Blind Overlook

by JC Simmons

  "No cuffs,” J.L. said. "She's not going anywhere."

  Sandy looked back at me and, for one final time, her face broke into that enigmatic half-smile. It was the strangest smile I had ever seen: it held secret amusement, and heartbreak, and an infinite bitterness. It was the smile I never figured out, and would never forget.

  * * *

  We all three sat for awhile, silent, each with our own thoughts. The soft, steady hum of the auxiliary power unit seemed to have a soothing effect.

  Anastasio finally broke the silence. "She is a smart young woman. To bad that I did not train her myself, she would have made a good operative."

  "You mean a mole, don't you?" I said angrily, tired of being nice to this old man.

  He ignored my remark, waved it away with a frail arm, and continued. "She was clever in focusing the blame toward me, even smarter in trying to make it appear I was setting her up to take the fall for the murders. Very good. I wonder when the murder weapon would have showed up?"

  "Yes, I wish we had the pistol,” J.L. said, standing and pacing the small interior of the cabin. "It would help solidify our case against her."

  Anastasio's face stretched into a taught grin, ugly teeth showed brown against thin, chalk-colored lips. He reached under the oval table, pulled out a sealed, clear plastic bag containing some paperwork and a .9mm blue steel, Glock automatic, and slid it across to Chamberlain. "A Commander on the New Orleans police department is a friend of ours. My people recovered the gun at the art gallery. I had him see that the documentation was complete for court admission. An unbroken chain of evidence, is the way you people like to phrase it, I believe. You'll find that the ballistics will match. It is a gift to you, Detective Chamberlain. Don't ever forget where it came from."

  J.L. stared at him, but said nothing.

  It was all I could do to control my anger. Placing both hands on the table, fingers splayed, I said, "Now hear me well, Anastasio. We'll take the pistol, but it would have surfaced anyway. Your grandstanding here means nothing. It carries no strings, no favors, and no paybacks. Detective Chamberlain will not be intimidated or threatened. If you think that, you're wrong."

  Anastasio sat back in his seat, a smirk on his face, but said nothing.

  "You will do the following things: you will take this twenty-five million dollar aircraft, fly it to New Orleans, and bring back the Rockwell Kent art collection. You will have it transported to Monhegan Island and returned to Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. Since your Mr. Bilotti treated them so horribly, an addition of two hundred thousand dollars to their bank account seems appropriate."

  "If I don't?" He sat up, a confident, powerful figure, ready for the confrontation.

  "If you refuse, there'll be more heat than you've had since the John Gotti thing. We'll inform the FBI, the IRS, and national television..."

  "Enough!" He shook his head and gazed out the window of the aircraft. There was a look of disappointment in his evil eyes. "You two amuse me, a small town cop and a private investigator of no importance. You have the unmitigated audacity to threaten me with the FBI, the IRS, and television? Come on! These people have been after us to no avail since before you were born." He sat back in his chair, a maniacal expression on the withered face. "I'll tell you what I will do, the art work will be returned to the couple on the island. Now both of you get out of my sight." He waved us away.

  I stood up. Having rehearsed this speech a hundred times in my mind, I hoped I would not forget anything. "Before we leave, I want you to know what a slime...” Stopping, I realized how inane and useless my words would be. All the harsh rhetoric would merely roll off Anastasio and be a waste of my breath.

  Leaving the room, I walked up the aisle toward the cockpit and exit door, cursing myself under my breath for, in my anger, I had not said what I wanted to say to Anastasio. Upon reaching the exit door, I stopped and looked into the cockpit. Sticking my head in between the two pilots, I said, "Hey, you two..."

  They turned in unison, looked blankly at me, said nothing, and then looked at each other. I saw the uselessness of venting anger. Shaking my head, I walked slowly down the airstair door.

  Stepping out onto the ramp, I felt an icy sense of relief. I felt heavy and tired, but drearily proud of myself. Sandy Rinaldi had done this terrible thing. She was guilty, and I hated her for it. The reasons? It was not necessary to wonder about the reasons. It was necessary only to hate, to hate blindly, to hate patiently, to hate without anger; only to hate, and let nothing intervene, and not let oneself forget, ever. Heading toward the terminal building of the fixed-base operator, I never looked back.

  EPILOGUE

  J.L. Chamberlain and I were in the wine cellar at Owl's Head. We were alone. Outside, the sky was clear, the wind calm. It was an unusually hot summer day in Maine. The temperature in the cellar was cool and comfortable. A bottle of cognac and two snifters sat on the old, hand-hewn wooden table.

  Arriving in Boston three days ago, I rented a car and retraced the route to Rockland Sandy Rinaldi and I had driven almost three months ago. Driving through the wonderful country, I thought about Jeff, Jr. He had cleaned up his act, gotten into tremendous physical shape and reported early to football training camp at Mississippi State. His head coach told me that he expected great things from the kid. In some way I hoped I'd been a positive influence.

  Henry arranged for me to have my old room at the Navigator Inn. The motel was full of summer vacationers. I was lucky to get the room, but it was unpleasant with all the other people around.

  Hoping to see Mable, Henry informed me that she had moved permanently to Newfoundland.

  Returning to Rockland was a sad occasion. It was to attend the funeral of Kathleen Chamberlain. It was a nice funeral, if such a thing can be said of this barbaric ritual. I was here not for the dead, but to support J.L. We had become good friends. The service and burial was yesterday. Now, after all the well wishers had gone, the ritualism over, J.L. wanted to get drunk. He wanted me to get drunk with him. I thought it an excellent idea.

  Lighting a single white candle, J.L. poured the pale gold liquid into the snifters. Picking up the fresh bundle of El Credito, Charlemagnes, I brought as a gift, he opened the package, and handed me one of the big cigars.

  "What are you going to do if we run out of cognac?"

  "Well, there's always this sherry." He patted the huge barrel lying in the wooden chocks."

  I laughed.

  We lit the cigars in silence. The blue smoke rose slowly to the roof of the cellar, floated softly among the rafters. I often wondered about the hours a man sits alone, watching the smoke of a cigar, thinking. What great ideas have come from such hours? When a man thinks, there is a fire alive in his brain. It is proper that he should have the burning end of a good cigar as his one focal point.

  "I'm sorry about Kathleen, J.L. She was a fine woman. It was a pleasure to have known her, even for the short time that I did."

  "Thank you, Jay. Kathleen died quietly, and bravely. To me, that was the true measure of her character. She was a fun woman; we laughed a lot together. More important, though, we laughed a great deal toward the end."

  "I admire your candor in this situation."

  J.L. sat down, propped his feet up on the table. "One must not lose his sense of humor in the face of death." He paused, twirled the cigar between his fingers, and looked up at the blue smoke. "I have learned much on this journey."

  I did not know how to reply. Instead, I took a big sip of the cognac, welcomed the harsh, hot, burning feeling in my mouth, waited for the smoky, wood, and caramel flavors to work their way to my olfactory system, anticipated the taste the cigar would add. It is what I did instead of saying anything.

  "Sandy's trial is scheduled in about a month. You'll be getting a summons."

  "I'm prepared, my notes are in good shape. I have been over the facts of the case a hundred times."

  "Good. I understand she's hired some heavy hitters from New Orleans to defend her."


  "It was sad, what her brother was doing to her."

  J.L. twirled the cognac around in the glass, then inhaled deeply. "Saved her from a life of prostitution and drugs, taught her the art business. He wouldn't leave it alone. They made a lot of money dealing stolen art to the wise guys, but Nat kept blowing it. The collapse of the insurance company is what triggered Sandy's rage. We'll probably never know."

  "You're right. After coming back from having sunk so low, and finally making something of herself, she couldn't handle losing everything. Knowing that her brother, who she had grown to hate, was responsible, put her over the edge."

  "The records show most of the money from the insurance company was being skimmed off. Where it went...it's anybody's guess. Mostly to Anastasio's people, I presume. We know, now, that Sandy wasn't in on the cut. If she had been maybe none of this would have happened."

  Reaching over, I poured more cognac in both snifters. "I never understood her hiring Guy Robbins to settle Nat's estate? She could have done it herself."

  "It was for legitimacy she hired your friend."

  "What do you mean?"

  "If she used a professional, an attorney, it would legitimize collecting on the insurance. It came to a pretty good sum, remember?"

  "Yes,” I said, thinking back. "Her brother had a double indemnity policy worth three million, plus the half million in missing cash was insured."

  "A good sum? You bet,” J.L. said, knocking ashes off his cigar. "If she got the three mill, plus the insurance payoff on the four hundred and fifty thousand, and added it to the cash she'd gotten off Nat the night she killed him, and what she'd get from selling the art collection...add it up."

  "Close to six million, if she carefully pieced out the Kent collection. Not bad."

  We drank in silence for awhile. The cognac was starting to work its way into my bloodstream. It was a good feeling.

  "The way Nat Rinaldi's body drifted around to Tenant's Harbor, did that all check out?"

  "Yes,” J.L. said, sitting up straight. "We checked the tides, currents, winds, etc. It could have worked. She met Nat at the Rockland airport and rode back down to Port Clyde with him. Bilotti met them with the van containing the art collection. She looked it over, and then they all three got back into Nat's car and discussed money. She probably suggested that she speak with Nat, alone, about the deal. They walked down to the end of the dock. She shot him and he fell into the water. The muffling effect of the silencer kept Bilotti from hearing the noise. Walking back to the car, she shot Bilotti, took the cash, and drove the van back to the Rockland airport. Then she unloaded the art collection into the Hansa Jet, then parked the empty van in the lot."

  "Good plan."

  "For an amateur. Anastasio was right, one should leave murder to the pros."

  "Did he get the Kent art collection back to Mr. and Mrs. Barnes?"

  "Yes, it was returned. He even deposited a good sum of money in their bank account. They'll be comfortable."

  "Anastasio really doesn't want the publicity, does he?"

  "Would you?"

  "What about the gun? Does the DA think she can get it admitted?"

  "She's going to try, but it's doubtful. The circumstances of the recovery is way too convoluted. If Sandy's confession is allowed, the weapon might be irrelevant, though every bit of evidence is essential."

  We drank again in silence, the cognac working its charm, making life easy.

  J.L. raised his glass. "To the future, Jay. It ain't what it used to be, and what's more, it never was."

  Then I heard it. From somewhere above, the old civil war song, LORENA, wafted softly down into the wine cellar of a place called Owl's Head. If music was emotion and emotion came from thought, then this was the lament of the soul, the song of the rational, of joy, of man's eternal endurance.

  I lifted my glass to J.L. Chamberlain.

  THE END

  *******************

  Thank you for reading Blind Overlook, the third installment in the 10-book Jay Leicester Mysteries Series by JC Simmons. If you enjoyed the story, please support this author by leaving your comments on the Blind Overlook Reviews Page

  If there is something about this book that you feel can be improved upon, I encourage you to send those comments directly to me (jcsimmons11@live.com) as I always take into serious consideration any criticisms offered by my readers and will attempt to implement your comments and criticisms to hopefully improve upon my future writing efforts.

  Thanks again for reading!

  Check out all ten books in

  The Jay Leicester Mysteries Series:

  Blood on the Vine

  Some People Die Quick

  Blind Overlook

  Icy Blue Descent

  The Electra File

  Popping the Shine

  Four Nines Fine

  The Underground Lady

  Akel Dama

  The Candela of Cancri

  Now available at the usual outlets