LAURA LEE (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 2) Read online

  LAURA LEE

  A Novel By

  Lawrence De Maria

  (An Alton Rhode Mystery)

  Copyright © Lawrence De Maria 2012 (Revised 2016)

  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.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book,

  or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this book may be reproduced, downloaded, transmitted, reverse engineered, decompiled or stored in or introduced into any storage or retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electric or mechanical, without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading or distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  (Special thanks to Nancy Kreisler, Deborah Thompson and Maryellen Alvarez)

  Published by St. Austin’s Press

  (305-409-0900)

  Dedicated to Patti, without whose love, support and faith this book

  – and others –

  would not have been possible, and to my sons, Lawrence and Christopher, good men, both.

  PROLOGUE

  The squad car from the 122 nd 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.

  CHAPTER 1 – CHIN MUSIC

  Eight Months Later

  Alice Watts and I were having a very good time. It’s hard not to have a good time in a new ballpark on a warm mid-week summer night, with cold beer and hot dogs at hand that you didn’t have to tap a line of credit to order. Ah, the beauty of minor league baseball.

  Actually, I was probably having a better time than Alice, since she said her interest in baseball was limited. She knew who Derek Jeter was and rooted for New York’s major league teams, including the Mets. I didn’t hold that against her, since I also rooted for them unless they were playing my Yankees.

  We were watching the Yankees, sort of. The Staten Island Yankees were a farm team of the Bronx Bombers, stocked basically with low draft picks out of college or Latin America who had little chance of making the big leagues. But with hope springing eternal the kids played their hearts out against teams from Oneonta and Buffalo and had built up a stirring rivalry with the Brooklyn Cyclones, a Mets affiliate that occupied another new stadium in Coney Island.

  I often went to a game, especially when the parent club sent a rehabbing pitcher to work with the farm team, as was the case this night. It was always enjoyable to see the kids face a major league curveball. It was probably not that enjoyable to the kids, some of whom soon realized that minor-league ball was going to be the pinnacle of their professional career.

  The Baby Bombers, as they were unfortunately dubbed by the local media, offered a slew of on-field promotions that delighted the crowd, which for a few innings at least could forget they were in New York City and act like upstate apple farmers. My favorite was the “Dash for Cash,” where lucky patrons, chosen by a random pick of ticket stubs, had 30 seconds to run the bases, under which were piles of dollar bills they could stuff in their clothing. I had never seen anyone make it to home plate. Some of the overweight or less athletic barely made it to first. I suspected that a club attendant with a CPR pack was poised on the dugout steps with the paddles.

  Our seats were terrific, in a box just behind the home team dugout eight rows back. The box belonged to a law firm that I occasionally helped out with a skip trace. The firm owned the building where I had my office and in return for the pro bono traces they cut me a good break on my rent and threw me some extra perks, like baseball tickets. The lawyers rarely went to a ball game, probably because they couldn’t bill the time to some of the other patrons who were clients and might see them.

  The only better seats were filled with politicians and their entourages. It was an election year and they were sitting in the open among the unwashed masses. On other nights in a non-election year they would have been up in one of the corporate sky boxes drinking scotch and eating sushi behind glass. The idea of skyboxes in a minor league ballpark struck me as vaguely un-American. The park itself was magnificent, offering a spectacular view of New York Harbor, the Statue of Liberty and downtown Manhattan. With new towers rising to the sky where the World Trade Center had been, the vista was becoming less sad.

  It was the top of the third and the hard-throwing lefty Saburo Yamaguchi was on the mound for the Baby Yanks. The game was a sellout, since the opposing team was the Brooklyn Cyclones. Saburo – “Sab” to the sportswriters – was a free-agent pickup from the Nagasaki Dragons in the Japanese pro league who hadn’t quite lived up to his potential during his initial stint in the bigs. As a result, the real Bombers, who had invested $15 million in Yamaguchi, left him in New York when they went on an extended West Coast road trip. Due to return to the Bronx from exile when the parent club came home on the weekend, he was spending this Wednesday evening working the kinks out on Staten Island.

  “He’s rather large for a Japanese person, isn’t he?” Alice held out a bag of peanuts for me. It was true. Yamaguchi was a beefy six-three. “Is he on steroids?”

  “I doubt that,” I said. “A lot of the ballplayers coming over from Japan don’t fit the stereotype of the Japanese being small. The adoption of a more Western diet probably has something to do with it, plus new training techniques.”

  “Maybe there’s something in the water. After all, he is from Nagasaki.” Alice apparently had scanned the program. “Of course, sumo wrestlers are immense, too.”

  I had the feeling that Alice was having fun with me.

  There was a loud crack of a bat. It had the unmistakable sound of long ball, and, sure enough, a towering drive arched out into the distance and cleared the right field wall. The right fielder barely turned around, the ball exited the premises that quickly. Saburo had inexplicably grooved a 92-mile-an-hour fastball to the Cyclone’s cleanup hitter, a left-handed batter no less, who was now pumping his fist as he rounded the bases. That was a mistake. It was bad enough to blast a rehabbing major leaguer’s pitch into New York Harbor, but showing him up invited a response.

  It wasn’t long in coming. The next batter went down in a heap as a fastball buzzed by his head. The home plate umpire took a step toward the mound and then thought better of it. Even the opposing dugout was silent. Yamaguchi settled down after that and quickly dispatched the batter with three obscene curveballs that buckled the kid’s legs. The next two batters, who not surprisingly also stayed pretty loose in the box, ready to duck, also struck out. When the home run trotter came to bat again, he’d probably wear a suit of armor.

  “My, Sab-san looks angry,” Alice said as Yamaguchi stomped from the mound. “That kid shouldn’t have pumped his fist after taking him deep. We probably haven’t seen the last of the chin music.”

  I stared at her. Alice was apparently more of a baseball fan than I realized.

  “You ready for another dog?” I asked.

  “No, thank you. I think I’ve reached my limit of nitrates and hog renderings. You know what they say. ‘You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, but you can make a hell of a hot dog.’ But I could go for another beer.”

  In my experience, good-looking, athletic women who don’t turn up their noses at ballpark beer are rare, and thus to be cherished. I went off for our refills. I met a few guys I knew waiting in line at the concession stand. We traded baseball chatter. The general consensus was that the jerk who hit the home run off Yamaguchi had the life expectancy of a mayfly. When I got back to our seats juggling the beers, my third hot dog and a box of fries, Alice was deep in conversation with Michael Sullivan and his wife. I had spotted them earlier sitting a few rows ahead of us and they now stood in the aisle next to Alice.

  CHAPTER 2 – SLAM DUNK

  Sullivan was the Staten Island District Attor
ney, and, in my opinion, a bit of a pretentious ass, as Harvard men tend to be. But he was competent enough and didn’t get the job just because he was Irish, the nationality that by unspoken tradition had occupied the D.A.’s office for decades. I never could figure that out. Most of the cops, judges and crooks in the borough were Italian. But the D.A. was always Irish. Perhaps the other nationalities wanted someone with a gripe against everyone, just to keep the rest of them in line. I knew for a fact that the Russian mob, a growing presence on the Island, felt a little left out. Of course, all was not lost for the Russians. Arman Rahm, the titular head of the Russkies, had managed to plant a mole in Sullivan’s office, in the form of a comely Assistant D.A. who had the hots for him. Arman, not Sullivan, who was known as a straight arrow. This was probably something that I should have mentioned to the authorities but I felt I owed Rahm for saving my life when Nando Carlucci, the late and unlamented head of the Staten Island Mafia, was preparing to carve me into landfill-appropriate pieces. The fact that Rahm had put me in line for Nando’s chain saw in the first place complicated matters, but a debt is a debt.

  “Hello, Rhode,” Sullivan said as I struggled to my seat. “Need a hand with that?”

  “No, thanks,” I said as I sat down. I felt rude sitting with them standing there but I wanted to balance the cardboard tray on my lap before I spilled something. I did anyway. They politely pretended not to notice.

  “Sharon, you remember Alton Rhode, don’t you,” Sullivan said. “He’s a private investigator.”

  “Yes, of course,” his wife said and extended her hand, then thought better of it when she saw the ketchup on mine.

  Sharon Sullivan was a knockout. Not as good-looking as Alice Watts, to be sure, but still major league. Sullivan had married late, and well. He was pushing 50 and his wife, a tall redhead, was at least 20 years his junior. She was a former dancer at Radio City Music Hall, a fact that Sullivan’s opponent in the D.A.’s race, a political hack and perennial candidate named Connor Costello, tried to use as a campaign issue. He ended up alienating everyone who wished they knew, let alone, married a leggy Rockette. The Radio City Music Hall Christmas show, with its famous high-kicking revue, is a rite of passage for children in New York. Knocking a Rockette was akin to knocking Mom and apple pie. Even if he wasn’t such a straight arrow, Sullivan didn’t have much reason to look elsewhere.