SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3)

by Lawrence de Maria

  She looked at me.

  “He’s on trial in St. George. I’ll buy him lunch and get one of his phones.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “Assault. He says he’ll beat it. He usually does.”

  I reached in my pocket to give her some money, which she waved away.

  “It’s family,” she said.

  ***

  I called Father Zapo. No answer. Not even a message recording. I crossed my fingers and dialed the rectory.

  “Thank God,” I said when Isabella Donner answered. “It’s like hitting the lottery.”

  “What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Rhode?”

  I was momentarily pleased that she remembered my voice, until I realized the rectory phone probably had caller ID.

  “I don’t think I could survive another bout with Miss Bulger.”

  That great laugh again.

  “You are terrible. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m trying to reach Father Zapo. He’s not answering his cell.”

  I heard an exasperated sigh.

  “I’m not surprised. Even if he doesn’t leave it in his room, he often forgets to turn it on, or he lets the battery run down. But I think I can reach him. He’s got a doctor’s appointment and I have that number. Is it important?”

  “Yes. I have to talk to him and I’d like to take him to lunch.”

  She said she’d call me right back if she caught him before he left the doctor’s. And she did.

  “He’ll be back here by noon and would love to have lunch with you, Mr. Rhode.” She laughed. “He just loves the Sleepy Hollow Inn in Pleasant Plains. Do you know it?”

  “I do. And please call me Alton.”

  “Only if you call me Bella. All my friends do.”

  “Done. Tell me, Bella, is it just a checkup?”

  She hesitated.

  “He hasn’t been feeling well. It’s the cigarettes. But he won’t listen. He really hasn’t been himself lately. He seems to be under some kind of stress.”

  I wondered if Isabella Donner knew more than she was saying. She had, after all, copied the materials that Zapo had given me.

  “I’ll pick him up outside the rectory.”

  “Oh, that’s so nice of you, Alton.”

  ***

  When I pulled up, Father Zapo was standing at the curb with a young, attractive woman. She held the door for him and after shutting it leaned in the window.

  “Don’t let him have more than one martini, Alton,” she said.

  Isabella Donner looked as good as she sounded on the phone.

  “I have to find you a husband, Bella,” the priest said, “so you will have someone else to nag.”

  She winked at me.

  “Be my guest, Father. But go easy at lunch.”

  As I drove away, I said, “Pretty lady. I’m surprised she’s not married. Was she ever?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Father Zapo said. “But she’s still fairly young. Mid 30’s I would guess.”

  “Perhaps she’s not the marrying type,” I said delicately.

  “I know what you mean. But Bella likes men.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’m a man, aren’t I? I can tell. I may be 80, but I’m not dead.”

  “But you are a priest.”

  “Just because I’m on a diet doesn’t mean I can’t look at a menu.”

  ***

  We’d just ordered drinks in a quiet booth at the Sleepy Hollow Inn. Beer for me, vodka on the rocks for him.

  “Father, here’s the deal. I suspect, and you probably know, that the three married men had affairs. You are almost certain it was the same woman, presumably at different times. I don’t know how you came to that conclusion, but I’d guess they confided to you, possibly in the confessional. Perhaps they gave you details that were too similar to be coincidental. But the details weren’t specific enough to allow you to figure out who the woman is. You’re in a bind. The Seal of the Confessional extends forever, even after the death of the penitent. You believe the men may have been killed by this woman. I’m pretty sure she never confessed to you. Because if she had, you would really be in a bind. You could urge her to turn herself in and threaten to withhold absolution, but you couldn’t tell anyone.”

  Father Zapo started to say something but I held up my hand.

  “Please, hear me out. I got most of this religious palaver from Google and not everyone is in agreement, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. So, if you are suspicious that there is a serial killer in your parish the only way you can try to stop her from striking again is to prompt an investigation without revealing the source of your suspicions. As a former intelligence officer, you are hoping that people will give you the benefit of the doubt because of your experience. Except they haven’t. I was your last hope and I have to tell you now that while I now think it likely the men were cheating, I have no idea if it was with one woman or ten women or the Easter bunny. Even if it was one woman, it means nothing. Except maybe that they were lucky. It doesn’t mean she, or anyone else, killed them. And unless you have something to tell me, some sort of hard proof, I’m afraid I can’t go on. Talking to the widows was, frankly, unbearable.”

  Our lunch came. A hot turkey sandwich for him, pot roast for me. Risking Isabella Donner’s wrath, I ordered more drinks. Zapotoski was having a tough day. He deserved another vodka. We ate in silence for a while. Finally, he pushed his plate away.

  “Mr. Rhode. I appreciate all you have done. I am convinced I am right and will continue to pursue my investigation as long as I am able. I have only one additional favor to ask of you.”

  “Of course, Father.”

  “I would hope that if I uncover something you would consider pertinent, that I can call upon you again. If only to ask your counsel before going elsewhere with it.”

  I told him that wouldn’t be a problem. I was pretty sure I would never hear from Father Zapo again. Especially if he was right about the diocese forcing his retirement and shipping him to a clerical gulag.

  ***

  Abby was already back from her lunch with Brother Leon the Gangbanger when I walked into my office. She held up her new throwaway cell phone.

  “I’ll keep it in case Rosa calls back to check up on me,” she said.

  “How did it go?”

  “I told her I was at the party last night and might want to host one of my own. She asked if I had a date in mind. I said I wanted to check with my husband and would get back to her.”

  “She bought it?”

  “Why, daarling, she ate it up, especially when I mentioned that Bunny and Ashley, my twin daughters, just loved Tiffany and their Sweet Sixteens were coming up.”

  Abby had changed her voice. She sounded exactly like a marble-mouthed Bryn Mawr graduate.

  “Jesus,” I said, laughing.

  “You want me to call Tiffany and see who you should talk to?”

  “No. I’ll just go up to see them. I think this needs the personal touch.”

  CHAPTER 14 – GILT-EDGED CLIENT

  I caught the 11 AM ferry into Manhattan Tuesday and took the subway up to Tiffany’s main headquarters on Fifth Avenue near Central Park. I had a reason for not making an appointment. I wanted to speak to someone in authority, but knew if I called ahead and stated the nature of my business I might be telephonically bounced from corporate officer to corporate officer and eventually confronted with a phalanx of lawyers. I have an outsized opinion of my ability to talk my way into a corporate headquarters based upon my willingness to fabricate my credentials or intimidate gatekeepers. It helps if you view every lobby or reception desk as an enemy pillbox or bunker ripe for a satchel charge or grenade. Then a rejection or getting thrown out on your ass is easier to take.

  I’d been to Tiffany’s flagship store before and headed straight to the bank of elevators in the rear of the showroom. When I got off on the floor where the corporate offices were located I faced my first obstacle, a very
pretty young thing with a wonderful smile and a chest that would launch a thousand ships. I told her I wanted to see either the director of corporate relations or the head of security, or both.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I’m afraid not, miss. I don’t think I need one. I’m a detective.”

  I was wearing a dark blue suit, with a white shirt and a maroon tie. I hoped I looked like a cop to her. I gave her a thin Law and Order smile. Had she been an older, corporate veteran I might have tried a different tack, but she looked like the easily-flustered type. Adaption is everything.

  “Just a minute,” she said and picked up her phone.

  A minute later I was ushered into an office down the hall. The man behind the desk rose to meet me.

  “Fred Kipfer, corporate relations,” he said, extending his hand. “What can I do for you, officer.”

  “First off, I’m private.” I gave him my card. He looked confused, then realized he’d been had. But there wasn’t much he could do about it. I didn’t give him time to think. I sat in a chair without asking. He sat, somewhat reluctantly. “I’m investigating a scam involving your company. It’s highly confidential. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time, particularly my own. Don’t be offended, but are you the right person to talk to?”

  “What’s the scam?”

  It was a reasonable question so I gave him a bare-bones outline. He gave me a condescending smile.

  “I think you’ve been misled Mr. Rhode. But let me bring in our head of security.”

  Kipfer picked up his phone.

  “Morgan, can you spare a moment. No, nothing serious. OK. Thanks.”

  I love not being taken seriously.

  A few minutes later a tall black man walked in. He was wearing a sharp grey suit in the new, tight-fitting style made popular by Daniel Craig in the latest James Bond movie. Introductions were made. His name was Morgan Jones. He sat casually in another chair.

  “Mr. Rhode is a private detective, Morgan.” He passed my card to Jones. “He has quite a tale, which I would like you to hear.”

  I also love the double team. I repeated my story. Morgan also smiled.

  “Somebody sold you some knockoffs,” he said. “It’s a real problem we have, especially over the Internet. You must have heard about our lawsuits to stop the piracy.”

  He exchanged looks with Kipfer. They both stood. Time for more important corporate business. I didn’t budge.

  “So you guys aren’t interested in some gang driving vans full of Tiffany product telling everyone it’s part of a new corporate marketing strategy?”

  I was still seated and was obviously going to stay that way, so they sat back down. I pulled the key ring and compact out of my pocket and laid it on the desk.

  Kipfer picked them up.

  “Obvious knockoffs.”

  He handed them to Jones.

  “Knockoffs,” the security chief agreed. “I don’t like people driving around with a lot of this stuff and using the name, but it should be easy enough to track them down. What did you pay for this crap?”

  I told them.

  “That should tell you something,” Kipfer said smugly. “I believe that key ring goes for around $125 and the compact maybe three times that.”

  This was getting good.

  “Guess I got a hell of a deal,” I said. “But humor me. Have one of your jewelry experts look at them. I have to be sure before I go to the cops.”

  They didn’t like the idea of the cops. Jones shrugged.

  “Sure, why not. Be right back.”

  I knew it wouldn’t take long. The corporate headquarters had to be lousy with jewelry experts. Kipfer and I talked baseball while we waited. He was from Boston and a rabid Red Sox fan. Fortunately, Jones was back in 15 minutes, and I didn’t have to shoot him.

  “It’s ours,” Jones said glumly as he walked in. “Brand new.”

  “All the jewelry was like that,” I said. “My sources tell me it’s right out of the factory.”

  “Who are your sources?”

  I shook my head and held out my hand. He reluctantly gave me back the evidence.

  “Let me lay the ground rules here, fellas. While I’m here to help you guys out, I’m not about to betray any confidences or get people hurt. This has the potential to be a major hair ball for everyone involved, including your bosses and several prominent innocent bystanders, some of whom are judges.”

  “You are withholding evidence of a crime,” Jones said.

  “Not to mention corporate incompetence,” I shot back. “The media would have a field day.”

  That shook them up. Kipfer turned on his colleague.

  “How is this possible, Morgan? Why haven’t you heard about this?”

  I particularly liked the “you” reference. I felt sorry for Jones. He was a squared away dude. I figured him for ex-F.B.I. The Tiffany gig was a plum job that I’m sure he wanted to keep. Being upbraided by a corporate relations flunky was hard to take.

  “Obviously, these people have a pipeline into one of your factories, or whatever you call them,” I said. “But once they get the product, it’s a dream scam, when you think about it. They are selling to high-end folks who think it’s a Tiffany outreach program. The stuff is obviously genuine and the Tiffany name is so respectable they can’t imagine there’s anything shady. The sellers even take checks and credit cards, which gives them an air of legitimacy, but they are probably run through dummy accounts no later than the next morning So, let’s hold the recriminations and work something out that will make everyone happy.”

  Two hours later, after several phone calls, visits to higher-ups, threats and corporate hand-wringing, I had a new client. Gilt-edged, so to speak. Kipfer even walked me to the elevator.

  “We’ll electronically deposit your retainer in your account before the day is out,” he said. “Anything else you need?”

  “Who do you know in engraving, Freddie?”

  CHAPTER 15 – A CATERED STING

  It was obvious that I had gotten Tiffany’s attention. By the time I got to my office the next morning my retainer was already in my bank account.

  I called Mario Giammarco at Bernard Herold & Company, a small Wall Street firm that has a branch on Hylan Boulevard in Grasmere. I don’t believe in mattresses, but I like to be able to visit my dough occasionally.

  “It’s not like you to do something sensible with your money,” he said when I told him I wanted to add some funds to my Individual Retirement Account. “Did you come off your meds.”

  Mario was ex-Army and had been recommended to me by someone at the Veterans Hospital in Brooklyn when I was still under the care of psychologists worried I might be abusing the painkillers that made my life bearable during my recovery.

  “Months ago. Got any ideas? Long-term?”

  “How long?”

  “Until the Jets win the Super Bowl.”

  “How about glacier futures?”

  We kicked around a few ideas and I finally pulled the trigger on a couple.

  I didn’t want my planned jewelry sting to go down on Staten Island, where it might hit the local media and embarrass some people who attended earlier parties. I called Tim Condon, a detective in the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office in New Jersey.

  “Been a while, Rhode. Since the nursing home thing.”

  On a prior case, when I was tracking down a missing man, I visited the guy’s mother in a nursing home in Monmouth County. The director of the run-down facility was a weasel named Earl Patchett, who I suspected of not only skimping on services but also of stealing money from his helpless charges. I dropped a dime on him with Condon, who said he’d follow up with someone in Monmouth County who handled elder abuse cases.

  “Yeah. Whatever happened to Patchett?”

  “I hear they got him on tax evasion.”

  “If it was good enough for Al Capone, it works for me.”

  “Roger that. Hey, I heard nice things about you from some friends
in the D.A.’s office on Staten Island,” he said. “Be careful, Alton, it will ruin your reputation.”

  “What’s a reputation for, Timmy. Listen, I may have something for you.”

  “Please tell me it’s in Bergen County.”

  “It can be, if you want it. But I’ll need a house in a nice, secluded neighborhood where I can set up some multiple felonies. And no publicity.”

  “Gee, why would I turn down something like that? What’s in it for me?”

  “Your bosses will think you’re a goddamn genius.”

  “Let me hear it.”

  ***

  Condon called me back two hours later.

  “Got a house at the end of a cul-de-sac in Ramapo, off Route 17. It will be a cinch to box them in. Nice upscale neighborhood. We seized it in a drug case. Still has furniture in it. We’ve been inventorying the contents, so the neighbors are used to seeing people going in and out. They know what went down there, so they don’t get to curious anyway. Some of my staff, male and female, can act as buyers. I’ll have to use some local resources, but don’t expect a problem. Figure about 10 couples. That enough?”

  “More than enough. You can bust her soon as she makes the first sale. Give me the address. I’ll call you back when I set it up. How fast can you work it at your end.”

  “Two days.”

  I had Abby call Rosa Casablanca. She came into my office smiling.

  “Did she go for it?”

  “Hook, line and sinker, boss. She couldn’t do Saturday, asked if that was a problem. I said no, it would give me more time to invite people. You’re all set for 8 PM Sunday.”

  I called Condon.

  “You’re going to have to make it look real. You have a catering budget?”

  “You’re buying the food, pal. Give me a credit card number.”