Corruption of Blood kac-7

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Mrs. Dobbs gave her a sharp look. "How is that germane to our discussion?"

  "I don't know if it is," said Marlene with a casual shrug. "You tell me. Two men whose lives have been intertwined since childhood. One of them is accused of spying, the other one is an actual spy who defends the accused. I think Mr. Blaine's character and career are important to a consideration of what happened back in 1951. But that's up to you, what you want to tell me."

  After a brief pause, Mrs. Dobbs nodded and said, "Well, I don't suppose Harley would mind at this late date. He certainly was quite free in talking to Richard, and as I said, Richard was famous for not keeping a secret. Richard told me all I know about this. Harley was, as I said, recruited into the OSS right after law school and operated in the Pacific. He was a talented linguist. He spoke fluent French and he knew Japanese and Chinese, which was quite rare in those days. He spent some time in Saigon, posing as a Vichy Frenchman, spying on Japanese shipping. Then he was in the Philippines, and after the war, I think he was in Japan operating against the Soviets. I don't know why he left the Agency. Half-seriously, he used to say it was because he missed seeing us. That's really all I know."

  "Then it must have been his CIA contacts that enabled him to learn about Gaiilov."

  Mrs. Dobbs stiffened in surprise and her teacup clattered in its saucer. "You know about that?"

  "Yes, Mr. Blaine was very forthcoming when I spoke to him. He described a prison meeting in which he laid out the Gaiilov situation for you and Mr. Dobbs, and Mr. Dobbs told him to go ahead if it wouldn't hurt the country."

  "Yes, of course, and Harley assured him it wouldn't. Apparently, Harley was involved in bringing Gaiilov over to our side, so he ought to have known. Allen Dulles was insane with rage about it. He never spoke to Harley again, and I understood at one time they were quite close. Well, he's dead, and so is Richard, and so are the men who accused him, and Harley's dying. He won't let me see him, you know?"

  "Who, Mr. Blaine?"

  "Yes. He says he wants me to remember him as he was. When we were young and full of hope, as he puts it." Mrs. Dobbs fell silent again and Marlene saw that her eyes were brimming. "You know," she said in a strained voice, "I am suddenly quite tired. I wonder if we could continue this at some later time."

  "Of course, Mrs. Dobbs. I'd like to come back, if I may, to look through any material in Mr. Dobbs's study that may be relevant."

  The older woman nodded and said, "Yes, yes, as you like, although I imagine Hank took everything years ago."

  Marlene rose and put her pad and pen away in her purse. "One last thing. What you just now mentioned, that all the people involved are dead. That's what makes it so hard to collect information on this project. I was wondering, do you know what happened to the Russians? Reltzin. And Gaiilov."

  "Gaiilov? I have no idea. Reltzin probably lives right here in Washington."

  "He does?" asked Marlene with surprise. "How do you know that?"

  "Because I see him nearly every week during the concert season. He is a music lover, as am I. We have been nodding to each other for almost twenty-five years, although we have never exchanged a word. He even sent me a card when Richard died. I think Richard would have found that amusing. Harley certainly does."

  "He knows you've seen Reltzin?"

  "Of course. He would have told you if you'd asked him."

  But Marlene had, and he hadn't.

  Driving back to Virginia in the yellow VW, Marlene considered what she had learned so far and her options. It was clear that Blaine had lied to her, about being CIA, and about how he had learned about Gaiilov, and about Reltzin being returned to the Soviet Union, and she didn't know why. He was dying, apparently. Why bother hindering the amateur investigation of an ancient case? Maybe his mind was going and he couldn't keep the old lies straight anymore. In any event, she had gone as far as she could with the accessible material and informants. Moving further would take serious investigative work, full-time work, and that, she had to admit, she could not really accomplish all by herself, and certainly not as an unpaid hobby. It was a lot easier doing investigations when you had a couple of thousand cops behind you.

  "How did it go?" asked Maggie when Marlene at last arrived at the Dobbs home. "You don't seem to have any visible claw marks."

  "I think it went well," said Marlene. "We had a nice conversation about the case, and about your late father-in-law. And Harley Blaine. Tell me, do you know Blaine at all?"

  "Mmm, I'm not sure. He's a hard man to know. He has that perfectly opaque front that guys of that generation cultivated, charming, hail-fellow, slightly boozy, courtly manners. He used to come into town every Christmas with crates of expensive presents. Now the birthday and Christmas presents come by mail. I got the feeling he wanted to be sort of a foster dad and grandparent around here, but he didn't have the… I don't know, emotional energy, or whatever. We haven't seen him for a couple of years, although Hank flew out there a couple of months ago. He's very ill, I think." Then she asked, hesitantly, her voice thin and nervous, "Was she angry that I gave you his number?"

  "It didn't come up," Marlene lied.

  Parking her car in the Federal Gardens lot, Marlene noticed that the next bay was empty. She recalled that she had not seen the old pickup truck owned by Thug 'n' Dwarf for several days. Now that she thought about it, she hadn't seen either of the pair around since an unusually violent fight three nights ago, and she hadn't heard any country music through the party wall either. This was odd, because their dog had whined throughout the previous night. Holding Lucy's hand, she walked from the parking area to the back door of the couple's apartment and pressed her ear against the peeling paint of the door. All she could hear was a faint mewling sound and a rhythmic scratching thump. She peered through the back window into the small kitchen, a dirtier replica of her own, except that several of the cabinet doors hung open and one of the kitchen chairs was lying on its side. She put her ear to the window. No sounds but the persistent scratch-thump-scratch-whine.

  Entering her own apartment, Marlene settled the napping Lucy in her bed, then dialed the manager's office. The manager was a lazy redneck who had a reputation for shakedowns and hustling single mothers short on the rent. The phone rang fifteen times before she slammed it down. Federal Gardens was not a high-service establishment. She could, of course, hear the same lugubrious noises through her walls. The dog was obviously still there.

  She bore it for ten minutes, pacing, smoking, and then with a curse she grabbed a table knife from a drawer and dashed out. It took less than a minute to pop the cheap lock on the back door of Thug 'n' Dwarf's apartment. She slipped inside.

  As she had suspected, the place was abandoned. The refrigerator held only a few condiments, a moldy package of sliced bologna, and half a stick of butter. The living room was merely filthy and disordered, but the large bedroom bore the signs of serious fighting: a smashed lamp, holes in the plaster, chairs broken, and the bed torn apart. All the drawers had been pulled out of the bureau, and one of them had been flung against the wall hard enough to smash it. If Marlene had been made to guess, she would have said that the couple had engaged in an ultimate argument, Dwarf had cleared out while Thug was at work, and he had come home, observed this fact, taken out his rage on the place itself, and then made his own escape. Leaving the dog.

  Who was locked in a closet in the small bedroom.

  "Ah, you poor baby!" she cried when she opened the door, and then she drew back, gagging. The beast was lying in its own filth, ribs staring, its black coat matted and dull. It had obviously been half-starved for a long time and deprived of water for days at least. Marlene ran back to the kitchen, put the bologna and the butter in a bowl, filled a small pot with water, and carried both back to the dog. It lapped up the water. The food disappeared in two great gulps. Then it stood up and walked slowly on shaky legs out of the closet.

  Marlene drew in her breath. The animal was huge, well over two feet high at the shoulder, with a great
, sad-eyed slobbering head. She judged it to be the result of some ill-advised mating between a St. Bernard and a black retriever.

  Cautiously, Marlene patted its head. It licked her hand, coating it all over with hot dogspit.

  "Come on, Buster, let's get you cleaned up," she said, tearing the cord from the shattered lamp and tying it to the dog's chain collar. It followed her docilely next door. She found Lucy awake and curious.

  "What's his name?" was her first question when she saw the dog, and then, "Why does he smell so yucky?"

  "I don't know his name, dear, and he smells bad because he hasn't had a bath in a long time. That's what we're going to do now. Go run and get your baby shampoo."

  Marlene tied the dog to a pipe outside the kitchen and washed it with bucket, scrub brush, and Johnson's No More Tears, and dried it with a cheap chenille bath rug she found in a closet. The dog bore this with admirable patience, lapping at puddles, but otherwise staying still. After the bath, it looked a lot better, shiny and bearing, absurdly, the scent of a clean, small child. When it shook itself, its skin flopped about in a peculiar and disconcerting manner, as if it had been sold a suit two sizes too large at the dog store. Its damp coat steamed in the chilly air, giving it the appearance of a hellhound, albeit a sweet hellhound. Big too, very big, and from the disproportionate size of the paws, planning on becoming bigger still. Marlene wondered if she was making one of her famous mistakes.

  "Is he our dog now, Mommy?"

  "I guess. Do you like him?"

  "Uh-huh. He looks like the Peter Pan dog, but black. Could he baby-sit me when you go out?"

  "Maybe. Let's go inside, it's too cold out here."

  They went into the kitchen, where the dog downed another quart of water, an elderly Big Mac from the fridge, and four eggs beaten with milk. They all then adjourned to the living room, where the animal plopped himself down in front of the couch where Marlene and Lucy sat, tongue lolling and looking absurdly grateful.

  "He looks like Uncle Harry," said Lucy after studying the dog for a while.

  "Gosh, you're right, he does," agreed Marlene, laughing. The dog's face-its sad, intelligent eyes and its general air of battered dependability-was the image of the detective, Harry Bello. "Lucy, you know, I'm glad you reminded me. How would you like it if I asked Uncle Harry to come down and visit?"

  "Uh-huh," said Lucy distractedly. "His name is Sweetie."

  "Who, the dog?"

  "Uh-huh." The dog licked the child's face, throwing her into a fit of giggles. "He likes it."

  "If you say so," said her mom.

  Arriving at Miami International Airport a few hours after Karp and Fulton, the man who called himself Bill Caballo rented a car and drove west on the Tamiami Trail, out past where the Glades began, until he came to the enormous gun shop that is one of the landmarks of the area. There he paid $435.95 plus tax for a Remington Sportsman 78 bolt-action rifle, with sling, mounting a Tasco 40-mm 4 x scope. He also bought a cheap.22 revolver, a box of.22 long rifle cartridges, a box of 308 Winchester Super-X cartridges, and a bottle of insect repellent, paying cash for all his purchases. He also paid in cash for an hour on the range behind the shop, where he zeroed the rifle until he could put three rounds within the diameter of a half-dollar coin at two hundred yards. He fired a dozen or so rounds from the.22 also, to see if it would fire reliably, which it did. He was not concerned with its accuracy.

  Leaving the gun shop, he drove further along the Trail and found a junk market, where he bought an old golf bag and a miscellany of unmatched clubs. He put his new rifle in the golf bag, and bought a meal at a nearby diner.

  He then took the Trail to 1-95, went north on that freeway to 922, and then took that east across the Broad Causeway, exiting at the Indian Creek Golf Course. He parked and walked around the southern edge of the golf course with the bag slung over his shoulder. He did not look very much like a golfer, but attracted no particular attention. Indian Creek is a public course and they get all kinds there.

  He sat down in a mass of scrub behind a large cabbage palmetto, and smeared himself liberally with insect dope. Then he waited. Night fell. He dozed in short snatches. The sky turned gray, then became streaked with red, then the palest possible silvery blue, flecked with small clouds. He stretched and pulled his rifle out of the golf bag, wiped the scope, inserted four rounds into the magazine, and chambered one of them. He crawled around the side of a palmetto and lay prone in the short grass and looked through his scope at Guido Mosca's house.

  At around six-thirty, Guido Mosca, dressed in Bermudas and a flowered shirt, with fishing rod in hand, walked barefoot out of his house and onto his little dock. He did this every morning, although he rarely caught a fish, and he saw no reason to interrupt his routine simply because, in a few hours, he was scheduled to fly to Washington to testify before the House Select Committee on Assassinations. He would have plenty of time to get ready, he thought, which in the event was untrue, because as soon as he reached the end of the dock he was shot once through the heart from across the wide channel.

  FIFTEEN

  "I still say," said Karp, "we should've flown back yesterday and made Mosca go with us."

  Fulton, who was checking out the hang of his jacket and the tuck of his sport shirt in the motel room mirror, gave him a look. It was not the first time since their interview with the mobster that Karp had expressed such sentiments, nor the sixth either. It was starting to get on his nerves.

  "Will you relax, for Chrissake!" Fulton snapped. "I should've left you in the office. Look! We're gonna go out now and get in the car, and drive somewhere and have a nice breakfast out on the beach, somewhere where we can get a decent bagel, like you're always bitching about, and then we're gonna drive out to Mr. Mosca's little house and pick him up and if his girlfriend's there we'll look at her tits for a couple minutes, and then we'll drive to the airport and be on the ten-ten flight to National."

  "I don't want any breakfast," said Karp. "I want my hands on Guido Mosca. I want his head cradled on my lap. I want him up there in front of the committee, tying Paul Ashton fucking David to Bishop, and to a shooter who looks just like Lee Harvey Oswald and to Cuban shooters who didn't like Kennedy, and to Oswald himself and to whoever this Turm character is. This is the case, Clay. It's coming together-I can feel it."

  "Can I at least get some coffee?"

  "Yeah, if you can find a drive-through. And I want you to roll by the window," said Karp, and strode out of the room.

  Fifteen minutes later they were at the house on the canal. The patio was deserted. A slight breeze ruffled the water of the pool. Fulton went to the glass door and rang the bell. After a minute, he rang again and rapped on the door with his knuckles. "Jerry's a late sleeper," he remarked.

  "I hope so," said Karp, rapping on the glass himself. Fulton said, "Keep ringing. I'll check the front."

  Fulton's shout brought Karp running around the side of the house. The detective was at the end of the dock, kneeling over a brightly colored mound. Karp felt his heart wrench around in his chest. He slowed his step. There was obviously no hurry anymore.

  "Shot through the middle of the chest at long range," said Fulton, rising from the corpse. "Probably from those bushes across the canal." He looked at Karp and shrugged. "Okay, I was wrong. Who knew?"

  "I'll take that literally. Who did know? The only people I told at the Washington end about coming down here to get Mosca were Crane… and Hank Dobbs. You tell anyone?"

  "Hell, no! But you forgot one thing-Tony Bones knew all about it."

  "Yeah, but why would Tony have his own guy whacked? He wants to take over South Florida when Trafficante kicks off. There's no damn reason for him to give us the go-ahead, and then give Mosca the go-ahead to talk to us, if all the time he was planning to kill him. The whole thing is too small-time. We do Tony a little favor, go easy on his kid, he does us a little favor, gets one of his guys to talk to us. It's not serious Mob business."

  "Somebody Tony told, th
en?" offered Fulton.

  "Yeah, and we're gonna have a talk with Tony about that. But what I think is, this isn't a Mob hit at all. This is a guy who likes to stand off and pop people with a rifle." Fulton thought about this for a while.

  "You think the same guys, the Kennedy guys?"

  "It's a possible, yeah, and it means somebody's following us. Or knows what we're doing."

  Fulton gestured toward where Mosca's body lay. "Whatever, we got to call the sheriff."

  "No, call Al Sangredo. Let him call the sheriff and explain the situation here. A little professional courtesy would go down pretty good, and besides, the last thing I want is to get our names involved in a local investigation. Meanwhile…" Karp gave the house a long, significant look.

  "We toss his place."

  "You toss his place, Detective. I'm a lawyer. My place is lounging by the pool, contemplating the majesty of the Constitution, and feeling like an asshole."

  Later that afternoon, Karp and Fulton were eating pastrami in Sheffler's, a large, bright, highly chilled eatery on Collins in North Miami Beach. Al Sangredo was sitting across from them, sipping on a cup of coffee brewed at about a third of the octane rating he was used to, and listening to the two of them bring him up-to-date around mouthfuls of greasy pink meat. When they were finished, Sangredo said quietly, "That's quite a story. I hope you're not holding anything back from the sheriff about this hit. I vouched for you guys and I have to live in this town."

  Sangredo was a big man, six-four, two-seventy. He was a retired NYPD homicide cop who had worked with Fulton for fifteen years in Harlem, a datum recorded in his black eyes, which, under an enthusiastic growth of eyebrow, were hard, suspicious, and intelligent. He had the usual tan of the region and his skin was smooth and relatively unlined for a man of fifty-seven. In a city full of "Spanish," he was distinguished by being an actual Spaniard, and he carried himself with the requisite dignity. Fulton assured him that he was not withholding anything germane to a homicide investigation, although he might have had he found anything worthwhile in his quick search of Mosca's house. Jerry Legs was, however, not the sort of mafioso who keeps careful records.