The appetent and limbic parts of my brain worked embarrassingly well during the night. Henry called precisely at seven o'clock. Thanking him, I headed for a stinging, ice-cold shower.
After dressing, I opened the sliding glass doors and walked out on the balcony. The air was cool and smelled faintly of salt. A light breeze rippled the blue water of the bay. The sun was already up, but hung like a giant red ball above the offshore islands. The early ferry, returning the same people it had carried the night before, appeared to emerge from the blazing orb.
Chamberlain was to meet me at eight o'clock for breakfast. Securing the door to my room, I walked down to the end of the hall. The elevator doors opened instantly when I punched the button, as if waiting to draw me into the cold, empty space for some evil purpose. The doors closed, clicking like valves, a pulsating rhythm in their sound.
Chamberlain was standing, talking to Henry, when I entered the lobby. After the usual pleasantries, we went into the restaurant. There were no other customers. Mabel emerged from the kitchen with a pot of fresh coffee.
"Hello, you two,” she said, smiling, waving the coffeepot in a broad sweep. "Be a few minutes for a table."
"Morning, Mabel,” J.L. said laughing, selecting a seat by the window and sitting down. "Always the kidder, aren't you?"
"Keeps me young. How's Kathleen doing?" She asked, pouring us coffee.
"She's not feeling too well today. But thank you for asking."
"And you, sir,” Mabel asked, looking at me. "How are you today?"
"Very well, Mabel,” I said, thinking of the limbic part of my brain. "Do you work all the time? You're here every time I come in."
"No,” she said, taking out a pen and pad from an apron pocket. "Sometimes I sit by the phone and wait for it to ring."
Sitting with my elbows on the table, I felt my face flush.
"What'll it be, Gentleman?" Mabel asked with a sly grin.
Chamberlain ate like a horse. I only had coffee.
"You heard anything from South Carolina?"
"Waterbury's are clean,” Chamberlain answered between bites. "Fax came in this morning from the South Carolina State police. He's a retired Aerospace Engineer, worked with NASA. Neither he or his wife have ever had so much as a parking ticket."
"We keep looking." I fingered a knife, and watched Mabel disappear into the kitchen.
"Yes, we do."
Henry entered the restaurant, went behind the counter, poured himself a cup of coffee, came over to our table, and sat down with us. He said the hotel was empty, except for me. Silently, I wondered where Nat Rinaldi could have stayed. He had to have slept somewhere. I made a mental note to discuss this with Chamberlain on the way to the airport. His men were working on it, I knew, but we needed to know.
Watching Henry carefully, there was nothing outwardly noticeable that indicated he had more than a layman's curiosity of what had happened in this small community. He had not been scratched off my list, not yet, anyway.
On the way out of the restaurant Chamberlain insisted on paying. At the cash register Mabel asked if I still had the piece of paper she'd given me. I said that I did.
"What you don't use, you lose,” she said, walking away toward the kitchen.
When we got in Chamberlain's car he asked, "What was that all about?"
"You mean with Mabel?" I fastened my seat belt. "What do you know about her?"
"I've known her for thirty years. Lost her husband to the sea." He started the engine. "She's hard working, never remarried. Doesn't play around much. Why, you interested?"
"Just wondered,” I said, looking out the window to the blue waters of the bay.
"Yeah,” Chamberlain said, with a smile, putting the car in gear. "Let's go meet with the Chairman of the Board."
"We've got to find where Nat Rinaldi was staying,” I said to Chamberlain while looking at the buildings along the waterfront as we drove south toward the airport.
"Yes,” he said, nodding, both hands gripping the steering wheel. "Sooner or later we'll get lucky. One of the advantages in working the confines of a small community is your chances are better at finding the bad guys. Or anything else you might be looking for."
"You think he might have stayed on Monhegan?"
"I don't know." He turned and watched a squad car speed down the street in the opposite direction. Bending forward, he turned up the police radio. "It's a possibility we won't rule out."
"I talked with Barstein, the ferry boat Captain out of Port Clyde,” I said, turning and watching the blue and white round a corner. "He said Rianldi was at the dock wanting to get across to Monhegan Island the day before Bilotti turned up with a bullet in his brain. Only the ferry didn't run. Rinaldi was upset, asked about a charter boat."
Chamberlain hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "I asked Barstein, personally, if Rianldi had been on the passenger list. He said no, which was the truth. He should have volunteered he'd seen him."
"Well, you know seamen are a closed mouth group,” I said, remembering being among them yesterday.
"Yes. But, by God, this is murder." He slapped the steering wheel again, then as an afterthought, adjusted the volume on the police radio. "Two of them. They know it!"
Chamberlain was mad. He knew the people in his community. All of them. He knew there were times when they'd lie; illegal fishing, running some grass, stealing. There are things where one draws the line. Murder was one of them.
"I thought one of the locals might have lifted the cash from Bilotti,” I said, feeling out his thoughts. "If it was still there when the body was found."
"Forget it,” Chamberlain said, looking at me. "They couldn't keep it secret for twenty-four hours. They'd probably go buy a new sports car, a boat, and a house. All in one day, paying cash." He laughed, exercised the fist with which he'd hit the wheel. "I don't think so, Jay."
Maybe, I thought. But half a million would go a long way to keeping up an old ferryboat.
"We may have to go over to Monhegan Island,” I volunteered, rolling down a window, smelling the clean salt air. "If we come up dry finding where Rinaldi was staying on the mainland. He may have gotten over. It could be where the money and the Kent collection are located."
"Yeah,” Chamberlain said, cracking his window a few inches. "If you want to believe Anastasio didn't perpetrate some elaborate scheme to whack a disloyal mole. Let's wait and see what the Boss of Bosses has to say."
Knox County Regional Airport, Rockland, Maine, is a small airport by today's standards. It has two runways; one, four thousand five hundred feet in length; the other, four thousand feet. Long enough to accommodate aircraft up to and including medium-sized turboprops and jets.
There are two fixed base operators on the field. We had no way of knowing where Anastasio's plane would park. There were no transit aircraft at either business. It was five minutes until ten o'clock. We waited.
Chamberlain spotted it first.
"There,” he said, pointing into the blue sky. "Over the water tower."
"Pretty good eyesight for an old man,” I said, laughing, still trying to locate the aircraft.
Finally I did catch the sun glint off of metal. A small speck in the sky emerged into an aircraft. We watched as it intercepted the electronic landing system, which would guide it to within two hundred feet above, and on the centerline, of the runway.
The sleek jet descended gracefully, blue smoke erupting from the tires as the main landing gear took the full weight of the aircraft. It rolled out slowly to the end of the runway, taxied back towards the fixed-base operation where we were standing. Several local pilots came out to watch, the jet obviously an unusual sight at the small airport.
"I'll say one thing for Don Gino, J.L. The man rides in style."
"Nice looking plane,” Chamberlain said, unimpressed.
I was impressed. The aircraft was the Gulfstream GIV, a twenty-five million-dollar investment by today's money. This airplane was familiar to me. Back during the years I made my living flying, I watched with great interest the development of the Gulfstream GIV. It was a plush, roomy, fast, long-range aircraft. Yes, Mr. Anastasio traveled first class.
The GIV pulled into the parking area. As the engines spooled down, the airstair door opened. A man descended the steps and headed for where Chamberlain and I stood. As he approached, I noticed he was dressed in a three-piece pinstripe, red tie, and wing tips. A young, good-looking corporate type. Not the usual, tough bodyguard facade you see in the movies.
He stood for a moment, looking at us. Then, staring directly at me, he said, "Mr. Leicester, Mr. Anastasio will not be deplaning. He would like to meet with you aboard the aircraft." He looked at J.L. "Mr. Chamberlain, Mr. Anastasio asked that you wait here while he speaks with Mr. Leicester."
Chamberlain gave him a stern look. "I have no intentions of talking with Mr. Anastasio, young man. I just want him to know I'm here."
"I understand, sir,” he said, unperturbed, and motioned toward the aircraft. "Mr. Leicester, will you follow me."
It wasn't a request.
As we walked across the tarmac, I wondered how this man could possibly know who we were. Anastasio must be a lot more thorough than I imagined.
One must see the inside of a GIV to appreciate it. Most of these aircraft are outfitted to the specifications of the individual owner. I had seen the factory demonstrator back in eighty-seven. I did not think it possible to improve on that layout. I was wrong.
The plane's interior had eight individual seats, all with their own small television. Behind a divider was a three-place couch with a boardroom type conference table. A small, auxiliary turbine engine hummed softly in the background. It provided power to run all the electronics and environmental systems while the aircraft was on the ground with the main engines shut down. Keep the boss comfortable, is the key phrase.
Glancing into the cockpit upon entering the cabin, I saw that the crew sat, stone-faced, staring out the windscreen. I did not blame them. If I flew for the head of the entire organized crime syndicates in America I would stare straight ahead, too. The instrument panel looked like five television screens. I was not sure if I could get used to that kind of flying. Button pushing.
Young Mr. Corporate Executive ushered me back to the conference room.
Seated at the head of the oval table was a cadaver. I thought for a second that this was some sort of morbid joke. Then the cadaver spoke.
"Sit down."
The voice was high pitched, each spoken word dragged out, every syllable enunciated and stretched. The few strands of hair on the pale, vein-laced head went in all directions. His eyes were black holes in a yellow face. The mouth, thin-lipped and tight, stretched across black, neglected teeth. Dressed in a blue jogging suit, the body seemed thin and frail. He was seated, so it was hard to guess his weight. He looked like something rescued from a German concentration camp.
Trying to remember if his voice had sounded this way over the phone when we had talked in J.L.'s office, I could not.
"Miss Rinaldi won't be joining us today."
"I'm aware of Miss Rinaldi's whereabouts,” he said, looking past me, nodding.
The suit left us, going forward, toward the cockpit.
"What is it you have to tell me?"
The question took me by surprise.
"What are you talking about? You called this meeting, remember?"
Anastasio's eyes seared into mine. A look that had probably sent many a man to an early grave.
He sat up a little straighter in the chair. "I hoped you were not going to be stupid."
"My client's brother is dead, Mr. Anastasio. The four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash, the money you insisted he bring, is missing." I looked back into those black holes.
He lifted his head and looked at me, the faint contraction of boredom in the corner of his eyes letting me understand that this moment of attention was a favor. He spoke in a tone of emphasized patience. "My wife loves paintings. I try to give her the best. We had no children, so she found interest in the arts."
Shifting position in my chair, I put both hands on my knees and leaned forward, attentive.
"I take care of my business. I've done very well with it, but I know little of art. To me, it is merely a product of the untalented sold by the unprincipled to the utterly bewildered."
Shifting position again in the chair, I laughed.
He ignored the laugh and continued. "Two years ago I overheard my wife talk about this Rockwell person. I thought I'd give some of his work to her as a birthday gift. We found this entire collection. I had it authenticated, appraised, and I paid a fair price for it. My wife didn't like it. Turns out she wanted Norman Rockwell, not Rockwell Kent."
"So you decided to sell the Kent collection,” I offered.
"Exactly. Not a penny profit did I ask,” he said, waving the bony hands. "Mr. Rinaldi did business with associates of mine in New Orleans. He was highly recommended."
Yes, I thought. By whom, the Marcello family.
Anastasio continued. "I sent my man down to New Orleans to meet with Mr. Rinaldi. He agreed to come to Monhegan Island to view the collection, purchasing it for cash if it was as advertised."
"Why was the collection on Monhegan Island? I thought you lived in Chicago?"
He shot me an impatient glance. "The lady who had the collection for sale has a summer house on the island. That's where the collection was located." He paused, as if to catch his breath. "We arranged for several of the oil paintings and a few of the prints to be shown to my wife. She didn't like them. But you see, I'd already bought the entire collection. I couldn't very well go back on my word, now could I?"
I didn't say anything.
"My employee, Mr. Tony Bilotti, brought the paintings and prints with him to Rockland. The rest of the collection remained in the summerhouse of the seller. We arranged for Mr. Rinaldi to view everything together, on Monhegan Island."
"So the entire collection is still on Monhegan?" I asked, following his logic.
"No," Anastasio said, flailing his arms. "The entire collection is missing." His voice rose to a higher pitch, the death-like face reddened. "My employee is dead, the collection is missing, and I don't have the money. I want to know why!" His whole body began jerking in the chair.
The suit came back and stood quietly at the entrance to the conference area.
Anastasio calmed down, waved his man away. "So you see my problem,” he said, holding his head to the side, ugly, thin lips stretched tightly across still uglier teeth. Bony hands shaking as if afflicted with palsy.
"I can see your problem, Mr. Anastasio,” I said slowly, carefully. "Now here's my problem..."
The most powerful Mafia figure in the world looked at me incredulously. No one had probably spoken to him in a long time without being subservient and intimidated. I was neither. All I could see was an old man who thought he had been cheated. That is if one chose to believe him. I did not.
"I'm getting paid to find out who killed Nat Rinaldi, and what happened to the four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I could care less about Tony Bilotti. You already heard my thoughts over the phone. Change my mind."
This was a dangerous situation. Anastasio could squash me like a bug. Sometimes the fray must be met to bring out the dimensions of men.
Anastasio settled into his chair, looking disappointed. "I'm not a well man. Without health life is not life, it is only a state of languor and suffering; an image of death. I don't need to have stuff like this art thing aggravating me. I want it over with."
He pushed a button on the table. The suit appeared with a small glass of blue liquid. Anastasio drank it and handed the glass back to the young man, who went back forward.
"Listen to me well, private eye. This will be the only time I say this." His speech was lucid. His voice was thin and dry as dead leaves, but clear. He spoke in a rapid monotone such as one might use in giving a legal deposition, not having much time. "The art collection is gone, Tony Bilotti is dead. I had nothing to do with it. Someone will pay for their actions. It is a matter of honor. All my people are working on this full time. I will find out.
"You have almost crossed the bounds several times. I would be very careful. I have let you make your stupid accusations only because they made sense. You are now informed."
Leaning back in my chair, I watched the frail hands wave as he spoke, suddenly starting to believe him.
He continued, seemingly revived by the blue liquid. "I've done a thorough check of you. Integrity is what they tell me about your character. So I don't think you're involved. One of my men flew to New Orleans with Miss Rinaldi. We are watching her. Your Detective Chamberlain, an interesting man, good cop. Too bad about his dying wife."
If this kind of information was supposed to get my attention, it did.
"If you had nothing to do with the two deaths,” I acquiesced, "then tell me if you have any ideas. It was a professional hit on both men. I've seen the bodies, and the reports."
"So have I. If I had ideas, we wouldn't be having this conversation. You have my private number. I expect a call if you find anything before we do. Now get out of here, out of my sight."
The meeting was over. I stood up. The suit was already waiting for me at the door to escort me out. Turning, I started up the aisle.
"Just a minute,” Anastasio said, waving me back, motioning for me to sit. He leaned across the highly polished table, splayed both ugly hands wide. Through some illusion, no doubt a trick of light and shadow from the sunlight coming in through the cabin windows, his withered, translucent face seemed to go smooth, his eyes sardonic under lowered lids. "I almost forgot. You might like to have this back."
He reached a shaky hand under the table, retrieved something, and placed it down gently on the polished top. It was my magnum. My mouth must have dropped open.
"How in the...?"
The old man grinned, turned in his chair, and looked out at the Maine landscape. Then glancing at me, he said, "Motel maids are poor people. Some have husbands who need medical attention. A few hundred bucks for a quick look around a hotel room...you should be more careful, private eye."
There was pure sarcasm and contempt resonating in his voice, as if even having to speak to an underling such as myself was beyond his stature.
Picking up my pistol, I gave Anastasio one last glance, and exited the aircraft.