SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3)

by Lawrence de Maria

  Marat saw the look on my face and smiled.

  “I should explain. After Zapotoski got out of Lubyanka alive, a rare feat in itself, he was a changed man. He came from a very religious family and never really accepted the atheism that normally was de rigueur for men in his position. Honestly, I don’t know how he ever became a major in the Oddzial Polskiego, Polish Military Intelligence. He was what you would call a ‘closet Catholic’ I suppose.”

  “Why did you let him go?’

  “The charges against him were flimsy. He was not really disloyal, just a Polish patriot who liked to stick his finger in our eye occasionally. And things were changing, even then. The more perceptive among us could see the writing on the wall by 1980. We were making a cock-up in Afghanistan, something your Government should have learned from. It wasn’t the time to make a lot of enemies in sister services.” He looked over his shoulder. “Lara, some Turkish coffee, please.”

  The girl went out and he continued.

  “When he got back to Poland, he resigned his commission and entered the priesthood. The discipline must have been comforting for a military man. And an ex-spy would find the machinations and secrecy of the Catholic Church very familiar. And don’t forget, there was then a Polish Pope, the first non-Italian since the 16th Century. It was a heady time for Poles.”

  “Now they have a Kraut in the Vatican.”

  It was Kalugin, who had been silent up to then.

  Marat laughed.

  “My Maks is not overly fond of the Germans.”

  Kalugin grunted and resumed his silence. Lara came out with the coffee and served us and went back to the wall.

  “Zapotoski came to me with this rather ridiculous story of murders in his parish,” Marat Rahm said as we sipped the strong coffee. “Apparently he got nowhere with his superiors or with the police. I’m not surprised. The reputed victims all seemed to have died from natural causes, without any hint of foul play. You have seen his files?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did you think.”

  “There’s nothing really there. The age of the three men bothered me. They were all fairly young, and apparently in good health.”

  “Three deaths of men in their 60’s is not a massacre. Zapotoski had nothing.”

  “He is, or was, a trained intelligence officer.”

  “Many years ago. His skills have rusted.”

  I mentioned how the good father had trailed me professionally in the mall.

  “Bah. Play acting. He is nowhere the man he used to be. None of us are.” I remembered how a few moments earlier Marat had apparently forgotten that I knew his daughter. “He is tilting at windmills.”

  “Then why did you recommend me?”

  “Professional courtesy.”

  “To him, you mean.”

  Marat laughed.

  “I see your point. But don’t be insulted. I know it’s hopeless. I also know you are one of the best investigators I’ve seen. And in your own way a decent man. You won’t humiliate the old fellow. I told him that if you can’t get to the bottom of it, no one can. So, you see, this will let him down gently. I promised him I would help, but there is only so much I can do. It would be awkward for me to send my men to make inquiries of widows and some such.”

  “You don’t think Maks has the necessary style.”

  At the mention of Kalugin, both Rahms laughed. Even the family assassin grinned.

  “You see what I mean,” Marat finally said. “Please, humor me, and look into Zapotoski’s situation. Send your bill to me.”

  I had no intention of sending an invoice to the Russian mob, but I said, “Sure.”

  ***

  Arman and Kalugin walked me out to the car.

  “I know you won’t send a bill,” Arman said, laughing. “Don’t spend too much time on this. You have to make a living. And I appreciate what you are doing.”

  “A little pro bono work for the Catholic Church won’t hurt. Might chop a few thousand years off my stay in purgatory.”

  “You may break even in that department, considering you are doing a favor for my father.”

  “How is he really doing, Arman.”

  He looked pensive.

  “Not well. He has prostate cancer. We thought it was arthritis.”

  “He seems sharp enough, except for that bit about your sister. Was he putting me on?”

  “Perhaps. But sometimes he can be vague. It comes and goes. I’m glad you didn’t say anything. Eleni always asks for you, by the way. She’s in Italy, making commercials.”

  “What about your father’s cough.”

  “An infection of some sort. The chemotherapy has made him vulnerable.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yes. Well, my father is a tough man. As you know.”

  An understatement. Beneath the surface of his courtly demeanor, Marat Rahm was the dispassionate hands-on killer of many men, first as a KGB operative and, more recently, a mobster. The occasional loss to assassination aside, the Rahms were survivors. And opportunists of the first order. Originally Rahmanovs, the family had adapted to whatever political wind was blowing, shedding their aristocratic trappings to serve the Communists and then moving to America to become that most capitalist of institutions, a crime family.

  “We’ve had these scares before,” Arman continued. “He will bounce back. By the way, I saw you looking down Lara’s blouse, Alton. What would Alice say?”

  “She would worry if I didn’t.”

  “How is she?”

  “She’s leaving for Paris on a sabbatical. The Sorbonne.”

  Arman looked at me closely.

  “How long?”

  “At least six months.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “I think it sucks. For me. But it’s a wonderful opportunity for her.”

  “You can always visit her.”

  “You in the relationship business now, Arman?”

  He smiled.

  “A woman like her does not come along very often, my friend. Six months is nothing.”

  “It might be longer.”

  He put out his hand and I took it. Then he turned and went back into the house. Kalugin didn’t. In fact, he opened the car door for me.

  “That Polack priest,” he said, “is no fool.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If he says there was murder, there was murder.”

  CHAPTER 8 -- BAGELS

  After I left the Rahms, I called Cormac Levine in the District Attorney’s office in St. George, where he had recently been reinstated to his old job.

  “Come on down,” he said. “You know that bagel place on the corner by the courthouse?”

  “You want to meet me in a bagel shop?”

  “No, Sherlock. I want you to bring in some bagels. Hold on.” I heard him talking to people in the background. Jesus Christ. He was taking orders. “OK. One sesame with cream cheese, two cinnamon raisin with butter and a toasted plain with low-fat margarine. Four coffees, black. The java in here would take the paint off a cesspool. We got a fridge. We’ll do our own milk and sugar. And get whatever you like. Not that we’re paying.”

  “You sure nobody wants a turkey club or a pizza?”

  “Hold on, I’ll ask.”

  He was serious. I broke the connection before I had to rent a U-Haul. It was turning out to be a humbling day. Both the crooks and the cops had me running errands.

  As usual, parking around Borough Hall was at a premium. The municipal lots were jammed because of the overflow from the commuter lots still recovering from the storm, The side streets were full of cars owned by the men and women who worked in Borough Hall, the courts, the St. George Precinct, the D.A.’s office and the many other government offices in the area. It seemed that every car had an official sticker in the window. It drove local merchants crazy, since potential customers were limited to a few metered spots. The local paper, surprising everyone, actually had the nerve to write an article
about the abuses but nothing seemed to have changed. I did hear, however, that the paper’s delivery trucks were running up more moving violations than normal.

  By some miracle, I found an unoccupied meter almost directly in front of the bagel shop. I didn’t know how long I’d be and wasn’t willing to risk a $125 parking ticket, so I reached into my glove compartment and pulled out my “Marine Corps Chaplain” emblem and threw it on my dashboard. It was, of course, bogus. Navy chaplains take care of the Marines. For added measure I hung some rosary beads off my rear view mirror.

  In the bagel shop I made sure to tell the Pakistani owner that I was picking up an order for the “police” and wondered if he could keep my meter up to date while I was with the “District Attorney.” He sighed resignedly but brightened when I insisted on paying for my order and gave him an extra $20 for his trouble. I was pretty sure that wouldn’t have happened in Karachi, where he might be told to watch the meter if he ever wanted to see his family again.

  I had bought a couple extra of everything to give to the guards in the lobby of the D.A.’s building. I was carrying so many food bags one of them asked me if the private investigation business was slow. He wanted to know how I making out with tips.

  Four detectives were in the D.A.’s squad room when I finally made it upstairs. In addition to Cormac, there was Paul Vocci, who ran the unit, Tom Smith, who I’d met on the Denton murder case, and a fresh-faced cop I didn’t know. Vocci and I had not always gotten along, but now we owed each other, big time, from the same case. Cormac and I had also been thrown together by circumstances years ago, when I lied to a Grand Jury to save his career after a child molester in his custody mysteriously did a half-gainer off a balcony. We’d barely known each other back then but now were fast friends. I thus had great hopes for my relationship with Vocci, although he didn’t have Cormac’s sense of humor.

  “This is Ned Thompson,” Vocci said, indicating the new kid on the block. “He just came on board.”

  “You’re the toasted bagel with diet margarine,” I said, shaking his hand.

  “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “Because these guys would never eat anything healthy. In a year they’ll have you ordering bagels with lard.”

  “I heard you were a wise guy,” Thompson said, but without malice, taking his bagel and coffee and heading back to his desk.

  I looked at Vocci.

  “ I bet that if you guys ever stopped feeding your faces and got out of the office once in a while the crime rate in this borough would plummet.”

  “We’d be crazy to do that,” Vocci said. “Staten Island has the lowest crime rate in the city as it is. It goes to zero, they’ll shut us down and ship us to Harlem or Bed-Stuy. We protect, serve and eat. It’s in our union contract.”

  Maybe I was wrong about his sense of humor. Or Cormac was rubbing off on him. I pulled him aside.

  “How’s Mike doing, Paulie?”

  At mention of the District Attorney, Vocci turned serious. With the exception of the new guy, Thompson, everyone in the room had been party to a massive coverup to protect Michael Sullivan. It was a scheme I orchestrated, and we all committed numerous felonies in the process. I was still surprised that we managed to pull it off.

  “Mike has his good days and bad days,” Vocci said. “He really loved her. He’s thrown himself into the job.”

  “I’m glad he decided to run again. I feel rotten that she took a bullet for me. Several, in fact.”

  “He doesn’t blame you for anything, Alton. Let it go. There was no way it was gonna work out for her. Or Mike. He’s grateful you wiped a real scumbag off the board. We all are.”

  “I wanted to thank you for getting Cormac back here.”

  “I’m having second thoughts. I’ve put on five pounds since he showed up.”

  “You guys talkin’ about me.” It was Cormac, barely intelligible with a mouthful of bagel. “Least you could do is do it behind my back. Get over here, Alt. You didn’t come down here to swap spit. What do you need?”

  I sat at his desk and told him Father Zapotoski’s story. The other detectives went about their business, which was fine by me since I felt slightly ridiculous. I could tell by the look on Cormac’s face that he thought I was ridiculous.

  “He told me he went to the 123 and they said they would look into it.” The 123, in Tottenville, is the southernmost of the three Island precincts, thus the southernmost of any police stations in New York State. “Did it ever make it out of the precinct?”

  “I doubt it,” Mac replied. “No one around here has said anything. But I’m not back that long. I’ll ask around. But if the precinct guys thought he was a crackpot or senile, they wouldn’t bump it up the ladder.”

  “They’d just ignore it?”

  “I didn’t say that. Given how slow it is out there, they would have jumped on anything that made sense. Balls, the last murder in Tottenville was committed by a Redcoat. They must have thought it too flimsy to take serious. I mean, what have you got? Three natural deaths, an old man’s hunch and some newspaper obits.”

  “He’s a priest.”

  “Yeah. And he’s ancient enough to have baptized JFK.”

  “He was in military intelligence in Poland.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “Zapatoski’s heard all the jokes. He was apparently sharp enough to give the Russians a run for their money. Even Marat Rahm admits that.”

  “Was being the operative word. Marat dumped him on you, didn’t he?”

  “The Rahms have other fish to fry. They run a criminal empire, or haven’t you noticed?”

  “Yeah, I read the papers.” Cormac had finished his bagel and now looked in the bag. He was used to taking at least half of whatever I was eating. “Didn’t you get a bagel for yourself?” He looked hurt. I couldn’t resist.

  “I’m stuffed. The Rahms put out quite a spread for me. Beef Wellington.”

  “Well, fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”

  “Can we get back on point here, Mac?”

  “What exactly did Marat say to you?”

  I hesitated.

  “He thinks Zapo may have gone round the bend.”

  “So, I take it you’re just going through the motions. Wait, forget I said that. That’s not you. You’ll give it your best shot, and cover all the bases, but you expect to come up empty.”

  “Kalugin thinks there’s something to it.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Based on what?”

  “Gut feeling.”

  Another pause.

  “Kalugin’s gut is nothing to sneeze at.”

  There was a mixed metaphor in there somewhere, but I ignored it. Then I told him about Alice’s comment about the confessional.

  “She’s a smart cookie. When does she leave for Europe?”

  “Next week.”

  “She’ll be back, kid.”

  “Can you do some checking for me?”

  “Sure. Give me the names and dates. I’ll get back to you. What did the bishop say about all this?”

  “I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to go there. The old guy is in enough trouble. He says they are planning to ship him off to a retirement home in Virginia.”

  “Who are you kidding? You Catholics are all the same. In awe of the collar. The church screwed your mind up about sex and you carry around all this fear and guilt. You’re just too chicken to brace them. We Jews may have invented guilt, but you guys perfected it.”

  “Who said that? I know it wasn’t you. Besides, what the hell are you talking about? Your mother and wife are both Catholic.”

  “I rest another case. I’ll call you if I get something. Or, as is more likely, nothing.”

  CHAPTER 9 – THE MONSIGNOR

  On Thursday, I called the rectory at Our Lady of Solace and asked to speak to Monsignor Barilla. A woman with a pleasant, sexy voice informed me that the good Monsignor was at luncheon at the Jewish Community Center in New Brighton.
r />   “Ah, ecumenism,” I said. “Good for the soul, but hard on the waistline.”

  She laughed. It was a nice, strong laugh.

  “What time will he be back?”

  “Not before three o’clock.”

  “Are they having lunch, or parting the Red Sea?”

  She laughed again. I instinctively like women who appreciate my jokes, while questioning their sanity.

  “I think they will be parting the Rabbinical wine cellar,” she said.

  “Can I make an appointment?”

  “And you are?”

  I told her.

  “Can I ask what this is in reference to?”

  “I just won a church raffle and the prize was an air ticket to Lourdes.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, but I could hear a bubble of another laugh.

  “It’s a one-way ticket. You can see where I might be concerned.”

  When she finished laughing this time, she said, “That’s priceless.”

  “Actually, I’m a friend of Father Zapo. He suggested I speak to Monsignor Barilla on a private matter.”

  There was a short pause. I had the sense that she knew what the “private matter” was.

  “Come in at 3:30, Mr. Rhode. I’ll let Monsignor know.”

  “And you are?”

  “Isabella Donner.”

  She knew.

  “Our Lady of the Xerox.”

  “Pardon me.”

  “Nothing, I’ll be there at 3:30.”

  ***

  The rectory was a two-story, red brick building directly across from the church on Joline Avenue. An elderly Asian woman holding a broom opened the door. I told her my business. She stared at me. I repeated myself, louder, and she bobbed her head and motioned for me to follow her. She led me to a small office where a heavy-set woman wearing a shapeless black dress, with her back to me, was busy at a file cabinet. I could here a man’s voice through a door that led to an inner office. The woman with the broom announced my arrival in a heavily accented voice and then walked away. I could hear her sweeping her way down the hallway.

  The view of the other woman’s ample rear was disconcerting, given my expectations from the sexy, pleasant voice on the phone. But I banished my uncharitable thoughts and waited patiently. She finally turned around and the view did not improve.