Leaving Chamberlain with his pharmacy burglary, I drove back to the Navigator Inn, taking copies of the files on both murders with me. We agreed for tomorrow to both spend the day with our respective endeavors. Chamberlain was to catch up on police work that he had been neglecting for the last two weeks. I would review all the information collected during our investigation and work on the meeting with Gino Anastasio day after tomorrow in Augusta, Maine.
It was almost dark when I left the police station. The streets glistened with early dew, leaving dark blotches on the walls of buildings. The town looked bathed in a cold sweat and the air was heavy with a sea smell of low tide, disquieting like premature old age. Stopping two blocks from the Navigator, I picked up a pizza and some wine.
Going straight up to my room, I put the wine and pizza on the table and phoned down to Henry. There were no messages for me. After telling him I didn't want a wake up call for in the morning, we said good night, and hung up.
The wine, a 1988 Brolio Chianti Classico, was a little old, but went well with the pizza. After finishing the entire bottle, I contemplated a cigar and cognac. Deciding against them, I went to bed pleasantly drunk.
Waking sometime later with a headache and a dry mouth, I had no idea what time it was. The alarm clock next to the bed glowed a bright red six a.m. Not able to go back to sleep, I decided to watch the sunrise.
It was cold on the balcony. The dew made everything damp and wet. Going back inside, I put on my old leather flight jacket. The sun rose from the sea, slowly melting the world as it inched its way upward. It soon cleared the horizon causing the morning to break fresh as new paint. Getting up to see this had been worth it.
After a shower and a shave, I went down for coffee with Henry and his sister. My only plans for today were to study the files and to work on the meeting with Anastasio.
Henry's sister had made blue berry pancakes. I could not resist. During my third cup of coffee a fly lit on an empty breakfast dish. Henry shooed it away. Watching as it flew; I followed the flight path until it landed upside down on the ceiling, causing me to remember an old friend who owns an aviation management company in Dallas, Texas. He and I used to argue whether a fly did a loop maneuver or a half roll to land upside down on a ceiling. We never settled the debate, but it suddenly dawned on me that his computer system would have data on how many Hansa Jets were still operating in the United States, and who their owners were.
Excusing myself, I went to make a telephone call.
* * *
"Ashley, you old reprobate. How are you?"
"Leicester, is that you? Well I'll be. Long time no see, son. How you been?"
"Good, John. It's a pleasure to hear that raspy old voice again. Listen, I need some information."
"Information? I was hoping you were looking for a steady flying job. Got one open right now, flying left seat on a Saberliner. Start you out at eighty thousand, plus benefits. Guarantee you'll never have to fly at night, on weekends, or when it's raining."
Ashley was probably serious about the flying job, but I wasn't interested. "No thanks, John. Unless something drastic happens, I'm through with that life."
"Too bad. Well, if you ever change your mind...” he said, trailing off. "How can I help you?"
"I'm trying to run down a charter, or a private flight, which landed in Rockland, Maine, on the night of the sixteenth of this month. Don't have an 'N' number, but it was a Hansa Jet. The only other information I have is it was flying with a female copilot."
"Well, son, that don't mean anything. There are about as many ladies flying airplanes today as men. I hear the Government's going to let them start flying combat. They'll do a good job, too. I work over a dozen in my charter department. They are a lot more reliable, and not nearly as rough on my airplanes, as some of these old fighter jocks."
"The Hansa Jet, John." I was trying to slow him down. Once he started on a subject, he would talk for two days. "Can you be of any help with locating it?"
"If the thing flies, I know where it's based, who owns it, and how many hours left until the engines need an overhaul." He laughed a deep resounding laugh. "Give me a couple of hours. I'll see what I can come up with and call you back."
Giving Ashley my phone number at the motel, I said good-bye. Sitting down at the small table, I picked up the file and started reading at the front.
* * *
The file was eclectic, but well organized. I read it carefully. It began with Tony Bilotti's death and continued through the conversation we'd had with Anastasio yesterday morning. This was an excellent and up-to-date piece of work.
The autopsy report on Bilotti showed nothing other than what had truly happened; someone stuck a .9mm pistol behind his right ear and pulled the trigger. Too bad. I hoped he enjoyed his last day, but I felt no sympathy. A son of a bitch alive is a son of a bitch dead.
Nat Rinaldi's autopsy report read the same as Bilotti's, except he had been in the water for a couple of days. Seeing his face after the crabs had been at it was still fresh in my memory. The mouth was a dull smear of red, like a poorly painted clown's face.
I felt sorry for Nat. His time came early, but death is implicit in birth. The poor innocent art dealer played on the fringe and ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The rest of the file was a concise record of all the information we'd collected, people we'd interviewed, places we'd been. At the end was a one page summary, written in Chamberlain's own style of prose. The next scheduled meeting with Gino Anastasio was the last thing entered in the file. There was a big question mark at the end.
Throwing the file on the table, I leaned back in the chair, and stared out at Penobscot bay. Suddenly a feeling of exigency swept over me, but I felt chained.
The phone rang.
"Leicester,” the booming voice said. "Get a pen, boy. I've got a listing of six of these German jets. You ready to copy?"
"Go ahead, John." I reached for a writing pad and pen next to the phone.
"Only one is flying as a charter aircraft. The rest are in Detroit hauling auto parts for the car makers."
"Outstanding. Who runs the one on charter?"
"Aeroair, Inc. They're based in Houston, operate out of Hobby, and owned by an old codger named Charlie Garino. He's a straight shooter. When you call, tell him you're a friend of mine."
"What'll that get me?"
Ashley laughed. "Why you need this information, Jay? I know old Charlie hasn't done anything wrong."
"Keep this under your hat, John. The Hansa Jet hauled a cargo of stolen artwork. If Garino's clean, he might not have known what was on board. I need to find out where the airplane landed."
"You can bet your boots on Garino, son. Charlie Garino would have nothing to do with anything illegal." There was a serious inflection in his voice. "I've known him for thirty years. I'll vouch for him."
"Thanks. Appreciate your help. I owe you one."
"Any time, Jay. Stay in touch."
"Good-bye." Untwisting the tangled cord, I hung up the receiver.
The room seemed stuffy. Walking over, I opened the glass doors to the balcony. Fresh air flowed into the room, followed by the sounds of the waterfront and auto traffic on the street.
Back inside, directory assistance gave me the number for Aeroair in Houston, Texas. I punched in the eleven digits.
"Mr. Garino won't be back until tomorrow,” the woman who answered the phone said. "May I take a message, or could someone else help you?"
"No, Ma'am. Will you tell Mr. Garino that I'm a friend of John Ashley? I'll get in touch with him tomorrow."
"I'll be glad to, Mr. Leicester. Thank you for calling Aeroair."
"Oh, one more thing. Do you employ female pilots?"
"Yes, we do,” the lady said. "We have six young women flying with us. Why do you ask?"
"It's not important. I'll talk with Mr. Garino tomorrow." Hanging up the phone, I scratched my chin.
By the time I finished studying the file and making a mental list of questions to confront Anastasio with, the sun had set, leaving long wisps of gray clouds like streaks of ashes pale against the evening sky.
The world seemed to pause between day and night. Still feeling anxious, I wanted to confront Anastasio now, not tomorrow.
* * *
The dream was so real. Gusty winds blew through the marina slamming the hulls of boats against fenders. Loose halyards and shrouds clanked against masts. Flags flapped and snapped. In the narrow bunk of Picaroon my hands found the warmth of her, followed the familiar hills and valleys of smooth skin. Dim, reflected light played around the cabin, glinting off her narrowed eyes. We made no pretense of playing games of faked restraint, quickly passing the boundaries of no return and came in a mounting passion which seemed to create a closeness nothing can provide. The wind made breathing sounds through the mast of the boat, then subsided, as we did. The slow tilting and creaking of the hull seeming to echo, in a slower pace, our lovemaking just ended. Mabel lay beside me breathing slowly and easily. I began to sweat and gasp for breath. A hand covered by face, another closed tightly around my neck.
The phone ended the dream and brought me back to reality. Henry was saying something about J.L. waiting for me in the lobby. "What time is it?" I had forgotten to leave a wake up call.
"Eight o'clock,” he said, laughing.
"God, I overslept. Tell Chamberlain to have a cup of coffee with your sister. Give me twenty minutes."
Of all the times to oversleep, I thought. The day we are to meet with Anastasio.
Chamberlain, true to his character, didn't comment about me being late. "Have a cup of coffee,” he said. "There's plenty of time to reach the airport in Augusta."
The day was a mirror image of yesterday with the sky clear and blue. We let the windows down in the car as we drove slowly through the town even though a chill was still in the air. Wind circulating in the car was bracing. I could smell wood smoke from someone's fireplace or cook stove.
Once outside of Rockland, it turned cold. We rolled the windows back up. The sun shining on the obsidian rock of the mountains gave off an amethystine glow. Trees gleamed green and bright. We rounded a curve and were presented with the bare face of a hill eroded by wind and rain and snow. Etched by time, it reminded me of flying over the Rocky Mountains. That anxious feeling suddenly swept around me again.
Chamberlain glanced over at me. "You alright, Jay? You're pale as a sheet."
"Yeah, I'm fine. Still trying to wake up."
"So, lay it out for me. How exactly do you plan to approach Anastasio this time?"
Over the next twenty minutes, I explained to Chamberlain my ideas. We discussed them until we both were satisfied and in agreement. His input was both incisive and helpful. He was a good investigator and a smart man.
The drive, winding through the hills, was familiar to me. It was the same route Sandy and I had driven days earlier when taking her to catch the airplane back to New Orleans. I though of how she looked that day, her hair tied with the bandanna, the tight, black slacks. I remembered the towel and her nakedness in the motel room that morning. I also remembered her dead brother.
Tell me about Jim Barstein, J.L.? Is he capable of doing these two murders?"
J.L. gave me another of those scholarly-like looks, thought for a few minutes. Then: "I sent him to prison when he was nineteen years old. He beat a man to death in a bar. All the witnesses testified he'd been pushed into the fight and could not avoid it. He got off with a plea to Man two. Served eighteen months of a three to five."
"Then he's capable of the violence?"
"Oh, he's capable alright. There's been some scrapes since he's been out, but nothing serious."
"Yes, scrapes...” I said absentmindedly.
Chamberlain looked at me with a quizzical expression.
Answering the question mark on his face, I said, "There's a possibility Barstein and his wife showed up early that morning at the chandlery, saw the car in the parking lot, and went to take a look. They found the body and the four hundred and fifty thousand in cash, took the money and left the body to be found by some other poor soul."
"It could have happened that way. I don't know...” His voice trailed off.
"Maybe Barstein made the hits. Why don't we sweat him? See what wrings out?"
"It's an idea." Silence. Then Chamberlain said, "Let's give it awhile, see what happens."
We arrived at the airport and drove around until we found the fixed-base operation. Anastasio's G-IV was nowhere in sight.
"Sit tight, J.L. I'll go see what I can find out." Inside the office, the young lady behind the counter said that she had heard from a Gulfstream G-IV. One had called in twenty minutes ago. They should be on the ramp in about five minutes. Thanking her, I went back outside to where Chamberlain stood beside the car.
"There he comes." Chamberlain pointed to a dot in the sky.
We watched the profile of the G-IV grow larger. It slid down the glideslope like a giant eagle to a perfect landing. Blue smoke erupted from the main gear tires. The aircraft thrust-reversers opened and the engine noise increased to a roar.
Chamberlain looked at me and smiled. I wasn't anxious anymore. The next hour was going to be an interesting one. One I would not have missed for anything in the world.