Sitting down heavily in the car and hanging my head, I said, "J.L., even with the maid letting them in, it seems impossible for someone to have retrieved my magnum from the hotel and gotten it to Anastasio aboard that aircraft."
"These people are good. They can do things we can not, or would not, think of doing." He rubbed his chin, a serious expression on the scholarly profile. "What do you want to do about the maid?"
It was an easy decision. "Nothing."
Chamberlain kept glancing over at me as we drove back from the airport to the Navigator Inn.
"Two men are dead, J.L." I had forgotten to buckle my seatbelt, so I did. "The people we're playing with are powerful, connected, and deadly. Anastasio said he'd already read the autopsy reports."
Chamberlain slowed, allowing an oncoming car to get back into the proper lane after passing another vehicle. "Yeah, the medical examiner's office sends the results to the State Police Headquarters via computer. If high school hackers can tap into the Pentagon and get classified files, I'm sure Anastasio wouldn't have any problem with a state computer network. All the information goes over the phone lines."
Realizing that fact was sobering.
"Sandy must be informed about the meeting with Anastasio. You got any idea when we can get Rinaldi's body released? It's my responsibility to take care of it."
"Probably today,” Chamberlain said, glancing in his rearview mirror. "I'll check as soon as we get back to the office. What are your plans?"
"To find out if Henry knew about my magnum being lifted from my room."
"Don't go off half-cocked, Jay. I've known Henry a long time. He comes from good people."
"One advantage I have, J.L., is not being bound by any preconceived ministrations with the local populous. I can work my own investigation without what we in the South call 'the good ole boy' syndrome interfering with rational thought." Propping a foot up on the corner of the dash, I said, "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'll just make my own decisions about Henry, or anyone else I think may be involved."
"Point well taken." He shot me a glance that betrayed the harshness of the statement.
Chamberlain dropped me off at the Navigator Inn. He didn't seem to have taken offense at my comment. He was a good cop, but sometimes even good cops can get too close to their subjects to be objective.
Henry was coming out of the coffee shop as I walked into the lobby. He saw me and waved.
"Come over here, Henry. I want to talk with you."
Henry went behind the registration desk, sat on a stool, and motioned to me. "Come on back here, Mr. Leicester, have a seat. What's on your mind?"
Going behind the counter, I sat on a stool identical to Henry's. A young couple emerged from the cafe and waved at him. When they left the lobby, I said, "I've got a problem, Henry. Returning to the hotel yesterday, I found that the door to my room had been left open."
Watching his face closely for any indication of guilt, I found none.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Leicester." He leaned back against the wall and crossed his legs. "It has happened before. We have warned the maid about being careless, but she's old and she forgets. Management would have fired her a long time ago, but she's been here forever, and needs the work. I don't think she could find a job anywhere else. I'll talk to her today."
"There was something stolen from my room, Henry. Something valuable."
I watched his expression.
He uncrossed his legs and sat up straight. "Stolen. Oh, my goodness. The maid's never been accused of stealing anything from guests, ever. We have insurance. I'll call them right now. What was taken?"
Henry was either cleverly good at lying, or telling me the truth. It was hard to decide.
Standing up, I said, "It wasn't the maid. The item has been recovered. You need to know there's been a breach in security at your hotel."
Henry got up from his stool and stood beside me. "You recovered what was stolen? I don't understand?"
"Let's just say someone had a change of heart, returned what they took." Walking from behind the counter, I waved and said, "See you later, Henry."
Rounding the corner for the elevator, I stopped and looked back. Henry was making a hastened dash for the coffee shop.
Back up in the room, I slid open the glass doors, walked out on the balcony, and sat down. I wanted to make some notes on the conversation with Anastasio. The mind has a strange way of forgetting fifty percent of what it learns in about six months. Making a written account has proven its worth a thousand times, especially for dates, times, and exactly what was said or done in given situations.
The sky had turned a gunmetal blue. The wind had picked up and there was a cold, rotting smell of the sea in the air. The mare’s-tails were being vindicated by the approaching cold front. A pelican flew low over the ferry dock, gray like a piece of newspaper blowing across a deserted street.
Finishing the notes, I leaned back in the chair and watched a flock of seagull’s fight for positions on the pilings along the waterfront. They told me the wind direction was from the northwest. Seagulls always sit facing into the wind.
Still troubled about Anastasio having my magnum, I remembered hiding the gun shortly after discovering the door to my motel room open. Nothing else was missing. Even with the maid's involvement, whoever stole my gun entered the room while I was out for a moment, sitting on the balcony, or asleep. Henry had access, but if he was involved, he had played a good hand when confronted. I'll say this for whoever it was, they are good, really good.
The phone rang. Going inside, I picked up the receiver, "Yes?"
"You can have Rinaldi's body anytime you want,” Chamberlain said.
"Thanks, J.L. Listen, I need your recommendation for a funeral home to handle the body for me, get it ready for transport, do the paperwork, deliver it to the airport."
"No problem. Wilson's Mortuary can handle it. Dave Wilson is the owner. He's a good friend. They're listed in the book, but I'll give him a call for you."
"Thanks,” I said, making a mental note of the funeral home. "I'll call Sandy, then let them know the details after I speak with her."
"You talk with Henry?"
"Yeah. I don't know what to think, yet."
"You'll tell me if you learn anything about his involvement?"
"J.L., I'm not working against you. I thought we understood each other?" Finding a pad, I jotted down the funeral home's name.
"I just wanted to be sure. Call me after you talk with Sandy."
"Will do. We've got to get organized. There's lots of work to be done. Two murders, half a million unaccounted for, a missing art collection, remember?"
"Yes,” Chamberlain said. "I remember."
* * *
"Rinaldi Art Gallery. This is Sandy. How may I help you?"
"Hello, Sandy, it's Jay."
"Oh, Jay,” she said, concern in her voice. "Have you found out who killed Renato?"
"No, not yet,” I answered quickly. "But I did meet with a man named Gino Anastasio this morning."
"You mean the Mafia Don from Chicago?"
"Yes, he was Bilotti's boss,” I answered, stretching the phone cord across the bed, sitting down at the small table, and thinking how familiar Sandy was with the name. "It was Anastasio who was selling the Kent Collection."
"My God, Jay,” she gasped. "Did he have Rinato killed for the money?"
"Chamberlain and I both think the stakes are too small for Anastasio. We're working on other angles which could involve him or his organization." I drew a circle around the funeral home name.
"What angles?" She asked. "If not Anastasio, then who?"
"Don't worry, Sandy, we'll find out." I hesitated and drew another circle. "We'll have some help. Anastasio's whole organization is looking into it, according to him. Seems he planned to give the Kent collection to his wife as a birthday present. Only she wanted Norman Rockwell instead of..."
"Rockwell Kent,” Sandy interrupted. "It's not an infrequent mix-up."
"Yeah, well, Anastasio's taking this one personally. He's lost the collection and a hired hand. He hasn't been compensated for either."
"Upset then, is Mr. Anastasio?" She said, in a strangely amused tone.
"He's serious, Sandy. He knows all about you and your brother. My background, as well as Chamberlain's, was thoroughly researched. He even followed you to New Orleans. They're watching you now."
I heard her gasp.
"Sandy, you okay?"
There was a pause. Then, "Yes, I'm fine. I just hadn't thought about anyone following me. The idea doesn't sit too well."
"There's one other thing,” I said, as gently as I could. "Your brother's body is ready to be returned. What do you want me to do?"
"Send it to Bluillot's Crematorium,” she answered, quickly. "I've made arrangements with them."
"Okay, spell the name for me." I grimaced, having always hated the thought of being cremated. "Give me their address and phone number. I'll let them know which flight and the time of arrival."
Sandy gave me the information and, after promising to keep her informed on our progress with the investigation, we hung up.
Sitting on the bed, I thought about cremation. It didn't matter to the dead, but it did to me. I had a bad experience watching a fellow airman burn to death in an airplane crash one cold and snowy day after they slid off an icy runway. The only fire I have been able to tolerate since was in a fireplace.
Standing, I walked to the sliding glass doors of the room. The wind was really whipping. The workboats in the bay were pounding, their bows throwing salty spray high into the leaden, overcast sky. The rain would come soon.
Stepping over to the phone, I punched in Chamberlain's number. It was time to go to work.
* * *
Turning out of the hotel parking lot onto the road paralleling the ocean, I headed toward the police department. A lonely traffic light hung far ahead, a flash of changing red, yellow, and green in a bleak, gray sky. The rain started in earnest as I arrived at Chamberlain's office.
"Mr. Leicester,” the Desk Sergeant said, as I entered the front door of the police station. "A good nor'wester blowing in. Should be the last one of the year."
Looking at him closely for the first time, I observed that he was slightly less than six feet, compactly built, with a ruddy, clean-shaven face, and receding hairline. He had broad, powerful shoulders, with well-muscled arms. He was in his mid to late thirties or early forties. His nametag read: SERGEANT BOWERS. He was a man more suited for the outside than a desk job, I thought.
"Does the temperature usually drop this much in the spring?" I asked, wiping the icy rain off my face with a handkerchief.
"We've had heavy snow this time of year,” he said, grinning, bending forward, forearms on the desk, his two hands closed before him. "Not like being in the South, is it?"
"Not in your wildest imagination, Sergeant."
He laughed, a big booming sound that seemed to shake the building.
"Is Chamberlain in his office?"
"He's expecting you. Go right in."
"J.L.,” I said, sitting down in one of the spartan chairs in the bare office. "Your friend Dave Wilson's a nice man. He's taking care of all the arrangements to ship Rinaldi's body back to New Orleans. He's even working with the crematorium there to pick up the body. He said to tell you thanks for the business."
"He's a good man,” J.L. said, leaning back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. "Let's look at what we've got."
Chamberlain went through the whole scenario from the time the body was discovered in the parking lot at the Port Clyde ferry dock with me filling in the blanks where Sandy and I were involved.
The only identification on the body in the car at the ferry dock was that of Nat Rinaldi, which turned out to be Tony Bilotti. Chamberlain called Sandy, who was listed as next of kin on the Driver's License, who in turn contacted me. Nat Rinaldi washed up on the beach two days later. Both men had been killed in the same way; a .9mm slug behind the right ear, execution style.
Nat Rinaldi was supposedly traveling with four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash to purchase an art collection by renowned artist, Rockwell Kent. Both money and art collection are missing.
Tony Bilotti turned out to be a low-level Mafia mole from Chicago. This led to the suspicion that the Wise Guys may have killed both men and ripped off the money. But the head of the crime families, Gino Anastasio, informed us he had nothing to do with the murders.
"Well,” Chamberlain said, after an awkward pause. "We've got to list our possible suspects."
"Okay,” I agreed, leaning forward in the chair, grabbing the edge of his desk with both hands. "I'll put Anastasio at the head of the list. Your turn?"
Chamberlain looked at me. I could see the brain working through his eyes.
"It could have been one of the local people in Port Clyde, or someone here, in Rockland." He paused.
Remaining silent, I enjoyed watching his investigative thought processes continue in their current vein.
He continued. "Maybe someone on Monhegan Island that we don't know about...” His voice trailed off. Then suddenly: "Or, by God, it could be me. I carry a .9mm automatic, shoots the same slug as the ones dug out of both brains. Don't you want to run my gun through ballistics?"
"Why, are you guilty?"
Chamberlain slid a piece of paper across his desk. It was a ballistics report from the state crime lab, saying a bullet fired from Chamberlain's gun did not match those taken from the two bodies.
"Wanted the record absolutely clear,” he said, a mocking grin on his face.
This may have been amusing to him and me, but it was still sound police procedure.
"That only leaves one other possibility,” I said, sliding the ballistics report back on his desk. It was something I felt had to be placed before us. "Sandy had her own brother killed, along with Bilotti. Stole her own money back, and made off with the art collection."
"Why would she hire you if she did it?"
"We're listing possibilities,” I said, shrugging both shoulders. "She's on the list."
Chamberlain nodded.
"We need to pay a visit to Monhegan Island. When can we get across?"
"I'll arrange it, now." Chamberlain picked up the phone and punched in a number from memory.