SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Let me order. I know the chef.”

  Without looking at the menu, he ordered Caesar salads, Maryland crab cakes and two 24-ounce Delmonico steaks, with all the trimmings, plus a bottle of Cakebread Cellars cabernet.

  “Are we expecting the New York Giants offensive line to join us,” I said.

  “It won’t go to waste,” he said, gesturing to his men at the other table. “And to answer your question, we have a close relationship with Mount Manresa.”

  Mount Manresa is the 100-year-old Jesuit retreat house in Fort Wadsworth on Staten Island. It was scheduled to be closed and its operations folded into the Morristown facility. The 10-acre property was valued at almost $16 million and the consensus was that the storied grounds would soon go the way of all vacant land in the borough and be developed into condominiums and townhouses.

  “Please tell me you’re not buying Mount Manresa.”

  “Staten Island real estate is potentially the most valuable land in New York.”

  “I thought you Russians only bought along the shore.”

  “After Hurricane Sandy, we are rethinking that. Hell, the way things are going with global warming, Mount Manresa may be waterfront property someday.”

  “And the Jesuits don’t have a problem with you?”

  “With enough dummy corporations, one can buy anything. Besides, they’d rather sell to the devil they know then one they don’t. For some reason they hate Donald Trump.”

  The crab cakes arrived and the waiter uncorked our wine. Arman went through the tasting routine but after the wine was poured he told the waiter to bring two ponies of chilled vodka.

  “We can’t drink red wine with crab,” he explained.

  “How is Maks doing?”

  “A simple flesh wound. But I think it best he stays here until things blow over. He’s enjoying himself. He’s not a talker. The silence is wonderful for him. And the staff loves him because nobody dares break the rules when he’s around.”

  “I hope to God he doesn’t go to confession.”

  Rahm laughed.

  “Yes, that would open up even a Jesuit’s eyes.” Rahm cut a piece of crab cake and pointed it at me. “What can you do for him?”

  “Whatever it takes, Arman. He saved my life. What does your friend in the D.A.’s office say?”

  I was one of the few people who knew that Rahm was sleeping with one of the Assistant District Attorneys in Mike Sullivan’s office.

  “She tells me that they are not inclined to pursue the matter too closely.”

  “I hear they will try to take credit for exposing Isabella Donner.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  The waiter came with our vodka. It did go well with the crab.

  “Did Maks tell you why he went to the door when he did?”

  “When he saw the woman wipe off the doorknob, he became suspicious. He assumed it was fingerprints, but we now know it was something more sinister. He waited a few minutes and then decided to go in. He got to the door just as she came out with her suitcases in hand. He called your name and when he got no reply he pushed past her. She panicked and shot him in the back. The shoulder, actually. Fortunately, it was a small-caliber pistol. Maks has survived much bigger bullets. He was forced to subdue her but, alas, his skills in that regard are not, how shall I say it, refined. You know the rest.”

  Cormac said Isabella’s neck had been snapped like a twig.

  “The police will probably treat it as self-defense.”

  “Yes. He is quite embarrassed about that. It’s a first for him. I doubt there will be repercussions. The woman, after all, was a mass murderer.”

  “I’m lucky she didn’t kill him. Then we’d both be dead.”

  “Yes. And that was the least of your luck. Kalugin is familiar with various toxins. At one point the Soviet Union was prepared to nerve gas against the Taliban and other insurgents during our misadventure in Afghanistan in the 1980’s when he was stationed there. They never did, primarily because nerve agents are so dangerous to handle. The Soviet Army was never big on operational safety. After several Red Army soldiers died working with the hellish stuff, the idea was shelved. Kalugin was a witness to some of the deaths, which were quite gruesome. It made an impression, as much as anything can make an impression on Maks. When he saw the state you were in, he called 911 and did CPR on you until help arrived.”

  Rahm saw the look on my face and laughed.

  “Yes, my friend, the poison was one thing, but you may also be the only person on earth to have survived mouth-to-mouth with Kalugin. Undoubtedly something neither of you will want to repeat. Or talk about.”

  He didn’t have to worry about that, I thought, as our steaks arrived. They were seared perfectly and delicious. I said as much.

  “Yes,” Rahm said, “but I imagine most things taste better after surviving almost certain death.”

  He was right, of course. For the next quarter hour we simply ate. I finally pushed my plate away and finished my wine.

  “I’m having a hard time thinking that Maks Kalugin knows CPR.”

  “All my men have been trained in it, as well as basic first aid,” Rahm said. “It comes in handy in their line of work.”

  “Of course.”

  When the waiter came over to see how we were doing, there was still enough food left on the table to feed Rhode Island.

  “Please box all this up,” Rahm said. He looked at his two bodyguards who had their eyes on the room and its entrances. Probably calculating lines of fire. “And add two pieces of your excellent cheesecake, to go. Then bring us cognacs. Your best.”

  After the waiter left Rahm turned to me.

  “How about after our brandy we go over and see how Maks in doing at Loyola?”

  “Sure. But I’m not going to kiss him.”

  Rahm laughed.

  “Yes. And try not to make too big a deal about his saving your life. He is sick of doing it. This makes the third time in two years or so. He told me he either wants a raise or permission to kill you. You are wearing him out.”

  “I repeat myself, but on each occasion he intervened I was only in danger because you guys put me there.”

  “A minor point. But it is funny, when you think about it, Alton. This whole Naulls situation started with a Polish priest who used to be a Communist seeking the help of an old atheist adversary in the KGB to catch a serial killer using the Catholic Church as her cover. And it ends with us visiting your rescuer who is hiding out with the Jesuits. It’s almost enough to convince me that God has a sense of humor.”

  “God?”

  Our brandies came and Arman Rahm lifted his glass toward me.

  “I said my father was an atheist, Alton. As you know, I believe in hedging my bets.”

  CHAPTER 37 – FRENCH LESSONS

  Two Weeks later

  Alice was in full Parisian expatriate student uniform. Tight jeans, back boots, sweater and scarf. Everyone in France wears jeans. I think they are issued by the Government. I felt conspicuous in my khakis. In a manhunt, I’d stand out like a camel at the Kentucky Derby. I could imagine the BOLO the gendarmes would put out: Male, Not Wearing Jeans. Expel on sight.

  Of course, Alice looked terrific, as, I am forced to admit, did most of the women I saw. There is something about French women that is unexplainable. I mean, all women are unexplainable, but the French versions take it to another level.

  We were sitting in a bistro drinking Café Americanos on Rue de Platre just up the street from my hotel. I had taken a room because Alice was sharing a small flat with another student. We were killing time before walking over to the Latin Quarter for dinner. Alice said she had discovered “an absolutely lovely little restaurant on Rue Gallande with the best bistro food in Paris.” After dinner she wanted to show me St-Séverin, “the most-charming church in Paris.”

  This was Alice’s first experience of Paris, and it showed. I’d been to Paris before and could have told her that to get a bad meal in the city was n
ext to impossible. I might have also told her that, given my recent adventures, I could do without any more religious exposure. But I was happy for her, falling in love with what, to my mind, is the greatest non-New York city on the planet. And in my more reflective moments, I think it’s a tie.

  “How is your room? The Hotel Britannique is supposed to be lovely.”

  “It’s larger than I expected. Last time I was here my room was so small I had to punch air holes in the wall.”

  Alice loved the engraved compact I gave her, and the story that went with it.

  “I love it even more knowing it’s stolen,” she said.

  “And, don’t forget, I got it at a huge discount.”

  “You are so romantic, Alton.”

  Of course, I also told her about the dead guy in my foyer and everything that had happened with Isabella Donner.

  “My God! What a woman. Do you think she would have tried to kill you if you had, well, succumbed to her charms?”

  “After seeing what she did with the councilman, I might have succumbed during the succumbing.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I assume so. I don’t believe any of her lovers are alive to tell the tale.”

  “But you didn’t fit the profile of the men she despised.”

  “I think she made exceptions for self preservation. Can’t hold that against her.”

  We had been sitting in the bistro for almost an hour, just sipping coffee. One of the delights of Paris is that you can sit all day having a couple of cups of coffee, a glass of wine, perhaps a croissant, and nobody thinks anything of it. For a few francs, or euros, one can feel like a human being. There would have been no Hemingway if that wasn’t the case. He was always broke.

  “Her sex drive must have been amazing.”

  “Yes. It was obviously chemically enhanced. She may have overdone the Rantox.”

  “A drug that makes you look 10 years younger and pumps up your libido at the same time. Where can I buy the stock?”

  “I think LexGen has some kinks to work out. Plus there may now be legal issues. Marketing a drug associated with a sex-crazed serial killer might be problematical.”

  “Do you think it made her the way she was?”

  “No. I think she was just bats. Your French philosophers likely have another name for it.”

  “Très bats.”

  “Anyway, it certainly made her more attractive to her victims,” I said. “There wouldn’t be many men who could resist her.”

  “Lured by meadows starred with flowers,” Alice said.

  One of the risks one runs when involved with a philosophy professor is that they occasionally say things that need clarification. I gave Alice a look.

  “That’s how the Greeks described the place where the Sirens lived,” she explained, laughing. “Your Isabella would be right at home in Greek mythology. She was certainly as dangerous and devious as any one of them.”

  “Except the Sirens lured sailors to their deaths with their songs,” I said, “not with chemically enhanced sex.”

  “How did you resist her charms, sailor?”

  “I think it was the soda bread. I kept thinking of my grandmother.”

  “Your grandmother made soda bread?”

  “No. She could hardly boil water. I was thinking of you.”

  Her eyes misted at that, which wasn’t my intention.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Fortunately, we were interrupted by four of Alice’s friends from school. Her roommate, Nicolette, was one of them. There was another girl and two men, none of whose names I caught. Hell, they were all wearing jeans.

  A lot of French was spoken but I caught enough, along with Alice’s quick translations, to garner that I was not completely unknown to them, at least the girls, both of whom I soon warmed to, mainly because they thought I looked “dangereux.” The men were another story. They kept looking disparagingly at my khakis and seemed entirely too solicitous of Alice. The French have earned their reputation as seducers. Their recent Presidents married supermodels and juggled wives and mistresses in public, much to the delight of an understanding, and apparently approving, public. I presumed Alice was fair game. I weighed my options. I could shoot all the men in France. I would have to obtain a gun, as mine were back home. That might be a problem. France wasn’t the United States, where there were more guns in private hands than there were private hands.

  ***

  That night, as we lay in my bed at the Hotel Britannique, I mentioned my plan on dealing with potential rivals.

  “I believe the Germans tried something similar,” Alice said, “several times. And even with Teutonic efficiency, they failed. What makes you so sure you can succeed?”

  “I have greater motivation.”

  She cast her eyes down.

  “Your motivation appears to be unmotivated.”

  “Give me a break.”

  She laughed.

  “Won’t your plan be awfully expensive, ammunition-wise?”

  “What’s the exchange rate with the Euro?”

  She told me.

  “I’ll have to cash in my 401-k. Mario will be devastated.”

  “I can’t be involved with a man without a pension plan.”

  “You’re not making this any easier.”

  “I see other obstacles. I know you. You will make exceptions.”

  “Such as.”

  “Chefs.”

  “Then it’s Plan B.”

  “Which is?”

  “This,” I said, as I moved my hand between her legs. “Followed by 24/7 long-distance phone sex to keep you busy.”

  Alice giggled and then began squirming.

  “That might work,” she said and let out a small moan, “but long distance will probably be as costly as ammunition.”

  “You’re worth it, kid,” I said, rolling on top of her.

  “I like Plan B,” she gasped. “But I’d like to try something.”

  Ten minutes later, after I got my breath back, I said, “Where did that come from?”

  “Nicole showed me.”

  “Showed you?”

  “Well, told me. But she was very graphic. She taught me some other stuff. When you’re ready again, we can try them.”

  After the first Nicole maneuver, I figured I’d be ready in a month or so.

  “How about you just tell me about it,” I said, trying to buy time.

  Alice did, colorfully, using a ribald mixture of French and English, and I discovered I didn’t need the month.

  THE END

  If you’ve enjoyed this novel, we hope you will review it on Amazon. Here is a handy link: REVIEW

  ***

  Alton Rhode returns in SISTER. This is an excerpt:

  CHAPTER 1 - PROM CHECK

  Sister Veronica leaned forward and smiled into Carole MacQuaid’s nervous, pretty face.

  “Really, Carole? Your Mom said this dress was appropriate?”

  “I swear, Sister. She said it was just like the one she wore to her own prom.”

  The principal of Ave Maria Academy for Girls in Worcester, Massachusetts, held her tongue. But what she wanted to say was that if Mrs. MacQuaid had worn a similar dress to her prom it was probably the night she conceived Carole. Instead, she said, “OK. Let’s give her a call.”

  The girl sighed heavily, defeat on her face.

  “Well, maybe not just like the dress she wore. But it is the same color.”

  The dress was purple. Bad taste apparently ran in the MacQuaid family.

  “I don’t think your mom’s boobs were falling out.”

  The girl looked down at her chest.

  “I don’t think they are so bad, Sister.”

  “They aren’t bad, Carole. You have a wonderful figure. But there is a difference between cleavage and the Grand Canyon.” Sister Veronica was quite sure some of the boys in town had seen the girl’s breasts in all their naked glory, but that was no reason she should look trashy on prom night, purple dres
s notwithstanding. “You are a lovely girl. Let the boys concentrate on your face for a change.”

  All the seniors had to pass inspection. One by one the girls came by the principal’s office, changing in the bathroom, to preview their prom dresses. Sister Veronica was halfway through the senior class. The prom was two weeks away but she wanted to give the kids enough time to make the necessary adjustments. In Carole MacQuaid’s case, she thought, steel cables might be in order.

  The dresses did not have to be suits of armor. But they couldn’t be strapless, and the straps had to be at least one and a half inches wide. Sister Veronica had nothing against her girls showing a little feminine pulchritude. It was not unheard of for her to tell a girl she might want to be a little more daring. Cleavage depended on each girl’s attributes. Small-breasted girls were given slightly more leeway in that department. High heels were permitted. Telling a teen-age girl she couldn’t show off her legs would be cruel. But not too high. The girls would probably be scandalized if they found out their principal knew that ultra-high heels were called “fuck me” shoes. I didn’t always wear these skirts, jackets and high-collared blouses that make me look like, well, Angela Lansbury in Murder, She Wrote. These kids should have seen me in a bathing suit. And they’d be really shocked to know I wasn’t a virgin, although it’s been many years since I’ve been with a man. None since long before I took my vows. But I remember how it was. The intensity. The need. A blurry image of a handsome young man swam into her consciousness. I wonder how he is?

  “Earth to Sister,” Carole said.

  “What’s that?”

  The principal realized that her mind had wandered.

  “You were staring off into space,” the girl said. “I thought you were spazzing out.”

  “Sorry. I was thinking of something. Not that you girls aren’t capable of giving me a stroke. Now, are you going to the prom with that boy from Holy Cross?”

  “Tom? Yes, Sister.” The girl looked at her principal for a sign of disapproval. “He’s only a freshman.”

  “Nice-looking boy, and polite as I recall. Freshman, huh. Way to go, girl.”

  They both laughed. Who am I to cast stones, Sister Veronica mused. Mine was a college sophomore. A Holy Cross boy, too, although neither of us lived anywhere near here back then. Funny I wound up here.