SISTER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 4) (5 page)

I found the fan in the first room I looked. As I left the room I spotted a photo album on top of a highboy. On impulse, I put down the fan and opened it. Turned out it was more a scrapbook than an album. I brushed off the accumulated dust and opened it. Instead of photos, there were clippings from various newspapers, the majority from the
Staten Island Advance
, as well as birthday and anniversary cards, laminated funeral cards, notes from friends, coasters from restaurants, matchbook covers, postcards, even an odd recipe. Many of the news clippings concerned her husbands. Promotions, awards and the like. But there was a fair amount of material devoted to Ronnie. I opened up a folded crayon drawing of a castle. In childish scrawl was the inscription,
To Aunt Betsy, Love Veronica
. I felt my throat tighten. There were many other drawings and short notes from an older Ronnie, thanking her aunt for being there for her. It was obvious they were close. I flipped through the entire scrapbook and discovered only one thing that mentioned Ronnie’s brother. It was a yellowed sports story about a high school baseball game between Curtis and New Dorp. It only ran seven paragraphs and his name appeared in the last sentence:
“Curtis sophomore southpaw Matt Frost pitched an uneventful ninth inning in relief.”
Someone, presumably Aunt Betsy, had highlighted his name, or I might have missed it.

I closed the scrapbook and carried the fan down the stairs. Without a railing, I almost slipped myself.

I didn’t want to let the old woman know I had been snooping through her memories, so I told her the fan was in the last room I looked.

“Isn’t that always the way,” she said. “Please put it in the den.”

After I came out, she asked me if I wanted some sherry.

Right then, I could have used a double Absolute on the rocks, but it was obvious that wasn’t in the cards. And it was also obvious from the hopeful look on her face that Aunt Betsy wanted her sherry, but didn’t want to drink alone if she could avoid it.

“I’d love some.”

She went to get it and I braced myself for some ultra-sweet cream sherry that would probably throw me into a diabetic coma. So I was pleasantly surprised when she returned with a decent bottle of Amontillado and two wine glasses. The sherry had a hint of walnut and a bit of a kick. She gave us both a decent pour and while it wasn’t a double vodka, I would have to say I wasn’t having a bad time. We made small talk, mostly about how wonderful Staten Island had been when she was a girl. It wasn’t as agonizing as it might have been. It wasn’t merely politeness on my part. Aunt Betsy had a pretty good memory. I don’t have anyone her age in my family left, and that kind of reminiscing is something I miss. But finally she ran down.

“Just wait here one second,” she said, heading out into the kitchen.

She came back with a small box.

“Sugar cookies,” she explained. “I always seem to have a lot left over.”

I took them. Perhaps they would come in handy if I ever ran out of bullets.

CHAPTER 8 - ALICE

I stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts on the way to the office and picked up two coffees and some donuts. When I got in, Abby was at her desk, studying.

“How’s the cramming going?” I asked as I gave her one of the coffees and the box of donuts, minus one.

“I’m trying to watch my weight,” she said.

“If you want to be a private eye, Abs, you have to eat donuts at every opportunity. In fact, I think donut-eating is on the test.”

Abby was a sturdy-looking black woman who recently had gone on a diet kick.

“Thanks to you, boss, I’m sure to ace that part. What’s in that other bag?”

“Sugar cookies.”

“Hand them over. I like them better than donuts. And they’re not as fattening.”

I went into my office and waited. It didn’t take long.

“God almighty!”

She appeared at my door, holding one of the cookies at arm’s length.

“Where did you get these damn things, the Ku Klux Klan Bakery!”

When I finished laughing, I told her.

“It makes you appreciate cucumber sandwiches,” I said.

“And donuts,” she said, heading back to her desk.

“Shut the door, please. I have to make a call.”

“Give her my love,” Abby said. 

***

Alice Watts had decided to extend her sabbatical in Paris for another semester. I won’t say I was overjoyed when she told me, but I understood.

Alice has a Masters in Philosophy and is a professor at Wagner College. She is a favorite of Spencer Bradley, Wagner’s dynamic president, and she wouldn’t have stayed longer at the Sorbonne without his support and encouragement. Her PhD was important to her, and thus important to me. But Bradley and I both knew — we occasionally shared some of his excellent scotch and our thoughts — that at some point it would be hard to keep Alice, who lived in Greenwich Village, teaching on Staten Island.

Not that Wagner wasn’t an excellent school. Bradley, a black man who had rid the college of some residual racism, sexism and unwarranted elitism with, I must admit, some help from me, had turned Wagner into an academic powerhouse. But it was not the Ivy League or the “Big City” that was assuredly in Alice’s future. She was one of the few philosophy instructors that I knew — hell, actually the only one — who made any sense at all. And it had nothing to do with the fact that she was sleeping with me and liked sex more than Simone De Beauvoir. One of the reasons she extended her stay in Europe was to spend some time in Germany on research. Her PhD dissertation-in-progress, tentatively titled “The Moral Philosophical Bankruptcy of Heidegger, Krieck, Heyse and Other Sycophants During the Third Reich,” was just plain gutsy. It was sure to raise hackles among the current crop of philosophers because of the comparisons she raised with many of their politically correct positions.

Alice, knowing that I had survived the rigors of a Jesuit college education, often asked me to look over emailed drafts of her dissertation.

“The Jesuits have their act together,” she had told me. “I’m glad they finally gave us a Pope. They’ve never sold out like Hitler’s Nazi philosophers.”

“I majored in cutting classes,” I told her. “I’m not sure I bring much to the table here.”

In fact, I was a pretty good student, but the only time I made the Dean’s List was senior year, when I bought beer with the money I was supposed to spend on books. The revelation that one didn’t need books to do well in college has colored my opinion of higher education ever since.

“Nonsense. You have one of the most inquisitive minds I’ve ever had the pleasure of trying to confuse.”

“You just want me to correct your execrable spelling and punctuation.”

“Spell ‘execrable’ for me.”

In truth, having Alice a few thousand miles away now, pursuing her dream, presented an opportunity. But I knew I had to call her. I told her what had happened.

“Are you asking my permission to investigate the murder of a woman you were once in love with?”

Even over the phone I caught her teasing tone.

“I’m not sure I am going to do it. But if I do, I don’t want to do it without telling you.”

“You know I wouldn’t try to stop you. And I know that if you make up your mind, you’ll do it no matter what.”

“Yes.”

“So isn’t this whole conversation probably what they would call ‘moot’?”

“Probably.”

“So, what else can we talk about? How about them Yanks?”

“That would be even more depressing. I think the team doctor just went on injured reserve.”

“You are blue, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

Her voice had lost its bantering tone.

“Tell me everything, honey.”

I did. When I finished, she said the perfect thing, as usual.

“What a wonderful woman. You have to go.”

“I may not accomplish anything. The police are investigating.”

“It doesn’t matter. My money is on you. I want you to do it. And she would want you to do it.”

“The whole thing is bringing back memories. And feelings.”

There was a long pause.

“Alton, I fell in love with you because of what you are. And part of what you are comes from her.”

“We were just kids.”

“I don’t think you were ever a kid, buddy boy. And from what you just told me, I doubt if she ever was, either. Whatever took her away from you, she deserved better than an ice pick through her heart. Make it right. I’m not worried about losing you.”

“I love you, Alice.”

“I rest my case.”

After we rang off, I did a web search for Harry Frost. I found a concert pianist, a minor league ballplayer, a BBC anchor and a few other reputable citizens. Even assuming Harry might have had a career change, none came within 10 years of the right age. Next, I searched the Frost family name using
instantscheckmate.com,
a service that checks Federal, state and county databases. I plugged in Harry, Catherine (Katherine, just in case) and Matthew. A minute later I had almost 800 names. I narrowed it down, using approximate ages, with a five-year swing on either side. I still wound up with 326 possibilities. I copied that list and then printed it out. I could hear the printer in my outer office humming and clicking. Abby had set us up with wireless connections. She was back in the office. I waited until I heard the printer stop and then called out to her. When she walked in she was holding a sheaf of papers.

“This is a shitload of Frosts,” she said.

I told her what I was looking for.

“Next time, couldn’t you look for a  Czechoslovakian?”

“Call the Clap,” I said. “This is a job for Abby and the interns.”

That wasn’t a British rock group. Dave Clapper, the chief of staff at Wagner College, is a pal of mine. A former Coast Guard captain who cuts through the usual academic bureaucratic bull like an icebreaker in the Arctic, he had turned me on to using some of the students to do grunt work in my investigations. The kids got some college credit, although I always threw them some hard cash and supplied them with pizza.

“I’m headed out of town. They can use my office.”

With Abby riding herd on them and making calls herself, the list would be manageable. But I didn’t expect much. There are always people who aren’t on any list. And no list is comprehensive. Moreover, people die, move and change phone numbers. They even revert back to their given names, or change them entirely. I thought about that.

“Hold on a second,” I said.

I plugged in the name Mercer, both Catherine and Katherine, with the approximate age spread. Another 187 possibles. The printer started clacking in the other room.

“How about Smith,” Abby said. “I’m not doing anything for the next decade.”

CHAPTER 9 - MONTEZUMA’S REVENGE

I had a few things to take care of before I left. I called Cormac Levine and told him I’d buy him lunch. I could tell by his mumbled response on the phone that he was already eating something.

“Turkey sandwich, with some sort of sprout shit in it. Irene made me take it to work. She’s trying to get me to eat healthy.”

“How’s that working out?”

I heard the sandwich hit the wastebasket next to his desk.

“Pick me up. I’ve been meaning to try that new Mexican joint in Port Richmond.”

He was standing in front of the courthouse in St. George where the District Attorney offices are, wearing a white seersucker suit, pink shirt, red tie, brown socks and black shoes.

“I think you can be seen from the International Space Station,” I said when he got in my car.

“Mike says we have to wear suits,” he replied. “I’m gonna break him.”

Michael Sullivan was the D.A. He’d been through a lot recently, what with the death of his wife, so I knew he was a tough cookie. But I didn’t like his chances of winning a sartorial battle with Mac.

A half hour later we were sitting in the restaurant, ominously named Montezuma’s Revenge, drinking Carta Blanca, the Mexican beer that has a slight licorice taste. I let Mac order for the both of us, figuring I was probably a dead man anyway. After he finished, the waitress, who had to use two pages on her order pad, asked, “Are you expecting someone else?”

“They’ll probably have to hire a couple of more illegal aliens in the kitchen by the time we leave,” I said.

“I think sprouts stimulate the appetite,” Mac said.

While we waited for our food, I told him what I was up to.

“More windmills,” he said. “You never learn.”

“I have to do it.”

“Does Alice know?”

I told him what she said.

“Man, don’t ever let that one go. She’s a keeper. And don’t pork it up with this trip down memory lane. Now, what do you need?”

“From what I was able to get out of the Worcester cops, it seems unlikely that it was a random killing.”

“You think she was targeted? By someone she knew?”

“Either that, or the killer was after a particular type of victim.”

“A jogging nun?”

I knew Mac was being facetious. But if you wanted what he could give you, you had to put up with what came with the territory. In truth, his sense of the absurd wasn’t that different from mine, so who am I to judge? So I played along.

“Perhaps. Or just a nun. Or just a woman. But it would be helpful to know if there have been similar murders. You have access to crime statistics, regionally and nationwide.”

“The Worcester cops sound competent. Especially that Broder guy.”

“Broderson.”

“Whatever. Point is, you know they will check that out.”

“I don’t want to ask them for too much information. Besides, I’m not sure how much they’d share.”

Our lunch came, by way of our waitress and a helper. It looked and smelled delicious. I knew that was no protection against ptomaine or a terminal case of the runs, but I ordered more beer and we both dug in, and were silent for a while. Or at least as silent as a table can be when Cormac Levine is eating. There was a considerable amount of grunting, lip smacking and burps.

“OK, I’ll check it out,” Mac finally said, something green dribbling out one corner of his mouth. It was either guacamole or he was having a seizure. “I’ll go back a couple of years. See if anything fits the profile. If there is someone doing this kind of thing, he usually sticks to the same weapon. If it’s a he.”

“Odds are it is. One thrust, right to the heart. Up and in. Long blade. Cops think it might be an ice pick or something similar. It’s not that easy. Takes arm strength.”

“Yeah. A woman typically slashes with a knife. Downwards. So it’s probably a man. Could be G.I. Jane, though. I hear the Marine Corps is even taking broads in the infantry.”

“Let’s go with the odds on this one, Mac. A man. But don’t ignore the possibility that he used other weapons.”

“If he exists at all. Still could be random, or a local grudge.”

“I’m just covering all the bases.”

“Sure.” A serious look crossed his face. “Don’t you want that taco?”

***

I also had to make sure someone looked in on Scar. As a huge, battered tomcat who skipped right past the feral phase and was now an independent contractor, Scar could take care of himself for a couple of days. I hadn’t even bothered to leave out any food when I went on my weekend fishing trip, but if I was going to be gone for any length of time I didn’t want him adopting anyone else. True, a few other neighbors on my block occasionally threw him some scraps, and, in a pinch, he could make do with an unwary bird or squirrel, but I could tell by the way he treated me with disdain that I was his favorite.

So, after I dropped Mac off, I drove around the corner to the St. George Precinct, better known as the “120”, and pulled into a slot in the rear parking lot. I put my “Marine Corps Chaplain” plaque on my dash. There is no such thing — Navy Chaplains take care of the Marines — and the local cops are familiar with my ruse by now, but I wanted to make sure they recognized my car. I realize that using a familiar ruse to alert the authorities that it’s you probably only makes sense in New York City, but I’d built up a lot of street cred with the cops during my past couple of cases and they were starting to cut me some breaks. Anything to make their job easier.

It was a short walk from the precinct to the St. George Theater on Hyatt Street. Once one of New York City’s premier vaudeville and cinema palaces in the 1930’s, with almost 4,000 seats and one of the largest cantilevered balconies ever built, it closed in 1972. But after more than 30 years it was renovated and turned into cultural arts center attracting some of the top performers in the country. It is also used for  television and film shoots, touring companies from Broadway and the Kennedy Center, the New York City Opera, and all sorts of local productions and events. I know all this because Alice is on the board and I’ve been the victim of many a presentation before the cocktail parties she’s dragged me to. Well, maybe dragged is not the right word. We’ve also gone to several shows. Saw Tony Bennett, k.d. lang, and Don McLean, which were treats. Less so was an opera, which Alice said would do me good. I’m as big a Paul Potts fan as anyone, but that was five minutes on YouTube. The only thing I could say about three hours of opera was that it probably cut a few thousand years off my stay in purgatory, so it wasn’t a total loss.

When I went into the theater it was obvious they were setting up for some sort of show. People were bustling about. I caught one kid in mid-bustle and told him to find Wayne Miller for me. Wayne is the Artistic Director and Production Manager, and he and his wife live up the block from me. He’s always busy, and easier to catch at work than at home. While I waited, I took time to look around. Even someone as architecturally-deprived as I am could appreciate the restored beauty of the St. George.  The theater’s interior is spectacular, with a mix of Spanish and Italian Baroque styles, or so I learned, pre-cocktail. Its foyer has huge stained glass chandeliers and winding staircases that lead up to the mezzanine level. There are paintings and murals, and niches with sculptures. I was admiring one statue when I heard someone walk up behind me.

“How come I always find you looking at sculptures of naked women?”

It was Wayne. Al Lambert was standing next to him.

“With all you artistic types flitting about,” I said, “I don’t dare look at a statue of a naked man.”

“We rarely flit, except with potential donors,” Al said. He and Wayne were two of the straightest men I knew. “How’s the new car running?”

“Like a charm.”

Al once owned a used-car lot, and during the years I was struggling to get my business off the ground went out of the way to supply me with reliable transportation at a good price. He’s now running a Ford dealership and since I was currently thriving had told him to keep an eye out for something a bit more upscale. When you find an honest car dealer, you stick with them for life, wherever they go. I was now driving a new Fusion hybrid with all the bells and whistles. Al even gave me a decent trade in on my Chevy Malibu, which he’d sold to me for a song after it survived a hail storm with only cosmetic damage. I was fond of that car, but I had gotten tired of trying to explain all the little round indentations on the rear panel. Most people didn’t buy my bullet-hole story.

“You in the show, Al?”

In addition to selling cars, Al was a professional singer, one of the best ever produced on Staten Island.

“Nah. Just helping Wayne with the auditions. Got to run back to the dealership now. Good to see you Alton. How’s Alice.”

“Still in Paris.”

“So, that’s why you’re looking at that sculpture.”

After he left, I said, “Wayne I need a favor.”

“Shoot.”

I told him.

“I didn’t know you had a cat,” Wayne said.

“I don’t. He has me. If you can leave out a couple of cans of Bumble Bee every couple of days and maybe some water, I’d appreciate it. Just as a backup. He usually makes other arrangements, but I just want to be sure. I suspect that he’ll have a ball with the cicadas.”

Staten Island was being inundated by billions of cicadas emerging from their 17-year underground life cycle. The loud but harmless big green insects were everywhere.

“He eats bugs?”

“No, but they attract birds. For a few of them, the cicadas will be a last meal. It will be like a buffet for him.”

“Just leave the food and water out? What about if a raccoon or possum gets to it first?”

“Hasn’t happened yet. I think they are pretty wary. Probably think Scar’s setting a trap for them.”

“Scar?”

“Kind of says it all, don’t you think?”