Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series)

by JC Simmons

  Chamberlain looked at me for a moment. "No, I didn't think it necessary. Why? Something happen?"

  "No. Bowers apologized to me this morning in the coffee shop for the way he's been acting. That's all."

  "Bowers is a good man, Jay." Chamberlain slowed for an old man crossing the street with a small dog on a leash. "All of us let things cloud our judgment from time to time. I knew the jealously thing would pass with him."

  "I wanted to know if he did it on his own. It took guts. I'm glad it wasn't coming from you. One more thing, was Bowers involved in any of the investigation on Bilotti's killing?"

  "Yes. In fact, he was the first officer on the scene. He's only working the desk until the regular officer returns from vacation. Why?"

  "You figure it out."

  Chamberlain looked intently at me, but didn't say anything. Leaning back in the seat, I clasped my hands behind my head, and stared at the car's headliner.

  Parking in front of the FBO, Chamberlain shut the engine off and rolled down his window. I did the same. We heard the helicopter long before it appeared. The whop, whop, whop of the blades were unmistakable. There is only one machine which makes that sound, a Bell HU-1, better known as the 'Huey.' The helicopter was designed for the Vietnam War and used as an air ambulance, a gunship, and a troop carrier. It now serves many rolls in civilian life. I did not fly helicopters, but I had never heard pilots who flew them ever say anything bad about the Huey.

  The pilot air-taxied the helicopter up to the fuel dock, and kept the engine running for a few minutes while it cooled down. After engine shut down, the pilot and passenger exited the Huey and walked into the fixed-base operation. We followed. Chamberlain and I waited until the pilot finished with his duties before introducing ourselves. He gave the brusque, limp handshake of someone with little patience for basic pleasantries.

  The man was apprehensive in talking with us. "Look, we're not from the FAA." I was trying to put him at ease. "The only thing we want to know is who hired you, and where you off-loaded the art collection."

  He was an extremely tall man. How he managed to fold himself into the cockpit of the Huey was beyond me. Slim and lanky, with coal black hair, his face was scarred and pitted. They were not acne scars, they were from wounds. The eyes were black, piercing, and alert.

  "What's this all about?" His gaze flitted erratically around the ramp as though he was tracking an enemy fighter plane. "My boss called all upset, said you were bitching because I landed on Monhegan and threatened to go to the Feds.”

  We told him about the murders, the strong-arm tactics against the old couple, and the Mafia connection.

  "Wow...” He sat down slowly in a cushioned recliner in the lobby. "Both those guys killed? One of'em was an asshole, probably no great loss. The other one was a nice-seeming sort."

  Would not be hard to figure out which one was the asshole, I thought.

  "Look,” the pilot continued. "I plead guilty to landing on Monhegan. I had nothing to do with any murders or pushing two old people around. I didn't even get out of the helicopter while we were on Monhegan."

  "Who hired you?"

  "I don't know, truthfully. Charlie said the charter came out of Chicago. He said to tell you a company called Vittoria Enterprises wired the money for the two-day charter, in advance. The guy I dealt with was Tony Bilotti."

  "The asshole."

  "Yeah,” the pilot grunted. "You knew him?"

  "Just a lucky guess."

  "You spent the night in the area,” Chamberlain said. "Where?"

  "A motel in Thomaston. Bilotti had a van. He directed me to land in a field next to where it was parked. We'd unload the stuff into it and make another run. Made two trips the first day, and one the next."

  "What else can you tell us?" I prodded.

  "Not much. I had my own room at the motel. They disappeared right after we got there. Did not even invite me to eat with them. The next day, after the run, I flew over to Rockland, refueled, and headed to Portland."

  "Think hard, man. Did they say anything, mention any names, talk about money?"

  "I'd really like to help, but there's nothing else to tell. Are you guys gonna report the Monhegan thing to the Feds?"

  "We told you from the start what we're interested in. Let the FAA do their own police work. It won't come from us."

  "Just stay off Monhegan,” Chamberlain added.

  "No problem."

  We shook hands. He gathered up his passenger and walked out on the ramp towards the Huey.

  Halfway to the helicopter the pilot suddenly turned around and came back. "There was one thing. I don't know if it means a lot, but the other guy, the nice one, he kept saying something about his sister looking at the cargo. It stuck with me because I never saw a woman."

  "His sister?"

  "Yeah. He kept saying his sister was going to look at the cargo. The asshole would just nod, not seeming to pay any attention to the fact."

  "Okay, thanks." I waved good-bye. "Have a safe flight."

  "Wonder what that means?" Chamberlain asked.

  "Sandy said Nat was supposed to meet her at the gallery the Monday after he bought the Kent collection, if he bought it. Maybe the deal was a lot better than he thought, and he wanted her to see it. Then he and Bilotti got whacked before he could get in touch with her."

  "Could be,” Chamberlain said, watching the blades start to turn on the Huey.

  "We find the art work, we find the killer. Let's check out some truck rental agencies. Maybe we can find out something on this van. Then we need to call Gino Anastasio."

  "Right,” Chamberlain shouted, holding his ears against the whine of the turbine engine on the helicopter, leading the way out to the car.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Leaving the airport, we drove to Thomaston. Our first stop was the motel where the helicopter pilot said they had spent the night.

  "Yes,” the desk clerk said, looking at the old receipts. "There were two rooms paid for with cash by a Mr. Tony Bilotti."

  We had finally found where Nat Rinaldi stayed.

  "No,” the clerk said. "There was nothing left in the rooms. It is the slow season. We haven't rented them since. You're welcome to look, although they've been cleaned."

  We looked. There was nothing. Bilotti must have had a reason for putting Nat Rinaldi up here in Thomaston. He had stayed at the Navigator Inn. It could have been a mere unfamiliarity with the region. Rockland and Thomaston are only five miles apart. Thomaston is actually closer to Port Clyde than Rockland. It was something to keep in mind.

  Chamberlain called Sergeant Bowers and had him start checking with rental agencies on the van. Stopping by the Avis office in Thomaston produced nothing. They had not rented a van in over a month. We headed back to Rockland to call Mr. Gino Anastasio.

  Sergeant Bowers stopped us as we walked into the police department. The van, rented by Bilotti, came from the local Budget Truck Rental. He had paid cash. The van was left for pickup at the airport.

  "What airport?" I asked.

  "Here in Rockland, the Knox Country Airport."

  "They loaded the art collection aboard an aircraft and flew it out of here. We're getting close to Mr. Anastasio." Looking at Chamberlain, I said, "We'd better get back out to the airport, find out which airplane picked up Mr. Kent's life work. If it's a Gulfstream G-IV, we've got him cold."

  Junior was working the line at the airport. "No, sir,” he said assuredly. "The only time the G-IV landed here was the day Mr. Leicester went aboard."

  This was disappointing. "What about the other fixed-base operation? Could they have landed and parked over there without you knowing it? Is that possible?"

  "Not likely." Junior looked across the field toward the other operation and shook his head. "I work everyday from open up to closing. It's the slow time of year. We have little traffic except for a few locals. Over there, they close before we do, and don't sell jet fuel."

  "There was a rental van left here at the
airport on the night of the 16th. Do you remember it?" I pointed toward the parking lot. "Some people off-loaded cargo onto an aircraft."

  "Not while we were open for business. We usually close at midnight." Junior scratched his head. "They could have landed after we locked up. You could ask the night watchman, or one of our flight instructors. They sometimes fly late, conducting night lessons with students."

  "Can you check the aircraft rental logs and find out who may have been flying on that night?" I raised my voice over the noise of a small twin-engine plane that taxied up to the front door before shutting down the engines.

  "Yes, I can do that." Junior looked out at the airplane and frowned. "If the instructor was giving dual in the pilot's personal aircraft, we wouldn't have a record of it. He would be paid by the aircraft owner, not by us."

  "What time does the tower close?" I asked, hoping they would have kept a record of arriving and departing aircraft, maybe even an audiotape.

  "Same time we do. If it was after hours, you won't get any help there. Maybe you could check with Center?"

  It was a good idea. Aircraft arriving in the area would be handled by the local control center. It would be a bureaucratic nightmare getting information from them, though.

  "Thanks, Junior. That's a good idea. In the meantime, give us a list of the local flight instructors and the name of the night watchman."

  "I know the watchman,” Chamberlain spoke up. "He's a retired city policeman."

  Junior said they only had two flight instructors working out of the fixed-base operation. There were also two who worked across the field. He gave us all four names.

  Chamberlain and I drove to the Budget Rental Office and talked with the manager.

  "Yes,” he said, filling out a rental contract for a customer. "Someone called and left a message on our answering machine. They said the van was going to be left in the parking lot at the airport. That isn't allowed, leaving the van like that, but I didn't have a choice. I guess we were lucky there was no damage."

  We thanked the man, and drove back to the police station.

  Back at Chamberlain's office, I phoned Sandy. When she answered, I said, "Did your brother contact you after he arrived in Maine?"

  There was a short pause. "No, I was over in Gulfport with Guy Robbins making a bid on the estate sale of the Moran art collection."

  "You're absolutely sure Nat did not call you from up here?"

  "He didn't talk with me. The Answering Service said nothing about him calling and leaving a message." She paused again. "From the time we got the call at the restaurant about the body everything became chaotic. The Service could have overlooked it. Why do you ask?"

  Writing 'no call' in big letters on a pad, I held it up for Chamberlain to see. He nodded.

  "The helicopter pilot overheard Nat saying his sister was to look over the Kent artwork. He assumed it was to be that day by the way your brother said it."

  "Well, obviously he was wrong, Jay. I would certainly have gone over each piece with a fine-tooth comb before we decided to put it on the market. That would have been several days after the collection arrived here at the Gallery, though."

  "Okay. We are merely trying to tie up some loose ends before we contact Anastasio again. Would you check with your Service for me, just to be certain Nat didn't call while you were in Gulfport?"

  "Sure. I'll do it right now. You want me to call you back?"

  "No, it's not necessary. I'll be in touch with you tomorrow. You can tell me then."

  "Fine. I'll wait until I hear from you." We hung up.

  Shrugging my shoulders at Chamberlain, I said, "Her brother never called her from here."

  "I see." He made a notation in a file folder that I had not seen before.

  Looking at my watch, I said, "It's four o'clock. Why don't I take the flight instructors? You talk with the night watchman. If you will take me back to the Navigator, I'll pick up my car. We can meet for breakfast in the morning. I'd like to wait until we check out this movement of the art collection before we contact Anastasio."

  "Agreed." Chamberlain stood up. "What about fingerprinting the van. Think it's worth a shot?"

  Waving the thought away, I said, "After it was picked up at the airport, washed, wiped out, and readied for another customer? What would we learn if by some miracle a print showed up? We know Bilotti, Rinaldi, and the helicopter pilot were in the van."

  "You're right." He threw his pen on top of the file folder. "It was only a thought."

  * * *

  It was close to five o'clock when I arrived at the Knox County Airport. Deciding to stop by the smaller fixed-base operation first, I drove across the field to the other side from where Junior, the lineman, worked.

  The young lady behind the desk said both of their instructors were in the back, giving ground school. If I would have a seat, she'd see if they could take a break.

  My eyes wandered around the lobby. Aviation decor dominated the room. Most of it was as familiar to me as the back of my hand.

  A short while later, two young men came out from the rear of the building. Both wore leather flight jackets, sunglass cases strapped to their belts, and big wristwatches. They carried styrofoam cups of coffee.

  Introducing myself, we shook hands and I asked if either had been teaching on the nights in question. One said he had not flown at night in over three weeks. The other went to retrieve his personal logbook. "No,” he said, running his finger down a column of entries. "I was not flying on any of those nights."

  Neither of the instructors had noticed a van loading cargo on board an aircraft at the operation across the way. Thanking them both, I said good-bye and drove across the field to where Junior worked.

  Inside the office, I saw the flight instructor who I had met that night with Chamberlain. His name was Carl.

  He recognized me. "Oh, Mr. Leicester. Junior said you were asking about the van unloading some cargo into an airplane. Yeah, I saw them."

  "You did? Was it the G-IV?"

  "No, it wasn't a G-IV. It was one of those Hansa Jets. The one with the wings on backward."

  So disappointed at this information, I had trouble understanding what he was talking about. "Wings on backward?"

  "Yes, sir, the German made jet. You know, the wings slant forward instead of to the rear, like the wings of most jet aircraft." Carl spread his arms and angled them forward, emulating the sweep of an aircraft's wings.

  Then I remembered. The Hansa Jet, sure, a roomy, German built, corporate aircraft with the wings swept forward. It did not sell well in the United States for many reasons, the least being its short range.

  "When was it here, Carl? Tell me everything you can remember about seeing it. Also, I need to know about the people in the van."

  "It was the night of the sixteenth. I was giving dual in a twin Comanche. We landed around ten p.m. The Hansa Jet was sitting on the ramp with the right engine running. The van was already pulling away."

  "You didn't see anyone in the van?"

  "No, I only saw it pulling away from the Hansa Jet. We shut our engines down and walked over to the office. I remember the copilot of the jet talking on the payphone outside the building, trying to get a clearance. The noise of the engine was drowning out her ability to hear."

  "Her? It was a female copilot?"

  "Yes. I unlocked the door and invited her inside to use the phone away from the whine of the engine. She came in, got her clearance, and left."

  "Did you hear the clearance, where they were headed? Or maybe an 'N' number?"

  "We were going over a post-flight, I didn't pay attention. Sorry."

  "What did she look like? Can you describe her?"

  "Around twenty-five, short, brown hair, slim figure. That's all I remember."

  "Thanks, Carl. If you remember anything else, please give me or Detective Chamberlain a call."

  "Will do, Mr. Leicester. You might want to check with old Johnson, the night watchman. He let the van in through the g
ate to get out on the ramp."

  "Good idea. Detective Chamberlain is talking to him. Thanks again, Carl."

  Heading back toward Rockland, I thought of ways to find out where the Hansa Jet originated and where it took the Kent collection. Most important of all, though, I wanted to know who hired the aircraft.

  There was no moon and it was dark when I turned onto Highway One, heading for town. Suddenly, up ahead to my right, I saw something I did not know still existed, an outdoor theater, or drive-in movie. Pulling over to the side of the road, I watched two men beating each other on the tall, lighted screen that rose against the night sky like a giant dream of violence. After a few minutes, I drove on, feeling an ominous chill, like an omen of bad things to come.

  Henry was standing behind the registration desk with a serious expression on his usually happy face. "Lose your best friend, Henry?" I asked, walking up and leaning on the counter.

  "No, not really. There is a message for you." He looked down at some paperwork, obviously not in the mood for conversation.

  "Okay. How about waking me up at seven in the morning?"

  "Sure, no problem." He reached under the counter and pulled out an envelope. "It's from Mabel."

  "It must be awful bad news for you to be so somber."

  "It is." He shuffled papers on the desk.

  "I'll read it up in the room. Good night, Henry."

  "Seven a.m.,” he said, referring to the wake up call.

  Checking my room carefully, I found no one had bothered anything. Anastasio having my magnum had tightened me up.

  Pouring two fingers from a bottle of Martel cognac I'd bought earlier, I cut the end off one of my Ernesto P. Carrillos, fifty-four ring, seven inch, long filler cigars, all the while eyeing the envelope. Picking it up, I walked out onto the balcony.

  Lighting the cigar, I looked out across the bay. A full moon had risen and hung in the sky above the sea, like a flat, round spotlight without rays, a haze of light floating in space, not reaching the surface, and the illumination seemed to come from the white brightness of the cold water.