CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) Read online

  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 eati
ng 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 gu
ys 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.