Gino Anastasio sat up erect in his seat. It was the first time he had done this. He seemed much taller than I imagined. "Give me the bandanna. Where did this come from?"
Sandy turned from me and looked at Anastasio. She reluctantly, hesitantly pushed the bandanna toward him.
Taking it, he sat back in a slouch, managing to make his sloppy posture look insolent.
Looking over at J.L. to see if he agreed it was time to reveal all that we knew, he nodded and crossed his arms.
"It's made by local native Indians." Looking at Sandy, I saw that she sat rigid, staring down at her lap. "They are sold only at three places, the ferry dock here in Rockland, the chandlery in Port Clyde, and at the general store on Monhegan Island."
Turning to Sandy, I pointed to Anastasio and said, "Are you going to make me lay it all out, here, in front of this man?"
She raised her head a little, there was no perceptible change in her posture, and any suggestion of defiance came from the faintly stressed spacing of her words. "I don't know what you're talking about. Lay what out?"
Sighing, I removed some pages from the folder, truly hating to do this in front of Anastasio, even though we had insisted he be here, and had told him all about it. I still didn't like it. Though we did have something in store for him, later.
Anastasio stayed in his slouched position, laced his ugly, bony fingers together. His hands appeared raw and red, the hands of a germ phobic. He spoke in that irritating voice. "Amateurs should never commit murder. They always make mistakes. To fix a pipe one should always call a plumber."
Sandy did not answer. She sat still and her face was expressionless, but her eyes seemed too large and they were fixed on mine, as if she were now intent upon nothing but hearing me to the end.
J.L. suddenly stood up. "Get on with it, Jay."
"Sandy, we know just about everything. The man's right, you made several mistakes. The biggest one, besides the two murders, was hiring Guy Robbins to handle your brother's estate. He checked on your financial affairs and found out you both were broke. It didn't matter to you that he knew. You just never figured on his telling me."
The ferocious spring with which she whirled to me was involuntary, as was the naked twist of hatred in her face. "What difference does this make? Renato and I made some bad investments. You act like I killed my brother. That's ridiculous. Why are you doing this?"
Looking back down at the file folder, not wanting to continue, but knowing she would have it no other way, I said, "Here's how we have it figured. We know that you must have hated your brother enough to kill him. We just don't know why. Your ploy to throw the blame toward Anastasio was a good one, and it was working. Only you didn't know your players well enough, and that was truly a big mistake." I paused, letting the words sink in.
Sandy smiled. It was a thin smile, amused and cold. Then she looked down at her hands lying in her lap.
"A Hansa jet is an unusual airplane, Sandy. It creates a lot of interest among pilots whereever it lands.
Her head rose half an inch. Her eyes looked up for a fraction of a second. There was no other emotion.
"We knew the art collection was moved from Monhegan Island by helicopter to a waiting van. We found people who witnessed the contents of the van being loaded aboard a Hansa jet at the Rockland Airport. It was easy to trace, since there is only one such aircraft in the United States used for civilian flying. We found out that a young woman chartered it in Houston, Texas, paid cash, up front. Here's a statement from the Captain and copilot of that airplane identifying you in a photo we faxed to them."
Sliding the fax across the table, she did not acknowledge it.
"Guy Robbins found your picture in the New Orleans Time Picayune. The story they ran on the insurance company collapse had pictures of Nat, the owner of the company, the Louisiana Insurance Commissioner, the Lieutenant Governor, and you. We have used that photo to identify you each step of the way."
Sandy remained silent. J.L. stood up and walked behind his chair. He held on to the seat back and switched his weight from one foot to the other, which gave the impression he was pacing. Anastasio looked like he was dead except for the deep-set, black holes from which his evil eyes peered.
"We figured you flew into Rockland, then told the flight crew you would be ready to depart within the hour. Nat picked you up at the airport in his rental car and drove you to meet with Bilotti. You viewed the Kent collection, killed both of them, drove the van back to the airport, unloaded the artwork into the Hansa jet, and then left the van in the parking lot. You found the rental contract in the glove compartment and called the agency, telling them where the van was being left, hoping they would come pick it up so as not to draw attention to it being left at the airport."
Sandy moved in her chair, then her eyes fixed on me. There was nothing wrong with the way she looked at me, only it was as if I was not there.
I kept going. "Clever, you thought. Fly up, whack your brother, steal the cash, keep the art collection and sell it off somewhere, then collect on Nat's insurance and the insurance on the money. Not bad, close to six million, if my figures are correct."
Chamberlain sat back down in his chair. Anastasio stared fixedly at Sandy.
"Nat bought several items at the chandlery in Port Clyde, most of them for you." I slid the purchase list Annie gave me over to her. "You must have put the bandanna in your purse when Nat gave it to you that night and forgot it was there. It is the only possible explanation. We had to buy you clothes in Jackson before we departed for Rockland. You were never out of my sight long enough to buy a bandanna here."
She sat looking down. I saw the strands of her hair swing jerkily as she shook her head in desperate protest.
"I happened to see the bandannas at the chandlery while showing Nat's and Bilotti's photos around. I remembered seeing one identical to them holding up your damp hair on the way to the airport in Augusta. I didn't put it together until after Guy told me you and Nat were bankrupt. When we could find no motive for Anastasio being involved, we had to concentrate elsewhere. It's funny, isn't it, how memory works?"
She raised her eyes, knowing that I knew the nature of her despair and that it was useless to hide the truth. Her eyes dropped, then her head moved down a little, then a little farther. It went on dropping slowly, in long, single jerks, then stopped. She sat still, her shoulders hunched, her hands huddled together in her lap. "I believe I would like to call my attorney, Jay."
Anastasio suddenly sat forward on the edge of his seat and waved a scrawny arm in the air. "I have been extremely patient with you, Miss Rinaldi. I have even admired some of the ways you've operated in the past few weeks. This has caused me much trouble, focused the attention of the police on my business. That is not good. It must cease." He spit the words out in angry syllables. His ugly head turned blue, the veins rising and pulsating. "No lawyers." He pointed a crooked finger at her. "You tell the law exactly what they wish to know, and you take your punishment. If you're smart, instead of the electric chair, what you'll get is life in prison." He sat back in his seat. "If you do not do this, I assure you there are things which will happen to you that you cannot imagine. Remember, I can get to you anywhere." His face was cut by prominent cheekbones and by a few sharp lines, and it was ugly because it was unyielding, and cruel because it was expressionless.
Sandy Rinaldi and Gino Anastasio looked into each other's eyes for a long time, then she bent over, put her head on her arms. She did not move, but strands of her ash-blond hair, hanging down to her ankles, trembled in sudden jolts once in awhile. Finally she turned to J.L., and said, "Detective Chamberlain, I'll make a statement explaining everything, only not here. Could you please get me off this airplane?"
J.L. looked at me. I looked at Anastasio. We all nodded. Anastasio motioned toward the door where his young aide was now standing. "Show the policemen aboard." A policeman and policewoman appeared and took Sandy away.
"No cuffs,” J.L. said. "She's not going anywhere."
Sandy looked back at me and, for one final time, her face broke into that enigmatic half-smile. It was the strangest smile I had ever seen: it held secret amusement, and heartbreak, and an infinite bitterness. It was the smile I never figured out, and would never forget.
* * *
We all three sat for awhile, silent, each with our own thoughts. The soft, steady hum of the auxiliary power unit seemed to have a soothing effect.
Anastasio finally broke the silence. "She is a smart young woman. To bad that I did not train her myself, she would have made a good operative."
"You mean a mole, don't you?" I said angrily, tired of being nice to this old man.
He ignored my remark, waved it away with a frail arm, and continued. "She was clever in focusing the blame toward me, even smarter in trying to make it appear I was setting her up to take the fall for the murders. Very good. I wonder when the murder weapon would have showed up?"
"Yes, I wish we had the pistol,” J.L. said, standing and pacing the small interior of the cabin. "It would help solidify our case against her."
Anastasio's face stretched into a taught grin, ugly teeth showed brown against thin, chalk-colored lips. He reached under the oval table, pulled out a sealed, clear plastic bag containing some paperwork and a .9mm blue steel, Glock automatic, and slid it across to Chamberlain. "A Commander on the New Orleans police department is a friend of ours. My people recovered the gun at the art gallery. I had him see that the documentation was complete for court admission. An unbroken chain of evidence, is the way you people like to phrase it, I believe. You'll find that the ballistics will match. It is a gift to you, Detective Chamberlain. Don't ever forget where it came from."
J.L. stared at him, but said nothing.
It was all I could do to control my anger. Placing both hands on the table, fingers splayed, I said, "Now hear me well, Anastasio. We'll take the pistol, but it would have surfaced anyway. Your grandstanding here means nothing. It carries no strings, no favors, and no paybacks. Detective Chamberlain will not be intimidated or threatened. If you think that, you're wrong."
Anastasio sat back in his seat, a smirk on his face, but said nothing.
"You will do the following things: you will take this twenty-five million dollar aircraft, fly it to New Orleans, and bring back the Rockwell Kent art collection. You will have it transported to Monhegan Island and returned to Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. Since your Mr. Bilotti treated them so horribly, an addition of two hundred thousand dollars to their bank account seems appropriate."
"If I don't?" He sat up, a confident, powerful figure, ready for the confrontation.
"If you refuse, there'll be more heat than you've had since the John Gotti thing. We'll inform the FBI, the IRS, and national television..."
"Enough!" He shook his head and gazed out the window of the aircraft. There was a look of disappointment in his evil eyes. "You two amuse me, a small town cop and a private investigator of no importance. You have the unmitigated audacity to threaten me with the FBI, the IRS, and television? Come on! These people have been after us to no avail since before you were born." He sat back in his chair, a maniacal expression on the withered face. "I'll tell you what I will do, the art work will be returned to the couple on the island. Now both of you get out of my sight." He waved us away.
I stood up. Having rehearsed this speech a hundred times in my mind, I hoped I would not forget anything. "Before we leave, I want you to know what a slime...” Stopping, I realized how inane and useless my words would be. All the harsh rhetoric would merely roll off Anastasio and be a waste of my breath.
Leaving the room, I walked up the aisle toward the cockpit and exit door, cursing myself under my breath for, in my anger, I had not said what I wanted to say to Anastasio. Upon reaching the exit door, I stopped and looked into the cockpit. Sticking my head in between the two pilots, I said, "Hey, you two..."
They turned in unison, looked blankly at me, said nothing, and then looked at each other. I saw the uselessness of venting anger. Shaking my head, I walked slowly down the airstair door.
Stepping out onto the ramp, I felt an icy sense of relief. I felt heavy and tired, but drearily proud of myself. Sandy Rinaldi had done this terrible thing. She was guilty, and I hated her for it. The reasons? It was not necessary to wonder about the reasons. It was necessary only to hate, to hate blindly, to hate patiently, to hate without anger; only to hate, and let nothing intervene, and not let oneself forget, ever. Heading toward the terminal building of the fixed-base operator, I never looked back.