TURTLE DOVE (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 7)

by Lawrence de Maria

  Anna Banana

  PS: Please take care of yourself, Sam Sam!

  When I looked up, Sam Dickson said, “Those are our pet names for each other.”

  I glanced at Alice. I knew what she was thinking.

  This probably was not going to end up well for the Dicksons.

  CHAPTER 12 - FINGERPRINTS

  “I have to go back to Ecuador,” Sam Dickson said. “My plane leaves in a couple of hours.”

  I knew he was miserable about that. But he had no choice, he explained. It was a small mission, for wayward children, and his church was counting on him. His trip back to the United States was a small tragedy for the kids he worked with.

  “Did you find anything among Anna’s possessions at school relating to Harper?”

  “You mean like the book copy Harper signed? That was one of the first things I looked for. She probably took it with her when she went back to Bald Head.”

  “I have my copy,” Alice said.

  And I had mine, someplace.

  “That should be enough,” I thought out loud.

  “Enough for what, Mr. Rhode?”

  “Never mind, Sam. Look. You get on a plane. I’ll stay in touch. I won’t tell you not to worry, but I’ll do my best to find Anna.”

  “Are you a religious man, sir?”

  “I think ‘spiritual’ might best sum me up. Is that good enough?”

  “Of course. I just meant that I will pray for you.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I meant it. Something told me I was going to need every edge I could get.

  ***

  “What do you think happened to Anna?”

  We were having an early dinner at the Red Lion on Bleeker Street.

  “My money is on dead,” I said, biting into my roasted turkey sandwich. I looked at Alice. “And so is yours.”

  She nodded, sadly. She had barely touched her vegetarian quiche, being content to nibble on the salad that came with it. The Red Lion is noted for its burgers and beers, and I was pleasantly surprised that we weren’t asked to leave when we ordered our food and a bottle of white wine. But after my Grizzly Burger lunch splurge, I was taking it easy. Alice is no vegan, but I could tell she had little appetite after our conversation with Sam Dickson. She was really helping me out with the wine, however, another sign of her distress.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I agree with Sam that whatever happened to his sister probably happened on Bald Head. I’ll start there. If I come up empty I’ll go to Fayetteville and track her movements from when she left school.”

  “Why?”

  There’s a chance the police and Sam missed something along the way. It happens, more than you think. Investigating is different than you see on those cop shows on TV, where all you have to do is call up cell towers, or use facial recognition, DNA and fingerprints on a computer terminal linked to some database with a funny name. I suppose it’s necessary for TV, otherwise each show would run about a month, rather than an hour.”

  The Red Lion was beginning to fill up with a date crowd. The jazz band would go on in an hour. Something was bothering me.

  “Fingerprints!”

  Alice looked at me.

  “What about them?”

  “I wanted to compare the signatures on the books Harper signed for you and me. I almost forgot about fingerprints.”

  “Wouldn’t the signatures be the same?” She frowned. “You’re thinking they are forged. But then they’d still be the same.”

  “Maybe. But it’s not easy to fake a signature. It takes effort, and maybe there would be a variation. Didn’t the woman cross out something on yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “It may mean nothing. But I’m going to have someone look at both signatures. And I need both books to check her fingerprints.”

  “Why both books? Wouldn’t one set of prints be enough?”

  “Did you handle your copy?”

  “Some?”

  “Anyone else?’

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Same with my copy. I’ve hardly touched mine and no one else has. I threw it on a table. It’s still there. So, after your prints and mine are eliminated, as well as any odd ones, two sets of similar prints should be Harper’s.”

  “But how will you know they are hers? I doubt if she is in any database.”

  “The real Harper’s probably wouldn’t be. But I’m counting on them not being hers. And if she is an impostor, she may have a record and be in the system.”

  “So, a database with a funny name may come in handy.”

  “I bet you were dying to say that.”

  We walked back to Alice’s apartment to collect her copy of The Lighthouse Chronicles.

  “It really is crappy,” Alice said as I slid it gingerly into a plastic bag in her kitchen. “Anna was right. I had a hard time finishing it.”

  “I thought you read it on Bald Head.”

  “I started it, but you kept distracting me with your sexual demands.”

  “My sexual demands! Hell, I think I missed a couple of meals because you are so insatiable. And I don’t miss many meals.”

  I took her in my arms and kissed her.

  “You mean to tell me that if the book was any good, you wouldn’t put out?”

  “You’re lucky it wasn’t Gone With the Wind.”

  “I’m reading a good book now,” I said, pressing her closer.

  “And what might that be,” she said huskily.

  “The Quickie and the Dead.”

  Alice laughed.

  “Right here? On my kitchen counter? Who does that?”

  “You just haven’t watched enough cop shows,” I said.

  It wasn’t the most-comfortable lovemaking we’d enjoyed, until the very end, when it got very enjoyable and neither of us gave a damn. After we caught our breath, Alice looked on the floor.

  “I had that crock pot forever.”

  “I’ll buy you a new one that you will also never use.”

  Alice sighed, contentedly.

  “Well, at least we found out something I can do well in the kitchen.”

  CHAPTER 13 - BAGELS

  The next morning I drove to St. George and pulled up in front of the building next to Borough Hall that houses the offices of the Staten Island District Attorney. There has never been enough parking in St. George, which drives local merchants crazy, since most of the few spots available are taken up by cars with “Official” license plates and medallions belonging to cops, court officers, judges, correction officers, Borough Hall staff and the other municipal employees who populate what is the civil nexus of Staten Island. A spanking new courthouse on Center Street and huge private development near the Staten Island Yankee minor-league ballpark has only exacerbated the problem.

  I grabbed a parking spot about 20 feet from the front door. The slot was marked “For Official Vehicles Only”, so I reached into my glove box for a medallion that said “Chaplain: United States Marine Corps” and placed it prominently on my dashboard. It was fake, of course. The Navy has chaplains, who serve with the Marines. For added effect, I hung some rosary beads from my rear-view mirror.

  I was carrying several bags with me, and they were checked by the security guards inside the entrance. Two of the bags had warm bagels in them, and I lost a couple to the guards, who knew me and let my gun through without a quibble. If anyone ever wants to blow up the building, all they would have to do is make some bagels out of C-4 plastic explosive.

  When I walked into the detectives’ room at the Staten Island District Attorney’s office in St. George, I nodded at a couple of the cops I knew and dumped the bags of bagels on an empty desk. Then I went over to where Cormac Levine was sitting reading the comics and pulled up a chair. He looked up from the paper.

  “I can’t decide whether I like Classic Peanuts better than Doonesbury,” he said.

  “I’m a Tundra fan myself,” I said.

  “They all
make more sense than the goddamn news.”

  “I won’t argue that,” I said, and held up the two plastic bags with a copy of Harper’s alleged latest novel in each. “Since we’re talking literature, I think you might find these more interesting.”

  “Jesus,” Cormac said. “I know pornography when I see it. But they must be something else if you won’t even touch them.”

  “Get your mind out of the gutter, Mack. These aren’t porno books. For one thing, I don’t think they are as well-written. I need some forensic help with these.”

  “So, we’re talking fingerprints.”

  I could hear the bags on the other table being opened.

  “And handwriting analysis. You must have some friends in the crime lab in Queens who do that sort of thing.”

  “Of course. What do I get out of it?’

  “Whatever is left in those bags over there.”

  “Bagels.”

  “Lots. And all sorts of cream cheeses, some with little green specks in them.”

  “Is this a Staten Island crime we’re talking about?”

  Cormac Levine and I went back a long way. I saved his career once when a child molester fell off a balcony while in his custody. I didn’t actually see it, and I don’t think the pervert was trying to escape. But I swore he was. Since then, we have been involved in all sorts of cases, some even legal, and we’ve stopped worrying about who owes who what. But Cormac, who was once persona non grata in these very offices, is now head of the D.A.’s detective squad and still the best cop I know. So, he wants in on any local crime.

  “No. The bad stuff, if it even happened, probably happened in North Carolina. But if I’m right, there may be a juicy publishing scandal you can help me break in Manhattan.”

  “A fucking publishing scandal? Have you lost your mind?”

  “Just listen.”

  “Hold on. I’ll get us some coffee. Go score us some bagels. I want a sesame seed with a smear of the first cream cheese you come across.”

  When we were both settled with our breakfast, I told him everything, which took some time. At one point he stopped me to yell over to some other detectives.

  “If I find those bags empty later, I’ll shoot someone.”

  “I’ve seen you on the range,” one of the cops replied. “I’ll take my chances.”

  After I finished my story, Cormac sat back and put his arms behind his head.

  “Let me get this straight, if it’s possible. You and Alice went to a glorified sand bar for the wedding of the hooker who almost got you killed once. A hooker I helped you identify by her fingerprints on a Coke can, if memory serves me right. Said call girl is now reformed and married a billionaire, and you gave her away.”

  “I think she would prefer the term ‘escort’.”

  “I’m sure she would. You know, I’ve heard all about hookers with a heart of gold. But this one is now made of gold. But I digress. So, after the wedding, you went to a book signing by one of the most famous authors in the world, who you think may be an impostor. And a young girl who you helped get an autograph at the book signing is now missing, and you think she has been murdered.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  “You did say it, except not as concisely. And your only possible proof may be in these two bags.”

  Mack nodded at the books.

  “Yeah.” I reached into my pocket for a small envelope and handed it to him. “There’s an index card in there with my prints and Alice’s, labeled with our names. Mine are in the system of course, but it might make it easier for your tech boys.”

  Levine laughed.

  “Yeah. I’m pretty sure your prints are in a lot of systems. But a lot of people may have handled those books.”

  “Not as many as you think. They came out of a box with all new books. The outside may have some prints, so forget them. But the first couple of pages, with the autographs, should only have a few. I seem to remember the old lady holding down the pages with her left hand as she signed them with her right hand.”

  “Which the real Harper wouldn’t do, if what the girl said in her letter is true. The author being left-handed, and all.”

  “It’s nice to see you’ve been paying attention.”

  I was kidding, of course. Cormac always paid attention. He could relate our conversation word-for-word if he had to. Now, he turned serious.

  “What does Alice think about all this malarkey?”

  “She agrees with me.”

  “Well, at least there’s that.” Cormac had a high opinion of Alice. “How does she get along with your escort friend?”

  “They’re thick as thieves.”

  “Of course. If Alice can put up with you, she can put up with anybody. I’m still a little fuzzy on how you and the happy hooker have reconnected.”

  Cormac was in Ireland during my last case, which involved Laurene. I hadn’t gotten around to telling him about it yet, since there were several felonies involved. On my part, with lots of help from Maks Kalugin.

  “Here’s the short version.”

  Without the felonies, it was indeed pretty short, but Cormac still held up his hand half way through the abridged version.

  “Stop! I can’t take anymore. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll have someone look at the signatures and try to match the prints.”

  “You’ll do what?” a voice behind me said.

  I turned and smiled up at District Attorney Mike Sullivan, who had just come out of his office.

  “Mack is going to run some prints and stuff for me.”

  “What about your laundry?”

  “That was last week.”

  “I think there is a law, or at least an ordinance, about using city employees for private business,” Sullivan said.

  “That’s why I brought in two bags of bagels.”

  “You think my office will roll over for some damn bagels?”

  “I got a couple extra with poppy seeds for you.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Sullivan said, heading toward the bags. “Levine, what are you waiting for? Get cracking. Help the man out.”

  Mack held up one of the book bags.

  “This is her picture on the back cover? Does it look like the woman you saw?”

  “That photo is 40 years old and in black-and-white. Sure, it bears a vague resemblance to my Harper, but that’s to be expected. If someone is running a scam, they’d look for a substitute with similar features.”

  “Yeah. I guess an albino dwarf might raise questions. You gonna go to the publisher with your theory?”

  “God, no. I need rock-solid proof. I don’t want to get sued.”

  “What about the guy who married the reformed, ah, escort? Lowenthal?”

  “It’s Lewinsohn. You’re Jewish for Christ’s sake. How can you get the name wrong?”

  “I’m not Jewish for Christ’s sake, thank you very much. I’m Jewish for Jehovah’s sake. After listening to your story, I’m not sure I could get my own name right.”

  “Well, I can’t go to Barry yet, either. Same reason. If the investment bank gets a whiff of this, they might dump Albatross. That’s the publisher. And if I’m wrong I will have created a lot of damage for no reason. Besides, if there is something fishy and I create a stink, whoever is behind it may go to ground. I want to find out what happened to Anna Dickson first.”

  Sullivan walked by, chewing.

  “Damned good bagels, Rhode.”

  He went into his office.

  “Mike’s gonna have little black seeds in his teeth all day,” Cormac said. “He’s giving a luncheon speech to the Urban League later. I wonder if I should tell him.”

  I knew Mack wouldn’t.

  CHAPTER 14 - LEON

  Cormac told me not to expect any answers from the crime lab for at least a week, so I drove to my office to catch up on some work, which much to my surprise and delight, had actually come my way recently.

  “As it is,” he said, “I’ll hav
e to tell the lab boys that this is an important cold case, so they don’t get too curious. I haven’t used the Lindbergh baby in a while. Might be a good time.”

  When I got to my office, there were three black people in it. Abby Jones was the only one who really belonged there. Abby, whose given name is Habika, originally worked the security desk in the lobby of my building. She had put in 20 years in the Army, retiring as a staff sergeant in the Military Police. When I met her she was a divorced mother working to put a daughter through college. We bonded over a shared love of eggplant parmigiana sandwiches from the Red Lantern tavern in nearby Rosebank. It was soon apparent that she was wasted on a security desk and I hired her part-time. She had half-brothers who were, respectively, a cable technician whose red-tape cutting made me the envy of the building, and Leon, an oft-arrested former gang banger turned minor crime boss who also occasionally came in handy. I soon made her my full-time business manager, and my office suite was now the Pine-Sol center of Staten Island. Her knowledge of criminology and her military contacts had helped me solve several cases, and I paid for her to get her own private investigator’s license.

  One of the two black men standing next to Abby’s desk was her brother Leon, the on-again, off-again felon. He had obviously finished his most-recent stretch in jail. I also recognized, but had never met, the other man. It was the Rev. Rufus T. Futterman, pastor of the Fox Hills Baptist Church in one of Staten Island’s more-blighted neighborhoods and a local political firebrand.

  “I believe you know my brother, Leon, Alton. And this is Rev. Futterman.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen his picture on TV.” I shook both their hands. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “I told the Reverend that you might be able to help us out,” Leon said.

  In fact, I did owe Leon a favor for some help he gave me on a sting I ran against some jewel thieves a while back. But I wondered about the “us”.

  “Let’s go into my office,” I said.

  As we walked away I spied a brown Amazon box on Abby’s desk, which was cluttered with files, newspaper clippings and computer printouts. Abby is not a clutterer. The printer in the corner was clacking away and spewing out more material. Something was up.