost a headlight, I think. Should I call the cops? They took off. It’s a hit-and-run, right?”

“More like a bump-and-run. Probably drunk to take off like that. You said ‘they.’ Bunch of kids?”

“Didn’t get a good look but there were just two men. Bastards almost hit me turning around. Hey, what about insurance? If they report it and I don’t, I could get screwed.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. They left the scene.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.”

By this time we were both thoroughly soaked and cars were beeping at us. We looked at each other and then both said “fuck it” and went to our respective cars and drove away.

I hadn’t eaten since the morning so I stopped at Tug’s, a waterfront restaurant on Richmond Terrace a few blocks from my house. It was early for dinner so I scored a table with a nice view of the Kill van Kull. The Yokahama Maru would have passed right in front of the window where I sat sipping a Guinness stout and eating fish and chips. Of course, it would have been the entire view. After I finished eating I went home to watch some football and catch up on my sleep. It promised to be a busy week.

CHAPTER 9 – CLAPPER

The next morning I worked the Internet some more at home and didn’t find out anything else. Then I called Dave Clapper at Wagner and told him what I needed.

“That kind of information is strictly confidential,” he said.

“How long?”

“Give me an hour, hour and a half, tops.”

Enough time for another run to the King’s Arms, where I ordered juice, coffee and a bagel. I called Alice Watts on her cell while I ate. Got a recording. After the beep I said, “I decided to slow down our relationship, which is why I didn’t call you yesterday. I’ll be at Wagner today. If you are around, how about a platonic cup of coffee? If that’s too daring, perhaps we could just wave to each other across the quad.”

I left my name and number. I thought about calling her home as well, but that would have ruined the poetry of the cell message.

When I got to Wagner College, I parked in the visitors’ lot across Howard Avenue and headed over to Ithan Hall, which was the name of the school’s new administration building, cutting across the wide lawn that is the centerpiece of the campus. Many college campuses are beautiful, but Wagner still surprises. It looks as if someone dropped New England onto Staten Island. Broad green expanses, tall trees, ivy covered buildings, rolling hillsides. And glittering in the distance, framed by the valley cut by glaciers in one of the Ice Ages, sat New York Harbor in all its glory. The only campus I’d seen that could compete was Cornell. But Manhattan was 30 minutes away from where I stood. Cornell was upstate in Ithaca, where they made good shotguns but lousy Saturday nights.

It was a splendid day and there were plenty of students out and about, walking between classes carrying books, sitting on benches or under trees and generally not wasting the best years of their lives. Good for them. They weren’t all scraggly dressed, which surprised me. I paid particular attention to the co-eds, and was rewarded by a few who gave me it’s not likely pal but it’s possible smiles that made my day.

The designers of Ithan Hall had tried to conform to the architecture of the surrounding buildings, some of which were almost a hundred years old and wouldn’t have looked out of place at Oxford. To their credit, they had mostly succeeded. The building looked new, lacked arches and turrets, and had too much glass, but at least it didn’t stick out on the campus like tits on a bull. It would even be better once the ivy got going. Maybe the  Botanical Garden student interns could do something about that.

Inside everything looked like the starship Enterprise. Dave’s office is on the first floor, just outside the college president’s. I could hear his voice through Bradley’s  partly closed door. A middle-aged woman looked me over with a friendly but non-committal gaze from behind a wraparound desk. I was too old and too well dressed to be a student, but just about the right age for a parent or, better still, a well-heeled alumnus.

“May I help you?”

“My name is Rhode. Dave Clapper is expecting me.”

“Oh yes, the Commander mentioned it. You’re the detective.” If she was disappointed I wasn’t about to endow a wing on a new dorm, she hid it well. “He said you can wait in his office. Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thanks. But I thought Dave retired as a Coast Guard Captain.”

She looked confused for a second, then smiled.

“Oh, yes, he did. ‘Commander’ is just a nickname the kids gave him. He’s really made an impression on them, with all his efficiency and can-do attitude. They love him. Now we even call him that.”

Dave had been hired by Spencer Bradley to shape up the college ship before it made the expected jump to university status. Dave wasn’t an academic, so there was a blessed dearth of tomes and diplomas in his office. Flow charts, graphs and corkboards dominated the walls and ledges. There were a few personal touches, family photos, and a framed and yellowed military wall map. I went to the map. It showed the landing zones for the planned invasion of the Japanese home islands in 1945. The assault beaches were named after American cars: Buick, Cadillac, Chrysler, Ford, Desoto, Pontiac, Lincoln, Studebaker, Packard and so on.

“Thank God for the A-bomb,” Dave said as he walked into the office. “That invasion would have been a bloodbath.”

“If they landed today, they’d have to use fewer beaches or come up with a different set of names,” I said. “I doubt they’d use Corolla or Camry. Where did you get this?”

“I’m third generation Coast Guard. My grandfather was involved in the planning for the invasion. He brought that home as a souvenir. A lot of people forget the Coast Guard was a fighting branch in World War II.”

“Also did a hell of a job during Katrina.”

“Glad somebody noticed.”

I thought of something.

“I’ve been seeing a lot of Coast Guard emblems on illegally parked cars lately. Is there something I should know about?”

He looked pained.

“Just between us?”

“Sure.”

“The Borough President wants the Guard to back one of his hair-brained schemes for a new Cromwell Center. He’s been passing out parking stickers and placards to officers like M&M’s.”

“What’s the scheme?”

“Would you believe a floating barge with basketball courts? Gives a whole new meaning to the pick-and-roll play.”

“Not to mention the dunk. But it would free up the shoreline for condos.”

“Still the cynic.”

“I’m just glad it has nothing to do with global warming.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Dave was a short, well-built guy, with buzz-cut black hair and brown eyes. He was probably 50, could undoubtedly fit into his old uniform and still moved with a military bearing. His dark blue tie had little yellow sailboats on it.

“Do I have to call you ‘Commander’ around here?”

“A simple ‘Sir’ will do,” he said, reaching into his desk for a thick manila envelope he slid across his desk. “It’s not much, I’m afraid. Been 14 years since Capriati graduated and there wasn’t a hell of a lot on him. I gather he was a pretty decent student. But other than being a damn fine wrestler he did a bang-up job of being inconspicuous. Never joined a fraternity, not even Delta Nu, which gets all the jocks.”

I knew he’d have read the material before letting it out of his sight. Once military, always military.

“Dom said he got into some minor scrapes off campus.”

“Good for him. Proves he was human, at least.”

I opened the envelope. Inside were copies of William Capriati’s college application forms, medical records, transcripts and graduation information, as well as various photos and articles about the wrestling team from school and local newspapers. Coach DeRenzi was in a couple of them. Dom’s looks had not improved with age, something I looked forward to telling him with photographic proof in hand.

“Good-looking kid,” Dave said. “The photos and clips weren’t in the school files. I had one of the kids at the school paper do a little digging.”

“This going to cause trouble for you?”

“Be serious,” he said. “Colleges have strict rules about confidentiality. We protect students’ privacy religiously. Or since we’re talking about academia here, maybe agnostically. Unless, of course, the banks want to lend the kids money they can’t pay back or give them credit cards they don’t need. After they graduate we hunt them down like dogs for contributions. And you should see what happens when a professor or dean wants to screw someone out of tenure or a choice committee spot. All sorts of confidential information gets leaked. Place is like a hen party. What a crock of shit.”

“I thought you liked it here. Everybody says you’re doing a bang-up job.”

“Like it? I love it. Did my 30 with the Coasties, have a nice pension. Pay here is good, working on another pension, the benefits are outstanding and I’m getting a doctorate for free. Bumping into co-eds all day is just a bonus. That doesn’t mean I can’t recognize bullshit when I see it.”

“Any of Capriati’s teachers still here?”

I hadn’t seen any names on the transcripts.

“Jesus, Rhode, you want me to do your job for you? Go down to the Registrar’s Office and find out.”

“All you academic types are lazy.”

“Mention my name at the Registrar and if you talk to any of the professors. Though I’m not sure that will help. They live in their own world and they don’t like me in it.”

I held up a grainy photo of Capriati wearing a jacket and tie.

“Yearbook shot?”

“Yeah. When he was a senior.”

“Can I get the yearbook?”

“There’s only that graduation shot of him and a couple with him on the wrestling team. They’re all in the file. Like I said, he wasn’t a joiner.”

“I may want to blow this up and have copies made. The resolution isn’t good. I’d rather work from the original page.”

“The photographer is listed on the credit page. Maybe you can go right to him. If he’s still in business he may still have the negatives.”

“I’d like the yearbook just in case. Besides, it will have the names of his classmates. Might give me some leads. Maybe he kept in touch.”

“That’s a lot of kids. The yearbook won’t tell you who Capriati was close to. You can’t contact them all, can you?”

“I’d probably contact those who still live around here. I might get lucky. Six degrees of separation and all that.”

Clapper looked dubious.

“You have heard about the Internet, haven’t you?”

“This is an unusual guy.”

“Must be. Anyway, I’ll call the library and tell them to pull the yearbook for you. They’ll want it back. Not too many left after all this time. Don’t lose it, for God’s sake. I’d rather go through Katrina again than have a hassle with one of our librarians.”

After I left Dave, I found a bench outside on the common and went through the file. It didn’t take long. Clapper was right. Billy Capriati had been a solid student, maintaining a 3.2 Grade Point Average as a finance major. He showed a particular aptitude for mathematics, which undoubtedly came in handy during his embezzlement. Only a few B’s and C’s, and one D, all in Liberal Arts courses. One of the C’s was in something called “Moral Decisions in a Pragmatic World.” I suspected Billy Cap hadn’t drawn the right conclusions from that course. The D was in “America’s Real Manifest Destiny: The Subjugation and Exploitation of Women.” He should have aced that one.

Most of the other stuff in the file was boilerplate. The news clips that mentioned Capriati ran along the lines of one that said “Bear Wrestlers Pin Ryder 9-3.” If ever a headline called for a typo, that was it. He didn’t seem to have any extracurricular interests outside wrestling. Not even intramural football to mitigate the lie to Ellen James. His medical reports listed a few minor injuries related to wrestling and some of the meds he was on, mostly low-dose painkillers. There were some mildly warning comments about neck sprains, rotator cuffs and a hip flexor. But he was always cleared to wrestle, and did. For a conman, Billy Cap was a tough-enough kid.

The admissions and graduation information was more productive. I wrote down his address, phone number and other personal data. All of it was ancient history, but better than nothing. There was also his Social Security number, which Ellen James had not been able to provide. Social Security numbers are ageless. They follow us from cradle to grave, and sometimes beyond. The other private dicks and the cops Ellen had contacted had the number by now, but it was still my best chance of tracking Capriati down. My cell phone beeped. It was Alice Watts.

“You are nothing if not persistent,” she said.

“Telemarketers are persistent,” I said. “Private eyes are dogged.”

“Do you know where the Bear’s Den is? In the old Admin building?”

I said I did.

“I’m free in about an hour and a half, at 12:50. Is that convenient?”

I said it was.

CHAPTER 10 – SCRATCHING AN ITCH

“Why do you want to know?”

I was sitting at a desk talking to an elderly Registrar lady who had been assigned to help me. Dave’s phone call had gotten past the receptionist. Now I was on my own.

“Because I don’t,” I said.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t know.”

“Student transcripts are confidential. Commander Clapper knows that.”

“And he would never ask you to do anything remotely unethical,” I said, trying to look shocked. I could feel the folded transcript copies in my jacket pocket. “But surely the names of a former student’s teachers are public record.”

She processed that for a moment. I knew it could go either way, and given my recent experience with women her age, I was not hopeful. I looked at the nameplate on her desk.

“You don’t have a raffle book I could buy, do you Ms. Polidori?”

She sighed and then decided that it was less trouble to get what I wanted than put up with me. That happens a lot.

“Please wait here.”

She shuffled off somewhere. Almost 20 minutes later she returned and handed me several sheets of paper.

“I printed out the names of all of William Capriati’s instructors. Only two of them are  still here,” she said. “I circled their names for you. Is there anything else?”

“Would you know where I can find them?”

“You will have to go over to their respective Departments. If they aren’t in their offices, you can get a class schedule. Is there anything else?”

I stood up.

“No. Thank you. You’ve been a great help.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

I looked at the names she’d circled.

“Oh, boy.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, thanks again.”

One of the names was P. Lancaster. “America’s Real Manifest Destiny: The Subjugation and Exploitation of Women” was his course. Presumably a gut elective for a jock studying finance, designed to make both teacher and student look good. Yet Pierce gave Capriati a ‘D.’ Strange. From what I knew about Capriati, he would have spotted a fellow con man and told Lancaster exactly what he wanted to hear. I decided to save Pierce the Precious for last, since I suspected I would need a drink after speaking to him.

The other teacher whose name was circled, J. Kaplan, was a biology instructor. I hoofed it over to the Department of Science only to discover that Professor Kaplan was finishing a class in 20 minutes on the other side of the campus. I had time to stop in the library to pick up the yearbook and get lectured by the librarian on the importance of its return. Then on to the building to wait for the biology class to empty out. Professor Kaplan turned out to be a Justine, a tall, lanky woman who would have been a looker 15 to 20 years earlier. In fact, she was still very attractive. There was a slash of silver in her black hair and she had wide intelligent eyes and a sensual mouth. She was wearing denim trousers and a long herringbone vest over a white poplin shirt.

“You are absolutely the first private detective I have ever met,” she said after I introduced myself. “I can’t wait to tell my husband. He’s a big fan of private eye novels. Has all the Spensers and Jake Scarnes. Even some of the old ‘masters,’ as he calls them. Dashiell Hammett, Raymonf Chandler. Every time we go into Manhattan he just has to go to the Strand bookstore in the Village and look for an undiscovered thriller writer. Do you know the Strand? It must have every used book in the country.”

I told her I did.

“He comes home with half a dozen books. Says they are real bargains at the Strand. Which I suppose they would be, if he didn’t factor in the lunch or dinner I make him buy at the Gotham for making me wait while he scours the stacks. Be cheaper to download them to his Kindle. But he says it’s not the same.”

“He’s right,” I said.

I studied her face, which, except for a few small smile lines around her mouth and eyes was youthful.

“It kills Ira that most new thrillers are written by women,” she continued. “They’re not hard-boiled enough for him.” She smiled. “Are you hard-boiled, Mr. Rhode?”

“To tell you the truth, Professor, lately I’ve been feeling a bit scrambled. I was hoping you could help me out on something. Do you remember William Capriati? You were listed as one of his teachers.”

“Yes, of course.” She answered so quickly I was taken aback. “Can we sit down?”

We walked over to a bench under a big sycamore. I liked sitting on benches under trees, particularly with a good-looking woman. I did check for birds, however. Someone once told me that being crapped on by a bird was good luck. So far my bad luck had held and I wanted to keep it that way. I don’t think you can have a serious conversation with bird doo on your head.

“Why are you asking about Billy? Is he in some sort of trouble? Is he all right?”

“I don’t know. No one seems to know what became of him after he left college. I represent someone who wants to find him on a personal matter.” I saw no harm in telling her what the situation was, but left out the part about the bank embezzlement. “Why did you assume there might be something wrong?”

She smiled.

“Billy was a good student. But you could tell he was a rascal. He came on to every female in the class. Sex was really the only biology that interested him. I’m not surprised to hear that there is an issue of paternity involved. What a sad story. I only hope you find him in time to help that poor child. Is that his yearbook?”

I handed it to her and she quickly found his photo. She stared at the picture a long while, shaking her head in remembrance.

“God, we were young,” she said, handing the book back.

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Not much. He kept to himself a lot. About the only other thing that interested him besides sex was wrestling.” She laughed. “On the team, I mean.”

I was getting a strange vibe from Professor Kaplan.

“Do you always take such an interest in your students?”

“I told you he hit on every female in the class.” She colored slightly. “In my case, successfully.”

Billy had good taste. I wasn’t so sure about hers.

“I don’t mean to be judgmental, but aren’t there rules against that sort of thing?”

“It’s frowned on more today than it was back then. I have no excuse, except to say that I was only an adjunct at the time and not that much older than Billy. This isn’t high school; we were both consenting adults. I didn’t seduce him and we only began sleeping together after he left my class.”

I recalled the transcript.

“You gave him a ‘B.’”

She laughed.

“He didn’t seem to hold that against me. That’s one of the reasons I liked him. I shudder to think what our sex life would have been if I’d given him an ‘A’. Billy was a wonderful lover, much more experienced than I was.” She smiled. “At the time.”

I decided that if I were her husband, I wouldn’t spend too much time with my nose buried in a mystery novel.

“Did you know where he lived? Meet any of his family or friends?”

“No, he’d come to my apartment, and occasionally we’d go out for dinner or take in a movie. Billy was crazy about the movies. Always just the two of us. It only lasted a summer. It was what it was. A fling.”

“Who broke it up?”

“Billy did. He called me one day to say that he’d taken a job in Atlanta and was leaving almost immediately.”

“How did you feel?”

“Sad at first, then relieved.”

“And you didn’t keep in touch?”

“No calls, no cards, no flowers, no recriminations, no sleepless nights. I had an itch and Billy scratched it. We both knew it wasn’t going anywhere. Now I’m a Sadie, Sadie married lady. With some great memories.”

I didn’t buy the Sadie routine. Justine Kaplan had crossed her legs several times during our conversation and each time had somehow inched closer to me on the bench. I didn’t know how she did that but a few more leg crossings and she’d be sitting on the other side of me. I have absolutely nothing against women of a certain age but I had my sights set elsewhere and I try not to get involved with married women – if I can help it. I stood abruptly and held out my hand.

“Thank you for your help, Professor.”

She took it well. There were a thousand other men walking around the campus.

“I’m not sure I’ve been all that helpful.” she said. “Have you spoken to any of Billy’s other instructors?

“There’s only one still around. Lancaster.”

Her laugh was sudden and harsh.

“Oh, I’ll bet Pierce will give you an earful.”

“He says he doesn’t remember him.”

“Bullshit! He’d never forget Billy. Hated him. Tried to flunk him out of school. Would have if the wrestling team didn’t need him so badly.”

“Why the animus. I know Lancaster doesn’t like jocks but that can’t be the reason.”

She smiled. I had seen that kind of smile before.

“I stopped seeing Pierce because of Billy. He found out. Might have made trouble for me but his record with his female students was just short of a scandal.”

That explained the “D”. Pierce the Precious was also Pierce the Prevaricator. Liar, liar, pants on fire. I’d get to him, but it was time to meet Alice Watts.

CHAPTER 11 – IN THE BEAR’S DEN

The old administration building was ivy central and had the requisite turrets. It was, as far as I knew, just called “the old administration building.” A sign outside said that it now housed the Department of Continuing Education. That was probably why the college kept the archaic Bear’s Den cafeteria open in the basement. Night school students could get cholesterol and caffeine fixes without having to tramp all the way across the campus.

Alice was already sitting at a table when I got to the Den, looking through some papers. She smiled when I walked up to her.

“Mr. Rhode, how are you?”

“Do you think we can work with Alton and Alice? After all we’ve seen each other almost naked.”

“Of course.”

“Would you like some coffee? Maybe something to eat.”

“Coffee would be nice, thank you.”

She told me how she took it and I went over to the counter. I had been in the Bear’s Den a few times over the past 20 years and it looked exactly the same. As opposed to the modernity of the other dining halls, all chrome, glass, plastic and salad bars, the Den was decidedly retro. Its salad bar consisted of a head of lettuce, and some onions and tomatoes on a plate. To be fair, there was also a large jar of pickles. Hot dogs and the infamous “Grizzly Burgers” were the staples. The kids called them “Gristle Burgers” but in reality they were quite good, if artery clogging. There was also a small platter piled high with corn muffins. They smelled warm. I didn’t see a microwave.

“Fresh corn muffins?”

The elderly lady behind the counter, who also served as cashier, said, “Home made. Right out of the oven.”

“What oven?”

“Main cafeteria. They send them over. Want one?”

“Two. And two regular coffees”

There was a bowl of butter and jellies in those little mini-tubs that are hard to open and often frozen solid. I loaded up, to increase the odds of success. When I got back to the table, Alice Watts looked at the tray.

“Those who ignore fresh corn muffins,” I said, “are doomed to regret it.”

“I love corn muffins.”

She broke off a piece of a muffin and put some butter and jelly on it. She had no trouble opening the packets. She looked at me. My fingernails were stubbier than hers. I was using a plastic knife on a butter tub when she reached across and opened it for me. Then another and a couple of jellies for good measure. I thought about proposing on the spot but instead just took it from there and fixed up the muffins myself. We drank coffee and ate while we chatted. Much to my disappointment, she finished her entire muffin. I put the proposal on hold.

Alice Watts was easy to talk to. And look at. She was wearing a mint green V-necked paisley merino wool sweater and dark gray boot-cut slacks. Her only jewelry was a large silver Perreti heart on a chain around her neck. Her eyes were light gray above a strong nose, wide mouth and pointed chin. It was a face with many disparate parts that shouldn’t have all worked together but did.

She was originally from Mission Viejo, California, and won a scholarship to UCLA.

“You must have been a hell of a swimmer.”

“Actually, it was an academic scholarship,” she said. “But I made the UCLA team as a “swim on.”

“You must have been pretty good.”

“I was, in high school,” she said. “Mission Viejo is known for producing world-class swimmers. I grew up with some kids who medaled at the Olympics a few years back. But by the time I got to college I was a couple of seconds behind my peers. At that level, a second is a light year. But I managed to get in a couple of relays my senior year.”

“How did you end up here?”

“I wanted to be a novelist and NYU offered a Masters in Creative Writing. My boyfriend wanted to make his fortune on Wall Street. We moved to Greenwich Village.”

“How did that work out?”

“Fine, for a few years. Actually, almost nine years. I got the masters and Kevin landed a good job at Merrill Lynch. We married. I stayed home and wrote. Sold a few short stories. Finished a novel, which I have in a drawer somewhere. We thought about starting a family, until we both realized that trying to salvage a marriage wasn’t a good reason for having a child.”

She suddenly looked startled.

“Why the hell am I telling you all this?”

“I’m a detective. You probably figured I’d pull a rubber hose and find out anyway. You owe me, anyway.”

“Owe you? Why?”

“You weren’t supposed to eat your whole corn muffin. So you might as well tell me the rest.”

“No much more to tell. We’d grown apart. He wanted to move to Mamaroneck with all his bond buddies. I wanted to stay in the Village. We divorced. It was amicable. We exchange cards at Christmas. Financially, he treated me well. But I still needed a job if I wanted to keep my apartment in the city. A friend mentioned that there was an adjunct position available here to teach Philosophy, which was what I majored in at UCLA, and I applied, and here I am. I’m working toward my doctorate and was given tenure last year.”

“Congratulations. Are you going to stay with the swim program?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think I got the teaching position because they noticed my swimming background on my resume and they needed a coach. I don’t really need the extra money anymore, but I love it. A lot of the kids in the Performing Arts Department take philosophy because they think it will help them understand their characters. Some of them are so bright and committed it’s frightening. They energize me.”

“Are you still writing?”

“Not as much as I thought I’d be able to. Teachers have plenty of time off. But with the coaching and my commute to the city, it hasn’t worked out. I often stay on campus on weekends. They let me keep some clothes and things in one of the old dorm rooms. That’s why you saw me so early on Saturday. Something has to give, soon, I know. I’m afraid it may be the swim team.”

“What is your novel about?”

She shook her head.

“Sorry. I like you, but I don’t know you well enough to talk about that. In fact, I realize that I hardly know you at all. Now it’s your turn.”

The small room had begun to fill up. Most of the patrons looked like teachers or college staffers. It occurred to me that we had talked well into the lunch hour. I could smell and hear meat grilling in the serving area.

“Sure. But before we get to that, I’m hungry. Could I talk you into joining me in suicide by Grizzly Burgers?”

She crossed her legs and smiled at me.

“Could I talk you into splitting one,” she said.

“With fries?”

“Extra crispy?”

“Jesus, you’re a tough negotiator.”

“Look who’s talking. I only wanted a cup of coffee.”

The burger was just as I’d remembered it, piled high with several layers of meat and cheese, as well as onions, tomatoes, lettuce and pickles. Cutting it in half qualified as major surgery. I felt that I should have tied off a few bleeders. Unlike me, Alice Watts somehow managed to eat her portion without juice dripping down her chin.

“I’ll have to swim the Narrows to work this off,” she said.

I told her about myself. She was one of those people who really concentrate on the person talking, and don’t interrupt needlessly. But she seemed to sense things that I’d left out, and tried to get me to talk about them.

“Maybe when you can tell me about your book,” I said at one point.

“Touché. But just one thing. Are there any other wounds I should know about?”

“You saw me in a bathing suit. Not much to hide. Are you thinking of The Sun Also Rises? I didn’t think anyone read Hemingway anymore. Would Jake Barnes waste a Grizzly Burger on mere friendship? Believe me, my intentions are purely dishonorable.”

Alice Watts colored.

“No. I didn’t mean that. I meant. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot for even mentioning it.”

“You want to know if I suffered emotional damage.”

“Please, forget I even brought it up.”

“Alice, I’m about the same as I was before I left.” I smiled. “Some people would say that’s what you should worry about.”

Her eyes drifted over my shoulder as I felt someone approach. She smiled but I could tell it was forced. I knew who it was before she said, “Hello Pierce.”

Lancaster sat down without asking.

“You remember Alton, don’t you?”

Not “Mr. Rhode.” That was a good sign.

“Yes. The gumshoe.”

Shamus. Gumshoe. I was beginning to think I was in a Dashiell Hammett novel. I scowled, trying to look the part, which is hard to do with Grizzly Burger drippings on your shirt. So I went back to my pleasant smile. It didn’t matter. Lancaster was ignoring me. He wouldn’t have been able to do that if I’d had an entire burger. My shirt would have resembled the Shroud of Turin.

“Why aren’t you in the faculty lounge?”

“This was more convenient,” Alice said. I could tell she didn’t like to be interrogated by him.

Now he looked at me.

“And why are you here?”

I, on the other hand, relish being interrogated by a pantywaist academic. It offers so many opportunities.

“I heard it had the best yoghurt and salad bar on campus.”

“It has neither.”

Lancaster was not into irony.

“I was misinformed.” It wasn’t a very good Bogart but Lancaster probably didn’t know that. He was seated with one booted foot on the table. I suppressed an urge to knock it off. He was dressed much the same as he had been at the cocktail party. He probably thought every female on campus wanted to jump his bones. And would be privileged to do so. I wanted to ask him what he was doing in the Bear’s Den but didn’t want to embarrass Alice. He’d probably been looking for her. Instead I said, “I don’t suppose you’ve remembered if William Capriati was ever one of your students.”

Lancaster tried for a bored look, but I sensed there was something else behind it.

“I haven’t given it a thought.”

“Do you keep records?”

“Not that far back.”

“The registrar’s office probably does,” Alice said. “Isn’t that right, Pierce?”

Lancaster shot her a look.

“Yes, I suppose so. But what is your interest in an old student?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential information.”

Actually it wasn’t. Ellen James wouldn’t care who knew about Capriati if it would help locate him in time. But Lancaster had lied to me. Letting him stew about my motives might prove productive. How, I didn’t know. But hunches often have to do when clues are scarce. I didn’t want to confront him in front of Alice, so I said, “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it professor. As you said, your field was probably too esoteric for a wrestler. By the way, what is your field?”

I think he was relieved I didn’t call him “Pierce,” because he answered me.

“Theoretical Modern History. I hope to set up a separate department devoted to it.”

“Theoretical Modern History?”

I suspected that was a curriculum that predated President Bradley coming on board.

“Yes,” he said. “Traditional history is an overrated and dangerous discipline that ties us to outdated thinking and leads to misguided political decisions.” I shouldn’t have called him “Professor.” Now he had a full head of steam. “There is a new cultural paradigm that obviates the need for studying the histories written by the victors. We should be looking at what their victims can tell us about ourselves and our world.”

“I thought that those who ignore history,” I said, “are doomed to repeat it.”

He almost yawned.

“Quoting Santayana is typical of what the stunted, or should I say ignorant, so-called students of history believe.”

I heard Alice draw in her breath. Punching gasbag academics would be a full-time job, so I settled on delivering a devastating riposte.

“Actually, Pierce, I was paraphrasing Edmund Burke, as Santayana did.”

“Whatever.” He looked at his watch. It was one of those out-doorsey chronographs with a thick leather strap and more buttons than an old car radio. “I have a meeting in Tolentine. I’ll call you later, Alice.”

He uncurled himself from his chair and walked away. Alice and I were silent for a moment. Then she said, “I presume you aren’t carrying a gun today.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You didn’t shoot Pierce.”

I spilled some coffee laughing at that.

“Actually, I am carrying. I’m hoping to impress you with my restraint.”

“And the Edmund Burke reference.”

“That, too. Did it work?”

“I don’t eat Grizzly burgers with just anybody.”

I walked her to her next class. She commented on my limp.

“The docs say it will be gone in a couple of weeks. I’m exaggerating it to gain sympathy from you. I thought crutches would be overkill.”

We reached her building. Students were streaming in and out. I told her I wanted to see her again.

“You can do better,” I said, “than Pierce the Precious.”

“That’s an unkind thing to say about a man I’m seeing. And about me.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Alice.”

“Pierce has many fine qualities. He’s not himself around you. You project authority and he likes to see himself as a nonconformist. He feels threatened.”

“I think we both know what he feels threatened about.”

“I have to go,” she said. “Thank you for lunch.”

She started up the steps. Then she turned and looked down at me.

“Call me. But not right away. A few weeks? I have some thinking to do.”

A couple of students greeted her and she disappeared through the door. I went to find Pierce the Precious and ask him some non-theoretical questions.

CHAPTER 12 – TENURE

Lancaster was in his office in the History Department but had his door closed. I heard male and female murmuring and laughter. There was an uncomfortable looking chair in the anteroom and I sat in it. After a few minutes the door opened and the good professor came out, his hand on the shoulder of an attractive black co-ed.

“I’m sure that with a little more effort on your part, Darlene, we’ll be able to get that grade up,” he said. “Don’t forget what I said about being available to help you after school. I do a lot of work and research at home but I can always carve out some time if you want to stop by.”

His fatherly smile evaporated when he spotted me. He dropped his hand from the girl’s shoulder so abruptly she gave him a quizzical look. Then his mask came back on.

“Just call me next week, Miss Plumb. And don’t forget that paper.”

The kid stammered a quick thank you and hurried out. He turned to me.

“What the hell do you want?”

“I just wanted to see if the theoretical history instructor worked in a real building.”

“I’m very busy, Rhode.”

“I can see that,” I said, nodding my head at the rapidly retreating co-ed. “I didn’t realize that you were still interested in the exploitation of women.”

“What are you talking about?”

“America’s Real Manifest Destiny: The Subjugation and Exploitation of Women?”

“I haven’t taught that course in years.”

“Yeah, I would guess that Oprah has negated some of its impact.”

“Women are still being exploited.” I smiled. He realized he was painting himself into a corner. “But there are other subjects with more immediate relevance,” he ended lamely.

“Look Pierce, I’m not here to debate your sex life or your bullshit politics. I just want to know why you lied to me about remembering William Capriati.” Some students and staffers were walking by. He glanced at them nervously. “Why don’t we take this into your office?”

“I didn’t lie,” he said. But he motioned me inside his door and closed it. “I don’t remember him. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

There was a chair and it looked a lot more comfortable than the one in the anteroom. Probably made the co-eds feel at home. I sat without asking.

“Because he took your ‘Manifest’ course. Because you gave him a lousy mark and tried to run him out of school. I can check the grades you gave the other students. I’d bet my mother’s Hummel collection they all got ‘A’s’. You hated Capriati’s guts for stealing your girlfriend. What happened? Were you running low on co-eds?”

He sat down heavily in his desk chair and scowled at me. ‘If looks could kill’ was a nice phrase and I’d seen a couple that fit the bill. Maks Kalugin probably had a doozy. But no one named Pierce Lancaster could pull it off. He just appeared to be constipated.

“You should try more roughage,” I said, to lighten the moment.

“Fuck you.”

I waited.

“Who told you this crap? That bitch Kaplan?”

Yeah. He remembered. Guys like Lancaster never forgot a blow to their ego. But we weren’t getting anywhere. I leaned into him. I noticed his irises were abnormally large. Fright? I didn’t think so. Drugs, maybe.

“Tell me everything you remember about Capriati.”

“I don’t remember anything except the guinea bastard thought he was God’s gift to the universe. I’m through talking to you. And you can have Watts all to yourself if you want. Good riddance. I’m tired of waiting for that quiff to spread her legs. Must be a lesbo. Probably why she coaches the women’s swim team. Now get out before I call security.”

He swiveled his chair away from me in dismissal. Before it stopped I swung it full around so that he almost fell out.

“What are you doing?”

Now it was fright. I pulled him out of the chair by his collar and slammed him against the wall, then squeezed his throat so he couldn’t squawk. He did manage a squeak.

“Listen, I don’t know how a turd like you gets to be a professor of anything, but if you ever talk about Alice Watts like that again I’ll matriculate your balls.”

Just to make sure I got my point across I slammed him against the opposite wall. Some books and a cup of pens rattled off his desk. He face began to take on an unhealthy pallor. When I finally let go he slumped to the floor and flopped around like a flounder.

“Now call security,” I said as he struggled to catch his breath. “I’m sure President Bradley would love to hear about your views on women and exploitation.”

The wheezing stopped and he crawled back to his chair and sat. After smoothing his hair and clothes he looked at me.

“Uncle Tom Bradley?” Lancaster was still having trouble breathing. “He only got the job because he’s black.” Several deep breaths. “He won’t last if we have anything to say about it.” Almost normal breathing. “And we will.”

I thought about Darlene Plumb. Lancaster’s racial bias apparently didn’t extend to female students. His face began to lose its mottled look and he gave me a smug smile.

“Besides, it’s my word against yours.”

I don’t do smug. I tried for angelic.

“Actually, it’s your words, your Pierceness.”

I reached into an inside pocket and partially pulled out my cell phone. All he glimpsed before I put it back was some sort of small electronic device.

“Digital recorder,” I lied.

He blanched.

“What are you going to do?”

I opened the door. Several people were clumped outside. They were probably more used to soulful teacher-co-ed murmurings emanating from Pierce’s domain than the bowling alley sounds I’d just provided. There was another student sitting in a chair waiting for a session with Lancaster. She looked frightened.

“Beat it,” I told her.

She did. And so did I.

“I have tenure,” Lancaster yelled after me.

“And dandruff,” I shot back.

Juvenile, I know.

***

“Tenure is nothing to sneeze at,” Dave Clapper said. “I wish you had a real recorder, although it probably wouldn’t fly in court. But it might have carried some weight with the Disciplinary Committee of the Board of Regents.”

I had just finished giving him a rundown of my meeting with Lancaster.

“Jesus Christ, Dave. You have a professor who teaches kids about alleged discrimination, twisting history along the way, and manages in the space of about 10 minutes to slur black men, women, Italian-Americans and gays. Not to mention that he preys on his students and probably trades grades for sex. You have to do something.”

“Look, Alton. In the Coast Guard if we had a guy like that we’d probably take care of it. Come back to port one man short. But academics are a clannish bunch.”

“Bradley shouldn’t put up with it. If for no other reason than that Lancaster is out to get him.”

Clapper got up and walked to the window. He turned and sat on the sill.

“He knows about Lancaster. And just between us, he’s trying to figure out what to do. And not just to save his job. But Lancaster heads the opposition to our reforms and if we move against him it will look like retribution.”

“You could use my recording as leverage.”

“There is no recording.”

“Lancaster thinks there is.”

Clapper smiled.

“I like it. As long as he thinks it’s out there he may lay low. Buy us some time to figure out what to do about him.”

“There’s a kid named Darlene Plumb. She was in Lancaster’s office when I got there. He was setting her up to be his next conquest. Maybe you can use her to get something on him.”

“I don’t know. Why would she agree?”

“Cut her tuition. Or promise her a bunch of A’s, for God’s sake. She looked like she needs them.”

“You want Wagner College to countenance bribery and blackmail?”

“How better to prepare students for the real world.”

I headed to my car confident “Commander” Dave would eventually find a way to scuttle Pierce Lancaster. I was fairly certain that neither Lancaster nor Justine Kaplan knew anything about William Capriati’s current whereabouts. And the information I had gleaned from Dave and the Registrar’s office wasn’t much to go on. All I had accomplished was to stir up some still simmering libidos and scare the daylights out of an amoral, hypocritical academic, of which there was no shortage. To be sure, there was Alice Watts. Maybe it wasn’t a bad day’s work after all. But none of it helped me with my case. The clock was still ticking for Savannah James. I called her mother.

“How is Savannah doing?”

“Thank you for asking. She’s resting. A little too much excitement yesterday, I’m afraid. She wanted to see the sights. I couldn’t say no. Who knows if, well, you understand. And we have more tests tomorrow. Have you made any progress?”

I told her what I’d found out, which didn’t take long.

“He didn’t leave much of a trace,” I said, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. I don’t think I succeeded.

“Just a woman with some good memories,” she said with a rueful chuckle. “That was apparently his style. I should know.”

“I’m not sure you are getting your money’s worth, Ellen.”

“I don’t want you to stop. What is your next step?”

“I’ll check Capriati’s old neighborhood. See if anyone remembers his family’s business. They may have moved to New Jersey. I have his college yearbook. I might be able to track down some of his friends. I have a friend in the Police Department doing some checking for me and there may be some websites and databases I can surf that are not mainstream.”

“I appreciate everything you are doing. And Mr. Rhode. Alton. Savannah does too. You made quite an impression on her. She even tried the scones at the Plaza. I think she would like to see you again.”

“Any time.”

CHAPTER 13 – SNAKE HILL

After I pulled out of the Wagner parking lot I headed down Howard Avenue toward Clove Road. I had a friend at the 122nd Precinct in New Dorp who might be able to help me with Capriati. There was a light halfway down the hill put there for the sole purpose of annoying drivers. It was yellow and I went through as it turned red. The car behind me didn’t make it but ran the light. The car was red, too. A red Volvo. There was another light at the bottom of the hill. Red apparently being the color of the day, it was. I stopped. So did the Volvo. It gave me the chance to notice that its left headlight was smashed. I remembered the Volvo that skedaddled from the fender bender the night before. Volvos weren’t exactly scarcer than hen’s teeth in the borough, but the supply of red Volvos was probably limited.

When the light changed, I made a right and another right and headed back up Howard Avenue. The Volvo followed. I passed the Wagner campus and continued along Howard Avenue, which runs across the rim of Grymes Hill and is flanked by some of the priciest real estate in the city. I took my time. I knew where I was going but the street was easy to miss amid all the high hedges. When I finally spotted it, I made a sharp right turn and headed down Snake Hill.

It’s not really named Snake Hill, but that’s what everyone calls it. I don’t even know the name of the street. But it spirals precipitously all the way down Grymes Hill to Van Duzer and has more twists and turns than a politician’s story after he’s been caught sending naughty photos to high school cheerleaders. Whatever the street is called, it’s barely wide enough for a single car and is crowded most of its way with houses built into, or hanging over, hillsides. It’s the kind of road that when you made a hairpin turn you looked up at the backs of houses you’d just passed. The houses were expensive, but after a big snowstorm they probably had to drop in food by parachute. Where there weren’t houses, there were trees, or, rather, the tops of trees.

I couldn’t tell if the Volvo had also made the turn down the hill. It might be 50 yards back and shielded by the turns in the road. If it was actually following me, whoever was driving would speed up to make sure he didn’t lose me. I needed some distance, so I floored the Malibu. In a manner of speaking. I didn’t want to end up in the trees or roll down the hill. Or be obliterated by a car coming in the other direction. Despite its narrowness, the road was two-way. If it hadn’t been, anyone coming out the bottom would have to drive about six miles to get back up the top, since there were no other roads nearby that came down. But I knew Snake Hill from my misspent youth and would be surprised if my pursuers – if they were – did. So I got to the bottom as fast as I could alive, with only a couple of close calls.

I pulled out into Van Duzer, made a right, stopped, backed up and waited. And waited. And soon felt like an idiot. I was about to pull away when the Volvo shot out onto Van Duzer in a cloud of gravel and stopped in the middle of the street. Had there been any traffic there would have been a smashup. Or, I should say, another smashup. The Volvo’s side was scraped and dented, and there was shrubbery embedded in its front bumper and what looked like a small Japanese maple was caught in the roof rack. The driver had apparently been too incautious in his haste. I hadn’t heard anything; the hills probably muffled the sound. The damage went nicely with the broken headlight.

The driver couldn’t make a left. Van Duzer was one way against him. I saw another man in the passenger’s seat lean over and look at me. I waved. A car drove by honking madly as it swerved past the Volvo. Both drivers exchanged fingers. Then the Volvo made a right and tore off. I followed. He speeded up. So did I. Soon we passed the car that had honked, almost forcing it off the road. More fingers, this time from all three cars. I don’t usually do that sort of thing, but I was getting into the spirit of things.

Even Van Duzer has some nasty turns, and we were weaving in and out like Formula 1 drivers in Monte Carlo. By the time we got to the Staten Island Expressway, we’d run several lights and scared a passel of pedestrians and bicyclists. The Volvo made a right on the service road and entered the expressway at Clove Road. It was a good move. Beat up as it was, the Volvo was still more than a match for my poor Malibu. I would have lost sight of it sooner except for the maple sticking up from the roof.  I heard sirens. I got off at the Victory Boulevard exit before the cops could spot me. The Volvo was probably in Kansas by now. I needed a new car. Something with fewer dents and more horses.

Had I been tailed for two days? Or longer? Who would tail me? The last people who chased me rode camels. And who tails somebody with a red station wagon? I wondered if it had anything to do with Arman Rahm’s recent interest in me. But I’d never known a Russian mobster to drive a Volvo. And I’m sure “better dead than red” also applied to the new capitalists. Even Rahm’s lowliest soldiers probably drove Mercedes. As far as I knew, there was no such thing as a Swedish mob, at least on Staten Island. So it was probably something else. The Carluccis? Because I roughed up a couple of their thugs? Surely they had better things to do. Maybe the tail was a hangover from an old case. I’d go through my files, if I could find them among the detritus and banana plants in my office. And I’d check out the Volvo’s plate number, memorized during the chase before it went to warp speed while I was still on impulse power.

Clichés aside, it never hurts to bring donuts to a precinct, so I stopped for a dozen and two coffees on the way to the New Dorp Precinct. The 122nd fronts Hylan Boulevard, one of Staten Island’s busiest thoroughfares. Parking is at a premium. That is, there is none, at least for the public. So I pulled into the private lot behind the stationhouse and found a spot next to a squad car. There were a couple of non-cop cars nearby and all had some sort of medallion or placard on their dashboards: “Office of the Borough President,” “City Council,” “Board of Education,” and, again, “Coast Guard.” It must be global warming.

Not to be outdone, I reached in my glove compartment and took out an official-looking medallion on which was printed, in raised gold lettering, “Chaplain. United States Marine Corps. Semper Fidelis.” Above the words was the familiar Globe and Anchor emblem. Below that, a simple cross. I put it on the dash. It was, of course, fraudulent. The Marines use Navy chaplains. But I doubted anyone would notice. I left the rosary beads I sometimes hang from the mirror in the glove compartment. Overkill.

The 122nd Precinct covers the entire midsection of the borough and serves as the headquarters for the NYPD on Staten Island. It is home to the Borough Commander; the Homicide and Major Case Squads; Community Affairs Division; Public Relations Office, and the borough SWAT team. The 27-square-mile patrol area is the largest in New York City. Staten Island’s other two precincts, the 120 on the north shore in St. George and the 123 on the south in Tottenville, file their reports through the 122, which acts as a crime-statistic clearinghouse. Criminal activity has been picking up in recent years, mainly in the 120 and 122, although felony statistics in both precincts would be considered a rounding error in any other borough. Tottenville, the southernmost town in New York State, has the crime rate of a Sisters of the Poor convent; the last murder in the 123 was committed with a blunderbuss.

A sergeant at the front desk picked up a phone and punched in an extension.

“Guy named Rhode is here to see you.” He hung up. “Said I shoulda shot you on sight. You can go up. Second floor. Elevator is over there. Need directions?”

I shook my head and walked to the stairs. At the end of the hallway on the second floor was a door marked “Community Affairs.” I went in. A sturdy middle-aged woman with silver hair looked up from a People Magazine.

“Good morning, I would like to have an affair. Is this the right office?”

Betty O’Leary sighed. I was going to have to change my opening line. She was dressed in Talbot’s chic. Red skirt and pale blue blouse. A matching jacket was draped neatly on a hanger on a rack in the corner. She wore a black onyx necklace and matching earrings. The stone on her wedding ring was at least two carats. Betty was a civilian, one of hundreds hired by the city to ostensibly free up more cops for the streets and save some money. Since she was a retired schoolteacher now working on another city pension, I was pretty sure the money-saving part of the rationale was bogus. It was a plum job and not easy to get, but her cousin was a City Councilman. But she was a competent, no-nonsense type of woman and we got along.

“Don’t let him eat them all,” she said, pointing at the box I was holding. “He’s getting big as a house.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll save you a couple,” I said as I walked past her and pushed open a door that said “C. Levine.” Underneath it said, “Lieutenant.”

CHAPTER 14 – DONUTS AND COLD CUTS

Cormac grunted a greeting. He was a big man, made bigger by his proclivity for pastries in any shape, size and form. He had a full head of reddish gray hair, with long sideburns and a thick moustache that served mainly as a crumb catcher. He was wearing dark brown slacks in which was tucked some sort of generic tropical shirt of the kind men wear outside their pants in Florida. It was pale green and palm trees and flamingoes predominated. His chest hair sprouted out from under his collar. I half expected a gecko to peek out. Mac and his wife spent all his vacations in Boca Raton. I figured he was between laundry loads and the precinct commander would have a conniption. I, on the other hand, was wearing my blue Brooks Brothers blazer, white button down shirt and khaki pants. No tie, but I looked spiffy. Of course, next to Cormac I could have been wearing sackcloth and ashes and looked like Beau Brummel.

Mac’s father was Jewish and had been a beat cop in the Bronx. His mother was from Breezy Point, the Irish Riviera that sits on the western point of Rockaway in Queens. I’d known a fair number of Abie’s Irish Rose progeny, but none named Cormac Levine. I would bet real money he was the only one on planet Earth.

He’d been a mainstay on the DA’s squad through several administrations, both Republican and Democratic. But the recently elected DA cleared house to put his own guys in. It was a case of throwing the baby out with the bath water. Cormac Levine was completely apolitical and one of the best detectives in the city. Now he was assigned to Community Affairs waiting to put in his papers. Every real cop in the borough knew he got the shaft and he was still plugged in, with contacts on every squad. What the Internet couldn’t provide, Cormac might. Our relationship was grounded in a lie. The one I told to the Grand Jury when a serial child molester who had graduated to baby killer fell from an eighth-floor terrace one dark and stormy night. I was the second one in the apartment after it happened, and heard the perv scream on the way down. Cormac had been the first one in. My “eyewitness” testimony probably saved Mac’s career and pension. No matter how many times I told him he didn’t owe me a thing, he never let me down when I needed help. I think he also thought he was the reason I quit the cops. Which he wasn’t.

The only things on Mac’s desk were a phone, an empty inbox and photos of his kids, who, unfortunately, took after him. But at least they were boys.

“I see they’re keeping you busy, Mac.”

“I talk to school kids, and I’m a regular on the Rotary and Kiwanis circuit,” he said. “Food sucks, but the OT pads the pension. And, wiseass, I occasionally moonlight undercover with the robbery guys when they’re short. Keep my hand in. I’m running a deli in Westerleigh this afternoon. Been a bunch of grab and goes on the North Shore.”

That explained the outfit. I think.

“Absolutely no one will make you for a cop in that getup, Mac. I’m not sure human even comes into the picture. Try not to eat all the liverwurst.”

I handed over his coffee and opened the box of donuts. Mac hit them like a bass hits a minnow. After drinking some coffee, inhaling some cream-filled donuts and offering a few more de rigueur insults, Mac asked me what I needed.

“First off, can you run this plate for me?”

I handed him a slip of paper and took another donut.

“Why?”

We were friends, and he’d do it anyway, but he was a cop. You ask a cop what time it is, he’ll ask why.

“Belongs to a Volvo that’s been tailing me.”

“You lose him?”

“In a manner of speaking. I got behind him and he left me in the dust.”

“How the hell did you get behind him?”

“An Immelmann turn.”

He looked at me. I sighed.

“It’s tough taking with someone who’s not up on World War I German fighter tactics. Max Immelmann was a famous ace who looped back over his pursuers before they could react. One minute they were on his tail, the next he had them in his sights.”

“And I, a member of the chosen race, should give a fuck about a Kraut pilot, why?”

“No reason you should. Actually, I let the guy chase me down Snake Hill, backed up, and was behind him on Van Duzer when he came out. But I lost him on the Expressway.”

A smile of remembered pleasure crossed his face.

“Fucking Snake Hill! Back when I was on patrol we answered a call there. Guy came home early from a business trip and surprised his wife. Her boyfriend tried to escape out a rear window, forgot where he was. It was pitch black. Three-story fall nearly killed the poor bastard. A hedge saved him.” He shook with laughter. “Any chance the guy tailing you was a jealous husband?”

“Unfortunately, that would be a stretch.”

“What are you working on?”

“Just a missing person case that’s so cold I feel like I’m stealing the money. Guy doesn’t even live here. Only got it Friday.”

Levine picked up his phone and hit a speed dial.. He spoke to someone and gave them the plate.

“They’ll call me right back. You said ‘first,’ which implies you want something else.”

“Yeah. You ever hear of a guy named William Capriati? Billy Capriati? Billy Cap? Went to Wagner 20 years ago, wrestler, maybe lived in Port Richmond or Mariners Harbor?”

“No, but I never heard of Immelman either. Who’s Capriati? A Dago fighter pilot?”

“The missing person.”

I told him the story.

“A bitch about the kid.” He wrote something down. “I’ll pull the files, see if he’s got a record up here. You might check the Feds. Bank robbery, or embezzlement, or whatever it was, is probably theirs. It’s old, though.”

“Yeah. I don’t hold out much hope. I’m going to try to pull strings from this end. She’s got other people looking at it from the other.”

“Good looking broad, you say?”

“An eleven.”

His phone buzzed. He picked it up.

“Yeah. Whatcha got? You sure?” He listened while someone yelled at him. “No, no, of course not. I didn’t mean anything by it. I know you know your job. Just surprised, that’s all. Yeah. Sure. Yeah. Got an address?”

Cormac wrote it down. I got his attention and mouthed the word “photo.”

“One more thing,” he said, rolling his eyes, “can you pull the guy’s license for me and FAX it over. And his sheet, too. What? Shit, I didn’t know that.” Cormac reeled off his office email address. “OK!” He listened some more. “Well, I don’t need a fucking lecture about it.”

He slammed the phone down.

“Bitch. Jesus, they can get testy. I didn’t know I could get the damn stuff emailed to me. Anyway, the car is registered to Porgie Carmichael.”

“Look, forget the Immelman thing,” I said. “What’s his real name.”

“I kid you not. I know Porgie. His real name is Paulie. He likes to fish the head boats out of Great Kills, hence the nickname. You ever eat porgies? Delicious, but you got to watch the bones. He hires on as a mate. Small-time hood, freelances for the Carluccis.”

Them again.

“Hard core?”

“Nah. He’s small potatoes. Wheel-man, B&E’s, car theft, numbers, nothing violent. Been inside a couple of times, but no long stretches.” He was opening up his email. “Hey, whadya know, here it is.”

I walked around his desk to look at his screen, on which was Paul M. Carmichael’s driver’s license photo. Nobody looks good on a license and Porgie was no exception. Map-of-Ireland face, reddish hair, minor overbite. Mac scrolled down and their was a police report and some other photos. They weren’t an improvement.

“Can you print them out? Or is that beyond your technological expertise?”

Mac gave me the finger and then used it to hit another key. A printer in the corner started whirring. I went over and pulled out the copies.

“I guess I’ll have to talk to him,” I said. “I seem to be on the Carlucci radar screen.”

I told Mac about the men who accosted me outside the Red Lantern

“How do you know they were Carluccis?”

“Arman Rahm told me. He buddied up to me at Roscoe’s. It seems he’s been asking about me for a few weeks. The Carluccis wanted to know what we talked about.”

“What the fuck is it with you? You’re just back in business and you’re knee deep in Russians, Micks and Dagos. You piss off the U.N. or somethin’. Forget the missing person thing and the broad. Re-enlist and go back to where it’s safer.”

“The Rahm thing could be nothing. I’ve known him a long time. Maybe he saw my name in the paper. And it’s obvious the Carluccis are keeping tabs on him. I was probably in the wrong place at the wrong time. Funny, I’ve never been an innocent bystander before. Don’t much like it. I’ll straighten it out.”

Mac reached for his third donut. I slapped his hand.

“I promised Betty I’d save some for her,” I said.

“She don’t need it. She’s spreading out a little, you notice?”

He’d lowered his voice to a whisper when he said it.

“I’ll tell her you said that.”

“You don’t have the balls.” He pushed a couple of crullers to the side. “Happy now? She likes those. I don’t.” He patted his chest. “Bullet proof vests makes you look fat.”

“Why are you wearing two of them?”

Mac laughed, then turned serious.

“Something may be cooking with the Rahms. The Carluccis have been getting a little feisty, trying to nibble their way back to the top, what with Stefan gone.”

“They kill him?”

“My guess. But he had a lot of enemies. If the old man was sure, that pit bull who does most of the family work would have started an Italian pogrom.”

“Kalugin?”

“Yeah. Word is he’s itching to even up things, with someone. Probably feels guilty he wasn’t there when the older kid got hit.”

“He’s got Arman’s back, now. Bodyguard.”

“Smart move. Maks stays pretty close to home nowadays. Took Stefan’s death hard.”

Mac’s phone rang. He picked it up.

“Sure. A pound? The German kind? What about cold cuts. They have Boar’s Head. Yeah, a half pound of each? Yeah. I know, sliced so thin you could read the newspapers through it. You think I don’t know that by now. OK. Bye. Love you, too.”

He hung up and shrugged.

“I hope that was Irene,” I said.

“Yeah. She knows I’m working the deli stakeout. Wants me to get a few things while I’m there. Unless I get shot, of course.”

“Can the Carluccis take on the Rahms?”

“It’s a toss up. Maybe if the old man, Thomas Carlucci, was still alive. But Nando is a nutcase, and a doper to boot. He’s no Michael Corleone. As for Arman, he’s a cool customer, but I don’t know if he has the right stuff.”

“Anyone else around who can pick up the respective mantels?”

“Nando is Tom’s only son. Couple of daughters are married. Never in the family business. Most of the rest of the crew are missing a few slices in their pizza and don’t always think straight. The Mafia is a joke. Even some of the bosses are turning state’s evidence, and their wives are going on reality TV. You see that fucking show? If I was Italian I’d sue. And that Jersey Shore crap? Jesus. As for Maks, there’s nobody else but Arman with Stefan gone. There’s a daughter but she’s in Europe.”

“I never knew Arman had a sister.”

“Apparently she’s been estranged from her father forever. Didn’t approve of her lifestyle. She’s a dancer and an actress in France. Funny how mob bosses can be so judgmental, ain’t it? Only reason the organized crime guys even know about her is she came back for Stefan’s funeral. And then took off again.”

Mac’s phone rang.

“OK. On my way.”

He opened a drawer and took out a small pearl-handed 25-caliber automatic in an ankle holster and strapped it on.

“That’s all you’re carrying? Who’s robbing these delis, Tinker Bell?”

“It’s comfortable and just a last resort. Anything goes down and my backup comes out of the storeroom with fuckin’ bazookas. I’m more worried about them than I am of any robbers.” He stood up and put on his jacket. “I’ve got to get going. Come on, I’ll walk you down.”

We passed an office where a couple of detectives were doing paperwork at their desks. One of them, a tough-looking Chinese guy, looked up.

“Hey, Lev, try not to slice an artery when you cut the cold cuts.”

“If I want any lip from you, Fu Manchu, I’ll scrape it off my zipper.”

The other cops laughed and Mac turned to me.

“It was just a small cut on my finger. Bled like a bastard though.”

We paused in the lobby. Mac was being picked up out front.

“Listen, Alton. Why did you set up shop again on the Island? You’re smart enough to go to Manhattan. Got the resume, too. A lot more dough in the city. Plus you got enemies here, and I don’t mean just mobsters. They are the least of your worries after all the crap you’ve pulled with Borough Hall.”

“Takes a lot of money to work in Manhattan. Even if I could swing it I’m not sure I want to make the move. Competition is fierce. The big outfits hog the business. Mostly corporate stuff. Or matrimonial. Staking out the Essex so some wife in Greenwich can catch her hedge fund hubby in the sack.”

“It’s easy money. You’ve done your share here and the hotel lobbies aren’t as nice. And I’m sure you could hook on with one of the big boys.”

He saw the look on my face.

“Yeah. Right. I forgot. Mr. Independent.”

“It’s not only that. Staten Island is exploding. As many people as Cincinnati. Not enough cops. Suburban sex and games. Political corruption that rivals New Jersey. Wide open, like the Wild West. I got a taste before I got called up. I have a feeling that once I get known I’m going to get a lot of clients. Rather be a big fish in a small pond.”

“You think you’re the best, don’t you?”

I smiled modestly.

“Name another PI in the borough who rates a tail before the paint in his office is dry.”

Mac shook his head.

“You always thought you were hot shit. That’s what got you in trouble. Just watch your ass. You might wind up face down in that fucking pond.”

“Let me know if anything pops on the Capriati thing.”

“Sure.”

He started to walk away, then turned.

“Say, what ever happened to Immelmann? The fighter pilot. Anybody ever get him?’

“No. He was too good. But he was killed after his synchronized machine guns malfunctioned and he shot off his own propeller.”

“You making that up? No, you’re not. You know more shit about stuff that doesn’t matter than Google.” He laughed. “Fucking Kraut bastard shot himself down. Nobody else could. That’s rich. I love it.”

When I got to my car, a young cop was looking into the windshield. Uh Oh.

“Your car,” he said.

“Yes, my son.”

In for a penny…

“They should give you guys better wheels. It’s a shame.”

“It doesn’t hurt to set an example.” I was on a roll. “Especially now, with all the greed on Wall Street.”

“I hear you, Padre. My brother is in the Corps. Cherry Point.”

“Air Wing?”

“Yeah. Chopper mechanic.” Then he pointed to the passenger side of my car. “But you really should get the mirror fixed. You don’t want to get a ticket.”

I walked around. The side mirror was hanging by some wires halfway down the door. Apparently I had not emerged unscathed from Snake Hill. An expletive was called for, and I used it, silently.

“Have a good day, Father,” he said, holding my door for me.

I resisted making a sign of the cross.

CHAPTER 15 – PORT RICHMOND

Having the Carluccis constantly in my one of my working rear view mirrors while I looked for Bill Capriati would be a distraction, but I didn’t know what to do about it in the short term. Perhaps my Le Mans run down Snake Hill would discourage them. If not, then I might have to take affirmative action. Look up Porgie Carmichael and squeeze him; he wasn’t family and might be a weak link. One thing was certain. If I had to deal with the Carluccis to any extent, Ellen James wouldn’t be getting her money’s worth. I’d have to tell her to find someone else. But for now I’d put Porgie and the rest of them on the back burner and do my job.

According to the information provided by the Wagner admissions people, Billy Capriati and his family lived on Harrison Avenue in Port Richmond. I spent the next two hours canvassing the block. The neighborhood had turned over completely. The Irish, Italian and Polish families of two decades earlier had given way to new immigrants, mostly Hispanic, with a sprinkling of Indians and Pakistanis. I experienced some language problems, but it was soon apparent that no one remembered the Capriatis, no matter how they mangled the name. I was getting into my car when a mailman trudged by. Slowly. It was obvious he’d been on the job a long time. Long enough? In this neighborhood?

“Sure I remember them. Nice family. Hard workers. Owned a deli over on Port Richmond Avenue. Terrific lasagna. Can’t get that around here anymore. And they only used Boar’s Head in their sandwiches. Wouldn’t let me pay for anything if I stopped in for lunch. I didn’t abuse it though, cause they also took care of me at Christmas.” He laughed. “I lost weight after they moved to Jersey. I don’t eat that Mexican crap. Got diverticulosis.”

The mailman was talkative, probably because he’d found someone who spoke English. He even told me where they moved to in New Jersey.

“Seaside Park, down the shore. They had a small restaurant on the boardwalk. Mostly pizza, calzone, that sort of thing. And those little dough pastries with the powdered sugar. I forget what they call them.”

“Zeppoles.”

“Yeah, that’s them. Heart attack city but I can’t resist them. Me and the wife took a week every summer in Seaside with the kids. Always stopped in to see Joe and Flo. People kept in touch back then. You can’t email a damn zeppole. Joe loved Seaside. When he wasn’t flipping pies he was fishing. In fact, I heard that’s how he died. Reeling in a big bluefish. Worse ways.”

“What about his wife and son?”

“Flo tried to keep the business going but her heart wasn’t in it. Somebody else owned it when we stopped by, must be eight, nine years ago. That’s how I found out about Joe. Last I heard Flo was in a nursing home down there somewhere. Alzheimers. Too bad.”

“I presume Flo was short for Florence.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know what her maiden name was, or if she had been married before?”

“No. But I know she and Joe were only married to each other. Solid people, you know. I loved going to that place down the shore. And not just for the food. They greeted you like old friends. Damn nice people.”

“What about their son, Billy?”

“Hardly ever saw him, even here. I know he wasn’t helping out at the pizza place, even after Joe died. Somebody said he got in some trouble and had to go away. We always asked for him because that’s what you do. The Capriatis always asked after our kids. Even remembered what they liked to eat.”

“What did they say when you asked about their son.”

“Just that he was fine. Traveled a lot. What were they gonna say?”

Following the mailman’s directions I found the storefront on Port Richmond Avenue that once housed the Capriati deli. It was, as advertised, a Mexican restaurant two doors in from Castleton Avenue. At the corner a truck was unloading a group of men, not one of them taller than five-foot-four. I assumed they were Ecuadorian and undocumented. They were tired, dirty and silent. They had shaped up early that morning, as every morning, to be dropped off at various backbreaking jobs across the borough that were beneath Americans. Given the economy I wondered how long that distinction would last. A tall white man, definitely not from Ecuador, lined them up and said something. Then he got in the truck and drove away. He was either helping them or taking advantage of them. It probably didn’t matter to the workers, who started to trudge away. A few of them went into a bar on the corner. I didn’t blame them.

It made no sense for me to ask about the Capriatis in the Thai and Mexican restaurants, bodegas, payday loan stores and dollar emporiums that now dominated the block but I did anyway. This time there was no loquacious mailman and the language barrier was almost insurmountable. However, I did learn how to say coffee in many languages. It’s “coffee.” I ended up back at the Mexican restaurant. The food actually looked pretty good but I settled for more coffee and a delicious-looking pastry that I pointed at with authority. The java was excellent and strong enough to keep me going through the next Ice Age. The pastry was good enough to point at in the future.

I sat at small table and smiled at some kids who eyed me suspiciously. Everybody on both sides of the block knew I was asking questions and assumed I was a cop. I didn’t expect to be hassled, and wasn’t. I began leafing through the Wagner College yearbook, from which I had been flashing Billy Capriati’s graduation picture to perplexed storeowners and patrons for the past hour. I turned to the page with his photo. It was the last one on the page, in the lower right corner.

Unlike other grads, who had virtual resumes under their names and photos, our Billy had just his name and “Wrestling Team, 1,2,3,4.” His smiling face above his thick wrestler’s neck stared back at me as if to say, “catch me if you can.” Idly, I flipped the page. In the top left corner of the following page was another graduate with a thick neck. Not a bad looking kid, except for his “smile,” which reminded me of a shark. When I saw his name, I knew why.

The years hadn’t been kind to Ferdinand “Nando” Carlucci, heir apparent to the Carlucci crime empire. The last time I saw him he weighed more than 300 pounds and the buttons on his vest threatened to pop into orbit. The list of his college activities under his name was impressive: “Debate Club 1, Golf 2, Tennis 3, Delta Nu Fraternity.” But it was the last one that caught my eye: “Wrestling 4.”

“Son of a bitch!”

Apparently that phrase is as universal as “coffee,” because several people looked over at me. I flipped back through the yearbook to the photo of the wrestling team. Nando Carlucci was in the second row. With his arm around the shoulder of Billy Capriati.

Porgie Carmichael came off the back burner.

CHAPTER 16 – PORGIE FISHING

Porgie Carmichael lived on Whitman Avenue. The Zip Code was probably Great Kills. I wasn’t familiar with the street name so I plugged his address in my GPS. There is no easy way to get from Port Richmond to Great Kills across the middle of Staten Island and I had several differences of opinion with Gladys – that’s what I call my GPS – during the next 20 minutes. I think I even shouted at her once or twice when she insisted on “legal U-turns.” But I let her do her thing once I knew we were close. On the way I called Dom DeRenzi.

“You didn’t tell me Nando Carlucci was on your wrestling team.”

“You didn’t ask about him.”

“In the team photo senior year he has his arm around Capriati.”

“You think they’re gay?”

“Is everything sex with you?”

“Just asking.”

“I don’t think either of them is gay, but they seemed tight. Did they pal around a lot? I got the impression Capriati was a loner, except for women.”

“He was. But wrestlers have to get pretty close to their teammates, for Christ sakes. In practice they’re practically inside each other’s jocks. And they hang out together after meets, you know, in bars and such. Wouldn’t surprise me if Carlucci and Capriati were buddies. But Carlucci was only on the team as a senior I think. Wasn’t very good. I’m not sure if I ever used him in a meet. Probably joined just to pad his activities list.”

That explained the debate club and the other brief extracurricular flings.

“The wrestlers could use him now,” DeRenzi said. “He’s as big as Rhode Island.”

Porgie’s modest Cape Cod on Whitman was close enough to Hylan Boulevard so that it was probably still affordable for someone not named Trump. For a fisherman it was ideal. Great Kills Harbor, with its marinas, boat clubs, restaurants and charter fishing boats, was a few blocks away.

The house looked freshly painted and the yard well-tended. There was a pumpkin on the front stoop. A couple of Nerf footballs and a soccer ball lay on the front lawn. Two little girls bundled up against the chill were riding matching pink tricycles in the driveway near the famous red Volvo, still dented with brown and greenish streaks along its side. The Japanese maple and other foliage had been removed. The little girls had their jacket hoods up but I could tell they were either twins or clones. Their mother had the good sense to dress them in different colors. Nothing could have been done about the pink tricycles. Where toys are concerned sibling rivalry demands uniformity. But I bet if I checked they’d have their names written in magic marker on the respective trikes.

Great Kills Harbor is virtually surrounded by a fishhook of land that is part of the Gateway National Recreation Area. At the tip of Gateway is Crooke’s Point, which was probably visible from Porgie’s second floor. I’m sure the irony of the name is lost on him. Seeing the kids made me alter my plan. I called the phone number on Porgie’s rap sheet. A woman answered. I asked for Paul M. Carmichael. I tried to sound officious.

“This is his wife. My husband is not available. Perhaps I can help you?”

“Mrs. Carmichael, my name is Lewis Harper. I’m a Federal officer. I’m afraid I must speak to him.”

There was a long pause. I heard her sigh.

“I thought we were done with all that.”

Living with Porgie must be a blast.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Mrs. Carmichael. I’m a case officer with the enforcement division of the Department of Environmental Protection, New York Office. This has to do with a recent car accident you or your husband may have had.”

“Car accident? Oh, you mean…”

I cut her off.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said even that. I’m only authorized to speak to Mr. Carmichael. Will you please get him?”

“It’s after five o’clock. I didn’t think you were allowed to call people after work. My husband is a fisherman and was out all night. He’s taking a nap. And I just got in from work myself. I haven’t even started dinner.”

She sounded like a nice woman, able to work, dress her kids nicely and keep a neat house. She could have lied and said he wasn’t home. I suspected that lying was hard for her. Porgie had married up. I felt like an asshole.

“Mrs. Carmichael. I’m not a telemarketer. We have no rules concerning phone calls. They made me work tonight. Believe me, I’d rather be heading home to my family.”

“Yes, of course. Please hold on.”

There was some background noise and a man’s voice, getting closer to the phone with every utterance.

“Jesus Christ. Environmental what? OK. Let me handle it. I said I was sorry didn’t I? Jesus Christ.” Finally, “Who is this?”

“Is this Paul M. Carmichael?”

“Yeah, yeah, now who are you again?”

I went through my phony agency spiel gain, promoting myself to a more intimidating “supervising agent.”

“What’s this about an accident?”

“Are you the owner of a 2004 Volvo, license plate number RWA-667?”

Silence. Porgie was trying to remember his plate number. I wondered if he went to the window to look out into the driveway. I didn’t hold it against him. Sometimes I can’t remember mine either.

“Yeah.”

With his record he knew better than to lie to a “Federal Officer,” especially about information the officer obviously has. Congress made it a crime to do that. I happen to think it’s a dumb law.

“Your vehicle was involved in an accident Saturday morning on Matterhorn Street?”

“I guess so. I don’t know the name of the street.”

I still didn’t either. I’d just made up the name.

“But you left the scene of the accident, is that correct?”

“Are you shitting me? I took down a fucking bush and scraped a tree. What are you, the Gestapo? There was nobody else involved. I didn’t even call my insurance yet. How did you find out?”

“A man in a nearby house observed the incident and wrote down your plate number. He called the police, but it’s not a local matter. An arboreal hit-and-run is a Federal crime. It was referred to my office.”

“A ar-what? Hit and run! On a fucking tree!”

I didn’t say anything for a moment, to let him know I was insulted.

“You may not know it, Mr. Carmichael, but hillsides of a certain pitch and slope are Federally protected because of their propensity for landslides. We can’t let this sort of thing go unpunished. Too many shrubs and trees get knocked down and pretty soon a hill like that will slide down into the bay. Like Cromwell Center.”

He was momentarily speechless, which was fortunate, because I was rapidly running out of ridiculous things to say.

“Listen, if there is a fine involved…”

“Mr. Carmichael! Obliterating a protected bush is a misdemeanor. Leaving the scene is a felony.” Well, almost run out.

The mention of a felony would scare the hell out of him. For all I knew it would have been his third strike and he thought he was facing life in Marion with Bubba the weightlifter. It was time to set the hook.

“Look,” I said. “You seem like a nice family man. Ignorance of the law is no excuse, but I can’t see you facing a felony when you obviously weren’t aware that you had to stick around. Am I right?”

“Yeah. Of course. I’d never hit-and-run. Anything. Even a tree, had I known. I made my kids watch that Ken Burns thing on the national parks, you know. I’m all for the environment.”

“Well, perhaps we can work this down to a simple misdemeanor and a fine.”

“Sure. Yeah. That would be Great. Thanks.”

“Of course, a misdemeanor fine can run up to $5,000.”

“Jesus!”

“There may be another way. Perhaps we can talk in person.”

“You want me to come in?”

“No, I was thinking maybe we could meet someplace neutral, like a diner or something, just to hash this out.”

In the silence that followed, I could almost hear the light bulb snap on over his head. I was just another chiseler.

“When,” he said. There was relief in his voice.

“How about tonight, say in an hour? You know the Olympus Diner on Amboy Road in Annadale?

“Tonight?”

“I’m working several cases on the Island, in the field, so to speak. I’m in the neighborhood. No use dragging this kind of thing out, don’t you agree?”

“Yeah, sure, Mr. Harper. How will I know you?”

“I don’t think it will be crowded. I’ll sit in a booth near the men’s room. I’m wearing a dark blue suit and a green tie with miniature redwoods on it. See you around 10?”

“OK. I’ll be there.”

“That will be grand, Mr. Carmichael. “Just grand.”

With my emphasis on “grand” I was pretty sure Porgie would show up with a thousand bucks to make his “arboreal” infraction disappear. He was a wiseguy. He’d have a petty cash stash in the basement. If not, he had time to stop at a couple of ATM’s on the way. I could have asked for more. Maybe I could have said “that will just be too grand.” But that’s a lot of ATM’s, and I didn’t want Porgie knocking over a convenience store on my account.

CHAPTER 17 – FOOT SOLDIER

The Olympus Diner was at the intersection of Arden Avenue and Annadale Road in what 40 years ago was, despite being surrounded by an urban megalopolis, the middle of nowhere. If a spaceship landed in the community back then, aliens might have mistaken it for North Dakota. Now there were gas stations, convenience stores, supermarkets and drug stores on every corner, and strip malls in between. Behind them were rows of townhouses facing each other on streets so narrow that the Fire Department complained its trucks had difficulty navigating. That was somewhat mitigated by the fact that developers had also neglected to put in sidewalks, so the fire hydrants were actually in the streets. It must be confusing for dogs, and anyone trying to curb them.

The bright and shiny Olympus, which in fact looked a little like an alien saucer, was a fairly new addition to the area. Like the 20 other diners in the borough, it was owned by Greeks. I know people who believe that Indians and Pakistanis are cornering the market on gas stations as part of a Muslim-Hindu plot to bring the country to its knees in a Slurpie version of Pearl Harbor, but no one has offered me an explanation for the Greek monopoly of diners. All I do know is that they make a hell of a cheeseburger, one of which I had just finished in my car as I waited for Porgie Carmichael. I sipped my coffee and lamented the fact that I’d passed on the apple pie I’d spotted in the glass case near the register. Porgie was running late and I was starting to worry that he might indeed have stopped off to knock over a convenience store to get the bribe money when a Kia pulled into the parking lot and he got out.

It was late and the lot was almost empty. I had parked near the fence that bordered the property as far away from lighting as I could get. I got out and walked to the entrance while Carmichael parked. When I got there I turned and started walking toward him. He would assume I’d just left the diner. I timed it perfectly. We were in a blind spot not visible from any windows. Porgie was wearing a gray sweatshirt over blue sweatpants, a red Mets jacket and black running shoes. He’d dressed hurriedly, or in the dark. I’d only spoken briefly to his wife, but she didn’t sound like a woman who would normally let him out of the house looking like that. I was not wearing the suit and tie he was expecting, having changed into an old Army jacket and a golf cap I keep in the trunk.

I put my collar up and pulled down the brim of the cap. Carmichael was trudging along with a scowling intensity and barely noticed me as we met. I was just another hard-working blue-collar guy.

“Hey, Porgie, long time no see. How’s the fishing?”

Despite the seriousness of his mission, a fisherman is a fisherman. He brightened.

“Not bad,” he said smiling. “Cold front scattered the blues but the fluking is still pretty good. No doormats but…”

The smile froze, as his eyes drifted down to the pistol pointed at his belly button. It was a .22 caliber Ruger Government Target pistol I also keep in the trunk of my car. I occasionally take it to the range so I could feel like Annie Oakley. The Ruger is accurate to 50 yards and I could put out a grouping that could cover a deck of cards. On the downside it has the stopping power of a badminton shuttlecock. But the gun had a long thick “bull barrel” that in the dark could be mistaken for a silencer. It would impress a minor-league wiseguy with a bad conscience.

Porgie was better looking than his license or mug shots. He had a long face, pale skin that looked a bit weathered from the sea air and a shock of red hair. All of which made him resemble a shorter Conan O’Brien. But not much shorter. He had a couple of inches on me, and maybe 20 pounds. Long arms and big, tough-looking hands replete with fresh red welts and old scar tissue. No matter how careful you are on a party boat a dying bluefish will get in its last licks, or some idiot will hook you. I wasn’t about to fool with Porgie. He still didn’t recognize me. He started to say something. I cut him off.

“Just turn around and walk to that car over by the fence.” I didn’t think he was carrying. The only outline in his jacket looked like a folded envelope. He was reluctant to head into a darker area. “Move. If I wanted to ace you, I’d have done it already. But don’t try my patience.”

We walked to my car in silence. I knew his mind was racing. I dropped a couple of feet back and held the gun at my side. It wasn’t so dark that somebody from the diner would ignore a guy walking across the lot with a rod pointed at another.

Porgie was no tuna sandwich. He made his move just as we got to his car, solving my problem, which was how to impress him with the hopelessness of his situation. He whirled and launched a haymaker at my head, which just grazed me. It takes sand to try to punch a guy holding a gun. But what he should have done was kick me in the groin.

That’s what I did to him. Not willing to waste months of rehab, I used my good leg, which lessened the impact. Unfortunately, I had to put a lot of weight on my other leg and a sharp pain had me wondering which of us got the better of the deal. I needn’t have worried. My leg felt fine after a second, whereas Porgie was doubled over making a sound like a foghorn. I clubbed him with the butt of the pistol. He sagged to his knees and I opened the door and trundled him in. I went around to the other side, reached into the glove box for a set of cuffs and locked his right hand to the steering wheel. I’m not a sadist. I left the other arm free so he could massage his gonads but not reach over to me. I looked back to the diner. All was quiet. I took the envelope from his pocket and got in the passenger seat and waited for Porgie to recover. It didn’t take long. A guy who mates on a head boat and handles hooks, filets knives and razor-toothed bluefish is used to pain.

“What do you want, man?” He was sitting up and had rattled the handcuff-steering wheel apparatus. “Tell Frankie I can have his money next week, no problem.”

“I don’t work for your shylock, Porgster,” I said. “And if I did, I’d sure as hell want to know where the thousand bucks you have in this envelope is going.”

He patted his now empty pocket. My face was in the shadows and he gave no indication that he recognized me.

“Listen, I’m here to meet a guy. He’s a Fed. If I don’t show up, I’m screwed. He might even come out here looking for me. Then your ass is grass.”

I leaned forward so he could see me more clearly. Using my “government” voice I said, “Now, why would I do that, Mr. Carmichael. I’m already here.”

I took off my cap and turned down my collar. He stared at me.

“Shit. Rhode. The guy we followed. You’re the tree guy?”

“Yup. And, if you’ll pardon the pun, you’re about to find out that my bite is much worse than my bark.”

He didn’t find that funny and turned around to stare out the windshield.

“I can’t believe I let myself get suckered like this. Son of a bitch!”

“Yeah. You might consider a new line of work.”

“Big fucking deal. I’m just a foot soldier, man. Guys don’t usually roust guys like me. I wasn’t expecting it. And guys don’t usually get called at home.” He turned to look at me accusingly. “That ain’t kosher.”

He had me there.

“I’m sorry. I saw the kids’ stuff in the yard and didn’t want to brace you in front of them. So I winged it.”

“And it’s not like you’re so fucking special,” he said. “It took you a while to spot us tailing you and we didn’t really know what we were doing. I ain’t a shooter, but if I was, you’d be fish food.”

True. I could have been dead twice, or once more than really necessary.

“Don’t remind me, Porgster. It’s a miracle we’ve even met. But since we have, let’s get down to business. Why have you been tailing me?”

“You know I ain’t gonna tell you. I’m no rat.”

The front door of the diner opened and three men walked out. One of them stopped to light a cigarette and the other two leaned on the railing. The man smoking said something and all three laughed. It was the laughter of men who spent a lot of time together. They were all wearing identical blue windbreakers and golf caps. I couldn’t read the lettering on the jackets but there appeared to be bowling ball logos on the back. I couldn’t make out the letters on the caps either, but it might have been NYPD. Maybe FDNY. I wanted them to be firemen. The lot was now even emptier and my car was beginning to look out of place. Of course, it would look out of place anywhere, but I still didn’t want some off- duty cops to check it out, since cops are never really off duty, especially in New York. I leaned over, put the key in the ignition and started the engine.

“Turn on the headlights, Porgie,” I said.

“You nuts? I can’t drive like this.”

He hadn’t spotted the men.

“Just do it,” I said, and rapped his knuckles with the barrel of the gun.

He did and I rolled down the window, turned on the radio and put the volume up. The car was now so conspicuous it was hopefully inconspicuous. All three men looked over. Probably cops. I willed them to ignore us. They finally did and went back to their bantering. A minute later they walked to separate cars and drove away. No high fives, back slapping or secret handshakes. Definitely cops. I left the engine running and the headlights on. Now nobody could see what was going on inside the car. The radio station was playing Simon & Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson.” I reluctantly turned it off before they got to Joe DiMaggio.

“Look, Porgie, I kicked you in the balls, knocked you on the head and cuffed you to a steering wheel without breaking a sweat. I’m pointing a gun at your head. The way I see it, I have two options. I can put two bullets behind your ear with a minimum of fuss and noise. It’s a 22 and there won’t be any blood. I uncuff you, push you into the lot and drive away. Cops will figure you pissed off the Carluccis somehow and close the case faster than a ten-dollar lap dance. You want to be the victim of a perfect crime to protect the Carluccis? Or maybe I just rough you up some more and leak it to them that you spilled your guts. Got a coin I can borrow? I think I’ll flip for it.”

I didn’t tell him about the only real option I had, which was to do nothing.

“You are fucking crazy. I got kids.”

“I’m not saying I’d like to do either. But I also don’t like guys following me around and proving that I’m such a goddamn idiot. You’re not a made man. Half the Carlucci family has turned state’s evidence. They’re a bunch of bums. Who are you protecting? Tell me what I want to know. It stays between us.”

Porgie banged his head on the steering wheel. I almost felt sorry for him.

“Promise?’

“I promise. And hope you don’t die.” I tapped him lightly on the noggin with the barrel of my gun. It was a little over the top, but it worked.

“They just wanted us to tail you to see who you were talking to, where you went. They didn’t say why. I’m just a fill-in, for Christ sake. Their regular tail guy’s in the hospital. Something wrong with his throat. Where’d you find that fucking hill, man? Last time I was that scared my kids talked me onto some monster rollercoaster at Six Flags. I was glad I was in my wife’s Volvo.”

“You tailed me in your wife’s station wagon?”

“Mine was in the shop. Angie pitched a fit I messed the Volvo up. First the headlight, then the tree. It’s her baby. She drives the kids in it, you know, because it’s so safe. I got to figure out how to get it fixed. She won’t let me near it now. Had to borrow the Kia until my own car is ready.”

“Why haven’t you reported it to your insurance company?”

“I got a $500 deductible. Money’s tight.” He looked at me. “You took my last cash. I was saving to buy the twins real bikes.”

“They look kind of young.”

“I know. I’m gonna get the ones with training wheels that I can take off later. All their friends have bikes now.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe I fell for the tree hugger bullshit. But you know, them environmental nuts stop dams and stuff cause of some minnows, right? I got a couple of felonies. I couldn’t chance another bounce. I was relieved when I thought you just wanted to be greased.”

“And the Carluccis just wanted you to see who I was talking to?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Who said it? The old man?”

Carmichael hesitated. I didn’t say anything. I sat there quietly and looked menacing, not easy to do when wearing a cap that says “Staten Island Children’s Museum Golf Outing.” But since I knew about the Carluccis, I guess he felt it didn’t matter.

“I never even seen the old man. I tell you, I’m down the end of the chum line. No, it was the kid, Nando. Just said to follow you around. He went fucking bananas when you made us. I’m off the job. Probably won’t use me for anything now. He’s crazy. Wouldn’t pay me or even help me out with my car. And they got the body shops and all. Cheap fucking guinea bastard.”

“My mother was Italian.”

Hey, no offense, Mr. Rhode. So’s my Angie.”

“They can be a pistol, can’t they?”

“You got that right. She’s been tearing me a new one over the car.”

“Give me something else, Porgie. You haven’t told me much more than I already knew. Did the name Capriati ever come up?”

I could see by the look on his face that it had.

“Don’t ever play poker for big money, Porgie. Tell me about Capriati.”

“I don’t know anything about him. But Jerry mentioned the name.”

“Who’s Jerry?”

“He’s the partner of the guy in the hospital.”

“You mean Benny? His cousin?”

Porgie was stunned that I knew so much. It made the rest easy. He wouldn’t lie now, figuring I’d catch him out. Ben and Jerry. Christ.

“Yeah. Jerry gave us your description. I asked him what was up and he said you had been asking questions about this Capriati guy and Nando didn’t like it. That’s all I know. I swear on my kids.”

“You learn anything following me around?”

“Hell, no. You got the most boring life I’ve seen. Except for the drive down that fucking cliff. You must be psycho.”

“Who was in the car with you? Jerry?”

“No. He doesn’t work without Benny. They’re real close. It was just some guy I brought along for company.”

“What’s his name?”

“He’s just a guy.”

“Porgie.”

“He’s got problems. Semi-retarded. He actually liked driving down that hill. He’s a friend. You got no business asking.”

He wasn’t going to tell me. Good for you, Porgie.

“I’ll let it go. Am I ever going to see you again? In my rear view mirror or anywhere?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Guys like Carmichael take their lumps and move on. When they get dealt a shitty hand they’re just happy it’s not shittier. They’ve neither the time nor the inclination for getting even with people out of their league, who may have friends. In many ways, they are smarter than guys like me.

“Here,” I said, handing him the cuff keys.

He took off the bracelets and placed them carefully on the dash and handed me back the key. To his credit he didn’t rub his wrist. But he took in a deep breath and let it out. I didn’t blame him. It had been a trying 15 minutes.

“OK, Porgie, vamoose.”

He opened the driver’s side door and got out. So did I.

“Wait a minute,” I said, walking over to him. I opened the envelope and took out $500. “Take this.” I handed him the bills.

He seemed surprised, but recovered quickly.

“Why not the entire grand?”

“It will cover your deductible. You can even claim the headlight from the same accident. I won’t tell. The rest of the money will cover my damage. I lost the passenger side mirror coming down the hill.”

He looked over at it and almost smiled.

“Serves you right.”

I kind of liked the guy.

“Take my advice, Porgie. Think career change.”

“Yeah. That’s what Angie says. But I can’t make enough dough just fishing, and it’s tough out there. No jobs. And I got a record, you know.”

“Bullshit excuse. Half the guys on Wall Street have a record now.”

I had put the gun away. Just two guys talking in a parking lot. How about them Knicks? He looked at me and nodded. Then he turned and headed to his car. His head was down and despite his height looked oddly diminished. Oddly, I felt the same way.

He stood for a moment just looking at his car. I could imagine what was going through his mind. From a Volvo to a Kia. He’d probably thought that getting a simple tail job for Carlucci would be a stepping stone to bigger things after a life as a second-rater. Instead, he screwed up the tail, pissed off a mob chieftain, mashed his wife’s car and lost his kids’ Christmas money. It was the kids he was thinking about, not Nando. I believed him about the bikes. Nobody lies about their kids. Now he’d probably have to choose between fixing the Volvo or buying the two-wheelers. He opened the door of his car.

“Hey, Porgie!”

He turned as I walked over to him. He had a what-else-can-go-wrong look on his face. I handed him the other $500.

“I have a low deductible,” I lied. “Make sure you also buy the kids helmets.”

I headed back to the diner. The apple pie had looked spectacular.

CHAPTER 18 – SHADY VIEW

The next morning I sat in my office with my feet on my desk drinking coffee. I had a problem. Looking for Capriati had stirred up Nando Carlucci. But why? Was he trying to protect an old college buddy? From what I knew about Nando, he was not the sentimental type. Or was he also looking for him, and piggybacking on my efforts? Capriati was an embezzler. He could have gone to work for his wrestling pal after college. Had he stolen from the Carluccis? Not a productive use of a college degree, but it would explain his move to Atlanta. But how did Nando find out I was looking for Billy?

I called Ellen James. After asking how Savannah was doing, I said, “Have you told anyone on Staten Island that I’m looking for Capriati?”

“No. Why would I? I don’t know anyone there, except you. What’s the matter?”

“Did Billy ever mention the name Carlucci to you? Nando or Ferdinand Carlucci? From his college days.”

“He never mentioned anyone from his past to me. Who is it?’

“Carlucci is a local crook and he and Billy were close at Wagner. He knows I’m looking for Billy and I’d like to know why. Either he knew you came to me or someone I spoke to alerted him. Think hard, Ellen, did you tell anyone, either before or after you came to me? What about the other people you’ve hired. Or the cops. Did you mention Billy’s connection to Staten Island or Wagner College?”

“I told the police and F.B.I. in Atlanta years ago. And, of course, the other firms I’ve hired. They know about Wagner and where Billy lived. But not a soul knows I went to you, except Savannah. And she hasn’t spoken to anyone. How did you find out that what’s his name knows?”

“Carlucci. He’s had people following me. I spoke to one of them.”

“And they want you to stop looking?”

“I haven’t had that discussion yet. But I may have to if they keep annoying me. It’s been a distraction.”

“Won’t that be dangerous?”

“Not as dangerous as not knowing what the hell is going on.”

“Mr. Rhode. Alton. Perhaps you should drop the matter. I’ll think of something else. I don’t want to put you at risk. I’ll understand.”

“Ellen, the only reason I’m looking for a connection is because it might help me find Capriati. I can’t let some goombahs run me off a case. It’s bad for business. Besides, I may have discouraged them for the time being.”

“Do you think Savannah is in danger? I mean, do they know about us?”

I considered that.

“No. Some people know why I’m looking for Billy, but it would be a stretch to think they could find out who you are. I haven’t mentioned your names.”

“Please be careful.”

After I hung up I went back to thinking about who might have told Nando about my inquiries. It could be anyone. I took out a pad to start a list. Cormac was asking around for me, and it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that Nando had sources in the Police Department. The same for Wagner College. Perhaps it had been mentioned in the Alumni newsletter, in the Mafia Classmates section. And, of course, in the age of Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and the rest of the social media word spreads fast. I put the pad away. I’d run out of paper if I made a list. The hell with it. If I found Capriati I’d probably find all the answers. And save Savannah.

When I had done my earlier Internet searches, a slew of Capriatis had popped up, including a famous woman tennis player. The mailman said Billy’s mother’s name was Flo and I vaguely remembered a Florence. So I searched the full name. It turned out that the only Florence Capriati listed between the ages of 60 and 90, my rather optimistic parameter, was a Professor of Romance Languages at Harvard. I doubted that she’d ever heard of a zeppole. Probably more into croissants. I was almost glad I didn’t have Flo’s maiden name, because with my luck it would be Smith or Jones. Besides, Billy didn’t appear to be the sort who would keep in touch with his mom’s family. But had he kept in touch with his mom?

I did a search of all the nursing homes and assisted living facilities in Ocean County, NJ, where Seaside Heights is located. I didn’t know if Flo Capriati was in a nursing home there or if she was even still alive. But it was the only solid lead the mailman gave me. If you consider a woman who is either dead or probably can’t remember her own name a solid lead.

There were 33 nursing homes in the county, which, because everything about the case was a hairball, was the most of any county in New Jersey. But it was a place to start. As my initial web search depressingly revealed, there were 357 nursing homes in Jersey and 15,531 nationwide. I might be in one of them before I found her.

I printed out the county list, which listed the town in which each facility was located. When confronted by an unpleasant task involving an alphabetical list, I’m often tempted to start at the end, on the assumption that the gods will do their best to thwart me. But since they might figure that out, the target might be right at the beginning. So I got out a map of New Jersey and started with nursing homes in and around Seaside and Toms River, which is connected by a causeway to that barrier island town. There were five. None of them had a Florence Capriati staying with them. And none of the people I spoke to recalled anyone by that name dying recently. They all had death records, of course, and so did they county. I decided to cross that bridge later, if necessary. Ever hopeful, I expanded my radius, town by town.

I found her in Lakehurst, on my 11th call. After I left my office I drove around Stapleton aimlessly for a few minutes trying to spot a tail. I didn’t. Either the Carluccis had raised their game, or they were running short of bodies. Then I took the Staten Island Expressway to the Outerbridge Crossing. No one in the borough calls it the Outerbridge Bridge. The span, which links Tottenville to New Jersey, is named for Eugenius Outerbridge, the first chairman of what eventually became the Port Authority. I’m just glad they didn’t use his first name. Eugenius Bridge sounds like someone in a Dickens novel. There wasn’t much traffic on the Garden State Parkway and I made Lakehurst in just under an hour. I had never been to the town. All I knew about it was that the Hindenburg had exploded there in 1937. I was hoping my luck would be better.

After I left the Garden State Gladys restored my faith in GPS by guiding me effortlessly down local rural roads. She even navigated a couple of New Jersey’s notorious traffic circles without a hitch, a feat I rank with splitting the atom. But I did give her fits at the last one by circumnavigating it repeatedly and then suddenly cutting from the inside lane out the correct exit. Anyone following me would probably want to shoot me on general principles. But I was pretty sure no one could have made it through without me knowing. Ten minutes later I drove down a two-lane road on Lakehurst’s western edge flanked by ranch houses and the occasional small farm. I pulled up to the nursing home where hopefully the Florence Capriati I wanted lived.

Nursing homes tend to have sylvan, calming names and this one was no exception: Shady View Manor. I presume something called the River Styx Nursing Home would be in poor taste. If you’ve seen one nursing home you’ve seen them all. I could add that if you’ve seen one you’ve seen enough. The two-story, red brick building looked more like a barracks than a manor, and promised a depressing visit. It was near a copse of trees that would indeed provide some shade in an otherwise barren plot of land. The trees also provided a lot of fallen leaves that covered the wide expanse of lawn in front of the facility and gave it an unkempt look.

I parked my car in a small gravel lot to the side of the building and walked around to the front. There were a dozen or so patients heavily bundled against the chill sitting in wheelchairs near the entrance. A few acknowledged me with a wave of the hand or a smile, but the majority just stared vacantly. Most were of the age one expected at such a place, but there were a couple that appeared to be not much older than I was. They had the tremors or distorted faces common to victims of devastating strokes or some other neurological deficit. A male nurse walked the lawn, occasionally stopping to speak to a patient or adjust a blanket. With pneumonia “the old man’s friend,” I wondered about the advisability of having such frail people sit outside at this time of year. But they looked comfortable enough; perhaps only the most-fit were allowed to do it. It probably beat the hell out of being cooped up inside all the time.

Inside, the first thing I noticed was an overflowing trash bin. The second was the smell. It wasn’t noxious. I’d been in nursing homes before, and this one smelled…sour.

There were two nurses at the main desk. One of them kept working at her computer but the other one, a tall black woman wearing a name tag that said “Betty” looked up at me and smiled.

“Can I help you?”

“I’d like to see Mrs. Florence Capriati.”

“You the one I spoke to a couple of hours ago? The detective?”

“Yes.”

The other nurse, tagged “Irene,” looked up from her monitor and said, “Mrs. C? You’re wasting your time, Sherlock. She has advanced Alzheimer’s. Nobody’s home.”

“That’s not true,” Nurse Betty said, “she has her moments.”

“I must have missed them.”

“I can see her then?”

“I don’t see why not,” Betty said. “It’s nice somebody wants to visit the poor lady. No one ever does.’’

“She had a son. I’m looking for him.”

“Must be that ‘Billy’ she talks about. But I’ve never seen him, except in some pictures she has in her albums. Somebody told me he used to stop by, but not for years. Maybe he’s dead. If he ain’t, he’s a lousy son, leaving her all alone like this. What he do that you’re looking to find him?”

I ignored the question.

“Who pays her upkeep?”

“Medicare.”

The Government probably took her assets when she went into the home.  Her husband undoubtedly had Social Security survivor benefits as well.

“No one visits her now?”

“Not that I can recall.”

I looked at Irene.

“Me neither. But I don’t think he’s dead. Somebody still sends money.”

“Money ain’t visiting,” the black nurse said. “It’s an easy way out.”

“When did that start?”

“I don’t know. Maybe two years ago.”

“How much money?”

The nurses looked at each other.

“You’d have to ask Mr. Patchett,” Irene said.

“Who’s he?”

“Runs the place.”

“And a bunch of others,” Betty said with a frown.

I got the impression Mr. Patchett was not their favorite person.

“Who handles the checks?”

“Patchett,” Irene said. “And no checks, just cash in an envelope.”

“Does she talk about her son?”

“That’s a stretch,” Betty said, laughing. “When she first got here she would look at her albums and point to the boy and say his name. But now any man walks into her room, she says ‘Billy.’ Could be the janitor.”

“It’s sad,” Irene said. “Such a sweet thing when she’s not agitated.”

CHAPTER 19 – ORANGE YOU GLAD

I sensed someone behind me. From the look on Betty and Irene’s faces, I had a problem, who turned out to be a short, ferret-looking man with wire-rimmed glasses.

“Earl Patchett. I’m director of this facility. Who are you?”

He was wearing an expensive three-piece blue pinstripe suit. The Mont Blanc chronograph on his wrist had so many dials and bezels he probably had to ask people the time. Under his arm he was carrying a brown leather portfolio that didn’t match the suit, though I suppose there was no reason it should.

“My name is Rhode. I’m a private investigator looking for Florence Capriati’s son.” I gave him my most winsome smile. “I’d like to talk to her.”

“There is no next of kin listed for the woman.”

I wondered how a director of so many nursing homes could be so sure, so quickly, about any one patient.

“I may be able to update that list.”

“Do you have identification?”

I would have to work on winsome. I showed him my license. He yanked it from my hand, which I didn’t like, and studied it for so long I was tempted to tell the nurses to get a room ready for another stroke victim.

“This is a New York license,” Patchett said, thrusting my I.D. back to me. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

“New York and Jersey have reciprocity for private investigators.”

“Am I supposed to take your word for that?”

Patchett made it sound like he’d be a fool to fall for the old reciprocity gag. I soldiered on.

“Mr. Patchett, even if there was no reciprocity, which there is, private detectives don’t need it when conducting investigations involving missing persons, background checks or a myriad other tasks that are legal for everyone. I can do it in any state at any time. Now I don’t tell you how to empty bedpans, so why don’t you let me do my job.”

I thought I heard a snicker from one of the nurses. Patchett shot a look at them and they buried their heads in paperwork.

“We respect the privacy of our patients, Mr. Rhode. I’m under no obligation to allow you visiting rights. I think you’d better leave.”

“Visiting rights? What is this, the state pen? Is there any intelligent reason I can’t see Mrs. Capriati?”

“I gave you my reasons.”

“No, you gave me some official-sounding gobbledygook that might work on a salesman but not with a private detective working a missing person’s case. And since my missing person happens to be the target of an ongoing F.B.I. search, that’s who I’ll call if you continue obstructing my investigation. The bureau wrote the book on gobbledygook and all yours will do is get them mad. Given what scrutiny nursing homes are under nowadays you might want to avoid that. I might even mention the dozen code violations I’ve seen since I came here.”

Most of what I said was my own gobbledygook, including the part about obstructing an investigation. I was pretty sure the F.B.I. could care less about Capriati and his ancient embezzlement. And piles of leaves, overflowing trash and a sour smell didn’t mean the place was overdue for a visit by the health authorities. But from his nervous glance at the nurses I suspected I’d struck a nerve.

“Well, listen Mr. Rhode, no need to become confrontational. I’m sure you understand my desire to protect my patients, some of whom are very fragile.”

I was getting very tired of Earl Patchett.

“Will Mrs. Capriati know who I am?”

“No.”

“Does she even know who you are?”

“Probably not.”

“Does she recognize anyone?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Has anybody visited her recently?”

He looked over at the nurses. They shook their heads.

“So, what possible harm can there be if I see her for a moment?”

He took a last shot.

“What good will it do you?”

It was the first sensible thing the jerk said.

“I don’t know, Earl. But I’ve come a long way to see her, so I might as well. She’s a lonely old lady. Maybe it will be good for my soul. By the way, I understand someone sends her cash, which you handle. Gee, you think it might be a kin? How much is she getting? And what is it used for?”

“Patient finances are confidential,” he said, looking sharply at the two nurses. “Reciprocity or no, you’ll need a court order.”

He was probably on firm ground about that. I had to bend a little.

“The amount isn’t important. I’m more interested in any return address on the envelopes you get. I’m sure you understand. That can’t be confidential, unless the sender gave you specific instructions. And if that’s the case a court order would probably supersede those instructions.”

Patchett was in a bind. I was guessing he didn’t want any courts involved.

“The money comes in plain white envelopes, no return address. I throw them away. As for the amount, it’s a pittance, enough for some sundries and other things to make her more comfortable, or to spruce up the room.”

Betty coughed. He looked at both nurses.

“Isn’t that right?

They both quickly said yes.

“Did either of you ever see a return address?”

They both said no and he turned back to me.

“Were the letters addressed by hand,” I asked. “Do you remember the postmarks?”

Patchett gave me an elaborate sigh. I was obviously becoming tiresome.

“The addresses are typed. I don’t remember anything specific about the postmarks, but seem to recall the letters came from several different locales.”

I do tiresome much better than winsome.

“What happens if Mrs. Capriati dies?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, do you expect the letters and cash to continue for eternity?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure the sender keeps up on the woman. Perhaps he calls.”

I looked at the nurses.

“She get many calls?”

“None that I’ve handled,” Betty said.

“Me, either,” Irene added. “But anyone calling would get the operator and could just ask how a patient is doing.”

“Any way to check if any calls were put through to her?”

“She doesn’t have a phone in her room,” Betty said.

“Who will pay for her, er, final arrangements, Mr. Patchett?”

“I believe there is a small insurance policy?”

“Who is the beneficiary?”

“I believe the corporation that owns this facility. She signed it over before being admitted.” He anticipated my next question. “Before her disease advanced to the point where it would have become an issue. Now, is that all? Do you still want to see the poor woman? You may upset her. I doubt that she will provide any useful information about her son or his whereabouts. But if you find him, I hope you will let me know.”

I’d bet Patchett knew where every farthing related to his patients was, and viewed a possible heir as a royal pain in the ass. Time to shove something else up there.

“I sure will. It appears he may have a child he doesn’t know about. That would be Mrs. Capriati’s granddaughter. I may try to arrange a visit. I presume that won’t be a problem. I believe grandchildren enjoy reciprocity.”

The little twerp looked like he wanted to slug me. Being a little twerp, he didn’t. The shoulders on both nurses shook with repressed laughter. Faced with the possibility of two Capriati heirs, he might have to re-cook the books.

“Miss Evans, please take Mr. Rhode in to see Mrs. Capriati. And stay with him. I don’t want him wandering around disturbing other patients.”

Or finding roaches. He turned back to me.

“You can have 15 minutes.”

He walked away without shaking hands. I stuck my tongue out at his back, just for the benefit of the two nurses, who both laughed. Betty came around the counter and punched me lightly on the arm.

“I like your style. Follow me.”

“I hope I didn’t get you gals in trouble with the envelope thing.”

“Don’t sweat it, good lookin’. There’s a nursing shortage. And the last time they fired a black woman my age was never. Don’t worry about the 15 minutes. Stay as long as you want. Patchett was on his way out when he spotted you. Only stops by for a couple of hours at each facility.”

We took an elevator to the second floor and walked down a hallway. I tried to ignore the occasional cries that came from some of the rooms.

“Can’t be easy working in a place like this,” I said.

“It’s not so bad,” Betty said. “We have a good staff. And it helps to remember that these folks could be ours.” She paused outside a room. There were two name tags on the door, and one of them said F. Capriati. “But just between us, I wouldn’t mind if someone dropped a dime on Patchett. We been after him for months to clean this place up. And I saw one of those envelopes. It was damn thick. Unless it contained all dollar bills, it coulda bought more than what he call them, sundries?”

“I like your style, too, Betty.”

Mrs. Capriati shared the room with another woman who was staring blankly at the screen of a small color TV on a dresser at the foot of her bed. Betty greeted both women cheerfully, but neither gave any indication that they noticed our arrival.

“Both these ladies have advanced Alzheimer’s,” she said. “They don’t have much to say to each other.”

She went over to the TV, which was tuned to a talk show, and lowered the volume.

“I doubt she understands a word of it,” she said.

“That doesn’t mean she has Alzheimer’s.”

“True that.” She fluffed Mrs. Capriati’s pillow. “Flo, you have a visitor.”

Florence Capriati could not have weighed more than 80 pounds. She made Christian Bale look obese. But her hair, while completely white, was thick and had obviously been carefully tended by the nursing staff. She turned her rheumy eyes toward me and seemed to make an effort to focus. One spider-like hand started moving toward me across the sheet. I took it. It was cold and trembling. She worked her lips.

“Billy?”

She smiled. Even though I had been warned I felt terrible.

“No, Mrs. Capriati. But I hope to find him.”

“Billy!”

She was becoming agitated. Her hand gripped my wrist with surprising strength. Maybe Patchett was right. Once I found out her memories were gone I should leave without disturbing the poor woman. I looked to Betty for help. She went to a small cabinet next to the bed and pulled out an album. She riffed through the pages and then leaned down and pointed at a photo.

“Look Flo. This is Billy, in here. This nice man is looking for him. Maybe he can find him for you.”

Mrs. Capriati looked at the photo, then at me. She sank back against her pillow and seemed to lose interest. I took the album from the nurse and looked at the photo of William Capriati. It was even older than the one I had. I flipped through the album. There were other family photos, some of them Polaroids, rapidly fading. None showed Billy as an adult. Shots of Flo, her husband and the boy in a park, on a beach, first communions, birthday parties, a grade school graduation. Other people, presumably friends and family. Dogs and cats. Young Billy and friends eating cupcakes, most of which were smeared across their smiles. Billy coming down garlanded stairs sleepy but excited on Christmas morning. Under a tree surrounded by toys and wrapping paper, the flash from a camera reflected in a mirror on a wall. There was nothing of use for me. It was like every happy family album I had ever seen.  My throat felt constricted.

Florence Capriati suddenly sat up and grabbed my arm.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said uncertainly. I was trying to figure a way to gently disengage my hand, when she added. “I like oranges.”

“Yes,” I said, slowly rising. “I do to. And they are good for you.”

“Give me an orange.”

I turned to Betty.

“Mrs. Capriati would like an orange.”

“No! You!”

She was becoming agitated again. Betty came over.

“Don’t worry, honey, I’ll go get you one.”

“Now! My oranges!”

“Listen, why don’t you get her an orange or something.” I said. “I’ll stay with her.”

“I just hope there is an orange left in the box. We keep the gifts separate but sometimes people help themselves. A lot of the stuff would just go bad if they didn’t.”

She was almost out the door when it hit me.

“Somebody sent her a box of oranges?”

“Yes. I think she gets them every few months.” It dawned on her. “Jesus. I’m sorry. I’m as bad as some of these folks. I forgot about that.”

“Start about the same time as the money?”

“I’m not sure, but, yes, I think so.”

“Addressed to her?”

“Well, yes, care of the nursing home.”

“Return address?”

“I don’t know. I think I would have noticed that.”

“Do you have the box?”

“When there’s only a couple left I think they throw it out.”

“Could you check, please?”

She was back in a few minutes, smiling triumphantly, with a cut-up orange and a box.

“Still a bunch left.”

She placed the box on the table next to the bed. I twirled it around. There was no return address. But there was a label: Wiggins Citrus Groves, Naples, FL (Orange You Glad You Stopped By!)

Betty gave Mrs. Capriati a quarter of the orange and she began sucking on it. Tears started running down her cheeks and mingled with the juice around her mouth.

“Billy,” she said, but not to me.

“Will she be OK?” My voice was a little thick.

“Sure. I’ll watch her eat. She’ll fall asleep soon. You can go.”

As I stepped into the hallway I heard Florence Capriati sobbing.

“My baby Billy.”

CHAPTER 20 – NAUGHTY BITS

I had no proof that the oranges came from Billy Capriati or, if they did, that he was in Florida. If it was him, he might have ordered them over the Internet. But that probably would mean leaving a trail, and he didn’t seem to be the kind to do that. If he was in Florida, I had only about 22 million people to work through, although given his sex and age I could probably wean that down to about a million. Got you cornered, pal. Of course, if he was in Naples, that improved the odds.

It was no use speculating until I got back to the office and worked the computer and phone. I probably should have been more elated, but no one leaves a nursing home skipping the light fantastic. That reminded me. I got out my cell phone and called the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office. I asked for Tim Condon. As was the case with most of the cops I knew, our relationship had cooled since I went private. But it wasn’t personal with Tim and he always took my calls. I asked him if his office had a section that handled nursing homes.

“White Collar Crime Unit handles elder abuse. I think they do homes, too. Why? You find your car keys in the freezer?”

I told him what I saw.

“That’s Ocean County. They have their own prosecutor’s office.”

“I know. But maybe somebody in your shop knows somebody in that one and can make a call. Might just be some health violations but I got some bad vibes. I wasn’t there long and still spotted enough to make me uneasy. Can’t imagine what an expert might find.” I also didn’t like Patchett handling Flo’s cash envelopes, but didn’t mention that. “If they are stingy on upkeep maybe somebody’s skimming Medicare money.”

“I’m shocked, I tell you. Shocked.”

“Will you talk to someone?”

“Sure. You have a dog in the fight? A relative?’

“No, just back-tracking a missing person. His mother is in the home.”

“Any luck with mom?”

“She thought I was him.”

Condon laughed. But he was the kind of cop who would follow up, especially where kids or old people were concerned. Somebody in Ocean County would look into Shady View. My dime, Patchett. Your ass.

I called Ellen James. I certainly didn’t want to get their hopes up based on a box of oranges, but she had a right to know about Billy’s mother. So did Savannah. Ellen didn’t answer her cell and I left a message. I next called Wiggins Citrus. I was rewarded with a recorded message: the farm was closed from June 30 to November 15, a few days hence. I comforted myself by thinking that I probably wouldn’t get much information from the citrus grove anyway. If Capriati sent the oranges and was true to form he probably paid cash. There would be no record. I could FAX his old photo, but that would be a million-to-one shot. I could hire someone to computer “age” the photo. In fact, there were probably programs I could use myself. But he might have colored his hair, had plastic surgery or gained 500 pounds.

I’d dealt with a couple of ship-trace outfits in Miami that specialized in Florida searches. But Ellen James said she had already hired some big investigative outfits and that base was probably already covered. I thought about contacting some local PI’s in southwest Florida and farming out the search. But even if I claimed urgency who knew how much effort they would put into it. They might drag it out just to run up the bill. And what if they got lucky? There was a reason Capriati was so hard to find. He might take off. All indications pointed to my undertaking a probably fruitless trip to Florida. Well, maybe not fruitless. I could always buy some oranges.

My cell phone buzzed.

The caller ID said “A. Carmichael.”

I had a bad feeling as I answered.

“Mr. Rhode.” I knew the voice. “This is Angela Carmichael.”

“Yes, Mrs. Carmichael.”

“Porgie is in the hospital. He would like to see you.”

I made it to the Richmond Medical Center in Grant City in under 15 minutes. I didn’t even bother checking for a tail. When I walked into his room, Porgie was sipping out of a straw held in place by a pretty woman with a worried, strained look on her face. At least I assumed it was Porgie. His features were indistinct and his head was swelled up to the size of a soccer ball. His left arm was in a sling cast.

“Mrs. Carmichael?”

Before she could answer a man sprang out of a chair in the far corner and moved toward me.

“Who are you, pal?”

He looked familiar. I had only caught a glimpse of the other man in Porgie’s car on the day of the chase but I was pretty sure this was his dim friend, the one whose name he wouldn’t give up.

“Back off, Cosmo, it’s OK.” It was Porgie, rasping through grotesquely swollen lips. “I asked to see him.”

One of the remaining bulbs in Cosmo’s almost vacant chandelier blinked on.

“You’re the bastard we were following. The one that chased us.”

“Cosmo!” Porgie started coughing. His wife wiped his mouth. “Angie, maybe you could get a cup of coffee or something. I gotta talk to Mr. Rhode.”

“Sure, honey.” As she walked past me she said, “Can I get you something Mr. Rhode.” Her eyes were glistening and I felt like a heel.

“No, thank you. And I’m sorry about all of this.”

“Not your fault,” she said.

When she was gone Cosmo resumed his rant.

“It is your fucking fault. None of this woulda happened if you’d let us tail you.”

I had no answer to that so I merely said, “Cosmo, why don’t you go look after Angie. She shouldn’t be alone after what happened.”

I didn’t even know what had happened but that seemed to make sense to Cosmo. He looked concerned and headed out the door. I went over to the bed.

“I’ve known him since we were kids,” Porgie said.

“A friend is a friend. So, tell me what’s going on.”

He pushed a button lying by his good hand and the bed started whirring as it elevated his upper torso. It was hard to tell through the swelling but I think he grimaced. I was worried about his arm in the sling but it worked out OK. When he was comfortable, he said, “I guess I don’t look so good.”

“Be thankful for that, Porgie. Dead men don’t swell. At least not for a while.”

“The Carluccis have a hit out on you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Nando Carlucci asked me to do the job. Said it was a way to redeem myself for fucking up the other thing. Said I owed him.”

“How is it supposed to go down?”

“He said to make it look like an accident.” He tried to laugh but it hurt too much. “The way you drive that wouldn’t of been too hard.”

I don’t know if I had been in Porgie’s shape I could have made that joke. It said something about the man.

“How much did he offer?”

“Two thousand.”

Even given the state of the economy that seemed embarrassingly low. Besides, hits were presumably recession-proof. Porgie must have noticed the look on my face because he quickly added, “He said he’d also fix my car for nothing.”

Terrific. It was obvious I had been away too long. I had to restore my reputation before I became a target for anyone who needed a lube job and a tire rotation.

“Why did you say no, Porgie?”

“I know what I am, Mr. Rhode. I ain’t no altar boy. But I ain’t no killer. I never hurt nobody in my life didn’t try to hurt me first.” Porgie was slurring his words because only one side of his face appeared to be working properly. “Besides, you were decent about everything, all things considered. I was gonna take your advice, about getting a job and going straight.”

“I take it Nando wasn’t happy with your attitude.”

“You got that right. He thought I wanted to negotiate. Offered me more money. When I told him I wouldn’t do it for any amount he went batshit. He and a couple of his goons worked me over pretty good.”

I looked at all the tubes and machines he was tethered to.

“How are you fixed for money, Porgie? You need some.”

“Nah. Angie’s got good insurance from work. It’ll cover most of this.”

“What about the stuff it doesn’t cover?”

“We’re OK. Guys down the harbor are passing the hat.”

“I appreciate you telling me this, Porgie. I won’t forget it.”

“That’s OK, Mr. Rhode. You don’t owe me nothing. I did it for Angie and the kids. I’m outa that life now. But Carlucci ain’t gonna forget it either. He’ll find someone.”

As I walked to my car I pondered my next move. Well, actually, I knew my next move. Dinner. But after that at some point I would have to ask Nando what the hell was going on. After seeing Porgie, I felt that I owed the fat bastard a visit. But that wouldn’t do the Carmichael family any good. Better to let him think I was still in the dark about his interest in me. I wondered if he still wanted to make it look like an accident. I hoped so. That might give me an edge. It sure beat getting shot in the back of the head or being blown up starting my car. A hell of a thought to have while starting your car. But nothing happened. Getting blown to pieces by an I.E.D. back in the United States would have been hard to take. I was running the risk that Nando was now so annoyed at me he’d throw caution to the wind but I had to take that chance. If I could see the “accident” coming, I might be able to grab whoever was setting me up. Porgie was hired help. The next guy might be a font of information. I wasn’t worried about getting him to talk. I misplaced my copy of the Geneva Convention somewhere in Sandland.

I was getting hungry. Actually, that’s a misnomer. When one is perpetually hungry, you don’t have to get there. I stopped by Pal Joey’s, my neighborhood pizza parlor, to order a pie to go. It was apparently going to be a race between the Carluccis and cholesterol. Given my recent diet, my money was on the latter.

“Cut it in nine pieces,” I told the counterman. “I’m really hungry tonight.”

I was opening the pizza when Ellen James called me back. I asked after Savannah.

“She’s in the hospital.” Before I could say something, she added, “Her chemo knocked her out this time and they have to run some more tests anyway, so they want to keep her a couple of days. These setbacks aren’t unusual.”

I told her what I had found out. I also told her what our options were.

“Alton, you’ve accomplished more in a few days than the high-powered firms I hired have in months. I want you to follow up, not some people in Florida I don’t know.”

“He may not even be in Florida. It may be a dead end.”

“I have a feeling it’s not. But I don’t know if I should tell Savannah about Billy’s mother. She’s too fragile right now.”

“The old lady won’t be around forever, Ellen.”

“Neither might my daughter,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “And from what you say the poor woman wouldn’t know what was going on.”

“I’m sorry. It’s your call. But she could be another DNA match.”

“Would they allow us to get marrow from a woman who can’t give her consent?”

“They might allow a test.”

“It would probably take a court order. The whole process might take too long. I can work on that but I want you to go to Naples. If it’s a question of money, I can give you a lot more.”

“I haven’t even dented your retainer. And you know it’s not about money.”

“Now it’s my turn to apologize. I’m sorry.” Her voice softened. “Alton, do you have plans for dinner tonight? I feel terrible saying this, but I have a free night in Manhattan and I want to enjoy it. Will you join me? I promise not to bombard you with too many questions about the case. I just feel like spending some time with an adult who is not wearing a white coat. Savannah won’t mind a night alone. She knows I need an occasional break. We’re used to this. Please. It will be my treat.”

“There you go, talking money again. I’ll come in if you let me buy dinner. Deal?”

We agreed to meet at Bemelman’s Bar at the Carlyle at 8:30 P.M. I put the pizza in the fridge and went upstairs to shower and change. One doesn’t go to the Carlyle to meet a beautiful blond in one’s pizza-eating clothes. I put on a blue Brooks Brothers pinstripe suit, white Charles Tyrwhitt shirt and burgundy Ferragamo tie.

Living on the North Shore of Staten Island, I had three choices if I wanted to drive into the city: Through New Jersey using the Goethals or Bayonne bridges or over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge through Brooklyn. The wrong choice could add anywhere from an hour to an Ice Age to the trip, depending on traffic. I left it up to Gladys, just to have someone to blame. She went Goethals to New Jersey Turnpike to Lincoln Tunnel and I made it to the Carlyle in just over an hour. You just never know.

Smaller and more intimate, Bemelmans is not as well-known as its sister Café Carlyle, where Bobby Short charmed a generation of audiences. Bobby was dead and I still regretted never hearing his interpretations of Cole Porter, George Gershwin and Duke Ellington. But with dark brown leather banquettes, black glass table tops, black granite bar and gold-leaf ceiling, Bemelmans is a perfect Manhattan bar. Its famous murals, depicting scenes from Central park, were painted by Ludwig Bemelmans, better known as the creator of the Madeline children’s books. In return the Carlyle let the Bemelmans family live for free for almost two years.

Ellen James was talking to the bartender, who was laughing. She occasionally took a sip from a martini. The room was full and there were several good-looking women in it, but I caught men glancing at her. It was not hard to see why. She had looked beautiful in my office. Now she looked regal. She was wearing a backless black satin pleated sheath dress, accented with emerald-cut diamond earrings and a double strand of white pearls. A white silk wrap was folded over the back of her chair.

There was an empty seat next to her, which surprised me until I saw her silver clutch on it. When I walked up to her she offered her hand and then leaned in and gave me a peck on the cheek.

“My alibi is here, Frank” she said.

I glanced at the bartender, whose name tag said “Frank.” He looked embarrassed.

“At first Frank thought I was a hooker,” she said. “I told him I was waiting for my date, a famous detective. He let me save the seat but I don’t think he believed me.”

I turned to Frank.

“I’ve never seen this broad before in my life. Do you know how much she charges?”

They both laughed and Frank said, “I actually thought she was Charlize Theron. You can’t be much of a sleuth if it took you this long to find her. I’ve had to fight off half the guys in the joint. And some of them are here with their wives. What will you have?”

I ordered a Beefeater martini and sat down.

“Famous detective?”

“I’ve been drinking.”

We chatted about everything, and nothing. I told her about the murals.

“They are charming,” she said. “I’m glad it wasn’t Salvatore Dali.”

When her second drink came she recited:

I like to have a martini;

I can take one or two at the most.

I finished the ditty for her.

Three and I’m under the table;

Four and I’m under the host.

Very good,” she said. “You know your Dorothy Parker.”

“I read a lot of cocktail napkins. Occupational hazard.”

She looked at me.

“Speaking of occupational hazards. Tell me the truth. Are you in danger? From those people you mentioned.”

“It’s just a distraction.” Nando would undoubtedly take offense at that. “My primary concern is Savannah.”

“ I don’t want anything to happen to you.” She put her hand on my arm and I felt a jolt in my solar plexus. “You’ve done more for us than anyone. I want you to stay on this, but only if you feel safe.”

I thought about her daughter in the hospital and the ravages of chemotherapy.

“Wild horses, little lady.”

She looked at me. I’d been hoping – and dreading – that look.

“Alton, would you like to skip dinner?”

I almost said something stupid. But I didn’t.

“Yes.”

Without a word she stood up. I followed her to the elevator. She had taken a suite near the top floor facing Central Park.

“Why don’t you fix us a drink,” she said.

There was a sideboard with all the fixings. I made two martinis and tried not to think of Dorothy Parker although I was pretty sure where this was going. We took our drinks to the window and stood looking down at the park, our shoulders touching. I turned toward her. She put her hand behind my neck and pulled me into her. We kissed. It lingered. Her tongue darted into my mouth and she pressed into me. I could feel the hard points of her breasts. When we came up for air, I said, “Ellen, do you think this is a good idea?”

My voice was hoarse. She took my hand and brought it up to her breast.

“Why, do you have a better one?”

I sure as hell didn’t.

Making love to an elegant, intelligent woman for the first time has always presented a problem for me. There is a fine line between a natural male urgency and the desire to draw things out, to savor the experience. To basically not act like the randy teen-ager that lurks in all of us just below the surface. With so many delights to choose from, I usually don’t know where to start. I shouldn’t have worried. Urgency was at the top of Ellen’s list, too. Her need was feral. We barely made it to the bed, dropping clothes in our wake. Once there, I tried to slow things down but she was having none of it.

“No,” she gasped. “Don’t bother. I’m ready. Please!”

Her hands, insistent and practiced, guided me. She stared straight into my eyes for a moment, and then came fast and loud, proving once again that elegance and sexual release are mutually exclusive, as they should be. Afterwards, as we lay there trying to control our breath, she giggled as she pulled off the rest of her clothes. So did I, although without the giggles. I put my hand on her stomach below her belly button. I could feel the occasional post-orgasmic twitch. Her legs still trembled.

“I’m sorry,” she said as I leaned over her. “I guess I really needed that. But it couldn’t have been very good for you.”

“I hope you didn’t think I faked it.”

“Of course not,” she said, laughing. “But, good Lord, what must you think of me?”

“I just hope the room is soundproof.”

She turned crimson. I kissed her nearest nipple, which was still hard.

“I think you are wonderful,” I said. “I just wish I’d had more time to explore your naughty bits.”

She put her hands behind her head and stretched her body. I took in the view. Her breasts were small; she was a model, after all. But they were firm and well-defined. Her waist and hips were nicely proportioned. She must have worked hard to stay in such wonderful shape after having a child. But it was almost 14 years ago. I looked down. She was mostly shaved, but it was obvious she was a natural blond. Her legs ran on forever. Like her belly, they were toned.

“Do you like what you see?”

“What’s not to like?” My voice was hoarse again.

She laughed, closed her eyes and took my hand.

“Start there. Then take your time. And then I think I owe your naughty bits some attention. We have all night.”

CHAPTER 21 – TRANSFUSION

When I awoke I looked over to Ellen’s side of the bed. Or the side on which she had eventually wound up. We had covered it all at one point or another and even managed to almost fall off entirely. There was only an indentation in her pillow. In the movies the lover always looks surprised to find the bed empty. I’m always surprised when I wake up to find someone else lying next to me, so my reaction was muted.  Besides, I heard the shower running. There was a knock on the suite’s front door.

“Room service.”

I threw on a shirt and trousers and went out into the living area, gun in hand, shutting the bedroom door behind me. After I looked through the peephole, I put the gun in my waistband, covering it with my shirt. I didn’t think the Carluccis would go through the trouble of dressing a hit man in a hotel uniform. Or actually sending up a large tray of food. They had already proven how cheap they were with their $2,000 hit offer to Porgie.

Besides, I was so hungry I probably would have eaten an Uzi. I opened the door and the man wheeled in his cart. Without asking he went to a small table by the window, began lifting the covers off platters and set the table. Coffee, orange juice, Eggs Benedict and various French pastries. Perhaps it was a murder attempt after all. I tipped him and he left just as Ellen emerged from the bedroom, wiping her hair and wearing one of those fluffy white robes you get in upscale hotels. I could tell she had nothing on under the robe but I headed for the Eggs Benedict. I might need my strength.

“Oh, good,” she said. “Perfect timing. I hope you like Eggs Benedict.”

“I could eat a horse.”

“I bet you could, you poor man,” she said. “I made you miss your dinner. I hope you weren’t too disappointed.”

She leaned across to kiss me and her robe opened. The Eggs Benedict lost their place in line. She saw my gaze and closed the robe.

“No. I’m starving, too.” She laughed. “Besides, I have to go to the hospital. They’re going to discharge Savannah. I just called.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Ellen hesitated, looking embarrassed.

“That might not be a great idea, Alton. She knows I’m coming straight from here. If you’re with me she might put two and two together. She’s at that age. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t believe I have sex.”

“Then you’d better straighten out the bedroom. It looks like a tsunami hit it.”

She laughed so hard some eggs dripped from her mouth.

“I have an idea. You clean up here while I go. Can you kill a couple of hours? I’ll take her shopping. That will cheer her up. Then we can all meet for lunch as if you just came into the city. I know she wants to see you. And we can tell her what you found out.”

We decided on Isabella’s at 1 P.M., which is just down the street from the Museum of Natural History on the West Side. Hopefully the Eggs Benedict would only be a pleasant memory by then.

After Ellen left I called the front desk for a razor and toothbrush. I gave the bellhop my suit and other clothes, telling him that I needed everything cleaned and pressed within the hour. He didn’t think that was possible until I gave him a twenty. I was mildly disappointed when he left without commenting on the fluffy white robe I was wearing. I had just finished shaving, showering and straightening out the bedroom when he came back with my clothes. Savannah was a sharp cookie, so I had him take the incriminating remains of the breakfast with him.

***

I took a cab through Central Park and killed a couple of hours looking at dinosaurs in the museum before walking to Isabella’s, a trendy restaurant on Columbus Avenue that is a favorite with the lunch crowd because there are usually some celebrities in attendance. The food is better than good and its bartenders make a terrific Bloody Mary, one of which I was sipping as I waited for the James girls. The celebrity pickings were slim. I did spot a perfectly coiffed silver-haired doctor who was a regular on one of the evening news shows. He usually had a segment devoted to the latest medical study or Surgeon General’s report warning everyone that nothing they ate was good for them. He was sitting two tables over with two gorgeous women who were hanging on his every word. The women were eating salads. He was downing a bacon cheeseburger with fries. If I walked over and shot him I was confident that no jury in the world would convict me.

I turned to my menu. Looking at tyrannosaurs had whetted my appetite. By the time the James girls walked in carrying shopping bags from Saks and The Gap I had narrowed down my lunch choices to either the Hay and Straw Linguini With Chicken, Mushrooms and Sundried Tomatoes or the cheeseburger, which also had a fancy description that couldn’t disguise the fact that it was just a cheeseburger, albeit Jurassic  size. Neither would go particularly well with my tie should, as was likely, I dripped on it. When I rose up to hold the chairs for Savannah and her mother I shot a glance at the TV doctor, who was having altogether too much fun with his burger and women companions.

I was not quite sure how Ellen would greet me in front of her child. Jumping each other’s bones in the middle of Isabella’s, while it would have given me great satisfaction with the doctor watching, was probably out of the question. The tables were too close together in any event. She settled for a warm handshake. Considering where our respective hands had been most of the previous evening I knew we both felt ridiculous. I also shook Savannah’s hand. All very formal.

The waiter took our drink order: Bloody Marys for the adults, a Coke for Savannah. When he returned with our drinks he asked if we’d like to hear the specials. We said sure, because it’s polite when someone has taken the trouble to memorize them. I even listen when they read the items from a pad. But I rarely order specials, since I suspect that many of them consist of things left over from the previous day covered with a dramatic-sounding sauce. That’s not a knock on Isabella’s. I was fairly certain we could trust its kitchen not to pull a fast one. But it really didn’t matter. Discretion being the better part of valor, I had already decided on the chicken dish, since eating Eggs Benedict and cheeseburgers three hours apart would probably result in the TV doctor giving me CPR.

While the waiter went to get our drinks I took the time to study Savannah. She was wearing a lot of makeup but I could tell that she looked healthier under it. Her skin color was better. I told her as much.

“She had a transfusion,” Ellen said. “Always perks her up a bit.”

When the waiter returned with our drinks both mother and daughter ordered cheeseburgers, medium rare.

“You’ll probably have to help us out with them,” Ellen said, looking at me.

Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good. With all the bases covered, I ordered my healthful chicken dish with just the right amount of enthusiasm.

“Excellent choice, sir. It’s my favorite.”

Waiters often say that, especially when you order something that sounds so elegant. I doubted if he’d ever had the “hay and straw linguini,” whatever the hell it was. Probably not something the chef would whip up for the staff. Just once I would like a waiter to take my order and say, “Are you nuts? How can you eat that crap?”

As we chatted I caught several people looking at Savannah. I realized that in her own way she was as stunning as her mother and, perhaps because of her waiflike quality, more exotic. She had an ethereal beauty, with fine delicate features and a figure, that while thin, was blossoming. From a distance she would be seen as childlike. Close up, something else.

Our meals came. The chef had knocked the linguini out of the park. I passed some around. They loved it. I’d have to tell the waiter to try it sometime. Ellen tried to give me half her burger but I manfully negotiated it down to a quarter. There was an easy familiarity about our conversation and our entire interplay with each other. I caught Savannah looking at us and smiling. It was a sly, knowing smile and not one I would associate with a child. It even made her look older. Perhaps I was not acting as normally as I thought. It’s hard to sit quietly with a woman and her child only a few hours removed from a hotel room that you and the mother had virtually demolished in passion.

Dessert was out of the question, but we ordered some strawberry shortcake anyway. It was good to see Savannah dig in. The transfusion had apparently done wonders. When we finished, Ellen said, “Mr. Rhode has some news. He may have a lead on your father.” She hesitated. “And he found your grandmother. Your father’s mother.”

Savannah’s face lit up.

“Can I see her?”

I looked at Ellen.

“If you want,” she said. “But she is very sick and may not understand much. We can talk about it later. But it’s more important that we find your dad. Mr. Rhode is going to Florida to look for him.”

After lunch I headed back to Staten Island. I had several of the yearbook and student newspaper photos clips of Capriati enlarged at a Kinko’s, which I found out was now called FedEx Office. In addition to printed copies, I had images downloaded to a flash drive. When I got to my office I tried my hand at “ageing” Capriati, using a Photoshop application on my computer. The results were less than optimal. If Capriati looked like Abraham Lincoln I had a good chance of spotting him.

I called Cormac Levine. He said he’d have one of the precinct techies try his hand with the photo.

“How fast do you need it?”

“I’m heading to Florida tomorrow. I’ve got a lead on him.”

“Tell me.” I did. When I finished, he said, “Oranges. Jesus. Well, while you’re down there send me a case. Irene loves them. Fax me the photos.”

“I’ll email them to you, as well. It might be easier for your guy to work with.”

“Jesus, more with the emails.”

I booked an 11 AM flight on Continental out of Newark for the next day. Then I spent a couple of hours paying bills and cleaning up some neglected paperwork. Mac hadn’t called back. I went home to pack. No one followed me. Perhaps Nando hadn’t lined up more hitters. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe Harvard would beat Alabama.

I was eating warmed up pizza and drinking a Pinot Noir that did it justice when Cormac called.

“I got a bunch of copies for you.”

“A bunch?”

“Yeah, my techie got carried away. We got clean-shaven, various beards and moustaches, the whole kit and caboodle.”

“You must really want those oranges.”

“Just don’t forget. Can you pick these up?”

“Be easier if you FAXed them to my office. I’ll grab them up before I take off.”

I didn’t want Mac struggling with emails that might wind up in Mongolia, and my good FAX machine and printer were in my office.

“Anything else I can do for you. Maybe wash your car?”

“I’ll send some grapefruit, too. By the way, does Capriati look like Abe Lincoln?”

“Just give me the fuckin’ FAX number, will ya. I’m busy.”

CHAPTER 22 – COUSINS

I was up just before dawn. I had plenty of time to stop by my office to pick up all the Capriati photos, and even run by the 122nd Precinct in case there had been a FAX foul up. I love Mac, but even old technology isn’t his strong suit.

After showering and dressing, I clipped on my Taurus and dropped another gun in my pocket. It was a Bersa Thunder, an Argentine knockoff of the Walther that in some ways was superior to its German antecedent. The Nazi refugees who settled in Argentina after World War II probably had a lot of time on their hands to work out the kinks. It was an automatic and packed more punch than the revolver. I went downstairs and picked up the morning newspapers from the front stoop. I had The New York Times and the Wall Street Journal delivered and tried to read them cover to cover every day, even the respective editorials, which were written by people on different planets. Seeing the papers reminded me that I’d forgotten to stop delivery. I called Al Johnsen and told him to make sure they didn’t pile up.

“Sure. You making any progress?”

I drew a blank for a moment. How did he know what I was working on? Then I realized he was talking about the poison pen letters.

“Been tied up. But I’ll get to it. By the way, your lawn looks great.”

Once again, my car started without detonating. It’s hard to plant explosives in a car that has an alarm. Having a next-door neighbor with a dog that barks when a leaf falls also is a deterrent.

I stopped for coffee and a whole wheat bagel at a 24-hour 7-Eleven on Bay Street across from the waterfront ball park where the minor league Staten Island Yankees played in the summer. The baseball park cost $74 million and had faced fierce opposition from civic groups who thought the money could be better spent on affordable housing, transportation or potholes. But it had been rammed through by a Borough President who, everyone assumed, saw a piece of that $74 million. But just because a project is a boondoggle doesn’t mean it can’t be enjoyed. There are a lot worse ways to spend a summer night than drinking cold beer and eating hot dogs at a ball game. The stadium itself was a beauty, and the view, which included the Statue of Liberty and downtown Manhattan, had to be the finest of any ball park in the country. It would have been even better but for Al-Quaeda, a thought that crossed everyone’s mind, every game.

There was only one other vehicle in the fenced-in parking lot when I pulled in, a dark blue Ford Explorer. It was barely light out but I could see exhaust fumes. Whoever was in the car was staying warm. The Explorer was parked in the first slot nearest the building. I would have to walk past it if I parked anywhere in the front of the lot, as I normally did when coming in early. Instead, I drove down a lane and parked near the fence closest to the harbor. There was a side entrance to the lot and I used it.

There were any number of innocent reasons a car would be idling in the lot. And one not so innocent. I now suspected everything that moved, and a few things that didn’t. As I started walking toward the building’s front entrance I heard car doors open and close. Out of the corner of my eye I saw two men emerge from the Explorer and begin walking toward the building. They were both wearing long dark coats and had their hands in their pockets. They picked up their pace. I was reminded of the scene in The Godfather where Vito Corleone stopped to buy fruit. That hadn’t worked out all that well for the Don. I wasn’t buying fruit but suspected I might buy the farm if I wasn’t careful.

We would all probably reach the entrance about the same time. At which time they would either wish me a good morning and perhaps politely hold the door for me or shoot me many times in the face. I didn’t turn toward the entrance. I kept going straight toward a small alley that separated the building from a low seawall. I figured I could make the corner of the building before they got within shooting range, unless they had an S.A.M. missile, which I thought unlikely. I suppressed the urge to run. I had done nothing obvious to make them assume I wasn’t just using a side or back entrance to my building. If anything, they were probably happy I was heading into a darkened alley. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I read somewhere that was a holdover from our ancestors’ caveman days, presumably when a saber tooth tiger was gaining on them. That usually didn’t work out well for the caveman either.

I turned the corner leisurely and once out of my pursuers’ sight ran like hell to a dumpster about 20 feet in the alley. I jumped behind it. I could hear the men’s footsteps quicken. I put down the coffee and bagel, and pulled both my guns. I should have felt ridiculous. All I needed was a cowboy hat and some chaps and I could pass for Tom Mix. But I now had 12 rounds at my disposal and it has been my experience that people who are willing to look ridiculous often outlive those who aren’t.

I could hear the two men running now. I was debating whether to shoot them when they turned the corner into the alley, and hoped they weren’t Jehovah’s Witnesses trying to give me a pamphlet, when I heard a car drive up rapidly and screech to a halt. Then a dozen or more coughing sounds, a couple of grunts and what could have passed for two sacks of grain hitting the sidewalk. I caught a glimpse of a black sedan making a U-turn and speeding away on squealing tires. Then all was quiet.

I knew what the coughing sounds had been. Silencers aren’t completely silent, especially on what had to be a machine pistol of some sort. I walked to the corner of the building and cautiously peeked around. Both men were sprawled face up on the sidewalk. They would have turned at the sound of the car. I recognized them both. It was Benny and Jerry. Benny was obviously a fast healer, for all the good it did him now. If I’d hit him harder in the throat he might still be in the hospital, and alive. Maybe his injury slowed his reflexes because he never drew a weapon. His cousin managed to get his handgun out. It lay beside him. I checked for pulses, but the neat pattern of holes in their chests suggested I wouldn’t feel any. They were very dead. My guardian angel – given the equal spacing of the shots I knew it was a single shooter – had been expert. There was little blood. The bullets were tightly grouped around their hearts which stopped pumping almost immediately. A real expert. I don’t know why I felt bad about two cousins getting killed together. After all, they were going to kill me. But I did.

“A rocky road, boys.”

I assumed that Nando Carlucci had abandoned the accident scenario. He seemed to be escalating exponentially. The next step was probably a neutron bomb. But who rubbed out the rubber-outers? I looked around. Not a creature was stirring. I went back to the alley, picked up the bag with the coffee and bagel. It had my fingerprints on it. Besides, I was still hungry. I then walked to my car, got in and drove away. With any luck nobody would notice me. I couldn’t see any downside in having Nando think I aced two of his shooters and got away with it. It might give him second thoughts.

I debated catching my flight. But I had to be sure no one could put me at the scene of a double homicide. Leaving town then wouldn’t endear me to the cops. I’d wait it out.

On the way home I opened the coffee. It was still hot. And it had never tasted better.

CHAPTER 23 – BLAMING MOSSAD

By the time I got home my own pulse rate had slowed to near normal. I think it was Churchill who said that getting shot at to no effect was exhilarating. The same was apparently true for being almost shot at. Of course, I had also in the past been shot at with effect, but fortunately not to the extent of the two stiffs. Better exhilarated than aerated, that’s my motto. I quickly changed into a different colored jacket and slacks. There wasn’t anything I could do about my car but I was counting on the parking lot at my building to be part of a crime scene by the time I got back. I was right. There were squad cars and emergency vehicles everywhere and cops waving cars away. I parked down a side street and walked back. One of the cops asked me what I wanted and I told him I worked in the building. It was just 9 AM.

“What’s going on?”

He asked for I.D. and wrote down the particulars. He wanted to know what floor I worked on and my office number. I told him. Since a lack of curiosity can be suspicious, I again asked him what was up. When he looked annoyed I said, “I used to be on the job.”

“Couple of guys got popped. That’s all I know.”

I walked toward the lobby entrance. Everything past it was cordoned off and alive with detectives and uniforms. Several people who worked in the building were staring at the morgue guys, who were just lifting the two bodies into their van. I started chatting with the other gawkers and tried to look both concerned and perplexed. No one pointed at me and screamed, “That’s him! I’d recognize him even without his bagel!”

One of the detectives spotted me and walked over. His name was Paul Vocci and he was one of the guys who replaced Cormac on the D.A.’s squad. We didn’t like each other very much.

“What the hell are you doing here, Rhode?” He would have said “fuck” but I was standing among a group of civilians that included some women.

“I work here, Paulie. What are you doing here? You’re not homicide.”

“Who told you it’s a homicide?”

“One of the uniforms. I might have caught on anyway, considering there are the dozen squad cars, the Medical Examiner is loading a couple of stiffs in the meat wagon, the place is crawling with detectives and they’ve stretched enough crime scene tape to circle the globe.”

One of the women laughed and Vocci reddened.

“You always were a wiseass, Rhode.”

“Guilty as charged. But let’s forget how much we mean to each other, Paulie. What have you got?”

Vocci motioned me away from my little group to a spot where my rapier wit could do less damage to his pride. He was a pain in the ass, but lingering professional courtesy forced a grudging reply. Besides, the homicide dicks hated the D.A. squad. They’d probably been pissing on Vocci all morning. Compared to them I was a friendly face.

“Pakistani guy who runs the newsstand in the lobby spotted the bodies when he came in around 7. Both shot multiple times. M.E. is guessing an Uzi. Both stiffs were armed. One of the homicide guys recognized them. Said they worked for the Carluccis.”

The fact that the dead men were typecast so quickly worked in my favor.

“A hit?”

“Maybe.”

“Funny place for it. Anybody see or hear anything?”

“No. It was pretty early.”

I wanted to be helpful, so I said, “There’s a guard in the lobby.”

“He’s a hundred fucking years old,” Vocci said.

If it had been Abby on post I might have been in trouble. I looked over at the Ford Explorer which was swarming with technicians.

“That their car?”

“It was the only one in the lot when the Pakistani came on. No one reported another one coming or going around the time of the murder.”

Bingo. So far I was in the clear. Nobody knew I’d been at the scene except probably whoever iced my assailants. And they weren’t going to call the cops. Just to have something to say I asked, “You’ve established the time already?”

“Bodies were still warm. Had to be just before they were found.”

“What’s your interest in all this, Pauli?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, Rhode, but the squad likes to stay on top of this kind of thing.”

That was bull. Given the time frame, there was no way homicide would have clued in the D.A.’s office by 9 AM. And even if they had, the D.A. wouldn’t have sent Vocci alone to a double homicide. The publicity hound would have come himself with several detectives and a camera crew.

“Those homicide pricks will want to talk to you and everyone else in the building,” Vocci said.

“That should really narrow it down,” I said. “But who knows? Law office on the top floor has some mob clients. Maybe they overbilled.”

“What about you? Got any clients they’d be interested in? Or should I say, do you have any clients at all?”

“You were just passing by on the way to work, weren’t you?”

I thought he’d get mad. Instead he smiled.

“Yeah.”

I went into my building and chatted with the security guard for a minute. As advertised, he has seen and heard nothing and was plainly worried about his job. Not noticing two guys being whacked out front of his building might be considered a reflection on his powers of observation.

“I wasn’t goofing off, Mr. Rhode. I just didn’t hear anything.”

I didn’t tell him about the silencer but reminded him that nobody on the nearby streets apparently heard anything either.

“You were inside with the doors closed. You’d have heard less than anyone. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“But I am worried. I need this job. They might think I’m too old.”

The truth was everyone in the building probably would have preferred a younger guard. But I kind of felt responsible for what happened on his watch. I was obviously getting soft. First Porgie, then this security guard.

“Listen, if your company hassles you, play the age discrimination card. I can talk to the lawyers on the top floor. They own the building. They love cases like that.”

He was very grateful. And it didn’t cost me another hero sandwich.

When I got to my office I cancelled my flight and went about my business looking innocent, even if nobody could see me. It’s good to practice. I called a new stencil guy who, surprisingly, came right over. Of course, he wanted to talk about the shooting, and I feigned astonishment. He also wanted to know what the problem was with my middle initial. Not his concern, I said, and watched him like a hawk. Just after he left Cormac Levine called.

“Did you shoot them?”

“Who?”

“Don’t fuck around, Alton.”

“Oh, the two guys out front? No.”

“Two Carlucci hitters get smoked outside your office when the Carluccis are following you around like Brad and Angelina?”

“They were waiting for me. Somebody intervened before they could turn me into Swiss cheese.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know. Cops said it was an Uzi. Maybe it was Mossad.”

“Always blame the Jews, right. Maybe it was Immelberger, or whatever that Kraut pilot called himself. Nando will think you did it.”

“Works for me. Thanks for the photos, by the way. Your guy did a good job.”

“What now?”

“I have to go get your oranges.”

I spent most of the rest of the day moving stuff around my office, paying bills and conducting more unproductive Internet searches. I ordered in lunch and waited around for Homicide.

Finally, around 4 PM, two detectives showed up. They knew who I was and that I knew the drill, so they settled in and made themselves comfortable. They looked like they had all the time in the world. I gave them both coffee, played dumb and lied a lot. When I wasn’t doing either, I invoked client confidentiality, just for the hell of it. That always angers homicide cops and despite the excellent coffee they threatened me with everything from subpoenas to waterboarding. So I grudging let it slip that I only had one client: a woman looking for the father of her child. I didn’t think either of the dead men was him. The cops almost looked sorry for me.

Did I have any idea who killed the two men?

I mentioned the lawyers upstairs and hinted at shady characters. They didn’t even bother writing that down. I’m sure it explained to them why I had only one client. I asked if they had identified the victims. They said no, which made me feel better about my own lies. We sat there a few more minutes lying back and forth. One of them complimented my selection of plants. We exchanged cards. They left. I exhaled. I rebooked my flight for the next morning.

When I finally left, Abby was working the guard desk. I noticed that her regular sign-in book had been replaced by a lined yellow pad.

“Cops took it. They wanted to check whose been coming and going for a month.”

“That’s good detective work.”

“Remember when Staten Island got the dregs of the Police Department?” She pronounced it po-leece. “They’re getting their shit together.”

“We always had some good cops, Ab. But with a half million people now we’re getting more. But tell me, and don’t get insulted, but why do black people say, po-leece?”

“I’m not insulted. You honkies mispronounce it. We trying to educate you.”

CHAPTER 24 – FLORIDA

I flew out the next morning. I was looking forward to the trip. The weather in Southwest Florida in the late fall varies. It can be gorgeous, or really gorgeous. I’ve spent a lot of time in the Sunshine State, which because of its favorable bankruptcy laws tends to attract the type of miscreants I’ve had to pursue. There are more crooks on the East Coast, but that’s a function of population. Florida’s Southwestern coast boasts some of the priciest real estate in the nation. A Naples attorney I’ve worked with once gave me a tour of the mansions in Port Royal lining the Gulf and Gordon River. Some of them could have rated their own Zip Codes.

On the flight down I studied the “aged” photos. There were 14 renderings in all: Capriati with and without facial hair such as beards and mustaches, and with various hairstyles, down to bald. Thin face, full face, jowls. Despite the variations, the majority looked like the old man Matt Damon morphed into at the end of Saving Private Ryan .

The Fort Myers airport, officially known as Southwest Florida International Airport, is the closest big airport to Naples. It’s a gem, set amid scrublands, pine barrens and farmland. With a brand new terminal, it boasts plenty of parking, fast shuttles, wide concourses and solid but efficient security. I rented a Ford Fusion and headed south on I75, which swings east in Naples and becomes the famous Alligator Alley, 90 miles of superhighway surrounded by the Everglades that goes straight to Fort Lauderdale. But I cut over to Route 41, also known as Tamiami Trail, which would take me straight into downtown “Old Naples.” A lot of people assume Tamiami is an Indian name. It’s actually short for “Tampa to Miami.”

Accomodations in Naples range from chain motels to some hotels that would make Caligula blush with their opulence. I had my sights set on the Inn on Fifth, an elegant Mediterranean-style boutique hotel in the heart of Fifth Avenue, the Rodeo Drive of Naples. I had stayed there before. In addition to Italian marble-and-tile rooms and a rooftop pool, one of the hotel’s restaurants was McCabe’s Irish Pub. Besides, Ellen James had forced another $2,000 on me with instructions to spend it unwisely. I still had most of her original retainer but she was adamant. If Ellen flew down to confront Capriati, as she insisted she would, I didn’t want her staying in a Super 8.

“I have plenty of money,” she said. “What I don’t have is time.”

The “Season” in Naples runs from January through April, so I was able to secure a suite at a rate that didn’t make me feel too guilty. It was early afternoon by the time I finished checking in. The temperature was in the mid 70’s. I put on a pair of shorts and a floral Tommy Bahama shirt I’d purchased in a moment of derangement on a previous trip. It was the kind of shirt that made me look faintly ridiculous but one I could wear outside my shorts to cover my gun. Loafers without socks and wraparound sunglasses completed the touristy look. Thank God I checked myself in the full-length mirror by the front door. I had upgraded from faintly to completely ridiculous. I quickly changed into slacks and a golf shirt and put on my Brooks Brothers sports coat. I kept the sunglasses.

Wiggins Citrus was off Goodlette Road in North Naples. It is a working orange grove that sells citrus products, honey, jams and such from a large warehouse-style building that also contains a farmer’s market. There were dozens of cars in the parking lot when I pulled in. There was a separate counter devoted to mail orders, with representative boxed displays: oranges, mixed oranges and grapefruits, citrus products with jams and cheeses, etc. A large calendar on the counter listed dates still available for shipping gifts that would arrive before the holidays. There were two women behind the counter and I waited until they were free.

“Yes, how can I help you,” one of them said.

I wanted to break the ice, so I sent out Mac’s order of oranges and grapefruits.

“Do you keep records of all your shipments.”

“What do you mean?”

I decided that there was nothing to be lost by honesty, or something approaching it.

“I’m looking for someone who has sent, on a regular basis, a box of oranges to a woman in a nursing home in New Jersey. There is no name on the gift, but I know from the label they came from here. The sender may be her son and she would like to contact him before it’s too late. She isn’t doing very well.”

The other woman had drifted over. Both were of an age that would understand a mother’s need to see her son before she died. Playing the heartstring card never hurts.

The first woman I spoke to said, “You a cop?”

So much for heartstrings.

“Private. Retained by the family.”

“Peggy, go get Albert.”

After Peggy left, the woman said, “We keep pretty good records, especially if they use a credit card. We even send out reminders every year. If Al says it’s OK, I’m sure we can help you out. But he’s the manager. His family owns the place. You understand.”

I told her I did and we chatted about the weather and football, two subjects central to any conversation in Florida, until Peggy came back with a man dressed in a bib overall and smelling of oranges. His name was Al Wiggins and his family owned the place, lock. stock and barrels of oranges. And damn proud of it. I repeated my spiel, showed identification when asked and waited for his decision. I wanted to point out that every American’s credit information is probably available to anyone with a computer but held my tongue. Florida is a funny state. There might be a citrus confidentiality law I didn’t know about. But Al turned out to be a reasonable fellow.

“What’s the name,” he said.

“Capriati, but I’m not sure he’s still using it. Here’s the address the oranges are sent to and the information from your mailing label.”

He sat at the computer on the counter and started searching.

“Yup,” he said. “We’ve shipped there several times. Recently, too. But whoever sends the box must pay in cash every time. No credit card record. I also checked a master list of customers. We usually ask for names, phone numbers and such, even from those that pay in cash, so we can get back to them for repeat business and to send catalogues, but some people don’t want to bother and we don’t press them for it. He must come in and just fill out the address every time. Sorry.”

“That would seem to indicate that he lives around here.” I put the manila envelope on the counter and spread the sketches out. “Do any of you recognize him from these?”

“This one looks kind of familiar,” Peggy said, putting her finger on a sketch that actually made Capriati look fairly handsome. A full head of hair and firm of face. “Don’t you remember him, Carol. Always so nice.”

“I think so,” Carol said.

“I think I know him, too,” Al said. “Not from here. I’m not at the counter much. But I think I’ve seen him around. A sports bars, I think.”

It turned out that when Al, recently divorced, took off his bib overalls he liked to have a few drinks. He rotated among three popular taverns, Sam Snead’s, Bokamper’s and Pelican Larry’s. All were within a 10-minute drive of Wiggins Citrus and close to each other in North Naples. But he couldn’t be sure where he’d seen the guy who looked like the aged rendition of Capriati. His three “I thinks” weren’t very encouraging. For all I knew, half the middle-age men in Naples looked alike after all the time they spent in the sun – and gin mills.

After sending a case of oranges to Cormac and his wife, I spent the rest of the afternoon mimicking Al’s rotation. I visited each bar, all of which had full service restaurants, and flashed the photo that had registered with Al and the counter ladies. All I got out of it was a terrific burger at Sam Snead’s and the suggestion that the bartenders and wait staff at night might be a better bet. So I headed back to my hotel, spent an hour in the gym and went for a long swim in the rooftop pool. Then I showered, changed back into my private-eye uniform and headed back for some more bar hopping.

CHAPTER 25 – HAPPY HOUR

Just for diversity’s sake, I reversed the order of my tavern crawl. All three bars were jammed with patrons, mainly seniors at tables taking advantage of “early bird specials” or “happy hour,” and in some cases, both. There’s a reason, other than the weather, why Florida is popular with retirees. It’s possible for a couple to get pleasantly zonked and well-fed for less than $40. And most will leave with take-out boxes for next-day meals. Not everyone fit that profile, however. Standing or sitting at the bars were younger men, mostly golfers, and women of a certain age, mostly divorced or widowed. The golfers were inhaling beer and reliving their rounds. The women were nursing Cosmos and hunting. If Capriati was to be found, he’d probably in the bar crowd, talking golf or offering himself up as prey for the night.

At Pelican Larry’s, which was in the corner of a shopping center off  Immokalee Road, a wildly tattooed bartender wearing a bandana said “the dude” looked vaguely familiar. I ranked that as a “maybe.” Next stop was Bokamper’s, a sprawling haven for NFL fans with more TV’s than a Best Buy. This took some time, because there were 11 separate bar areas. I wasn’t sanguine. The waitresses and barmaids wore tight shorts and tops with plunging necklines and I would have been surprised if anyone noticed faces. But one older bartender said he was “pretty sure” he’d seen Capriati.

No one in either Pelican Larry’s or Bokamper’s was familiar with his name, and no one came up with any other name he might be using. So, armed with a “maybe” and a “probably” I headed to Sam Snead’s, recalling the great burger but hoping I’d strike out. I wanted to concentrate on the “probably.” Another “maybe” or “probably” would complicate surveillance exponentially.

At Snead’s, two bartenders put their heads together. I got neither “maybe” or “probably.” Instead one the bartenders said, “Mike, that’s Mr. Calloway, isn’t it?’ And the other said, “Yeah, he running late tonight. Usually here by now.”

Slammin’ Sammy Snead, I love you.

Casually, I asked, “What’s his first name.”

They said “Billy” in unison.

William Calloway. William Capriati. Cheap bastard probably didn’t want to change his monograms. We were standing at the cash register by the service bar near the kitchen so as not to be overheard.

“OK. Fellas. Here’s the drill. I’m not sure he’s the one I’m looking for. But if he is, I don’t want you tell him I’ve been asking about him. If I spook him, I may have to get the cops involved, and that wouldn’t be good for anyone, including your boss.”

“What’s he done,” Mike said.

“Nothing all that bad,” I said. “It’s a paternity thing, from back North. Civil stuff.”

“Paternity, that figures,” the other bartender laughed. “Billy is a horn dog. And it can’t be from around here. He ploughs nothin’ but grannies.”

I gave them each a twenty, in case the threat of cops, which I hadn’t meant, wasn’t enough. When Mike pocketed the bill he said, “Billy who?” Both of them laughed and went back to work. Taverns serving retirement communities and transient snowbird golfers aren’t known for building long-term relationships and bartending loyalty. People in both demographics tend to disappear with regularity, some permanently. I took a seat that gave me a view of the front door and ordered a beer. A half hour later “Billy Who” walked into the bar.

Capriati looked to be in pretty good shape, maybe 10 pounds heavier than in his wrestling days. I wondered if being on the run was good exercise. He had a full head of hair that showed no graying. He was dressed in grey slacks and a Florida shirt of the type that I had left in a heap back in my hotel room. It was outside his slacks and I wondered if he was packing. I looked for any telltale gun bulge but didn’t see one. No reason he would have a gun.

Billy cruised the bar and homed in on two women sitting together. He leaned between them and ordered a drink from Mike the bartender. They exchanged a laugh. I could tell Mike didn’t give my cover away. He put a glass of wine down for Capriati and then said something to the two women, both of who were at least 15 years older than him. They smiled at Capriati. A moment later two more Cosmos showed up for them and they all clinked glasses. Perhaps Billy knew them. Perhaps he always bought ladies a drink. More likely he was in horn dog mode. He started chatting up the women.

Ellen James had told me that if I found Capriati I wasn’t to approach him without speaking to her first. She was afraid that he might disappear again. I replied that I wouldn’t let that happen, but she insisted. But I wanted to get a closer look at him, so I sidled down the bar to where I could see and hear him better. There was TV on the wall near them so I pretended to be interested in soccer. I even let out a small cheer when someone kicked a ball. No one paid me any attention.  It was definitely Capriati. I said, to no one in particular, “Anyone know the score?” I’d forgotten it was a soccer game. The women looked annoyed, but Capriati laughed and said, “I think it’s a blowout, 1-0.” Pretty good line, and we both laughed. Then I walked away.

Billy was soon deep in meaningful conversation with one of the women, who apparently had undergone more extensive medical intervention than her friend. It wasn’t the beer I’d been drinking; she really was quite attractive. Her friend looked miffed until another man took up a spot on the other side of her and they started talking. There are a lot of lonely people in Naples. Perhaps everywhere. Billy didn’t appear to be in a hurry, so I grabbed a high-top table with a clear view of the bar and ordered a bowl of the house chili, which came quickly. I was hopeful he wasn’t going to get lucky, but just in case I settled the bill before I even started eating. The chili was bubbling in a large earthenware crock surrounded by crackers and covered with cheddar cheese. It was all meat, no beans and about the best I’d ever had. I wanted Capriati/Calloway to leave, but not before I finished the chili. A minute later my waitress returned with another mug of beer.

“We owed you one from happy hour,” she said.

Ah, Florida.

My timing was almost perfect. I’d just finished the chili and was nursing my happy hour brew when Billy pecked the woman on the cheek and exchanged cards with her. She looked vaguely disappointed at not passing muster, at least for this night. He slapped some cash down on the bar and did a swirl with his finger to indicate that the next drinks for both women were on him. The he headed for the door. I went out right behind him.

Capriati’s car was a dark blue, two-seat, Chrysler Crossfire convertible that is probably a chick magnet – but unless you’re dating a 25-year-old yoga instructor impossible to have sex in. The thought of one of the ladies from the bar trying it conjured up visions of hospital traction. Despite its sexual disadvantages, however, Crossfires have more than 300 horses under their hoods. Billy would have no problem losing me if so inclined. He could probably lose the Space Shuttle. I was cautious, but needn’t have worried. He headed downtown at a reasonable pace and twenty minutes later pulled into a marina complex on the Gordon River. He parked just outside a restaurant called Kelly’s Fish House. A moment later I saw him being seated, alone, at a table overlooking the river. I went back to my car. He didn’t come out. I went back to the front window of the restaurant. He was having a salad. I sat in my car and waited, salivating, while he gorged himself on stone crabs, hush puppies, coleslaw and onion rings. Actually, I didn’t know what he ate after the salad, but I had glanced at the menu on the window and that’s what I would have ordered. An hour later he emerged, got in his car and headed back in the general direction from whence we came. He had driven 12 miles to eat at Kelly’s and I made a mental note to try it out if I had the chance.

Back in North Naples, Billy turned into a gated golf community called Pelican Cove. Every gated community in Florida is called Pelican something. I suppose it beats naming them after Florida’s other quotidian bird, the huge turkey vulture, which looks as gloomy and ugly as it sounds. While something like “Vulture Cove” might be more appropriate given the demographics of the retirement communities, the homes might be a hard sell.

The club entrance was divided in two, visitors on the left where they could be checked at the formidable-looking guardhouse, and residents on the right. Capriati went to the right, slowing just enough to allow the crossbar gate to rise. I assume he had some sort of electronic tag on his car. I thought about trying to bluff my way past the guard to follow him but decided to see how good the security actually was.

The level of vigilance in gated communities varies; the more upscale the homes, the tighter it is. In communities where the properties run into the millions, guards tend to be younger (usually moonlighting cops or military), visitors have to show a picture I.D. and be announced if they haven’t already been cleared. Some gates are equipped with cameras that record license plates.

I drove past and made a U-Turn, parking just down from the club within sight of the entrance. I wasn’t particularly worried about attracting attention. There was a small pickup truck parked near me and two guys were fishing in a canal. I walked over to them without losing sight of the guardhouse. I asked them how they were doing. One of them nodded at the back of the pickup where there was a large Igloo ice chest. I went over and opened it. It was full of fish. A few bass and some others I didn’t recognize. I asked him what they were.

“Tilapia. They’re so thick we snag ‘em with the bass lures. Good eatin’ though.”

I kept glancing at the club entrance.

“You’re not worried about pesticide runoff from the golf course?”

“Canals run down from Lake Okee and the Gulf,” he said. “Been eatin’ these fish for 30 years. Ain’t done me no harm.”

His toothless smile made me wonder. Just then a car pulled into the club and stopped at the gatehouse. A guard holding a clipboard stuck her head out and said something to the driver. I wished the fishermen good luck they obviously didn’t need and went back to my own car. I saw the driver hold out something that looked like a driver’s license. The guard glanced at it and reached into her little cubicle. The visitor’s gate went up and the guard smiled the car through. In a community like Capriati’s, apparently down the food chain a bit, a guard’s job apparently consisted mainly of keeping the underclass out, unless, of course, they are working on the lawns or cleaning the homes.

I was guessing Cap was in for the night. Happy Hour hunting was done and he’d eaten dinner. He had built himself a life in Naples. I knew where he lived. I pulled out my phone and checked for an actual address, under Capriati and Calloway, and was not surprised to draw a blank. It didn’t matter. I’d be able to get in to his community the next day with Ellen. He might be golfing, or hunting alligators, but he’d be back. Of course, he could also hop a plane for Barbados, but she said not to approach him, so there wasn’t much use in worrying about it. On the drive back to my hotel I called her.

“I found him. He goes by the name William Calloway now, but it’s him.”

There was what I assumed was an appropriate stunned silence.

“Thank God,” she finally breathed. “Where?”

“A place called Pelican Cove in Naples. It’s a gated golf community. I don’t have his exact address yet. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

“You didn’t approach him, did you?”

“No.”

“Wonderful. We will fly down first thing tomorrow.”

“We?”

“I’m bringing Savannah.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Ellen.”

“She’s well enough to travel. If he sees her I just know he will want to help. Can you pick us up?”

“Of course.”

She said she’d call me back with their flight information.

“You did the impossible, Alton. I’ll never forget it.”

Aw shucks. It was nothing. I didn’t say that. It would have ruined the moment, which I spent thinking about how she would show her gratitude. I wouldn’t have been human if I hadn’t. After we hung up I started thinking about what I think about when not thinking about sex. Sam’s chili was but a wonderful memory. I was hungry enough to eat a boiled armadillo. I made it back to McCabe’s at my hotel by 10 PM and settled for a brisket sandwich and a pint of Irish ale. I was almost finished when Ellen called to tell me they’d be on an 8 AM JetBlue flight out of  JFK, arriving at 10:52.

“We’ll just have carry-ons. I’ll call when we land and you can pick us up at the curb.”

I told her I’d meet her at the gate.

“You’re sweet,” she said.

I had a celebratory Irish whiskey for dessert and went to bed exhausted but elated.

CHAPTER 26 – ENDANGERED SPECIES

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

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

I unchuckled.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah. Are you sure?”

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

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

“Uh, there’s a bit of a problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I found him.”

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

I quickly explained what I’d been up to.

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

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

“Carlucci?”

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you have a confirmation number?”

“No, but I can give you their names.”

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

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

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

“She didn’t call?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 27 – BILLY, I HARDLY KNEW YOU

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s yours, Mr. Bandinage?”

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

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

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

He’d definitely leave my name at the gate.

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

“I’m meeting Mr. Bandinage,” I said.

He looked at a clipboard and nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve got some bad news.”

“They’re dead,” I said dully.

“No, it’s much worse than that.”

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

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

I felt the first twinge in my gut.

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

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

The twinge was now a hollow feeling.

“No.”

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

“Won’t do any good.”

“Why not.”

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

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

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

“What are you going to do?”

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

“Any suggestions?”

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

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

“Get the fuck out. Now.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Death in the family,” I said.

I took the first plane out of Dodge.

CHAPTER 28 – SAVANNAH ON MY MIND

Back on Staten Island I tried to maintain a normal routine, not easy to do when you expect a SWAT team from the U.S. Marshalls Service and/or another hit team from Nando Carlucci to drop by. If they arrived simultaneously, I wondered if one group would hold the door for the other.

Cormac was watching the wires, or whatever cops do now, for any sign of interest in me. For my part, I was monitoring the website of the Naples Sun Times. I’d picked up the paper in the Fort Myers airport while nervously waiting for my plane to Cleveland to take off. I hadn’t planned to go to Cleveland; it was the first flight out. The paper had been chock full of real estate ads, some of which had a whiff of desperation. But there was a decent news hole and buried deep on an inside page, as is the case with most papers catering to a resort area dependent on tourists and vacation home owners, was a small section devoted to local crime: mostly burglaries, bar fights, DUI’s and domestic squabbles. But there was also a sprinkling of felonious assaults, rapes and murders that, from the names involved, appeared to occur mainly in Immokalee, where there was a Seminole casino and an impoverished community of immigrant workers.

Finally, on Wednesday, I had spotted a small item online:

PELICAN COVE MAN FOUND DEAD

A spokesperson for the Collier County Sheriff’s Department said that a man was found dead yesterday afternoon in his Pelican Cove villa. The man, identified as William Calloway, 43, may have been the victim of foul play.

I wondered what had given that away, the smashed door or the broken neck.

Calloway’s body was discovered by two women who work for Reliable Cleaning Service in Bonita Springs.

“The air-conditioning was set very low,” the spokesperson said. “That apparently slowed the rate of decomposition. It may be some time before the county coroner can establish an approximate time of death, or cause.”

If Billy hadn’t been so damn lazy and done his own cleaning, it might have been weeks before his body was discovered. The rest was boilerplate crime reporting gibberish, short on details.

The next day, there was a follow-up story:

MURDERED MAN HAD GAMBLING PROBLEMS

William Calloway, whose body was discovered Tuesday in his Pelican Cove home, and whose death was initially considered suspicious, apparently was the victim of a freak accident, police said. According to a spokesperson from the Collier County Sheriff’s Department, Calloway was changing the battery in a ceiling smoke detector when he slipped off his ladder and hit his head on a table, breaking his neck.

The Feds were covering up. It got better.

Calloway is survived by his brother, Edgar, of Washington, D.C. A private funeral service will be held there Saturday, with cremation to follow.

A brother “Edgar.” Someone in the F.B.I. had a sense of humor. I wondered what they would really do with the body. Was Billy destined to sleep with Bin Laden?

The kicker:

In lieu of flowers, friends are asked to send donations to the Collier County Police Benevolent Association.

So that’s how it was done. Neat. I thought about Mrs. Capriati. She would never know her son was dead.

The next morning I met Cormac at the Kings Arms. I ordered coffee.

“You really fucked up,” Mac said pleasantly as he dug into a platter of French toast. He was one of those people who cut up the toast into little squares, then spear the pieces. I didn’t approve of that method, but this wasn’t the time to be censorious about his table manners. “In fact, I may nominate you for the Fuck Up Hall of Fame.”

“Some people might argue it was brilliant detective work,” I said.

He pointed a forkful of toast at me.

“They’d be fucking idiots.”

Before the fork reached his mouth a drop of syrup landed on his shirt.

“Shit,” he said, dabbing the spot and spreading the stain. “Shit.”

I handed him a printout of the Naples newspaper stories. After he read the now syrup-stained printout, he said, “I figured as much. Nothing has popped officially. Didn’t want to call down there. Never thought to check the paper. Who reads papers anymore?”

“You think I’m in the clear?”

“Probably. The Feebies want this as dead and buried as Capriati. They won’t want it blasted around that they lost someone. They’ll think there was a leak inside, or he got careless. They may check his phone records, but that’s about it. They’re not going to waste time looking for a professional hit man, which they will assume was the case. Even if someone describes you, they won’t care. And the Chinese Wall works both ways. I doubt if my friend on the Task Force will ever find out that Capriati or Calloway, whatever the fuck he called himself, is dead. If he does, I’ll say one of my snitches told me the Carluccis were asking about him. They’ll get the credit for the kill.”

“So, there would be no problem if I advertised that I found someone in witness protection?”

“You might want to leave the part out about getting him killed. Marshalls Service and the F.B.I. might also take a dim view of a marketing campaign.”

Cormac had finished his breakfast. His shirt looked like a crime scene. He waved over our waitress.

“Agnes, honey, bring us more coffee and a glass of club soda, please.”

After she left he looked at me.

“The most dangerous thing in the world is a beautiful woman.”

“Agnes?”

She was pushing 80.

“No, you meshuga. The James woman.”

“You stole the line from Richard Condon,” I said. “Prizzi’s Honor. I read the book.”

“I only saw the movie. But truer words were never spoken.”

“I don’t know. I want to find her, but I wouldn’t know where to start. Compared to her, Capriati was easy. At least he existed.”

“Prints?”

“My office has been painted and I even polished the furniture. Besides, I don’t recall them even touching anything.”

Our coffee and the club soda came. Cormac started dabbing the spots on his shirt.

“I’ll bring the bottle,” Agnes said.

“So, Alt, what’s next? Judge Crater. Amelia Earhart. The Abominable Snowman? The second shooter on the grassy knoll?”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d help me out on something tougher. I’m stumped.”

I reached into my pocket and brought out the poison pen letters that were bedeviling my neighbors.

***

Despite what I told Cormac, when I got to my office I turned on my laptop and opened a Word document. I started making a list, each line denoted by a bullet point. All salient, embarrassing admissions of incompetence. Every sentence I typed was accompanied by a loud self-remonstration. Finally, when I looked at them in total, I said, “You fucking idiot.”

I was startled by a knock on my door. It wasn’t a SWAT team, just the cleaning lady I’d just hired. I made a mental apology to Capriati about his laziness. From the look on her face I could tell she’d heard me. She probably thought I had Tourette’s.

“Sorry, I was talking to myself.”

“That’s no good, you know.”

I told her to start in my reception area. A moment later I heard her vacuuming and I went back to the list: Atlanta embezzlement, sick child, worried mother, bone marrow transplant; I’d bought the whole shebang. I assumed none of it was true. Whoever put it together wouldn’t have left any strings in the story to follow. They wanted Capriati found and needed the kind of tall tale that would motivate me. But why me?

“I got to do this room, mister.”

The cleaning lady, vacuum and duster in hand. I opened a desk drawer and pulled out a rocks glass I’d recently brought from home. Then I went over to my small refrigerator and took out a bottle of bourbon. I poured three fingers in the glass. I could sense the cleaning lady’s disapproval. I don’t take disapproval well, so I took the bottle with me out into my reception area and stood by a window. I was going to have to get some chairs. I’d do that soon as I was sure I wasn’t going to be arrested or shot by the Carluccis. I sipped the bourbon, cold but warming.

The Carluccis. They had tried to kill me, presumably because I was looking for Capriati, Nando’s old wrestling buddy. They obviously suspected he could be found. Had he contacted them? But who had killed their hit men? Someone who wanted me to find Billy? None of it made any sense. I sipped more bourbon, which made sense.

The vacuuming in my office stopped. I went back and sat at my desk as the cleaning lady started wiping and dusting everything in sight. Her movements were robotic and precise. A hard-working Hispanic woman who was probably supporting a family of eight, she could clean a room in her sleep. I sat back to think. Chances were I was no longer a threat to anyone and was in the clear. I had been used. But, so what? I was still breathing, and had made a couple of grand. Maybe Cormac was right. I should hook up with a big national security firm and hang around hotel lobbies. I poured a few more fingers. Are people with thick fingers more prone to alcoholism?

I didn’t like being a Judas Goat. Billy Capriati was nothing to me, but that didn’t mean I was happy somebody snapped his neck and cut off his finger. Whatever he was, he sent money and oranges to his mother. I thought about her. I had used her to get her son killed.

“Goddamn it!”

The cleaning lady looked at me. It wasn’t much of a curse, but I said, “Sorry.”

I calmed down. And my confidence waned. How the hell would I find out what was going on? Call Nando Carlucci and ask for an explanation? If I was lucky – and he was in a good mood – he might tell me just before he dropped me in the harbor. I had to find “Ellen James.”

She had paid me in cash. Her cell phone had turned out to be a throw away. Mac said the hotel was a dead end. There were no fingerprints.

The cleaning lady came around my desk and picked up my trash receptacle, which was overflowing. She tapped a finger on the top of my bourbon bottle.

“No good. Too early!”

She walked away. I heard the outside door open.

“She’s right,” I said, and put the cap back on the bottle and opened the fridge. Maybe if I stuck it behind the Coke cans I wouldn’t be so easily tempted. Only there were no Coke cans. I remembered I’d given the last one to Savannah.

I bolted for the hallway. The cleaning lady was just emptying the contents of my waste basket down a trash chute.

“Stop!”

She was startled. Terrified is more like it. The madman who had been cursing and talking to himself was now bearing down on her with a bottle of bourbon in his hands.

“Madre de Dios!”

She picked up her broom and prepared to defend herself. I slowed and held up my free hand.

“Take it easy,” I said. “I need that basket back.”

I took it from her gingerly and went back to my office. I could hear her mumbling. My Spanish is rusty, but I think she said “fucking idiot.”

Back at my desk I carefully went through the basket. Near the bottom was a Coke can. I took out a pen and lifted it out. Then I called Cormac Levine.

CHAPTER 29 – LAURENE

It had been the longest of shots, but there were two sets of identifiable prints on the Coke can. Mine, and those of a 19-year-old Louisiana-born prostitute by the name of Laurene Robillard.

“You fell for it hooker, line and sinker,” Mac happily told me when he got the prints back on Monday. He thought the line funnier than I did. “She’s been a whore since she was 15. Multiple arrests, mostly for solicitation, starting in New Orleans. A couple of minor drug busts. Spoke to a vice cop I know in Manhattan. She ditched her pimp and went to an upscale escort service. She’s a real chameleon, pushing 20 but can pass for pre-pubescent. You should see her mug shot. Doesn’t look like she could have fuzz on her pubes. Course, she probably doesn’t. Most of the pros shave now. A pedophile’s wet dream, but the bulk of her clients are middle-age guys from the suburbs living out their computer fantasies. She’s in great demand. Gets top dollar. Never been inside for long. Can afford good lawyers and Vice has better things to do, sad to say.”

“Got a current address?”

“Yeah. And it’s a better one than you or me can afford.”

I wrote it down.

“Thanks, Mac. I owe you.”

“You sure you want to go down this road? If you drop it now, nothing will probably happen. But all bets are off if you start stirring up the mud.”

“They used me to kill somebody.”

“You were in the service. Must be old hat by now.”

***

Laurene Robillard, a.k.a. Savannah James, had an apartment in a one of a row of townhouses just off Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village. Anyone who ever watched Law and Order would recognize the block. Someone was always being killed or arrested on it. The show’s detectives and district attorneys came and went, but that block stayed the same. I rang the buzzer by her name in the small foyer. It was 11 AM. Hookers tend to sleep in, so I leaned on the buzzer. Still no answer. I hit some other buzzers.

“Yes, who is it?”

Sounded like an elderly lady. Probably the only one in the townhouse not working.

“This is the fire marshal. Your front door is malfunctioning. It keeps jamming from the inside. We may have to ask you to leave the building until it’s repaired.”

“It was working fine a little while ago.”

“Somebody must have slammed it, bent the frazzle toggle. Unless we can get it to work properly we have to evacuate. The place is a fire trap now.”

“Oh, for Christ sake!”

“Listen, let’s try something. Keep pushing the buzzer hard until I tell you to stop. I’ll tell your neighbors to do it, too. Sometimes simultaneous buzzing fixes the problem.”

You’d be surprised how often that works. I wondered if she was still pushing the button by the time I had broken into Laurene’s second-floor apartment.

It was a spacious and tastefully-decorated one-bedroom with a park view. It was also very neat. I would be out of luck if she was working a gig in Vegas. I opened the dishwasher. Dirty dishes but no bad smells. Garbage pail under the sink had fresh coffee grounds. I figured she’d have run the dishwasher and dumped the garbage if she had gone away. She’d be back. I killed time by searching the apartment. The living area consisted of a couch and love seat arrangement facing a large flat screen TV on an opposite wall. I walked over to a small bookcase, which contained a mix of books and DVD’s, heavily weighted toward biographies and documentaries. Whores aren’t very romantic.

But grouped together in one corner were the book and movie versions of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Sabrina, Gone With the Wind, The Great Gatsby, Rosemary’s Baby and The Prince of Tides. That had nothing to do with romance. Laurene had apparently done some homework to play her role. I wondered if she came up with the research or it had been assigned by her “mother.” She had obviously opted for the young Mia Farrow look over Audrey Hepburn, and I’d bet my blackjack she took the name Savannah from Nick Nolte’s sister in Tides. Gone With the Wind was probably for general verisimilitude.

As expected, I found a lot of interesting things in the bedroom, many of which increased my already extensive sexual knowledge. Her clothes were mostly hooker chic, but she had kept the pinafore. Nothing else linked Laurene to Ellen James or William Capriati. Except for some movies and DVD’s, the apartment, like me, was basically clueless. I was hungry. The least she could do was feed me while I waited. Her fridge was surprisingly well stocked, from Balducci’s no less, and I made myself a couple of delicious ham and gruyere sandwiches on wheatberry bread. Out of spite I opened a bottle of Crystal.

I sat at the kitchen table and spotted her laptop on a sideboard. I brought it over and started eating while it booted. I went through her WORD documents, which consisted of letters to family, mostly to a brother, Andre, who was in the Army in Iraq; inquiries about admission to various local colleges, and some very bad attempts at poetry. I opened up Excel and found a few spreadsheets devoted to her business. There were scores of entries (Montclair, Greenwich, Albany, San Francisco, Austin, London, Scarsdale, Cleveland, Boston, Miami, Moscow, etc.). Each had a date, time, a first name and a dollar amount. I didn’t think Laurene could be that well-traveled so I assumed it was a list of clients. All the first names but one were identifiably male. The exception was Veronica from Kansas City. I thought about that for a moment. Well, why not? Laurene Robillard was very popular, and doing very well financially, since none of the dollar amounts was for less than $500. Was that per hour? No wonder she’d gone out on her own.

That gave me a thought. She probably kept an electronic datebook to keep track of everything, including phone numbers and addresses. They could prove valuable for any number of reasons. I opened Microsoft Outlook, but she didn’t use its calendar. I was on the verge of being discouraged. I took a sip of champagne and noticed the desktop icon for Lotus Organizer. I happen to prefer it to Outlook myself. I opened it and the current monthly calendar came up. I was about to switch over to the “Contacts”  section when I noticed today’s date. There was a notation: Park Lane, 1 PM, Scarsdale (Room 4152). I went back to the spreadsheets. Scarsdale was a bimonthly client named Fred, who had his ashes hauled for $650. A strange figure. Maybe a discount. Why not $649. The use of “9” in a price point is supposed to generate more sales. It works for flat screen TV’s. Perhaps I’d tell Laurene about that. We were, after all, pals. She could undercut all the other hookers. Start a pussy price war.

CHAPTER 30 – BISMARCK

The Park Lane Hotel is on Central Park South and offers some of the best views of the park in the city. Not that I thought “Scarsdale” was there for the view. At least that view. As I headed to the elevators I passed a ballroom that was obviously set up for a conference. There was no one in the room but many of the chairs had folders on them. A table outside still had promotional material and various giveaways from the conference sponsors, which appeared to be brokerage firms. Also on the table were brass name tags, apparently no-shows. The sign on a easel next to the double door said: Managing Risk in the Middle East. Good luck with that. The no-shows had the right idea. From the dining sounds coming from an adjacent hall I assumed everyone was at lunch. I pinned one of the unused name tags on my jacket. Nearby was a buffet table on which sat a coffee service, bottled water, various juices and sodas, and platters of fruit and cookies. I took a chocolate chip and went to the elevator banks.

When I got to Room 4152, I put my ear to the door. I heard giggling and a man’s voice. I knocked. Loudly.

“Who is it?”

The man’s voice, now slightly tentative. I stepped back so he could look through the peephole if he wanted. I was wearing a blazer and wearing a nameplate, which he couldn’t possibly read, so I said, “house detective.” I thought I heard him say “shit.” I gave him a little time to pee in his pants and then rapped more insistently. The door opened, with the security slide still on.

“What’s this all about?”

Fred from Scarsdale was trying to sound authoritative and annoyed, and failing.

“I think you know, sir. Please let me in and I’ll see if I can save us all some embarrassment.”

It worked. A drowning man (especially one who probably has a wife and kids in the suburbs) will grasp at any life preserver. He opened the door and I bulled my way in. He had on suit pants with red suspenders but no jacket or shirt. The suspenders probably came in handy because he had a pot belly. His undershirt was on inside out and he was barefoot. I had apparently arrived at an inopportune moment. There was an open bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on a table in the suite behind him. He instinctively looked at the badge I was wearing. His mouth dropped open. I looked at the name tag: Doris Millbank (Certified Financial Planner). Before he could recover and try something stupid I opened my jacket to show him my gun.

“Grab your duds and beat it.”

The bedroom door opened. She was wearing a fluffy white bathrobe. It was apparently the uniform of the day for the “James” women.

“Oh, Jesus God!”

“Hello, Savannah.”

The john saw a ray of hope. He didn’t know who I was, but showed a little spunk.

“Her name isn’t Savannah. You have the wrong room. Now get the hell out before I call the cops.”

“Go ahead, Fred,” I said.

The name did it. He rethought spunk and started gathering his clothes. There is no dignified way to do that, so he opted for speed. After he left, I turned to Laurene.

“Sit down.”

She walked over to a couch and sat, crossing her legs. The robe draped open. She looked more her age but was still a knockout. She bobbed a bare foot at me. Her toenails were painted red. She smiled.

“How did you find me? Never mind. Miss James said you were good.”

She saw the look on my face.

“I’m not afraid of you. That jerk can’t afford to call the cops. His cow of a wife thinks he’s at some conference. But I might. Some of my best friends are cops.” Her hand went to the robe’s belt. “But it doesn’t have to be that way. I liked you and I do feel bad about what happened. I guess I owe you something.” She undid the robe entirely and held it open, then shrugged out of it.

It took me a moment to realize that I was looking at a woman and not a 14-year-old girl. Her breasts were small but firm, with prominent pink nipples, still apparently aroused from whatever was going on when I arrived. She was thin, of course, but well-proportioned. There was a small tattoo just above her shaved pubic region. I couldn’t read what it said. I walked over to her and she gave me a look that undoubtedly launched a thousand erections. I slapped her.

“I’m not here to fuck. Or to fuck around with you. Do you understand that, Laurene?” I picked up the robe and threw it in her face. “Put it on.”

Now she was afraid of me. When she got over the shock, she put on the robe.

“Can I have a drink?”

It was the little girl voice. But I don’t think she was faking it now. She’d just realized things had gotten out of hand.

“No. And no cigarette. And no phone call. And no priest. No anything.”

I pulled up a chair and sat in front of her. She shrank from me.

“Jesus, Mr. Rhode, what the hell is the matter with you? You were scammed. So what? I don’t know what the deal was but she paid you, a lot. Who got hurt?”

“You’re quite the little actress.”

“You bet your ass. Miss James said I have real talent. And she really is an actress. Been in films and everything. She really knew her stuff. Coached me a lot. We rehearsed everything before going to meet you.”

“That day I met you for lunch in the city was also a setup.”

“Yeah. But what a rush job! I don’t know why she did that. Screwed me up. I was supposed to meet a client for the whole day. He was gonna take me to the museums, out to dinner, then a show. Spend the whole weekend, like in Pretty Woman, you know. Nice guy from Atlanta. I’d done him before. Not kinky, just wanted a real fantasy affair, you know. Widower. Would have been five grand! Course, Ellen gave me ten, so I told the poor schmuck I had the flu. I think the service fixed him up with someone else. Hope he doesn’t like her more. He’s one of my regulars.”

“Life’s a bitch.”

“I’ll say. I had to get into my kiddie togs and run out to meet you. No time to take the drug crap she used the first time to make me look sick. Bismarck or something.”

“Bismuth.”

“What?”

“Bismuth subgallate. It causes symtoms that temporarily mimic severe illness.”

I knew it well. Army medics and Navy Corpsmen always kept a little on hand for soldiers or marines near the breaking point after three or four deployments to Iraq or Afghanistan. Sometimes it was done with the knowledge of the men but just as often without. The resulting symptoms appeared serious enough to warrant a respite from combat and there was no stigma attached. Good officers suspected but, deferring to the wisdom of ‘Doc,” looked the other way.

“All I know is it tasted like crap. I thought we were done for when you said I looked so healthy. That’s why Miss James came up with that transfusion bit. She’s quick.”

“What’s her real name?”

“I don’t know.”

I reached across and grabbed her by her pretty neck.

“Her real name!”

“I tell you, I don’t know. Get your fucking hands off me.” I liked her for that. I let her go. She rubbed her throat, mostly for effect. I hadn’t hurt her. “Couldn’t you find the guy? Is that why you’re pissed?” She wasn’t that good an actress. She didn’t know.

“I found him. And so did the people who hired you. Somebody broke his neck. In fact, ever since you walked in my office people have been turning up dead. And I’m probably next in line. Unless, of course, I let it out that I found you. Then you might move ahead of me.”

That got her attention. Her hand went to her throat again.

“He’s dead?”

She folded in on herself. Now she did looked like a frightened child. I got up and walked over to the champagne bucket. I poured her a glass and gave it to her. She drank it down in one gulp.

“She always was Ellen James to me. I swear to God. I know you’re pissed. Can’t say I blame you now. But the way she waved bills around I didn’t care if she was Lady Fucking Gaga.”

She was telling the truth.

“How were you hired?”

“Miss James called me. Said she got my name from one of my clients.”

“Which one?”

“Wouldn’t say. Said it was better that way. She needed me to play a role, but no sex, so what did I care. Nothing illegal. Took me to lunch at the Plaza and told me about it.”

“And you weren’t suspicious?”

“She gave me $10,000 up front, and promised me another ten if I could pull it off. I make my living putting my legs up in the air for hairy guys from the sticks. I’m gonna turn down twenty grand to act like I got leukemia? Give me a fucking break. Sure, maybe she’s a kook. But I liked her.” Laurene looked at me. “So did you. I know you balled her the night before we had lunch in the city. She didn’t say, but I could tell. I’m in the business, you know. So don’t get all high and mighty on me.”

She held out her glass. I got up and filled it.

“What else can you tell me about her?”

“Nothing. I swear on my mother. Only saw her when we rehearsed. And that time we winged it at lunch.” She was proud of that performance. “Miss James said I had a knack for improvisation. So do my teachers at Stella Adler. I’m taking a part-time workshop.”

“Where did you rehearse?”

“My apartment, mostly. We watched videos. It was fun.”

There wasn’t much more. Ellen James, or whatever her name was, always called Laurene directly and paid her in cash. No one else was involved. I got up to leave.

“Wait,” she said. “Who killed him? And do you really think they’ll come after me.”

I hesitated. An hour earlier I felt like wringing Laurene’s pretty little neck. Were the people who hired her, who presumably murdered Capriati, likely to silence her? I didn’t think so. Even if she knew of his death, which they wouldn’t think possible, there was no way she would go to the police. And she had no way to track down her “mother.” But there was no way to be absolutely sure. The whole case was irrational. I didn’t know enough to be giving any advice.

“These are dangerous people, Savannah.” She laughed nervously at my mistake. I had to smile. “But they got what they wanted and worked hard to keep you out of the loop. I don’t think you’re a threat to them. But keep your mouth shut and stick to your regular clients for a while. Or, better yet, take a vacation. And put an alarm system in your apartment. Security in that building is a joke. The dirty dishes in your sink are mine.”

Laurene opened her mouth to say something but thought better of it. I took a card out of my wallet.

“Don’t be afraid to call the cops if you notice anything suspicious. You don’t have to tell them about Capriati. In fact, I’d advise against it. And don’t hesitate to call me if you have to.”

She took the card and smiled.

“I already have one of your cards, remember? Did you ever get your name spelled right on the door?”

I couldn’t help it. I smiled back. I went to the door.

“Mr. Rhode?”

I turned back.

“You’re not going to the cops either, are you?”

I shook my head.

“Sorry I roughed you up, kid.”

“Don’t be. I deserved it.” She flashed her robe open and closed. “And the offer still stands.”

I took in a deep breath and went down to the lobby. I made do with another cookie.

CHAPTER 31 – AN HOUR TO KILL

I had thought that by finding Laurene I might get to “Ellen James” and whoever was behind her. Instead I quickly found out that the trail began and ended with Laurene. I was beginning to hope that someone would make a run at me. As the days passed, and no one did, I became resigned to the fact that I might never get to the truth.

The Carlucci family hadn’t wanted me to find Capriati. That meant they suspected he could be found, which also meant that they knew where he was. Mobsters knowing where someone in witness protection is doesn’t compute. Unless he contacted them. Nando and Billy had been wrestling buddies. Old pals keeping in contact? Maybe there was a college reunion coming up. I could see Capriati at a homecoming football game at Wagner, quashing beers with former classmates.

Hey, Bill. What have you been up to?

Not much, Harry. I’m in witness protection. Just came up for the reunion, hoping not to be garroted. What about you?

Witness protection! That’s a good one! I’m in insurance. You need any. I think we have a witness protection policy. Har, har. So, what have you really been doing?

No, if Nando and Billy were in touch it was something criminal. I decided to pay Nando Carlucci a visit the next day. That promised to be a stressful meeting. I can’t say I was looking forward to it. I called Alice Watts.

“It’s been a couple of weeks,” I said. “Are you free for dinner.”

“I’m not on Staten Island. I’m at my apartment in Manhattan.”

“I would travel to the ends of the earth to have dinner with you. Maybe even to the Bronx.”

There was a long pause.

“I have some papers to grade. But if you don’t mind eating a little later, there is a nice little French bistro in the Village I’ve been wanting to try. I can meet you there around 8. Is that all right?”

I said it was and she told me where the restaurant was. I had become less cautious with each passing day but still checked the parking lot before walking to my car. There were no ambushers lying in wait, and no one tailed me when I left. Even factoring the vagaries of traffic, I had at least an hour to kill before heading into the city. Enough time to go home, shower and change clothes.

When I got home I noticed a white “Richmond Security” van parked in front of the house next door. I recognized the corporate logo – a sturdy, stern-looking man in green uniform standing guard on the lawn in front of a house – from the company’s recent cable advertising blitz. I made a mental note to ask my neighbor what an alarm system cost. I walked into my house and turned the light on in my living room. I couldn’t see my grandmother’s Bennington Pine rocker that sat in front of the fireplace. That was because Nando Carlucci, all 350 pounds of him, was sprawled in it. Before I could react I felt a gun pressed in my back and a hand came around my waist and expertly removed my automatic. Then a hand shoved me forward.

“Sit,” Nando said.

I sat in a wing chair facing him.

“You know who I am?”

“Shamu?”

Carlucci sighed and leaned forward. The venerable rocker creaked.

“Go easy,” I said. “That a family heirloom you’re about to turn into kindling.”

“You’re about to be a fucking heirloom, you don’t stop wisin’ off.”

“You know,” I said. “I was just thinking about installing an alarm system.”

“What company?”

“Richmond Security.”

“Wouldn’t have done you any good. I own it.”

“ That’s one of your vans out front.”

“Yeah.”

“And by the time the cops respond to one of your alarms the burglars are long gone.”

Carlucci smiled.

“It’s all a matter of timing.”

“Nice business.”

“You bet. But enough chit chat. How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Don’t act dumb. I know you’re not. How did you find Capriati.”

“What difference does it make now. He’s dead.”

“Yeah. And you killed him. I’m kind of disappointed. I heard you were a stand-up guy. I never figured you’d do contract work for the Rahms.”

“The Rahms?”

I was trying to process that information when he shook his massive head and said, “Jesus, do we have to do this the hard way?” Then he began struggling out of the rocker.

“You ought to go easy on the Ben & Jerry, fatso. Speaking of which, I’m sorry about your boys. I bet they got teased a lot about their names.”

Nando hit me in the mouth. It was a good shot and I almost came off the seat. I could feel blood trickling warmly down my chin. A fat lip was assured.

“Show some goddamn respect. I know you’re a fucking war hero, and I also know you didn’t kill them. If I’d known the Rahms had your back I wouldn’t have sent them out to be slaughtered like that.” He nodded at the man behind me. “Bruce. Basement.”

Bruce hit me on the head.

***

“Bruce, I need more ice,” Nando said.

“The cooler’s full boss. It’s overflowing.”

“Not for the fucking cooler, asshole. I want another drink. You want me to use the ice in the cooler, where his feet are? Whatsa matter with you?”

Bruce took the small ice bucket and headed up the stairs. I started to laugh. It was just short of a hysterical laugh, but I couldn’t help it. I had recently regained consciousness and was strapped to a chair in my basement. I was stripped to my waist and my legs were tied to the chair in such a way I couldn’t lift my feet from the cooler. They were freezing. My ankles ached. Things didn’t look promising.

“What’s so fucking funny?”

“I’m going to be tortured by a guy named Bruce? Your organization is really going to the dogs, Nando. First Ben and Jerry, and now Bruce? Let me go now and I won’t tell anyone.”

I was slurring my words. My bottom lip had swollen from Nando’s punch.

“You ain’t gonna tell anyone shit. Except me, and I’m gonna do the torturing. Bruce ain’t got the cojones for it. I got plenty of ice and plenty of cigarettes, wise ass.”

“Cigs are bad for your health.”

He smiled.

“Not as bad as they are for yours.”

He lit a cigarette, took a drag and leaned forward. He pressed it into my chest, briefly. It didn’t hurt that much, and I merely said, “Ouch.” Then he pushed an ice cube into the burn. That hurt a bit more, but I didn’t say anything. I wanted to husband my strength. I knew we’d soon be way past the “ouch” stage.

Nando took a sip out of a glass next to his chair. There was a bottle of my Maker’s Mark bourbon on the floor. At the top of the stairs I heard Bruce working the ice machine on my refrigerator. There is something profoundly humiliating about being tortured with your own ice in your own basement by someone drinking your own bourbon. The Igloo cooler looked familiar, too.

“I didn’t kill Capriati. I found him dead. You didn’t do a great job of protecting him. If you had, you’d know I’m telling the truth.”

“We weren’t protecting him. He wouldn’t tell me where he was. I didn’t even know he was dead until I got his fucking finger UPS.”

That explained the mutilation I’d seen.

“I’m curious. How did you know it was his finger?”

“His Wagner College ring was on it. The Russians are fucking animals.”

This from a man who was sticking cigarettes in my chest while my feet were encased in ice cubes. I let it pass.

“I don’t do fingers,” I said. “I was hired to find him, period.”

“Don’t matter, much. You led them right to him.”

Bruce returned with more cubes and Nando made another drink.

“This is good bourbon,” he said.

“You’re making a big mistake, Nando. I don’t know what your play was with Capriati, but cut your losses. You don’t gain anything by working me over. I was set up.”

“Yeah, by who?”

It wasn’t the right time to correct his grammar. I decided to tell him everything, except about Mrs. Capriati. I was trying to buy time. Maybe Publishers Clearing House or the Jehovah’s Witnesses would stop by. Maybe he’d let me take my feet out of the ice. By the time I finished, my shins were numb. He just stared at me.

“Arman must have had you pegged pretty good, to use a broad and a sick kid. He couldn’t be sure you’d succeed, but what did he have to lose? He didn’t have the manpower to look for Cap on his own. I was always worried about Arman. He’s a lot brighter than his brother ever was. Ivy League prick.”

“Did you whack Stefan?”

“Yeah. But he had a lot of enemies. Arman and his old man couldn’t be sure who did it. I was afraid if I killed both of them it would lead back to us and Marat would sic that crazy Kalugin on me. Couldn’t get to Marat. He’s holed up in that castle of his on Todt Hill. Besides, we had Capriati. He was our ace in the hole against Marat until you came along. Who was the woman?”

“Believe me, if I knew, I wouldn’t be sitting here watching you drink my good bourbon. Whoever she is, she deserves an Oscar.”

Nando lit another cigarette. He blew a couple of smoke rings into my face.

“I believe you. The Rahms would hire the best.”

“What did Capriati have that you needed?”

“He saw Marat kill someone. Back when he did his own enforcing.”

“Who?”

“A jerk-off real estate lawyer who cheated him and my father.”

“Your father?”

“Yeah. Marat and my old man. Turned out that the Rahms thought they owned the same buildings we did. Fucking lawyer sold them twice. Must have had a death wish. It was Billy who figured the scam out. He had a way with numbers. Came to work for us after we graduated from Wagner.” I had begun shivering but I didn’t want Nando to wrap it up. Since then I’d probably be wrapped up. But Nando apparently liked reminiscing. “Marat lost more money in the deals so he insisted on killing the lawyer. But my father wanted me to be there, kind of an initiation. I brought Billy. Marat garroted the fucker.”

“I never knew you and the Rahms were allies once.” My teeth were chattering. “What happened?”

“The real estate thing was just business. After that, they started moving into our territory. They took advantage when Capriati sold me out and I got three years on a tax evasion rap.”

“That’s why he was in witness protection.”

“Yeah, we had a sweet thing going at Wagner, selling some dope to students and teachers. Mostly uppers, downers, that kind of shit. A little smack. My old man didn’t know about it and I didn’t report the income. But then Billy got greedy and tried to make a big score with heroin. Got nabbed with 20 pounds in his car trunk. He was facing 15 years but saw a way out. They couldn’t get me for the dope, but I couldn’t explain the income. But Billy knew where it was. I swore I’d kill him if I found him.”

“Instead, he found you.”

Nando made another drink and then poured the remaining ice from the bucket into the cooler. I couldn’t even feel my feet and the numbness had spread above my knees.

“He called me out of the blue. Said he read about Stefan Rahm and figured we were behind it. Said he had a deal I couldn’t refuse. Actually said that, can you imagine? Turned out it was.”

“He offered to testify against Marat Rahm in the lawyer killing,” I said. “Your word alone wouldn’t do. You needed a corroborating witness.”

“Yeah. No statute of limitations for murder. The D.A. was hot for the deal.”

“And you’d let bygones be bygones.”

“Yeah. Billy was tired of banging grandmothers in Naples. He said he might have preferred prison.”

“When Ben and Jerry braced me the first time, did you know what the Rahms were planning?”

“Nah. You were just a new face. It was a stupid move on their part. Put you on your guard. Made it harder to tail you when I finally found out you were looking for Billy.”

“Who told you?”

Nando laughed.

“You’re gonna love it. One of the professors me and Billy used to supply is still on my string. Fruitcake named Lancaster. Back when Billy disappeared I went to him hoping he might have some info I could use to find him. When you started asking around he came to me. He hates your fuckin’ guts, by the way. What did you do to him?”

“Told him he was a phony gasbag.”

“Ain’t they all.”

Lancaster. I suddenly remembered I was standing up Alice Watts for dinner. Pierce would probably use that against me. Nando was saying something.

“I said, I promised the D.A. old man Rahm’s head on a silver platter in return for immunity. Opened up a can of worms. Now I got the cops and Rahm to worry about.” He got up and leaned into my face. The bourbon was good but not good enough to mask his bad breath, or the odor of sweat. “I’m gonna kill you, but it’s gonna take some time you miserable bastard.”

I had assumed that since he’d spoken so freely, my chances of surviving the evening weren’t good.

“Something happens to me will only make your problems worse, Nando. There are people who know what I’ve been doing. They’ll come after you.”

“Yeah, that fat Jew cop you hang around can be a real pain in the ass. But I don’t give a rat’s ass. You are gonna disappear. What’s left of you is going on one of those barges that ships our garbage out of state now. You’re gonna rot in a landfill in Pennsylvania. What do say to that, wiseass?”

“I’m still glad the city closed the Fresh Kills dump. And you got balls calling anyone else fat.”

He punched me so hard this time that I fell over backwards in my chair. That at least got my feet out of the ice chest. But one should be careful for what one wishes for. Nando and Bruce spent the next 20 minutes alternately punching and kicking me as I lay on the floor. I thought I felt a couple of ribs crack before I passed out. When I came to again, my situation had not improved. I was back upright, feet in the cooler. They were about the only parts of me that didn’t hurt. Nando was back in his seat, looking sweaty and disheveled. Stomping someone is hard work.

“You should work out, Nando,” I managed to croak out through split lips. “You could have a heart attack.”

“Bruce, gag him. I’m sick of his shit, and I don’t want the neighbors to hear.”

Bruce grabbed a dirty rag off my work bench.

“Basement is a disgrace,” he said. “We could leave his body here, Nando, and nobody would notice.”

He gagged me before I could explain that I planned to clean it after I finished moving all my stuff into my new office. Nando took a drink of bourbon, lit a cigarette, took a few drags and pushed it into my chest.

Bruce said, “Boss, I think I’ll back the van into his driveway.”

After he went up the stairs, Nando shook his head and said, “I told you he didn’t have the stomach for this.”

Nando smiled at me. He went back to work. A few minutes later I heard Bruce coming down the stairs. Nando looked over my shoulder. The smile slowly turned into something else as his jaw dropped. Soon his mouth looked like the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. I heard a pfffft and actually felt the bullet pass my ear. I assumed it went into the tunnel because the back of Nando’s head blew off and he jerked forward out of his seat and sprawled over the ice chest with his face in the water. Head wounds bleed like a bastard and it soon looked like my feet were in a tub of Kool Aid. I was looking at what was left of the back of Nando’s head when a pair of boots came into view. I knew the boots. I looked up. Maks Kalugin had a silenced Tokarev pistol pointed at my face.

“I am getting tired of saving your life,” he said. Then he shouted something in Russian and I heard other people clomping down the steps and Arman Rahm came into view just before I passed out for the third time.

CHAPTER 32 – THE PORTRAIT

I came to in a four-poster bed, in a massive, gaudily decorated room. The mattress, the pillows, the comforter were plush and as long as I didn’t move, I was quite comfortable. I drifted back to sleep. I had vague recollections of being tended to. Brow mopped, bandages changed, salve applied. An eye pried open and a bright, searing light. A frightening feeling I couldn’t move. Paralyzed? No, my legs worked, if feebly. Jabs in the arms. A face drifted in front of me. Ellen James. Alice Watts. The dog I had as a kid. Voices. Some gentle, some gruff. Foreign accents. More sleep.

Finally, some reasonable consciousness. And pain. Not unbearable, but enough to realize that I was less drugged. The pain felt good in a way. It was the kind associated with getting better. I chanced some movement. That made me reconsider my opinion of the pain. But I could handle it. I tried to sit up and roll out of bed. Hard to do when your arms are strapped down.

“Son of a bitch!”

I heard a chair scrape on a floor outside the room. The door opened and Kalugin walked in.

“I knew you were a pizda,” he said.

“Fuck you.”

Something approximating a smile crossed his face. He reached down and picked up a phone from the table next to the bed and punched in a number.

“He’s awake. What do you want me to do?” He listened. “Are you sure? Whatever you say. No, he won’t be a problem.”

Kalugin put down the phone, reached in his pocket and pulled out a flick knife. I strained against the bindings holding me down as it slid open.

“Save your energy,” he said.

He reached across me and grabbed my wrist. With a practiced motion, he cut the binding. Then the one on my other wrist. He shut the knife.

“They didn’t want you scratching the burn scabs,” he said. “Now, behave.”

I took a swing at him and tried to sit up. I had the strength of a butterfly and the effort exhausted me. He laughed and pushed me away with one hand.

“Please,” he said. “I don’t have time for this. If it were up to me, I would have killed you along with those guineas instead of bringing you here.”

“Where is ‘here’’.”

“Home.”

I had seen, but never been in, the Rahm mansion on Todt Hill, the highest point along the East Coast from Maine to Florida and the most exclusive neighborhood on Staten Island. The word ‘Todt’ means death in Dutch, but that is a reflection of an Indian massacre of early settlers, not a comment on the hill’s current status as the favorite environs of local crime families.

There was a pitcher of water and a glass on the table next to the bed. Kalugin filled the glass and handed it to me. He sat on the bed and held me up while I drank, steadying the glass with both my hands. It was the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted. He went over to a dresser, reached into one of the drawers and came back to the side of the bed holding a small bottle of brandy. He poured some into my now empty glass.

“The doctors said only water, but what the fuck do they know?”

My empty stomach rebelled at first, but soon a warm glow suffused my body. I asked for another shot and he gave it to me.

“That’s enough, for now. Do you need help in the bathroom?”

“Just get me there,” I said.

The bathroom had everything I needed. I was almost reluctant to look in the mirror and was surprised to see that my face had escaped basically unscathed. I had some stitches on my bottom lip and my jaw was sore from Nando’s punches but I had all my teeth. They had concentrated on pounding my body. I brushed gingerly and rinsed with mouthwash, but couldn’t get rid of the metallic taste I’d woken with. Probably a side effect of the drugs I’d been given. I shaved and showered, which would have been a real treat except for the burns and cuts, not to mention the large dark purple bruise in my side over my broken ribs. I left some small streaks of blood on the towel when I dried off. But I felt somewhat human again. On a stool in the corner was a new set of blue silk pajamas and a red velour robe. Under the stool were slippers. When I emerged from the bathroom Kalugin looked me over.

“Now I need a fucking drink,” he said.

“I feel like Noel Coward.”

“Let’s go,” he replied, opening the door.

We walked down a long, deep-carpeted hallway lined with paintings of men riding to hounds and women holding parasols. At the end of the passage was a large parlor. I could tell by the flickering within that there was a fire going, its comforting smell reaching me as I got to the ornate double sliding doors. I walked into the room, Kalugin just behind. Like everything else I’d seen in the mansion, the room was picture perfect. Had there been red velvet ropes and brass stanchions, I would have thought I was on a tour of a historic manor. My warder pointed to some upholstered armchairs arrayed in a semicircle by the fireplace in front of a low table on which sat some glasses, an ice bucket and a bottle of Russian vodka.

“Sit.”

I went over to the chairs but remained standing, staring at the large portrait over the hearth. It was a painting of a beautiful woman regally posed in a high-backed chair, dressed in a formal gown. She was holding a book opened in her lap. On a small table next to her was a samovar.

It was Ellen James.

Kalugin was now at my side. For the first time since I’d known him, his impervious mask had dropped. He was gazing at the woman almost reverently.

“Their mother was beautiful,” he said, “was she not? A fine lady.” A vague, but chilling, thought began to coalesce in my mind. “Wait here and behave yourself.”

He walked out and closed the sliders. I wasn’t going to make a run for it. I’d have a hard time making a crawl for it. I heard the doors slide open behind me. The fire flared. I smelled her perfume. I turned as Ellen walked up to me, Arman Rahm next to her. Side by side, the resemblance was unmistakable.

“I’m sorry,” Ellen Rahm said.

“I thought your father disapproved of your acting.”

“I think I may have changed his mind.”

“So it’s true, blood is thicker than borsht.”

“Why don’t we sit, Alton,” Arman said. “You must still be tired.”

We sat. Arman poured vodka for his sister and himself and looked at me. I nodded and he filled my glass.

“The doctors said there was no serious damage,” he said. “The broken ribs are minor. If they interfere with your breathing you might want to get them bound.”

“What story did you give them?”

“None. They have been here before. We thought it a better alternative than leaving you outside an emergency room.”

“And you wanted to chat with me.”

“That, too,” Arman said with a smile.

“What did you do with Nando and Bruce?”

“We cleaned up the basement. Probably better than it’s been in a while. You should really do something about it. It’s a fire hazard.”

“I’m working on it.”

“They had a lot of stuff in their van ready for you. Body bags, saws, chemicals. Came in handy. Nando took a lot of work, but they won’t be found.”

His sister had listened quietly, showing no reaction.

“Should I still call you Ellen.”

“It’s Eleni,” she said and looked up at the portrait. “After my mother.”

“When running a scam,” I said, “it’s always easier to stick with a first name, or something close. Fewer chances to make a mistake.”

“Where did the James come from?”

“That was my idea,” Arman said. “An All-American, Southern name. I liked that movie, the one with Brad Pitt, playing Jesse James.”

“You might have been the only one,” I said.

“Yes, the critics hated it. They said it was too long, but we Russians like long stories. It’s in our blood. War and Peace.”

He poured himself a drink and looked at his sister.

“Eleni?”

She just stared into the fire. He patted her on the shoulder.

“Why did you say Capriati played football? You knew he was a wrestler.”

I don’t know why I thought of that. I was just being petulantly curious. Ellen, or Eleni, just shook her head and then looked at her brother.

“That was also my idea,” he said. “A little misdirection. I didn’t want everything to seem too pat. If you had to find out a few things on your own, I thought it would keep you on your toes.”

“You’re lying, Arman. It wasn’t your idea. That’s something that an actress would come up with. Just to make her role more interesting.”

I could tell by the look on her face that I was right.

“What happens now?”

“My father wants to talk to you. If that goes well, soon as you’re up to it, I’ll have someone drive you home.”

I held out my glass. He hesitated.

“You might want to go easy on that,” he said, “until you are stronger. Besides sober would be better when talking to my father.”

“And you might want to go fuck yourself.”

He shrugged and poured vodka into my glass.

“You have every reason to be angry, Alton. But had we listened to our father, you would be sleeping with the tires and other junk in the Kill van Kull.” Arman lit a cigarette. He took a luxurious drag and let the smoke hiss out dramatically. “I like you. We go back. But that wouldn’t have been enough. Eleni convinced him.”

We all turned as the door opened and Marat Rahm, using a cane, entered, Kalugin at his side. They were trailed by a tough-looking character wheeling a cart with a tray piled high with sandwiches and pastries. There was also a coffee service and a crystal dish of caviar surrounded by toast. After placing the cart by the table, the man left. Marat took a chair and faced me while Kalugin leaned against the wall by the fireplace. Eleni took a small blanket from a nearby chaise and draped her father’s legs. He waved the cane in my direction before resting it on the table.

“I’m getting old. Arthritis. Doctors say I need a new hip. I think I need new doctors.” He was a handsome man, with sharp, angular features and a shock of white hair. “I may also be getting soft.” Kalugin made a grunting noise of agreement. “But, like most men, I have a weakness for a daughter. A son I can tell to go to hell.” He and Arman exchanged smiles. “I will keep my word to Eleni. You are safe. I will not risk losing her again.”

“You won’t, Papa,” Eleni said.

He adjusted himself in his seat.

“The vodka is good?”

“Superb,” I said. “Although at this point I think I would appreciate turpentine.”

He laughed.

“Yes, it’s all relative after one comes so close to death. I think I will join you.”

As he reached for the bottle Kalugin came off the wall but I beat him to it. I poured Marat a glass.

“Thank you. Tell me, how did Carlucci find out about your search for Capriati?”

“Someone at Wagner College fingered me. Nando had his hooks into him.”

“Who?”

“None of your business.”

“Perhaps he should be punished.”

I thought of Alice Watts. Lancaster probably didn’t deserve to be killed.

“He will be, but I’ll do the punishing.”

“I’m sure you will, Mr. Rhode. You are a tough man, and quite resourceful, as you have proven to my benefit. Eleni may even be in love with you, an unforeseen complication of our plan.”

“I’m sure she’ll get over it,” I said. “Actresses can be very fickle.”

“You are bitter. I can understand that. “You think you have been used, and you have been. You were a means to an end. We all are at one time or another in our lives. And we all use. Is that not so?”

I remained silent.

“No matter. Deep down you know that you would have done exactly as I have, given the stakes. And you have not been greatly harmed, considering. You might even say we have saved your life.”

“Twice,” Kalugin grumbled, undoubtedly referring to the late Ben and Jerry.

“I wouldn’t have needed saving if you’d left me out of all this.”

“I’m not only talking about that. Before all this happened you were a recovering veteran, drinking too much and trying to get his business back on its feet. You cannot tell me in all seriousness that the past few weeks were unexciting. You’ve even made love to a beautiful woman.” He saw my expression. “Yes, Eleni told me everything. Don’t trouble yourself. We keep no secrets. And in case you are wondering, that wasn’t part of the plan. Eleni’s mother was an impetuous romantic as well.” He gazed up at the portrait a moment and then resumed. “Moreover, you made serious money and humiliated the Federal Government. You could be a Russian with a resume like that! You should thank me for giving you the opportunity to re-sharpen your skills.”

“How did you know that Nando and Capriati were cooking something up?”

“Carlucci was in negotiations with the prosecutor’s office. We have what the Government would call a mole.”

I smiled at the former KGB officer’s use of the spy lingo. The blonde A.D.A. from the Red Lantern that Arman had his sights on? Was that possible? And why tell me that? I could warn the D.A. Marat read my mind. His smile grew wolfish. How could I explain the knowledge without exposing myself to all sorts of problems? I couldn’t even be sure he was telling the truth. The D.A.’s staff would be chasing their own tails for months trying to uncover a traitor who might not exist. I bet Marat Rahm, like most Russians, was a damn good chess player.

“You seem pretty sure I’d find Capriati.”

“Nothing is sure. Arman and Kalugin were needed here. My other men weren’t up to the task. I couldn’t very well just hire a private detective. My motives would naturally be suspect. We assumed that Capriati had broken cover to contact Carlucci. It turns out that wasn’t really the case, which makes your accomplishment even more astounding. It was Arman who thought of you. He said you have a reputation for doggedness and a surfeit of courage. And would be motivated emotionally by the story we concocted. His faith was not misplaced.”

“Why not just kill Nando?”

I looked at Eleni. Her face was a blank. She had countenanced the murder of Capriati. Killing Nando wouldn’t have bothered her. I sensed I had dodged a very large bullet.

“He’d grown cautious,” Marat continued. “We couldn’t get near him. It was a miracle he went after you. He must have become irrational after his plot failed. We had a man watching your house. He spotted the van but thought nothing of it. But you are fortunate he mentioned it to Arman when he called in with a report. By that time you were already home. We were almost too late.”

He held out his now empty glass.

“Father, the doctors,” Arman said.

“Fuck the doctors,” Marat said. I refilled his glass. “The Government now has no case against me. Rival factions will fear me. I, after all, managed to find a man in witness protection, a fact that will be widely broadcast in the right circles, including to members of my own organization. I will not let on how I did it. And you can’t.”

He was right, of course. Placing myself at the scene of Capriati’s murder wouldn’t endear me to the Feds. I’d probably broken some laws, and they might try to pin his broken neck on me. Legally, I was now attached at the hip with the Rahms. And, to some extent, emotionally. They really had saved my life.

“There is something you should know,” I said. “Nando killed Stefan.”

They were all quiet.

“We thought as much,” Marat said finally. “He said this to you?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

Something else was bothering me.

“I’m surprised you would involve your daughter in your scheme. Surely you could have hired another actress.”

Marat and Arman laughed. Even Kalugin smiled.

“I was my idea, Alton,” Eleni said quietly. “The whole story. Atlanta, the child, everything. I wouldn’t trust the role to anyone else.”

“You two have a lot to talk about,” her father said. “But, first, let’s eat. I think you’ll like the pastries. They are from Alfonso’s. My early experiences with old man Carlucci at least had the added benefit of educating my palate.”

“I want you to do something for me,” I said. Marat looked amused. “I want Capriati’s mother provided for. He was sending her money.”

I had already decided to take care of the oranges myself. With luck, she would never know her son was dead.

“And why should I do that?”

“She is the only innocent in this whole rotten affair. It will be good for whatever soul you have left. Just make sure the man who runs the home doesn’t steal the money.”

He stared at me for a long time. Then he said, “Done. And I would not worry about anyone stealing the money.”

I decided to push my luck.

“There is one more thing.”

“You are giving me a headache, Mr. Rhode.”

“You have several legitimate businesses. There is a man. Name is Carmichael. I would like you to find a place for him in one of those businesses.”

“Why?”

“He refused an order to kill me.”

“I’m not sure that is much of a recommendation.”

I heard Kalugin snort in agreement.

“Nando Carlucci gave the order and when he refused almost beat him to death,” I said. “He’s an ex-con. Has a tough time getting a job.”

“Why must he work in one of my so-called legitimate enterprises? It sounds as if he has other talents I might be able to utilize.”

“He’s kind of a reclamation project of mine. I want him out of the life.”

The old man shook his head. But it wasn’t a “no” shake. More like a “you’re a piece of work” shake.

“Give Arman all the details, Mr. Rhode. It seems that Eleni may not have misjudged you. You are a decent man. Now, unless you want me to save the whales I would like to eat something and then get some rest.”

Marat Rahm held out his hand. I shook it.

“Try the caviar. It’s Beluga.”

CHAPTER 33 – GOOGLEPLEX

“If I had known how I would come to feel about you, I might not have done it.”

Eleni and I were sitting alone in the room by the fire. The food had restored me to the point of feeling almost human.

“You can stop acting.”

She put her hand on my arm and felt it stiffen. She withdrew it quickly.

“I deserved that. I don’t blame you for hating me. And you are quite right. I would do anything to protect my family.”

“What made you come back?”

“I made my peace with my father at Stefan’s funeral. When Arman called me and told me about Carlucci’s plot, I knew I had to do something. I loved Stefan. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to my father and Arman. If they couldn’t get to Carlucci, it was obvious they had to get to Capriati. I thought of a way. It was a long shot but it was something I was good at.”

“You knew they would kill him.”

“It was the only way to make sure he would never resurface.”

She looked at me steadily.

“Was any of it real?”

“The night at the Carlyle was real.”

“And convenient. I was perfectly set up for the next day. The lunch with Savannah, or rather Laurene, was inspired. She was proud of her performance on such short notice.”

“I didn’t have to sleep with you to pull that off. I could just as easily have asked you to come in the next day to meet us. But I wanted to see you. I had lied to you and placed  your life in danger.”

“And you wanted to set the hook deeper.”

“One motive doesn’t preclude the other. I won’t apologize for saving what’s left of my family.” She smiled. “And you were a willing catch.”

A log rolled in the fireplace. I looked at her. She was right. I wanted to make love to her that night in the hotel, and was looking forward to seeing her in Naples before I’d found Capriati dead. I remembered every curve in her body, every sound she made. She knew what I was thinking.

“I wasn’t acting in bed,” she said, coloring slightly.

“I was,” I said. “I faked my orgasms.”

“Sir Laurence Olivier,” she said, laughing. She came over and knelt beside me. “My father thinks I’m in love with you. Maybe I am, a little. But I have to go away. I have commitments in Europe, for at least a year. After that, who knows?”

I knew. Stefan was gone, but now Eleni would be a force to be reckoned with in the Rahm family.

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

I ran my fingers through her hair.

“A beautiful woman is the most dangerous thing in the world,” I said.

She looked up at me.

“And don’t we know it,” she said.

***

Three days after Kalugin drove me home I went up to Wagner College. I sat on a bench outside Bryce Hall and opened up the Staten Island Advance.

The sudden disappearance on Nando Carlucci was still the topic of the day in the local media, and people assumed the worst. Or, in Nando’s case, the best.

But I knew the public would soon move on to another crime, scandal, international crisis or Kardashian wedding.

The Carluccis wouldn’t be making any more news. They had been effectively gutted during the Capriati affair. There was no one left to seek vengeance for Nando, even if anyone had been so inclined.

Before I left the Rahm manse, Arman told me that he was already had several feelers from Carlucci soldiers looking for work.

“I may have to open a human resources department.”

I think he was kidding, but then he did go to Wharton. No, Nando would be turning over in whatever out-of-state landfill he was in if he knew his brilliant plan to take down the Rahms destroyed what was left of his family.

I smiled at a co-ed walking by. She looked at me and picked up her pace. Apparently my face had some more healing to do. I shrugged and began riffing through the paper. A story caught my eye:

PASTOR RESIGNS SUDDENLY

The Rev. Norbert Kittelsen, pastor of Resurrection Lutheran Church in West Brighton, abruptly resigned his duties yesterday and reportedly is in seclusion.

In the wake of some recent scandals affecting other churches, the popular minister’s mysterious departure quickly generated speculation about congregation finances.

A spokesman for the Lutheran Synod in New York was quick to deny that any financial improprieties were involved in the resignation.

“It is an unfortunate situation,” the spokesman said, “involving a personal matter.”

The Advance has learned that Rev. Kittelsen was allegedly the author of a series of anonymous “poison pen” letters sent to women in his neighborhood.

When asked to confirm or deny this accusation, the spokesman would only say that Rev. Kittelsen was undergoing counseling for an undisclosed psychological problem.

Legal experts contacted by the Advance said it was unlikely criminal charges could be brought against Rev. Kittelsen, even if the accusations are true.

But there may be civil slander and libel charges, they said.

I started laughing. More students gave me a wide berth.

My stock on St. Austins Place would go through the roof. Al Johnsen probably figured I’d spotted something suspicious about the good reverend during his visit to my house. He didn’t know that I’d been so busy trying to stay alive that I’d farmed the poison pen assignment out to Cormac Levine. Al would spread the word about my investigative prowess.

I wouldn’t disabuse him of the notion. Hell, I’d found a guy in witness protection.

I’d have eventually nailed good old Norm. Child’s play. Still, I wondered how Mac had done it. I’d make sure to send him some of the booze and cakes that would surely come my way from grateful and relieved neighbors.

Alice Watts came out of Bryce Hall talking to a couple of co-eds. She spotted me. I walked over. My limp was gone. Perhaps Nando’s ice water treatment had helped. I’d have to tell the V.A. doctors.

“Can I buy you a corn muffin, Ms. Watts?”

The two college girls were staring at my face. The stitches were out but the bruising and puffiness around my eyes and mouth made me look like an undercard loser in an Ultimate Fighting bout.

“Do you want us to call campus security, Ms Watts?” one of the kids said.

I didn’t think I looked that bad.

“No, it’s alright Stephanie. I know the gentleman. I’ll catch you both later.”

The girls walked away with their heads together, undoubtedly parsing the information that their instructor had a secret life that included beat-up thugs.

“Good Lord. What happened to you?”

“I was kidnapped by an Italian mobster and tortured. A Russian mobster rescued me and nursed me back to health with vodka and caviar.”

“Boy, if I had a dollar for every time I heard that one.”

“I didn’t want to use the story about the aliens abducting me for sexual experiments.”

“If you were anyone else, I’d say you were joking. But you’re not, are you, about the mobsters, I mean?”

“If you were anyone else, I’d have lied about why I stood you up for dinner.”

We had started walking in the general direction of the Bear’s Den, a good sign.

“Pierce resigned suddenly and no one knows where he is,” Alice said. “He hasn’t returned my calls. Did you have anything to do with that?’

“He left town. I told him that if he didn’t I would make sure everyone from President Bradley to the District Attorney would know about his ties to the Mafia, drug use and trading grades for sex. I also told him that if he ever tried to contact you again I would hit him a google of times in the face. So, yes, I may have had something to do with it.”

We had stopped walking. Alice Watts stared at me. I led her over to a bench.

“Tell me,” she said. “Everything.”

We sat and I did.

When I finished, I said, “I’m sorry. But he’s a world-class jerk.”

“What does that make me?”

“Don’t be so damn hard on yourself. Compared to me, you’re looking pretty good. I’m supposed to be a professional and I was led around the mulberry bush.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“I really want those corn muffins.”

She sat there for several minutes, looking at the ground. Then she looked at me.

“Could I talk you into a Grizzly Burger instead,” she asked.

“You may have to cut it into little pieces for me,” I said. “My jaw is still sore.”

“I suspect you will manage.”

“I suspect you are right.”

We again started walking toward the Bear’s Den.

“The google is a very large number, isn’t it,” she asked.

“It’s a 1, followed by a million zeroes. I was going to threaten him with a googleplex of punches. That’s a 1 followed by a google of zeroes. But it seemed excessive. It’s almost the number of calories in a Grizzly Burger.”

“So perhaps we should split one again.”

“You can’t fool me. You just want to leave room for some corn muffins.”

THE END

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And we also hope you will try the author’s other novels, all of which are available on Amazon or through his website, www.lawrencedemaria.com. He can also be contacted at ljdemaria@aol.com, and welcomes comments.)

***

Alton Rhode returns in another mystery, LAURA LEE. Here is an excerpt:

***

The squad car from the 122nd Precinct in New Dorp pulled into the Richmond County Country Club. The report of “possible shots fired” had been relayed from the private security company that patrolled the club grounds on Todt Hill. The two veteran cops in the sector car were not overly concerned. The new security firm hired by the club had a reputation at the precinct for being overly cautious; it was probably kids setting off cherry bombs.

False alarms aside, the cops knew the area well. A rash of burglaries a year earlier had shaken the neighborhood, especially after it was discovered that the previous security company had a silent partner, Nando Carlucci, the grossly obese head of the local Mafia. With access to many of the home alarm codes, he had orchestrated the break-ins. Carlucci had disappeared under mysterious circumstances and was presumably filling up several landfills.

The burglaries ended. But under pressure from some of the club’s more influential members, the board of directors hired KrullCorp, a national security company with no local ties. It had the responsibility of protecting not only lavish facilities that included a 150-year-old main clubhouse awarded Landmark status by the City of New York but also the many private homes on the property. The firm took its job seriously. There was no better, or at least pricier, neighborhood on Staten Island. None of the homes was worth less than $5 million and most contained museum-quality artwork, not to mention pricey jewelry Carlucci’s crew missed.

As N.Y.P.D.’s finest drove up the circular driveway to the address they were given, they spotted the familiar brown car used by KrullCorp. There was another car parked in the drive, a powder-blue BMW.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” the driver of the patrol car said, “here comes a fucking lawsuit.”

It wasn’t delinquents with cherry bombs.

“Let’s be careful with this guy,” his partner, a sergeant, said. “He probably thinks he’s Rambo. But scared shitless.”

Standing under the light by the front door was one of the security firm’s rent-a-cops. The man, a big, beefy guy who looked to be about 25,  was wearing a neatly pressed brown uniform. That’s not what had the cops’ full attention, however. They were more interested in the black Glock the guard was holding. At his feet was a well-dressed woman, face down, with her hands behind her head. A large revolver lay on the ground a few feet away. Both cops drew their weapons and got out, careful to stand behind their respective open car doors.

“Take it easy, pal,” the sergeant ordered. “Why don’t you put the cannon away.”

“Not a problem, officer,” the guard said, holstering his weapon. “I know the drill. She’s all yours.”

The kid doesn’t look scared, the sergeant noted as he walked forward. In fact, he looked like a tough son of a bitch.

“What do we have here?”

“Doing my rounds when I heard some shots,” the guard replied. “Called it in. Was debating to go in when this lady charged out the front door with a gun.” He pointed to the revolver. “I got to tell you, I haven’t had that much of a jolt since my last tour in Sandland.”

He’s a war vet, the sergeant realized, warming to the kid. No wonder he’s so calm. Been there, done that. And up close, he didn’t look 25. Late 20’s probably, maybe even older. Trying to grow a moustache, none too successfully.

“Anyway, I detained her. She’s OK. Didn’t give me any trouble. Her gun is empty by the way. I checked.”

The guard had a bit of a drawl, the cop realized. Not from around here, that’s for sure. The sergeant glanced down at the revolver, a strange, clunky piece. He’d never seen one like it.

“I handled it by the barrel only,” the guard added quickly. “Used a pen. Figured they’d want prints.”

“You touch anything else?”

“Nope. And I haven’t gone inside. She said she didn’t do it, but I figure I’d let you guys find out what she didn’t do. I’m taking the test for the academy in the fall. I don’t want to screw up a crime scene, if that’s what the hell it is.”

Sharp cookie, the sergeant thought. He turned to his partner.

“Frank, stay here, I’m going in. Call for backup.”

“Watch your ass, Pete.”

The front door was still open and the sergeant cautiously entered the center-hall colonial, sticking close to a wall to present a small target. The place was dark. He took a small flashlight from his utility belt and quickly found a switch in the front hall. He weighed the risks of smudging some prints against walking into an ambush.

“Fuck that,” he said to himself, and deftly using the barrel of his gun flicked up the switch. The hallway was instantly bathed in light. He let out a deep breath and started going room by room on the ground floor.

When he got to what appeared to be a study or den, there was enough light from the hallway and a roaring fireplace for him to see a form slumped in a weird-looking recliner facing the hearth. The flames flickered unevenly, creating weird shadow patterns on the walls and ceiling. The sergeant froze at the sight of a snarling wild animal across the room. He almost pulled the trigger. Using his gun again he flipped a wall switch. He laughed in relief. The wild animal turned out to be the stuffed head of a bear mounted above the fireplace. My kids have me watching too many vampire and werewolf movies, he thought.

As he approached the chair, he noticed a hand hanging toward the floor. Two bare feet rested on an ottoman in front of the recliner. They were splayed out from each other in an unnatural-looking ‘V’ shape. Underneath the hand was a toppled wine glass, surrounded by a dark purple stain. That will be a bitch to get out, the cop thought irrationally. The smell of cordite was intense and he was pretty sure what he would find when he got to the chair.

The sergeant walked around it and looked at the body. He was no rookie, but the “holy fuck!” came anyway. The man was naked, with a huge erection. Both the man’s eyes had been shot out, and the nose, chin and forehead also had bullet holes in them. Blood and brain matter were splattered over the back of the chair’s headrest. Five shots, at least. A remote control was clenched in the man’s right hand in his lap at the base of his penis. The sergeant looked around. There was no TV or anything else electronic anywhere in sight. Maybe the device was some kind of sex aid. They sold all sorts of stuff on late night cable. Nothing would surprise him. Why not a remote-controlled hard-on?

The sergeant was startled by a rustling sound and felt a breeze. He whirled to his left, his gun up. The door to what was probably the back yard was open and curtains on nearby windows were flapping. He heard sirens. Thank God. He wanted someone watching his back when he cleared the rest of the house. In fact, he decided to let someone else do it.

He went outside. Three more squad cars screeched to a halt. People started coming out of nearby mansions. He walked over to the woman, who was now standing docilely by the security guard and his partner. For the first time he noticed that she was blond and beautiful.

“What’s your name, Miss?”

“Elizabeth Olsen.”

Oh, crap. One of those Olsens? It was the country club, after all. Better do everything by the book. Let the homicide dicks handle the inevitable shit storm. He walked over to his partner and lowered his voice.

“Mirandize her, Frank, and cuff her. But go easy. Not too tight.” The sergeant shivered, only partially because of the late October chill. “And put Miss Olsen in the car, where it’s warmer.”

He turned to the security guard, whose nameplate said, “R. Ricks.” Pulling him aside, he said, “You did good, kid. After you give your statement, look me up. I know some guys at the academy.”

“Thanks, Sarge,” Ricks said.

If you would like to read LAURA LEE, here is a link:

LAURA LEE

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 he writes a regular column.

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1 – THE RED LANTERNTwo Months Later

CHAPTER 2 – THE RUSSIANS

CHAPTER 3 – ELLEN JAMES

CHAPTER 4 – LAST HOPE

CHAPTER 5 – HAIR TODAY, GONE TOMORROW “Mother!”

CHAPTER 6 – POISONS

CHAPTER 7 – GARDEN PARTY

CHAPTER 8 – HORS AND PEDERASTS

CHAPTER 9 – CLAPPER

CHAPTER 10 – SCRATCHING AN ITCH

CHAPTER 11 – IN THE BEAR’S DEN

CHAPTER 12 – TENURE

CHAPTER 13 – SNAKE HILL

CHAPTER 14 – DONUTS AND COLD CUTS

CHAPTER 15 – PORT RICHMOND

CHAPTER 16 – PORGIE FISHING

CHAPTER 17 – FOOT SOLDIER

CHAPTER 18 – SHADY VIEW

CHAPTER 19 – ORANGE YOU GLAD

CHAPTER 20 – NAUGHTY BITS

CHAPTER 21 – TRANSFUSION

CHAPTER 22 – COUSINS

CHAPTER 23 – BLAMING MOSSAD

CHAPTER 24 – FLORIDA

CHAPTER 25 – HAPPY HOUR

CHAPTER 26 – ENDANGERED SPECIES

CHAPTER 27 – BILLY, I HARDLY KNEW YOU

CHAPTER 28 – SAVANNAH ON MY MIND

CHAPTER 29 – LAURENE

CHAPTER 30 – BISMARCK

CHAPTER 31 – AN HOUR TO KILL

CHAPTER 32 – THE PORTRAIT

CHAPTER 33 – GOOGLEPLEX