by JC Simmons
Without realizing it, my voice had risen in a crescendo. Lack of sleep had me on edge.
"Jesus, man,” Annie said, looking at me weirdly. "Take it easy. If I can find the ticket, I'll tell you exactly what he bought."
A receipt. I had not thought about her writing a ticket for the purchases. I continued moving around the tables, searching.
"Here it is,” Annie said, holding up the ticket. "Everything is listed. He paid in cash. You want to look?"
I read Annie's neat printing on the ticket.
1 Wool cap..................$4.99
1 pair wool mittens..........6.99
1 hand painted bandanna.....11.69
Tax...... 1.66
Total...$23.67
"Yes, that's it. Do you have any more of these hand painted bandannas?"
"All this for a bandanna? You're here at five a.m. for an Indian scarf?"
The door at the rear of the chandlery slammed shut. A man stood looking at us. "Annie? What's going on?" He walked hesitantly toward us. Then he recognized me. "Leicester, what are you doing here this time of day?"
"He's looking to buy one of those Bandannas hand painted by the Indians."
"What?" He cocked his head and looked at me earnestly with a faint, ugly smirk.
"It's true,” Annie said. "He's been sitting out in the parking lot all night, waiting to buy an Indian scarf."
"Leicester?" Barstein walked up close to me. His breath smelled of cigarettes and stale coffee. He stared, blinking rapidly. He had long eyelashes. They gave the black eyes an effeminate quality that made a stunning contrast to the brutish face with the jagged, welted scar.
"I can explain." I held up both hands in front of me in the cold air of the chandlery. At least I hoped I could.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
We sat in the unmarked police car at the Augusta airport, waiting. The sky was gray, and a low overcast hung depressingly across the landscape. Visibility hovered around a half mile. Intermittent rain fell bringing a damp chill to the air. J.L. kept the engine running to defrost the windshield. The wipers, set to pause, would swipe across the glass every thirty seconds, clearing away the mist, and revealing the airport runway.
J.L. sat calmly peering out through the windshield, his scholarly-like face not giving away his inner thoughts. He would have made a good poker player. I wondered if he did play.
We would watch as aircraft suddenly appeared through the dense fog, touch down on the wet runway, and throw up thick, foamy spray as the crew reversed the engines.
"I've often wondered how they do that?" J.L. asked, more to himself than to me.
"Do what?" I wiped at some fog forming on the inside of the windshield.
"Find the airport on days like today. The aircraft appear like ghosts from the clouds, perfectly lined up to land. It has always been amazing to me."
Laughing, I thought of how many days like today I had flown airplanes down to landing minimums, sometimes seeing the runway, sometimes not. "Maybe someday I will explain to you how it's done." It would take too much time to do it now. There were other things to think about.
"Humph,” J.L. grunted. He pushed up his shirtsleeve and looked at his watch. "What time is this flight due in?"
"About ten minutes ago. They're probably running late due to the weather. The airport only came up to landing minimums a half-hour ago. There were probably several planes stacked up in a holding pattern waiting for the visibility to improve."
J.L. didn't say anything. He stared out the windshield, watching a Boeing 737 reversing its engines, kicking up spray.
* * *
Leaving the chandlery two days ago, I had driven back to J.L.'s home and explained what I'd found. We made our plans, working them through as thoroughly as we could. Now we sat waiting for Sandy Rinaldi to arrive from New Orleans. It was necessary for her to return to Rockland in order to wrap up the investigation.
Convincing Sandy to make the trip all the way back to Maine took some doing, but she finally relented.
We watched the new-generation turboprop commuter aircraft taxi up to the gate. The ground crew immediately rolled a cart filled with umbrellas out to the exit door of the plane.
Sandy was the first to debark. Even from a distance one could recognize her tall, lithe frame. Blond hair flowed down around her shoulders. Sharp, high cheekbones and dark eyebrows were a stark contrast to the gray, cloud-covered morning. She held the umbrella high above her head and moved swiftly toward the terminal with a determined stride. Her white, long-sleeved blouse, black slacks, and high-heeled shoes looked expensive and professional. She was an impressive woman. I could not escape the feeling of admiration I experienced the first time we met.
J.L. and I went inside the terminal. Sandy was standing straight, her head level. The planes of her face had a military cleanliness of precision and a feminine fragility. Her hands hung still, by her sides, parallel with the long straight lines of her black slacks. She spotted me and waved.
Walking to where she stood, I kissed her on the cheek. Her perfume wrapped around me like a warm embrace, reminding me of pleasant things long passed. She greeted me with overt cheerfulness. Her eyes switched back and forth across mine, inviting me to browse among her thoughts.
"I'm so glad to be off that little airplane. We've been circling around up there for over an hour. The pilot said at one point that if the fog didn't lift in ten minutes we would have to divert to Lewiston, wherever that is?" She shook her head, an ash-blond wisp falling across her face. She brushed it back with a flair.
"Well, I'm glad your plane landed here."
Sandy looked up and recognized J.L. "Hello, Detective Chamberlain. It's good to see you again."
"Sandy,” J.L. said, extending his hand. "Welcome back to the North Country. Hope your trip wasn't too bad."
"It was fine except for the last hour. I'm here safe and sound, though."
"Let's retrieve your luggage before someone else does." I pointed toward baggage claim.
"I only have one small bag." She handed me the boarding pass with the baggage tag stapled to the inside. "It's blue with a red ribbon tied to the handle." She made a tightening, sidewise movement with her hips, the equivalent of a shrug, and walked toward the front of the terminal. J.L. winked at me and followed her.
Sandy settled into the backseat of the unmarked police car. She sat straight, the lines of her face relaxed, the shape of her mouth softened by the faint, purposeful suggestion of a smile.
Putting the bag into the trunk, we headed back to Rockland. The weather was getting worse. Wind gusted and shook the car; scud blew across the highway obstructing visibility. Chamberlain drove slowly and carefully.
We rode in silence for a few miles.
"Oh, by the way." Sandy tapped me on the shoulder. "Guy Robbins said to tell you hello. I called him yesterday morning before leaving New Orleans concerning some business we needed to discuss. I told him I would be seeing you today."
"Thanks. It's always nice to hear from Guy."
Chamberlain parked in the doorway of the Navigator Inn. He unlocked the trunk for me. As I retrieved Sandy's bag he said he would make sure Sergeant Bowers stayed put at the police station tomorrow. I nodded in agreement.
"I'll see you both in the morning." He got back in the car and started the engine.
Sandy and I waved good-bye.
* * *
The cold front of yesterday was gone. The sky was crisp and clear with a sharp, cold wind gusting across Penobscot bay. It was the ending of winter, the beginning of spring in the North Country.
We had set up a meeting with Gino Anastasio this morning. Chamberlain was right on time. Sandy and I were waiting in the lobby of the Navigator Inn.
We could see the airplane from the road as we drove into the Knox County Airport. The sleek, twenty-five million dollar Gulfstream G-IV glistened in the bright morning sun. We drove out on the ramp to the airplane. As we approached, the airstair door opened and our familiar es
cort came down the stairs. J.L. stopped the car and shut the engine off.
"Good morning, Detective Chamberlain, Mr. Leicester, Ms. Rinaldi,” the well-dressed young man said. "Mr. Anastasio is ready for you. Please follow me."
"We're meeting him aboard his airplane? Why are we doing it this way?" Sandy asked with a smile that was amused, astonished, and involuntarily contemptuous.
"It's the only way he'll see us, Sandy. You've got to remember who this guy is, one of the most powerful Mafia figures in the world."
Chamberlain and I got out of the car and he opened the door for Sandy. Turning, I looked at her. What I saw was the easy, casual figure of a woman in a natural setting. I noted the uncommon lightness of her posture; a weightless way of standing that showed an expert control of the use of her own body. A tall body in simple garments; a thin blouse, light slacks, a belt around a nonexistent waistline, and loose silky hair that glittered like tinsel in the wafting wind. We went aboard.
The flight crew still sat in their seats, staring out the windscreen, probably ashamed of their employer, but cashing the paychecks just the same. The hum of the auxiliary power unit was soft and soothing, keeping the climate aboard to a comfortable level.
Sandy paused and looked around at the plush interior. She was impressed, but she didn't comment. J.L., as before, looked around, shook his head, and continued down the aisle of the cabin toward the onboard office with the oval table.
"The policemen and the woman are here,” the young man said, announcing us.
Anastasio glanced up, said nothing, waved us into the leather chairs around the table. He wore the same blue jump suit, sat in the same seat. His cadaver-like appearance had not changed. Sandy was shocked at the man before her. She could not prevent the jolt of surprise that threw her head up.
"How about some coffee?" I turned and looked at the young man.
He smiled at me. "Anybody else?" He said with a bored tone in his voice.
"Nothing for me,” Chamberlain said. Sandy shook her head.
"Rinaldi, the art dealer,” Gino said in his shaky, squeaky voice, the blue veins pulsating across the thin skin of the balding head. "I wondered what you would look like in person."
Sandy said nothing, but she held his glance. I saw the faint movement I'd noted as typical of her: the movement of her proudly intractable mouth curving into the hint of a smile.
A smirky grin stretched across Anastasio's ruined teeth. The scraggly, thin hair waved in the air as he nodded his grotesque head. Looking up at me and waving a bony arm, he said, "You're lucky to have such a client, Mr. Leicester. So beautiful, too." He looked back at Sandy with a leer.
Sandy crossed her legs and continued to look at Anastasio, staring directly into his evil, black eyes, but she remained silent. J.L. shifted position in his seat and crossed his arms. The suit returned with my coffee, placed it gently on the table, and disappeared.
"Your phone call was quite interesting. I was forced to cancel several important meetings and make many changes to arrive here today." His cold eyes stared into mine. The ugly grin changed from a smile to a sneer as he spoke, seemingly uncontrollable and unconnected to the content of his words. A bony arm waved an arc across the breadth of the cabin. "Let's proceed."
"Yes, Mr. Anastasio, it is time." Setting the coffee cup and saucer on the table, I said, "First, let me say we appreciate you taking time to come to Rockland for this meeting, time away from your business."
Sandy shifted position in her chair and raised her eyes at me with the rhythmical abruptness of the involuntary. Chamberlain uncrossed his arms and sat erect in his seat.
Anastasio raised his bony arm, and nodded.
Laying the thick file folder on the table, I opened it up. Everything was there, neatly, thoroughly prepared and typed. The latest fax copies were stapled to the inside of the front cover. "You know,” I said, looking at Anastasio. "We could never figure a motive for a man of your power to so overtly hit a mole like Tony Bilotti. Most murders are done for revenge, spite, money, possessions, or by an irate family member. None of these things fit. If you wanted Bilotti whacked, why do so in such a high profile manner? Then kill an unknown art dealer at the same time, adding more publicity? All this wouldn't wash, not with me, not with Detective Chamberlain."
Sandy, looking intently at me, uncrossed, then recrossed her legs. The fabric of her slacks made a swishing noise. Chamberlain remained silent, unmoving.
I continued. "The odd thing was the Rockwell Kent art collection. Your statement that you acquired, 'or paid a fair price for,' I believe were your words, the collection as a gift for your wife put you at the scene. The fact that she wanted a Norman Rockwell collection was irrelevant. Then we found out that your mole roughed up an innocent old couple on your instructions to extort the Kent collection from them for the sins of their grandson. That kept you involved. But the motive? The missing four hundred and fifty thousand in cash means nothing to a man of your power and wealth. You, yourself, said you paid your chauffeur as much in a year. The motive. It still eluded us."
Anastasio's death grin stretched tightly across the transparent skin on his ugly head. He nodded at what I was saying, but made no other comment.
Turning over a page in the file, I said, "Your open cooperation and honesty confused us at first. We thought it was a way of learning how our investigation was progressing, finding out what information we were garnering, a way for you to prepare a defense for your mistakes. But if you wanted that kind of information you would have tried to buy it. You didn't do that. Not from Detective Chamberlain, not from me, and not from any of the hard working, but poorly paid officers of the Rockland Police Department who were working with us. Every time we thought we could put you in the middle of these murders, we'd run into a brick wall. There were only two conclusions to draw: you were too smart for us, or you were...innocent."
The swiftness with which Sandy's eyes moved to me was an involuntary answer to an unexpected question, but the swiftness with which they moved away – to look down at the table, at the cabin walls, at Chamberlain, anywhere but at me – was the conscious answer to the meaning of the question.
Anastasio's grin grew even tighter across his ruined teeth. The man was enjoying this. For that I was sorry. J.L. looked at me and nodded. Things were on schedule.
Beads of sweat appeared on Sandy's face. She wiped a finger under her right eye. Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out a handkerchief. It was a large, hand painted bandanna made by local Indians. I had purchased it from the chandlery the other morning at 5:30 a.m. Offering it to Sandy, I said, "Here, do you need this?"
"Thank you." She reached for the handkerchief, taking it without looking. Then, seeing it for the first time, her head jerked up. It was only an instant pause, her eyes did not move, but it seemed to me that her glance was stressed, as if in special awareness of seeing me. Deep down in the inner core of her brain synapses fired between neurons. Electric current made connections faster than any computer ever designed, creating memory, analyzing data. Finally, realization turned to undeniable truth.
The look of a peculiar panic grew in her eyes. It was not the look of understanding, but of a ferocious refusal to understand – as if she wanted to turn the violence of her emotion into a fog screen, and she hoped that it would not blind her to reality, but that her blindness would make reality cease to exist.
Taking a deep breath, I sat back in my chair, placed both hands in my lap, and looked out the oval cabin window of the plush corporate jet. I was going to both hate and enjoy the next half-hour.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Gino Anastasio sat up erect in his seat. It was the first time he had done this. He seemed much taller than I imagined. "Give me the bandanna. Where did this come from?"
Sandy turned from me and looked at Anastasio. She reluctantly, hesitantly pushed the bandanna toward him.
Taking it, he sat back in a slouch, managing to make his sloppy posture look insolent.
L
ooking over at J.L. to see if he agreed it was time to reveal all that we knew, he nodded and crossed his arms.
"It's made by local native Indians." Looking at Sandy, I saw that she sat rigid, staring down at her lap. "They are sold only at three places, the ferry dock here in Rockland, the chandlery in Port Clyde, and at the general store on Monhegan Island."
Turning to Sandy, I pointed to Anastasio and said, "Are you going to make me lay it all out, here, in front of this man?"
She raised her head a little, there was no perceptible change in her posture, and any suggestion of defiance came from the faintly stressed spacing of her words. "I don't know what you're talking about. Lay what out?"
Sighing, I removed some pages from the folder, truly hating to do this in front of Anastasio, even though we had insisted he be here, and had told him all about it. I still didn't like it. Though we did have something in store for him, later.
Anastasio stayed in his slouched position, laced his ugly, bony fingers together. His hands appeared raw and red, the hands of a germ phobic. He spoke in that irritating voice. "Amateurs should never commit murder. They always make mistakes. To fix a pipe one should always call a plumber."
Sandy did not answer. She sat still and her face was expressionless, but her eyes seemed too large and they were fixed on mine, as if she were now intent upon nothing but hearing me to the end.
J.L. suddenly stood up. "Get on with it, Jay."
"Sandy, we know just about everything. The man's right, you made several mistakes. The biggest one, besides the two murders, was hiring Guy Robbins to handle your brother's estate. He checked on your financial affairs and found out you both were broke. It didn't matter to you that he knew. You just never figured on his telling me."
The ferocious spring with which she whirled to me was involuntary, as was the naked twist of hatred in her face. "What difference does this make? Renato and I made some bad investments. You act like I killed my brother. That's ridiculous. Why are you doing this?"
