Blind Overlook

by JC Simmons

  I laughed.

  "Why thank you, kind sir. If you weren't a Yankee, I would take you for a true southern gentleman."

  Chamberlain and I both laughed.

  After the dinner, which was only twelve bucks a person plus the wine, Chamberlain drove us back to the Navigator Inn. He was strangely quiet during the drive. The phone call must still be bothering him. We watched as he drove away, then went up to our rooms.

  Sandy said she was tired and full and was going to turn in. We said good night. Leaving her at her door, I walked out on my balcony. Lights on the islands in the bay twinkled in the cool night air. The ferry was unloading people and cars at the dock straight across the street from where I stood.

  My phone rang. The desk clerk, Henry, I thought. No doubt wanting to catch up on the latest. Picking up the receiver, I had no time to say anything.

  "Leicester, it's J.L.,” he said, sounding rather depressed.

  "What's up, J.L.?" I asked, sitting down on the bed. "You alright? You don't sound so good."

  "I didn't want to say anything at dinner in front of Sandy, but the phone call I got; we have another body. Washed up down by Tenant's Harbor. It matches the photograph. I just wanted to be sure. I'll run the prints."

  "I understand, J.L., thanks for calling. I'll be in touch with you in the morning."

  Hanging the phone up, I stood there for a moment looking out the sliding glass doors toward the Atlantic Ocean and Europe. Maybe I should tell Sandy. After all, she was my client. Nat Rinaldi is, or was, her brother.

  Lightly tapping my fist on the doorframe, I made a decision to allow her a good night's sleep. Death could be dealt with tomorrow. Chamberlain would have the rest of the night to work on a positive identification of the body they fished out of Tenant's Harbor. Maybe he could get a match on the fingerprints.

  What I needed was a drink. The small courtesy bar contained assorted liquors. Finding two tiny bottles of Courvoisier cognac, I opened both, pouring them into a wineglass. Carefully cutting the end off one of my seven inch, fifty-four ring, long filler, handmade, Ernesto P. Carrillos cigars, crafted by old country Tabaquero's on Calle Ocho in the heart of Miami, I carefully lit it, admiring the aroma. It's been my habit to never travel without them.

  The wind was calm on the balcony. The cigar smoke curled slowly upward, a bluish-gray line dividing the black void of my world into two equal halves. Checking Sandy's balcony to be sure she wasn't curled up in a corner, I sat in one of the wooden chairs, and propped my feet up on the railing.

  Tony Bilotti was dead. Now, almost surely, Nat Rinaldi was dead. Four hundred and fifty thousand in cash hadn't turned up. A collection of artwork by an artist named Rockwell Kent was probably stolen, also.

  A boat, invisible except for a white masthead light and a red portside running light, made its way northward in Penobscot bay. Here I sat on a balcony, in a strange motel, in the State of Maine. As usual, surrounded by dead bodies, unhappy clients, and missing tangibles people think are worth human lives.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The water was cold, icy cold, and black. Something was pulling me down, down. Unable to breathe, I was drowning. Something pulling me to the place where the dead who do not die, but may not live, wander aimlessly forever.

  Awaking with a start, I was covered with sweat, sheets wrapped tightly around my neck. The phone was ringing.

  "Yes,” I said into the foul smelling handset.

  "Leicester?" It was Chamberlain. "I'm downstairs, meet me for coffee, I have some more information. We need to take Sandy for a positive I.D."

  "What time is it?" I asked, trying to shake off the nightmare.

  "Jesus, Leicester, it's eight-thirty. You're not still in bed?"

  "I'll be there in half an hour."

  Dialing Sandy's room and getting no answer, I headed for the shower.

  After dressing, I dialed Sandy's room again. Still no answer. Walking out on the balcony, I peaked over into hers. She was not there. On the way to the elevator, I knocked on her door. Nothing. Where could she be?

  Waving at Henry who was standing behind the registration desk, he smiled, and gave me a half salute.

  Entering the restaurant, I was relieved to find Sandy sitting with Chamberlain.

  "Better late, than never,” she said jokingly as I sat down.

  Chamberlain hadn't told her about the body.

  Looking at him, he answered my stare. "I wanted to wait until you were here."

  "Wait for what? Have you found out something about Renato?" Sandy's voice rose in pitch. She clinched her fists on the tabletop. "You tell me right now."

  "Take it easy, Sandy. Chamberlain's only trying to spare you any more pain. He didn't want to repeat the Bilotti thing."

  Chamberlain was looking at his coffee cup, head bowed. He looked old and tired.

  "You tell me now!" Sandy demanded, standing up suddenly, rattling the cups and saucers on the table.

  The waitress looked at us with concern.

  Holding my hand up to the waitress, I shook my head. Then looking at Chamberlain, I said, "Tell her."

  "Please Miss Rinaldi, Sandy,” he said, looking up at her with watery, pleading eyes. "Last night at dinner when I got the phone call, a body had been found. Couple of fishermen for the Port Clyde Foods Company found it washed up at Tenant's Harbor. I wanted to be sure, not put you through another unnecessary trip to the morgue. The body had been in the water for several days, I couldn't get fingerprints, crabs had...well, it looks like your brother."

  Sandy sat down, her anger gone.

  "I need you to make a positive I.D.,” Chamberlain said softly. "I'm sorry..."

  * * *

  We followed the same stoop-shouldered old man with the limp, down the same cold, dank hallway. He gave off an odor of sour booze and fresh hospital laundry.

  The body lay on the familiar stainless steel autopsy table Tony Bilotti had occupied two days before. The air in the room had a sweet putridness to it, reminding me of a tidal flat on a hot August afternoon. Gentrification doesn't mean a thing when you arrive here; orifices ooze, blood pools. It is the same for everybody.

  They are all the same, places like this, and I hate them. Never in my lifetime could I become used to being around death. No matter how many times I have to dip my hands into stranger's blood, I'll never become hardened to it. Never.

  Sandy walked over and stood across the table from Chamberlain, at the head of the sheet-draped body. I eased up beside her. The bright overhead lights made the room seem sterile, clinical. A trickle of water echoed eerily around the walls.

  Chamberlain looked at me, I nodded. He pulled the sheet back. Sandy moaned, fell to the floor. I reached for her, but she fell too quickly.

  Her crumpled body lay limp and still on the concrete floor. The long, ash-blond hair splayed out in a neat, circular pattern around her head. Anywhere else it would have been sexy and alluring.

  Chamberlain was at her side instantly, moving much faster than I imagined. We picked Sandy up off the floor and took her outside to a small couch in the hallway. Blood from a small cut discolored the hair on the back of her head.

  "Jim, get Doctor Reinbold,” Chamberlain said to the orderly who had been waiting in the hall. "Now, Jim,” he said again, angrily. The old man shuffled off down the hallway.

  Soon, a nurse with a gurney, followed by stoop-shouldered Jim, came hurrying down the hall. "Doctor Reinbold is with a patient,” the nurse said. "What happened here?"

  "She fainted and hit her head,” I answered. "She's still unconscious."

  The nurse gave her a quick look. "Okay, get her on the gurney. We'll take her to an examination room. The doctor will see her shortly."

  We followed them to the exam room. The nurse took her vital signs, and started filling out the usual lengthy forms. Answering the questions as best I could, I wondered what the world do without paperwork. The nurse shuffled more pages, keeping an eye on Sandy.

  A giant of a man entered t
he room. "I'm Doctor Reinbold,” he said, extending a massive paw.

  We shook hands. He was as strong as a Bull Moose.

  "Hello, J.L., how's the wife today?" He asked Chamberlain, turning his attention to Sandy.

  "She's holding her own, Bill. Nausea's let up some this week."

  "Good, good,” the doctor said, nodding, feeling of the vertebra in Sandy's neck. "What have we here?"

  "She fainted, hit her head,” I said. "After viewing the body of her brother."

  The big man turned and looked at me with compassion in his eyes. "Yes, the one they fished out of the water at Tenant's Harbor. I looked at it this morning. That could be rough on anyone."

  "Yes,” I said, shifting weight from one foot to the other. "Could be."

  "Well,” the doctor said after giving Sandy a cursory exam. "I don't see anything here. The cut doesn't need stitching, but I want to get an X-ray, keep her for awhile just to be sure."

  Sandy regained consciousness before the doctor left. He seemed satisfied she was stable, and said he'd look in on her later.

  As gently as I could, I said, "Chamberlain's got to know, Sandy, for official reasons. Was it your brother?"

  She nodded, tears streaming down her lovely face. Suddenly, I felt a great deal of compassion for her.

  "Yes. Oh God, Jay. Renato." She turned her head to the wall, sobbing harder.

  "I'm sorry,” I said, feeling helpless and inadequate.

  "You rest now,” Chamberlain said, stepping up to the bed, touching Sandy gently on the shoulder. "Everything will be alright. We'll take care of all the details. You get some rest."

  Sandy turned and looked at us. "I'm sorry I fainted. I'm stronger than that. It was such a shock. You'll find out what happened?"

  "Yes,” Chamberlain said, patting her arm. "We'll find out. Don't you worry, we'll find out."

  The nurse came back in and ushered us out. She said that they were going to take Sandy for X-rays. She would be back in the room in an hour.

  Chamberlain and I went to the hospital cafeteria.

  "She took it pretty hard,” I said, watching Chamberlain stir sugar into the weak hospital coffee.

  "One cannot weep with dignity, Jay. But one should weep for the loss of a loved one."

  Realizing Chamberlain must have been thinking of his own wife's death, and how he would deal with it when the time came, I felt sorry for him.

  He seemed to sense my thoughts. "If there's one thing I've learned over the years about life,” he said, blowing on the hot coffee and looking at me. "Is that it goes on."

  "How'd Rinaldi die?" I asked, changing the subject. "Drown?"

  He grunted, put the cup down. "Same as Bilotti, single bullet hole behind the right ear." He pointed as he did before, behind his head. "Ballistics will tell us if both bullets came from the same gun."

  "You hope,” I said, knowing how bullets deform exploding through bone. It's only when they pass through a Kennedy and a Connally at the same time do they remain pristine. "Even so, it won't help much unless we find the shooter holding the gun."

  "Yeah,” he said, rubbing the rim of his coffee cup. "We've got to try, though."

  "You said on the phone this morning you had some other information?"

  He nodded. "I heard from Chicago. Bilotti was nothing, a soldier in the crew of a capo named Stefano. He's an associate of the Gino Anastasio crime family." He paused, letting me assimilate Bilotti's resume.

  Analytical thinking is not one of my strong suits, but this was pretty plain. "Rip off,” I said, more loudly than intended. "Anastasio sets up Nat Rinaldi by insisting he bring cash. Uses Bilotti, who's really made'em mad about something else, to do the legwork. Then they whack'em both. Two birds with one stone, and half a million richer."

  "We think a lot alike, Jay,” Chamberlain said smiling, sitting back in his chair and crossing his legs. "But if you got any ideas on how we can prove any of this, I'd like to hear them."

  "When are they going to do the autopsy on Rinaldi?"

  "Tomorrow. We should get a preliminary on both Bilotti and Rinaldi by the end of the week,” he answered, ducking a tray carried by an orderly. "The photo enlargements of Rinaldi are ready. I'll pick them up this afternoon and get my people to work on getting them out."

  "I'll help pass them around. Every resident of your community needs to see a copy of the photos, both Rinaldi's and Bilotti's. Somebody had to have seen them together. Rinaldi spent the night somewhere in the area."

  "You're not going to take over my case, are you?" He asked, watching the orderly find a table.

  "Will if I have to."

  Chamberlain laughed and looked back at me. "I believe you would."

  "I'll work with you Chamberlain,” I said, putting both hands on the tabletop. "But I won't, I don't, drag my feet."

  "You going to stay with Sandy until the doctor releases her, I suppose?" He asked, ignoring my comment.

  I nodded.

  "I'm going to get some work done." He rose from the table. Two young nurses walked by carrying food trays. He watched them until they sat down. "Lord, I'm getting old, Jay." He was gone.

  Leaning back in my chair, I watched the nurses chatting, eating their salads. Yeah, J.L., I thought, I'm getting old, too.

  I went to check on Sandy.

  * * *

  Sandy was lying quietly on her back with her eyes closed. When I walked up to the side of the bed, she slowly looked up at me with a tired expression. "How are you feeling?"

  "I'm fine, a little dizzy. But I'm ready to leave this place."

  "I'll see if you can be released." Heading for the door, I turned and said, "Let me check with the nurse, won't be but a minute."

  Walking down the hall to the nurse's desk, I spotted the same one who had worked on Sandy bending over writing furiously in a patient's chart.

  She looked up, watched me approach. "Oh, there you are." She smiled, held up a file. "Doctor Reinbold said Miss Rinaldi can go. If she develops any symptoms such as headaches, nausea, or dizziness over the next twenty-four hours, bring her back in immediately."

  "Thank you. I'll keep an eye on her."

  Realizing our car was at the motel because we had ridden to the hospital with J.L., I asked the nurse to call a taxi for us.

  Stoop-shouldered Jim, the orderly, rolled Sandy to the front door in a wheelchair. "Hospital policy,” he said, pointing to the wheelchair, breathing fresh whiskey breath into my face.

  During the ride back to the Navigator Inn Sandy curled up in the seat facing away from the sun. She reminded me of the position some plants assume during the night.

  Back at the motel, Sandy threw me a curve that I wasn't expecting.

  "Make us a reservation on the earliest flight for tomorrow. I want out of this place."

  "Wait, Sandy. Don't you want to find out who killed your brother? What happened to the money?"

  "I don't care about the money. Renato is dead. There is nothing I can do about it. The police can handle it from now on. Please get me out of here, tomorrow." She slammed the door leaving me standing, stunned, in the hall.

  Going to my room, I walked out on the balcony. The ocean to the east was a brilliant blue, covered with a field of diamond topped waves. Puffy white clouds drifted above seabirds feeding along the shore, boats worked in the bay. I did not notice any of this. Sandy's request was rolling through my mind.

  Sitting down in one of the small chairs, I realized that Sandy wanted to run. But why? Maybe I would want to flee, too, if it had been my brother rotting away in some dank hospital morgue. After some rest, maybe she would change her mind. Or I could change it for her. At least I hoped that I could.

  Sandy could fire me tomorrow if she wanted, but I wasn't making any reservations to leave. Someone had to find out who killed Nat Rinaldi and Tony Bilotti, find where the four hundred and fifty thousand dollars went. Then there was Rockwell Kent. I still did not know anything about this artist, or even if a Kent collection existed.
/>   CHAPTER EIGHT

  "Sergeant,” I said to a familiar voice. "I need to speak with Detective Chamberlain."

  "I'm sorry, the detective isn't in. Can someone else help you."

  "No, Sergeant. Tell Chamberlain that Jay Leicester needs to talk with him. I'll be at the Navigator Inn."

  "Yes, sir. As soon as I hear from him, I'll give him your message."

  "Thank you, Sergeant." I hung up. A loud horn blew outside my balcony door. Must be the ferry arriving, I thought. Peering over the railing, I saw that the ferry was preparing to leave the dock. Cars were scurrying aboard like tiny ants.

  Sitting down at the small table beside the bed to make a few notes, I remembered Chamberlain mentioning that his wife had a book on Rockwell Kent. Maybe I could borrow it, increase my knowledge of the art world, and see how big this Kent collection truly is. Nat Rinaldi was familiar enough with the collection to bring four hundred and fifty thousand in cash to buy it. He was certainly sure a handsome profit could be made, or he wouldn't have gone to all the trouble to travel to Port Clyde, Maine.

  Reading about Rockwell Kent would not further this case. But anything I learned about him and his work couldn't hurt.

  My phone rang.

  "Jay, J.L. here. I got your message. What's up? Sandy alright?"

  "Yeah, she's fine,” I said quickly, throwing the note pad on the bed. "Resting in her room. I was wondering if I might borrow your wife's book on Kent? My ignorance in this area embarrasses me.

  "Funny you should ask,” he laughed. "I'm home, doing the same thing. Look, I have an idea; Kathleen's feeling real good today, why don't you both come over for dinner. It would do her a lot of good to talk to Sandy about the art world."

  "Not a great idea, J.L. Sandy's taking her brother's death pretty hard. She seems to want to be left alone. I'll check on her and see if she's okay. If so, I'll come out alone. It's important I look at the Kent book."

  "You're right. I should have thought of that myself. She wouldn't want to visit, especially today. Insensitive of me. You come on out to the house. We'll see you at six-thirty." Chamberlain gave me his address.

  Sandy answered her phone in a sleepy voice. "How are you feeling?" I asked, watching the ferry sail toward Vinal Haven. "Hope I didn't wake you?"

  "No, I was just lying here. Did you arrange our flight out?"