Calamity (Captain Grande Angil Mysteries)

by Robert G. Bernstein

  “You found all this out in the last four hours? I’m duly impressed.”

  “It wasn’t that hard,” Torrelli said. “Tanner called Nine One One about you when you first talked to him last week. He didn’t make an official complaint but we had it on file. The hearsay about you we got from the same guy you talked to at the wharf. One stop shopping if you will. As far as your license, your client and your work history, that was more or less an inside job. So happens we know some of the same people. Mortz at licensing in Augusta and Byner at the Coast Guard Marine Safety Office in Portland.”

  I nodded.

  “So,” Torrelli said. “You were out on the island. You went to see Tanner. You say he wasn’t there. You’ll swear you didn’t go into his place, which means the C.I. team won’t find prints of yours in there, right?”

  I shrugged.

  “What was your business with Tanner?” Torrelli said.

  “Aaron Bowers mother hired me to look into whether Tanner was culpable in her son’s death, but you already know that because you talked to Byner, and he obviously can’t keep his mouth shut anymore than that lumper down at Brown’s Wharf.”

  “You think Byner will have more allegiance to you than us?” Delft said.

  I glanced at Delft but ignored the question and turned back to Torrelli.

  “What you probably don’t know,” I said, “is that I was about to report to Mrs. Bowers that I had reached the same conclusions the Coast Guard and Marine Patrol had reached. Tanner didn’t kill Aaron Bowers, either by direct action, negligence, indifference or any other such thing.”

  “How do you know this?” Delft said.

  “There’s no evidence to support any other conclusion,” I said.

  “Angil, did you kill Pete Tanner?” Torrelli said.

  “No,” I said. “If I had, I’m pretty sure I would have shot him instead of trying to break his neck in three places. He didn’t seem like a pushover.”

  “He wasn’t,” Torrelli said. “Man who did this had to be big and strong, very experienced or both.”

  I kept my eyes on Torrelli and nodded while the image of Zeke standing next to his limo outside my house flashed in the back of my mind.

  “Why bother with a gun,” Delft said. “Especially if you wanted to make it look like an accident?”

  “Did it look like an accident to you?” I said to Torrelli. “Did Tanner go jogging and mistakenly run into three trees head first? Maybe it was the same tree three times?”

  “Something could have happened to ruin the murderer’s original plan,” Torrelli said. “You know how it goes.”

  “I doubt it,” Delft said. “He’s only been at this three months. What the hell does he know?” He pointed at me with his thumb.

  Torrelli looked at me while he picked at something under a fingernail. He had big, callused hands, the kind of hands you would have if you worked as a gentleman farmer on your off days, digging in the dirt, planting things. I pictured him on a pristine spread outside of Gardner. Thirty, forty acres. Mixed fields and woods. A horse barn. Some cows and sheep. A New Holland tractor.

  “Tanner is dead, and you say you’re convinced he wasn’t responsible for the kid’s death. This mean you’re all done with the case?” He knew the answer; and I saw no point in lying to him.

  “Not quite,” I said. “I still have a couple of loose ends.”

  “Really,” Delft said. “Like what?”

  “Like who killed Tanner, for one thing,” I said.

  “You killed Tanner,” he said. “The widow paid you to get rid of him for what happened to her son. Money is a powerful motive. She’s got plenty. Right now, you are our best lead and our sole suspect. We have motive and opportunity. Think about it.”

  What I thought about was slapping the stupid grin off Delft’s face, but he wanted me to lose my cool. He desperately wanted to take me in for something.

  “It’s true I only have three months in this business, Delft,” I said. “At least I have the brains enough to see through your line of bullshit. It’s a wonder you can deduce the location of your own dick let alone solve an actual crime.”

  Delft pushed himself off the door jam and took a threatening step toward me. I never budged. I wasn’t going to let him think he worried me in the slightest.

  “Delft,” Torrelli said. “Quit screwing around.”

  I’m not sure if Delft planned to follow through on his threat or if he knew from the start that Torrelli would short-stop him. Either way, he had the subtlety and finesse of a pile driver.

  “You said a couple of loose ends,” Torrelli said, looking at me. “Tanner murder is one. What’s the other?”

  I quickly added up the various pros and cons of telling them what I knew and decided it was in my interest and Jenny’s to open up the case a little.

  “I followed Tanner down to Annapolis one day and saw him pick up a package. He met a guy afterwards and had a disagreement with him, presumably about the contents of the package.”

  “Drugs?”

  “I don’t think so. Looked more like a money drop.”

  “A payoff.”

  “Maybe. You might want to call a guy down there, Hadley. Good ole boy. He’s a Fed. Works liaison for DHS.” I glanced at Delft. “He’s working on something Tanner could be a part of.”

  “I might just do that,” Torrelli said. “Meanwhile—”

  “Don’t leave town.” I said.

  “I was going to say . . . next time, coffee’s on me.”

  Torrelli gave George and me a single nod. He walked out first. Delft pushed himself off the door jam with exaggerated effort and pointed a finger at me, as if to say I’ll be watching you.

  32

  The FedEx driver arrived at ten that morning. He dropped off five boxes, each one sealed with reinforced packing tape and heavy plastic. I didn’t remember asking Sarah Maylee, the receptionist at the storage facility, if I could expect everything originally in the boxes to be still inside so I gave her a phone call. She assured me that even though the son had visited on several occasions he couldn’t remove any material. Mrs. Bowers express instructions were for the contents to remain intact. Sarah then went into a lengthy description of the company’s storage contract, which differentiated between unsecured storage, where anyone with a key can move stuff in and out and come and go as they please; secure storage, where people can add or remove stuff but have to sign in and out . . . and secure-archive storage, where people have to sign in and out and can make copies, but can’t remove anything unless they have permission from the client, signed and notarized.

  “What are we looking for?” George said as he sliced open the first box with a utility knife.

  “You’ll know it when you see it,” I said.

  “You say that a lot,” George said. “I’m beginning to think you might want to put it on your business card: Grande Angil, Private Investigator. He knows it when he sees it.”

  “Trust me. This thing, whatever it is, if it’s even in here, it’ll stick out like alligator pies at a pig roast. I’m also looking for the father’s discharge papers, or anything related to his military background.”

  “Got it,” George said pulling out the first file folder.

  I headed for the office door and my phone.

  “Where the hell are you going?” he said.

  “I have to make a few phone calls. I need to talk to Jenny and Hadley. And I think I have to book a flight to Annapolis.”

  “Oh crap. I’m doing this myself?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Like I don’t have anything better to do than your work?” He was sitting on my couch, a file in each hand, fanning them in the air.

  “I don’t know, do you?”

  “That’s beside the point. I have a life, you know. You’re not even paying me.”

  “You’re a friggin’ multi-millionaire. You sold your Stade Bike franchise to Yamaha for . . . for what? Twenty million? And didn’t you have some fucking rap al
bum that went gold or stainless or silicon-bronze or something? What could I possibly give you that would make an iota of difference?”

  “Try me.”

  “Ok,” I said. “Twenty bucks an hour.”

  “Twenty-two. Starting yesterday from before you froze my ass off.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Twenty-two. But I’m taking dinner and booze out of your pay.”

  “Deal,” George said, and immediately turned back to the file box.

  I walked into the office shaking my head. I could hear George behind me, mumbling about the principle of the thing and how a person doesn’t get to be a millionaire working for a wage-challenged asshole.

  She answered her cell phone on the third ring. When I said, “Hi, Jenny,” I had a butterfly the size of a Buick in my stomach.

  “Grande, is that you?” She sounded sleepy and confused.

  “It’s me, Jenny. Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s going on? Where are you?”

  “I’m not sure. A spa in the mountains. Zeke brought me here and told me to wait. I wasn’t doing too well. He said I needed a rest.”

  “What mountains? Where? Try to remember.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Ask someone. Are you in your room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a phone in your room?”

  “I don’t. No. I don’t see one.”

  “Jenny, you sound tired. Did I wake you?”

  “I must have been asleep. I think maybe they gave me something to help me relax.”

  “Can you stand up? If you can stand up I’d like you to go to the door of your room. Are you dressed?”

  “Yes to both. I can stand and I’m in my pajamas and robe. Grande, why are you so agitated? You’re scaring me.”

  “I’m sorry. My fault. I’m just a little stressed here.” I tried to calm myself. “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to check your door.”

  “OK, hang on.”

  I waited a good thirty-seconds.

  “I can’t open the door. It’s locked from the outside. Grande, what’s going on? I’m getting scared.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. Is there a window? Can you go to the window and tell me what you see?”

  Another minute passed.

  “I’m at the window. I can see lawns, woods and a mountain top.”

  “Do you see snow?”

  “No. There’s no snow, but looks cold outside.”

  “Do the trees have leaves on them?”

  “Some.”

  “Are they in foliage or are they all green?”

  “Some green. Not much. Grande?”

  “Parking lots. Cars. License plates. Can you see any of these from your room?”

  “No. Just lawn and woods. I think my room faces the back.”

  “No pool?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  “Do you have a heater in your room or an air conditioner?”

  “It looks like both. Like the kind they have in a hotel under the window. Maybe I should bang on the door. I’m locked in here. Why would they lock me in?” She was starting to panic.

  “It’s OK, Jenny. Don’t worry. You have your phone. It sounds like Zeke took you to a private spa or health clinic down South. Maybe he figured you needed some rest, or maybe he felt he had to hide you someplace safe.”

  “Why would he have to do that? Grande, I don’t understand. Why am I here and why is my door locked? Come and get me. I want to leave. Will you come and get me?”

  “I will. When I know where you are. In the meantime, just be calm. Relax. I’m not sure why Zeke brought you there, but I’m going to find out. Listen. Don’t take any more meds. Clear your head. Next time you see someone ask for the address. I’m sure they’ll tell you. They probably just locked the door because you had taken a prescription sedative and they didn’t want you wandering around a place you weren’t familiar with. That’s all. No biggie. It’s nothing to worry about. If you want, you can call Nine One One right now. You know what? That’s not such a bad idea. Why don’t you dial Nine One One when we get off the phone, OK?”

  “Yes . . . but . . .”

  “Did Zeke say where he was going?”

  “No . . . oh, wait. Yes, I remember something. He said he had business and he needed to not have to worry about me.”

  “See, Jenny. That makes sense. If you don’t want to call the cops, I’ll get in touch with Zeke and he’ll give me the address and I’ll come for you, OK? Do you have Zeke’s phone number handy . . . Jenny . . . Jenny?”

  “I’m sorry, Grande. I . . . had to get back to bed. I’m tired . . . all of a sudden.”

  “You’re still under the influence of the sedative and you just had some adrenaline pumping through your system. You’re crashing . . . Jenny?”

  “Yes, Grande. I . . . I will.” She was fading fast. “Please. Just come get me.”

  “Jenny, do you have Zeke’s phone number?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Remember what I said, Jenny. No more meds. When you see someone for lunch or dinner, ask where you are. Ask for the address. Or call the cops. You hear me? If you’re worried or scared, call Nine One One.”

  33

  Why hadn’t I checked out Zeke? Why did I assume he was legit just because he’d been with her for thirteen years? Lucky thirteen. I didn’t even know his last name. Sure, we made a connection. So what? He could have been playing me. Said he had followed me down to Annapolis. Maybe he already knew about Annapolis. Could be why he didn’t get lost or lose me on the way down. He knew where Tanner was going all along, knew who he was meeting. Maybe he had been following Tanner from the start. Maybe that had been his assignment. For that matter, he could have been planted with Jenny thirteen years ago. Shit! I’d been looking at the wrong guy.

  I needed to keep moving, not think about Jenny all alone, locked in a room God knows where. I picked up the headset and dialed Annapolis. It took a few minutes but eventually dispatch routed me through to Hadley.

  “Tanner is dead,” I said.

  “I got that,” Hadley said. “Statey name of Torrelli told me.”

  “I think my client’s driver did it.”

  “You tell Torrelli?”

  “Nope.”

  “Might help your situation if it got the cops to look in a direction other than yours.”

  “I got nothing to say to them about Zeke or anyone else. Not yet.”

  “Cappy, I hope you don’t expect me to be sympathetic. You ain’t gonna come clean to the cops in your own back yard I can’t help you. Truth is, you put me in a hell of a spot just now, telling me of all this and not them. Maybe you ought to just shut up about it and do what you have to do. How can I know for sure you didn’t kill this knucklehead fisherman Tanner?”

  I took a long breath and let it out slow. My heart was pumping about eighty beats per minute, fast for an avid diver at rest.

  “I’m calling because I’m planning a trip to your area.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” Hadley said.

  “Here’s the thing,” I said. “I just talked to my client on her cell phone and it doesn’t sound good. She’s been drugged and locked in a room and she doesn’t know where the hell she is. Considering what she told me about her surroundings, and what kind of time her driver would have needed to get her there, I know she’s down South. That’s all I know. It isn’t much.”

  “I’ll say.” Hadley sounded very irritated. “You said she has her cell phone. Do you have her number? You give it to me and I can—”

  George yelled something from the other room. I heard shuffling and then footsteps. A moment later he was in my doorway with three papers in his hand. “Bingo,” he said. “Check it out.”

  “Who’s that?” Hadley said over the phone.

  “Stand by one,” I said.

  “I’m kind of busy here, Angil. DHS business and all.”

  “Hang on, Jim
, please.”

  “It’s James, asshole.”

  “Like Bond. Got it. Give me a second, James. Please. Better yet, I’ll call you back.”

  I cradled the phone as George was handing me the papers.

  “You think that was such a great idea?” George said.

  “What?” I was looking at what he had just handed me.

  “You just hung up on that redneck cop.”

  I looked up.

  “I did?”

  George was shaking his head. “Forget it,” he said. “Just . . . concentrate on what I gave you.”

  The first page was a heavily redacted copy of a command request from CIA Headquarters describing Operation Jimmy Fizz. The names of the participants and authors had been crossed out as was the name of the preferred substance and alternate substances mentioned. What wasn’t crossed out was a reference to the use of Air America resources to shuttle the material from a United States military laboratory in South Vietnam to Germany and finally to upstate New York. A stamp on the bottom and a signature indicated the Deputy Director of the CIA had denied the request.

  The second paper was a copy of a report, also heavily redacted, from an unnamed field operation’s officer. The report gave details pertaining to the use of a salvage team and heavy lift helicopter in the removal of all evidence regarding an Air America cargo incident in the Gulf of Maine. No mention was made of Operation Jimmy Fizz.

  The last page was a legal brief written by Allen Bowers to the Justice Department asking for the two previous documents to be desensitized based on the Freedom of Information Act.

  I nodded to George and gave him the thumbs up. He smiled. “What was the name of that guy Hadley told you about, his friend who went missing?”

  “Preston Mellville,” I said.

  “You said he was in the service during the Vietnam war with Aaron Bowers father, right? They flew together, or they worked the same black ops together for the Civil Air Service.”

  “Air America,” I said.

  “OK, so think about. It’s Tricky Dick, President Nixon, and he’s no quitter, and maybe he’s just a bit crazy. Crazy like a fox crazy. And maybe some of the people prosecuting the war, and also some of those who are part of the anti-war movement, are pretty nuts, too. It’s nineteen sixty-nine, around the time of the Woodstock Music Festival, and Nixon or some other paranoid genius, figures, hey, let’s discredit these hippy assholes. Let’s show the world just how crazy, messed-up they are.”