CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) (21 page)

CHAPTER 28 – SAVANNAH ON MY MIND

Back on Staten Island I tried to maintain a normal routine, not easy to do when you expect a SWAT team from the U.S. Marshalls Service and/or another hit team from Nando Carlucci to drop by. If they arrived simultaneously, I wondered if one group would hold the door for the other.

Cormac was watching the wires, or whatever cops do now, for any sign of interest in me. For my part, I was monitoring the website of the
Naples Sun Times.
I’d picked up the paper in the Fort Myers airport while nervously waiting for my plane to Cleveland to take off. I hadn’t planned to go to Cleveland; it was the first flight out. The paper had been chock full of real estate ads, some of which had a whiff of desperation. But there was a decent news hole and buried deep on an inside page, as is the case with most papers catering to a resort area dependent on tourists and vacation home owners, was a small section devoted to local crime: mostly burglaries, bar fights, DUI’s and domestic squabbles. But there was also a sprinkling of felonious assaults, rapes and murders that, from the names involved, appeared to occur mainly in Immokalee, where there was a Seminole casino and an impoverished community of immigrant workers.

Finally, on Wednesday, I had spotted a small item online:

PELICAN COVE MAN FOUND DEAD

A spokesperson for the Collier County Sheriff’s Department said that a man was found dead yesterday afternoon in his Pelican Cove villa. The man, identified as William Calloway, 43, may have been the victim of foul play.

I wondered what had given that away, the smashed door or the broken neck.

Calloway’s body was discovered by two women who work for Reliable Cleaning Service in Bonita Springs.

“The air-conditioning was set very low,” the spokesperson said. “That apparently slowed the rate of decomposition. It may be some time before the county coroner can establish an approximate time of death, or cause.”

If Billy hadn’t been so damn lazy and done his own cleaning, it might have been weeks before his body was discovered. The rest was boilerplate crime reporting gibberish, short on details. 

The next day, there was a follow-up story:

MURDERED MAN HAD GAMBLING PROBLEMS

William Calloway, whose body was discovered Tuesday in his Pelican Cove home, and whose death was initially considered suspicious, apparently was the victim of a freak accident, police said. According to a spokesperson from the Collier County Sheriff’s Department, Calloway was changing the battery in a ceiling smoke detector when he slipped off his ladder and hit his head on a table, breaking his neck.

The Feds were covering up. It got better.

Calloway is survived by his brother, Edgar, of Washington, D.C. A private funeral service will be held there Saturday, with cremation to follow.

A brother “Edgar.” Someone in the F.B.I. had a sense of humor. I wondered what they would really do with the body. Was Billy destined to sleep with Bin Laden?

The kicker:

In lieu of flowers, friends are asked to send donations to the Collier County Police Benevolent Association.

So that’s how it was done. Neat. I thought about Mrs. Capriati. She would never know her son was dead.

The next morning I met Cormac at the Kings Arms. I ordered coffee.

“You really fucked up,” Mac said pleasantly as he dug into a platter of French toast. He was one of those people who cut up the toast into little squares, then spear the pieces. I didn’t approve of that method, but this wasn’t the time to be censorious about his table manners. “In fact, I may nominate you for the Fuck Up Hall of Fame.”

“Some people might argue it was brilliant detective work,” I said.

He pointed a forkful of toast at me.

“They’d be fucking idiots.”

Before the fork reached his mouth a drop of syrup landed on his shirt.

“Shit,” he said, dabbing the spot and spreading the stain. “Shit.”

I handed him a printout of the Naples newspaper stories. After he read the now syrup-stained printout, he said, “I figured as much. Nothing has popped officially. Didn’t want to call down there. Never thought to check the paper. Who reads papers anymore?”

“You think I’m in the clear?”

“Probably. The Feebies want this as dead and buried as Capriati. They won’t want it blasted around that they lost someone. They’ll think there was a leak inside, or he got careless. They may check his phone records, but that’s about it. They’re not going to waste time looking for a professional hit man, which they will assume was the case. Even if someone describes you, they won’t care. And the Chinese Wall works both ways. I doubt if my friend on the Task Force will ever find out that Capriati or Calloway, whatever the fuck he called himself, is dead. If he does, I’ll say one of my snitches told me the Carluccis were asking about him. They’ll get the credit for the kill.”

“So, there would be no problem if I advertised that I found someone in witness protection?”

“You might want to leave the part out about getting him killed. Marshalls Service and the F.B.I. might also take a dim view of a marketing campaign.”

Cormac had finished his breakfast. His shirt looked like a crime scene. He waved over our waitress.

“Agnes, honey, bring us more coffee and a glass of club soda, please.”

After she left he looked at me.

“The most dangerous thing in the world is a beautiful woman.”

“Agnes?”

She was pushing 80.

“No, you meshuga. The James woman.”

“You stole the line from Richard Condon,” I said. “
Prizzi’s Honor
. I read the book.”

“I only saw the movie. But truer words were never spoken.”

“I don’t know. I want to find her, but I wouldn’t know where to start. Compared to her, Capriati was easy. At least he existed.”

“Prints?”

“My office has been painted and I even polished the furniture. Besides, I don’t recall them even touching anything.”

Our coffee and the club soda came. Cormac started dabbing the spots on his shirt.

“I’ll bring the bottle,” Agnes said.

“
So, Alt, what’s next? Judge Crater. Amelia Earhart. The Abominable Snowman? The second shooter on the grassy knoll?”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d help me out on something tougher. I’m stumped.”

I reached into my pocket and brought out the poison pen letters that were bedeviling my neighbors.

***

Despite what I told Cormac, when I got to my office I turned on my laptop and opened a Word document. I started making a list, each line denoted by a bullet point. All salient, embarrassing admissions of incompetence. Every sentence I typed was accompanied by a loud self-remonstration. Finally, when I looked at them in total, I said, “You fucking idiot.”

I was startled by a knock on my door. It wasn’t a SWAT team, just the cleaning lady I’d just hired. I made a mental apology to Capriati about his laziness. From the look on her face I could tell she’d heard me. She probably thought I had Tourette’s.

“Sorry, I was talking to myself.”

“That’s no good, you know.”

I told her to start in my reception area. A moment later I heard her vacuuming and I went back to the list: Atlanta embezzlement, sick child, worried mother, bone marrow transplant; I’d bought the whole shebang. I assumed none of it was true. Whoever put it together wouldn’t have left any strings in the story to follow. They wanted Capriati found and needed the kind of tall tale that would motivate me. But why me?

“I got to do this room, mister.”

The cleaning lady, vacuum and duster in hand. I opened a desk drawer and pulled out a rocks glass I’d recently brought from home. Then I went over to my small refrigerator and took out a bottle of bourbon. I poured three fingers in the glass. I could sense the cleaning lady’s disapproval. I don’t take disapproval well, so I took the bottle with me out into my reception area and stood by a window. I was going to have to get some chairs. I’d do that soon as I was sure I wasn’t going to be arrested or shot by the Carluccis. I sipped the bourbon, cold but warming.

The Carluccis. They had tried to kill me, presumably because I was looking for Capriati, Nando’s old wrestling buddy. They obviously suspected he could be found. Had he contacted them? But who had killed their hit men? Someone who wanted me to find Billy? None of it made any sense. I sipped more bourbon, which made sense.

The vacuuming in my office stopped. I went back and sat at my desk as the cleaning lady started wiping and dusting everything in sight. Her movements were robotic and precise. A hard-working Hispanic woman who was probably supporting a family of eight, she could clean a room in her sleep. I sat back to think. Chances were I was no longer a threat to anyone and was in the clear. I had been used. But, so what? I was still breathing, and had made a couple of grand. Maybe Cormac was right. I should hook up with a big national security firm and hang around hotel lobbies. I poured a few more fingers. Are people with thick fingers more prone to alcoholism?

I didn’t like being a Judas Goat. Billy Capriati was nothing to me, but that didn’t mean I was happy somebody snapped his neck and cut off his finger. Whatever he was, he sent money and oranges to his mother. I thought about her. I had used her to get her son killed.

“Goddamn it!”

The cleaning lady looked at me. It wasn’t much of a curse, but I said, “Sorry.”

I calmed down. And my confidence waned. How the hell would I find out what was going on? Call Nando Carlucci and ask for an explanation? If I was lucky – and he was in a good mood – he might tell me just before he dropped me in the harbor. I had to find “Ellen James.”

She had paid me in cash. Her cell phone had turned out to be a throw away. Mac said the hotel was a dead end. There were no fingerprints.

The cleaning lady came around my desk and picked up my trash receptacle, which was overflowing. She tapped a finger on the top of my bourbon bottle.

“No good. Too early!”

She walked away. I heard the outside door open.

“She’s right,” I said, and put the cap back on the bottle and opened the fridge. Maybe if I stuck it behind the Coke cans I wouldn’t be so easily tempted. Only there were no Coke cans. I remembered I’d given the last one to Savannah.

I bolted for the hallway. The cleaning lady was just emptying the contents of my waste basket down a trash chute.

“Stop!”

She was startled. Terrified is more like it. The madman who had been cursing and talking to himself was now bearing down on her with a bottle of bourbon in his hands.

“Madre de Dios!”

She picked up her broom and prepared to defend herself. I slowed and held up my free hand.

“Take it easy,” I said. “I need that basket back.”

I took it from her gingerly and went back to my office. I could hear her mumbling. My Spanish is rusty, but I think she said “fucking idiot.”

Back at my desk I carefully went through the basket. Near the bottom was a Coke can. I took out a pen and lifted it out. Then I called Cormac Levine. 

CHAPTER 29 – LAURENE

It had been the longest of shots, but there were two sets of identifiable prints on the Coke can. Mine, and those of a 19-year-old Louisiana-born prostitute by the name of Laurene Robillard.

“You fell for it hooker, line and sinker,” Mac happily told me when he got the prints back on Monday. He thought the line funnier than I did. “She’s been a whore since she was 15. Multiple arrests, mostly for solicitation, starting in New Orleans. A couple of minor drug busts. Spoke to a vice cop I know in Manhattan. She ditched her pimp and went to an upscale escort service. She’s a real chameleon, pushing 20 but can pass for pre-pubescent. You should see her mug shot. Doesn’t look like she could have fuzz on her pubes. Course, she probably doesn’t. Most of the pros shave now. A pedophile’s wet dream, but the bulk of her clients are middle-age guys from the suburbs living out their computer fantasies. She’s in great demand. Gets top dollar. Never been inside for long. Can afford good lawyers and Vice has better things to do, sad to say.”

“Got a current address?”

“Yeah. And it’s a better one than you or me can afford.”

I wrote it down.

“Thanks, Mac. I owe you.”

“You sure you want to go down this road? If you drop it now, nothing will probably happen. But all bets are off if you start stirring up the mud.”

“They used me to kill somebody.”

“You were in the service. Must be old hat by now.”

***

Laurene Robillard, a.k.a. Savannah James, had an apartment in a one of a row of townhouses just off Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village. Anyone who ever watched
Law and Order
would recognize the block. Someone was always being killed or arrested on it. The show’s detectives and district attorneys came and went, but that block stayed the same. I rang the buzzer by her name in the small foyer. It was 11 AM. Hookers tend to sleep in, so I leaned on the buzzer. Still no answer. I hit some other buzzers.

“Yes, who is it?”

Sounded like an elderly lady. Probably the only one in the townhouse not working.

“This is the fire marshal. Your front door is malfunctioning. It keeps jamming from the inside. We may have to ask you to leave the building until it’s repaired.”

“It was working fine a little while ago.”

“Somebody must have slammed it, bent the frazzle toggle. Unless we can get it to work properly we have to evacuate. The place is a fire trap now.”

“Oh, for Christ sake!”

“Listen, let’s try something. Keep pushing the buzzer hard until I tell you to stop. I’ll tell your neighbors to do it, too. Sometimes simultaneous buzzing fixes the problem.”

You’d be surprised how often that works. I wondered if she was still pushing the button by the time I had broken into Laurene’s second-floor apartment.

It was a spacious and tastefully-decorated one-bedroom with a park view. It was also very neat. I would be out of luck if she was working a gig in Vegas. I opened the dishwasher. Dirty dishes but no bad smells. Garbage pail under the sink had fresh coffee grounds. I figured she’d have run the dishwasher and dumped the garbage if she had gone away. She’d be back. I killed time by searching the apartment. The living area consisted of a couch and love seat arrangement facing a large flat screen TV on an opposite wall. I walked over to a small bookcase, which contained a mix of books and DVD’s, heavily weighted toward biographies and documentaries. Whores aren’t very romantic.

But grouped together in one corner were the book and movie versions of
Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Sabrina, Gone With the Wind, The Great Gatsby, Rosemary’s Baby
and
The Prince of Tides.
That had nothing to do with romance. Laurene had apparently done some homework to play her role. I wondered if she came up with the research or it had been assigned by her “mother.” She had obviously opted for the young Mia Farrow look over Audrey Hepburn, and I’d bet my blackjack she took the name Savannah from Nick Nolte’s sister in
Tides
.
Gone With the Wind
was probably for general verisimilitude.    

As expected, I found a lot of interesting things in the bedroom, many of which increased my already extensive sexual knowledge. Her clothes were mostly hooker chic, but she had kept the pinafore. Nothing else linked Laurene to Ellen James or William Capriati. Except for some movies and DVD’s, the apartment, like me, was basically clueless. I was hungry. The least she could do was feed me while I waited. Her fridge was surprisingly well stocked, from Balducci’s no less, and I made myself a couple of delicious ham and gruyere sandwiches on wheatberry bread. Out of spite I opened a bottle of Crystal.

I sat at the kitchen table and spotted her laptop on a sideboard. I brought it over and started eating while it booted. I went through her WORD documents, which consisted of letters to family, mostly to a brother, Andre, who was in the Army in Iraq; inquiries about admission to various local colleges, and some very bad attempts at poetry. I opened up Excel and found a few spreadsheets devoted to her business. There were scores of entries (Montclair, Greenwich, Albany, San Francisco, Austin, London, Scarsdale, Cleveland, Boston, Miami, Moscow, etc.). Each had a date, time, a first name and a dollar amount. I didn’t think Laurene could be that well-traveled so I assumed it was a list of clients. All the first names but one were identifiably male. The exception was Veronica from Kansas City. I thought about that for a moment. Well, why not? Laurene Robillard was very popular, and doing very well financially, since none of the dollar amounts was for less than $500. Was that per hour? No wonder she’d gone out on her own.

That gave me a thought. She probably kept an electronic datebook to keep track of everything, including phone numbers and addresses. They could prove valuable for any number of reasons. I opened Microsoft Outlook, but she didn’t use its calendar. I was on the verge of being discouraged. I took a sip of champagne and noticed the desktop icon for Lotus Organizer. I happen to prefer it to Outlook myself. I opened it and the current monthly calendar came up. I was about to switch over to the “Contacts”  section when I noticed today’s date. There was a notation:
Park Lane, 1 PM, Scarsdale (Room 4152)
. I went back to the spreadsheets. Scarsdale was a bimonthly client named Fred, who had his ashes hauled for $650. A strange figure. Maybe a discount. Why not $649. The use of “9” in a price point is supposed to generate more sales. It works for flat screen TV’s. Perhaps I’d tell Laurene about that. We were, after all, pals. She could undercut all the other hookers. Start a pussy price war.