Sandy gave me the detective's name and phone number in Rockland, Maine. Calling the airline first, I made reservations for a flight leaving at six a.m. tomorrow morning, arriving Boston at ten thirty a.m. There was a connecting flight on a small commuter airline to Augusta, Maine, but from the map spread across my desk, it looked like no more than a three or four hour road trip from Boston's Logan airport. Deciding to drive, I figured we would arrive in Rockland by five o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Sunday.
Placing a call to the police department in Rockland, Maine, I asked to speak to Detective J. L. Chamberlain.
"I'm sorry, sir,” the Desk Sergeant who answered the phone said. "Detective Chamberlain isn't working this weekend. Maybe someone else could help you?"
"Then I'll speak to the detective in charge this weekend,” I said, throwing my pen on the desk, expecting the usual bureaucratic runaround.
"Well, sir,” the Desk Sergeant said. "Detective Chamberlain is the only detective we've got. He won't be back until Monday, that is unless we have some kind of emergency. Then the Chief would have me call Detective Chamberlain. We don't have a large force."
"Put the Chief on the line, Sergeant,” I said, picking my pen back up. "I'll talk to him."
"Ah, I'm sorry, sir, but the Chief isn't working this weekend, either. Of course, unless there's an emergency."
"Then put whoever the hell is in charge on the phone, Sergeant." I was growing tired of the game. "I'll talk to anyone."
"Well, sir,” he said, rather proudly. "I'm the one in charge. What can I do for you?"
"Sergeant,” I said slowly, calmly, clinching both fists together until the knuckles were white. "I want you to get in touch with Detective Chamberlain, tell him Sandy Rinaldi will be arriving tomorrow around six p.m. We'll meet him in his office."
"Ah, sir,” the Sergeant said officiously. "Just who are you?"
"My name is Leicester, Jay Leicester. I'll be accompanying Miss Rinaldi to Rockland. We're traveling over a thousand miles to see Detective Chamberlain. We expect to see his smiling face. Understand, Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir,” he said. "But Detective Chamberlain isn't going to like this."
"Good-bye, Sergeant,” I said, quickly hanging up the phone, then holding my head in both hands in disgust.
* * *
"There's a flight leaving at six in the morning,” I explained to Sandy on the way to the clothing store. "Puts us in Boston by eleven. We can drive up to Rockland from there. Detective Chamberlain will meet us at his office around six o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Sound okay to you?"
"Sounds fine." She ran manicured fingers through her silky hair. "You couldn't get us out tonight?"
"Not without an overnight layover in Atlanta,” I answered, searching for a parking space in the busy shopping center. "We might as well stay here as in Atlanta."
"Will you arrange a room for me, a hotel somewhere close by?"
"Certainly, but you're welcome to stay at my house." I maneuvered the car into a narrow parking space. "There's a spare bedroom with a lock on the door."
"Awful hospitable of you, Mr. Leicester,” she said with that strange half-smile. "I accept."
* * *
The flight to Boston was uneventful. Getting the rent-a-car and driving out of the city was, to say the least, interesting. It took us an hour to get through the tollbooth at the airport perimeter. Sandy, navigating with the road map, helped. But the traffic was bumper to bumper, stop and go, until we were ten miles north. And this was Sunday.
Once outside of Boston traffic on the turnpike thinned. It was foggy when we landed at Logan, but by the time we'd settled in for the drive the fog had burned off, revealing a deep blue early spring sky. The air still had a chilly brace and the trees were just beginning to leaf out.
We went through the State of New Hampshire in the blink of an eye and, except for the tollbooths at each state line, we would not have known we'd been through it.
We stopped in Kennebunkport for a break and something to eat. Another toll to get back on the turnpike, and we headed up along the coast. Taking the exit at Bath, we followed Highway One through some of the most beautiful country I have ever seen. Bayou country, I thought, without the heat and mosquitoes.
The time spent driving gave me a chance to find out a little about Sandy. As could be expected, she'd been tense and irritated since her brother disappeared. I tried to get her to relax, talk about herself. It took awhile, but she finally warmed.
"Were you born in New Orleans, Sandy?" I asked, catching glimpses of silver-sharded slices of the Atlantic Ocean as we neared the coastline at different points on the road.
"Yes,” she answered, glancing at the same spots of ocean. "Renato and I both were born there, or rather in Metairie. It's a suburb, out near the airport."
"I know it well. When I flew for Southern Airways, we had a crew base at the Candlelight Inn on Airline highway."
"I was born on Army Street, right behind the Candlelight Inn,” she said excitedly. "The area's run down now, but I loved it there when I was a little girl. The airplanes would take off and land over our house. They were so exciting, going to far off places. I used to dream of getting on one, flying to some exotic land where there was an ocean and white sand beaches. I had a calendar in my room with a picture of an island in the Caribbean. I guess that was where my airplane was going." She looked down at her lap, picked at a fingernail.
"Your parents still live on Army Street?"
"My mother's dead." Sandy bowed her head for a moment, then gazed out the front windshield into the far past. "She killed herself when I was fifteen years old."
"I'm sorry."
"It devastated me. Had it not been for Renato, I don't think I would have survived. Our father left the family shortly after I was born. I always thought it was because of me. It took a long time before I realized it wasn't my fault. Mama had a rough time raising us kids. Then there were the men in her life...God, could she pick'em. One or two even tried to hit on me."
"What did you and your brother do after your mother died?" I slowed for a gravel truck on the now two-lane, winding road.
"Renato was old enough to work. We had no other family. The house was paid for. It wasn't much, but we owned it. We survived."
"How did you two get into the art business?" I asked, finding a safe stretch of road and passing the truck.
"Renato opened the gallery. He brought me in a few years later." She turned and looked at me. "It's a long story, Jay. I'll tell it to you sometime."
She was being vague. I decided not to push it. She probably had her reasons.
"Tell me about Jay Leicester,” she said, turning in the seat, facing me, now. "You flew for the airlines?"
"Yes, I spent twenty years as a pilot, eight of those flying for the now defunct Southern Airways. The rest of the time as a corporate pilot, learning great lessons about the nouveau riche."
"What does that mean?" She turned back, faced out the side window.
"Never mind,” I said, smiling. "It's a long story, I'll tell you about it sometime."
She laughed at that, a long, infectious laugh. I was glad to see she had a sense of humor.
We drove for half an hour in silence, enjoying the countryside. Sandy leaned back in the seat, crossed her ankles.
"You ever been married, Jay?"
"Married?" I rubbed my chin. "No, came close one time, though. It wouldn't have worked out. She made a wise decision, sent me on my way. What about you?"
She laughed, as if there was some absurdity even to the thought. "I've never considered the idea. Men intrigue me, but they don't fascinate me."
Making no comment, I thought it one subject better left undisturbed. Instead of saying anything, I watched the scenery change from wooded flatland to hill country and pristine seaside.
"How did you end up a private investigator?" She asked, holding her hair back with both hands, forming a sort of ponytail. "Seems a stretch, from flying airplanes?"
"My grandfather was a judge, my father and brother both state highway patrolmen. I grew up around law enforcement. It was the only thing I knew besides flying."
This seemed to satisfy her. At least she was intelligent enough not to pursue it further. I was glad she didn't. She let her hair fall back into its original shape and gazed out the window.
We arrived in Rockland, Maine, four and half-hours after leaving Boston Logan Airport. It had been a long and tiring trip.
We drove through the small town looking for the Police Department. Main Street ran along the waterfront. Penobscot Bay glistened in the late afternoon sun. Large islands in the middle of the bay blocked a view of the open ocean, but you knew it was there, you could smell the clean salt air.
Stopping at a service station, I asked for directions to the Police Department. The attendant laughed and pointed at the small, red brick building a half block away.
Detective J.L. Chamberlain was waiting for us. After the usual introductions, he ushered us into his tiny, bare office. Waving toward two spartan, wooden chairs directly in front of his desk, he told us to sit and offered coffee. Sandy declined. I said yes.
Chamberlain went out and returned with two styrofoam cups of black, steaming liquid. "May be a might strong." He handed me one of the cups. It was not drinkable.
Chamberlain was tall man with gray hair. He had the grave, naive look of a college professor. His eyes were dark and serious with a hardness from too many years of dealing with the wrong side of human nature. His handshake was firm. His movements, while not athletic, did not belie his age, which I guessed around sixty. There was an underlying professionalism about Chamberlain. He was probably smarter than he appeared. Spying the graduation certificate from the FBI Academy on the wall behind his desk, I knew that he was.
"Came up from Mississippi, did you?" He said, leaning back in his chair, locking his hands behind his head. "Spent a year at Keesler, back in sixty-five. Got to know Biloxi pretty well. Too hot down there for me."
There was an awkward silence. I didn't say anything. Wasn't anything to say. It seemed everyone in the Air Force migrated through Keesler Air Force base sooner or later.
"Well, Miss Rinaldi,” Chamberlain said, sitting up in his chair. "I'll get to the point. We have a body over at the morgue. It matches the description on the driver's license we found in the rent-a-car at Port Clyde. We'll need you to make a positive identification. I'm truly sorry about your brother."
"Cause of death?" I asked.
"One bullet, back of the right ear." Chamberlain held up a finger to a spot behind his right ear. "Probably a thirty-eight. We're waiting for an I.D. before we do the autopsy."
Sandy gasped, turned her head to the side, and put her hand to her mouth.
"I'm sorry, Miss Rinaldi,” Chamberlain said.
"Any mention of finding a large amount of cash money with the body?" I asked, watching Chamberlain closely.
"His personal effects are at the hospital. The hospital's where the morgue is located,” he added. "We're a small town. Not too many bodies. I believe there was about seven hundred dollars in his wallet. A lot of money to be carrying around."
"Yes,” I said, not elaborating.
"You want to view the body today?" Chamberlain asked. "Or wait until tomorrow?"
"As soon as possible." I looked at Sandy. She nodded in approval. "If you could recommend a place to stay for a couple of days we'd appreciate it."
"Sure,” Chamberlain said. "I'll arrange it." He picked up the phone, called the hospital, and a hotel.
We rode with Chamberlain. Sandy sat silently in the back seat, looking out the window at the water. Dark was closing in quickly on Rockland, Maine.
An old man, stoop shouldered, and walking with a limp, escorted us down a dark hallway. His nametag read: JIM-HOSPITAL ORDERLY. The unpainted concrete floor echoed our steps. The small room Chamberlain referred to as a morgue was dank and cold.
The body lay on a stainless steel autopsy table covered with a white sheet. Detective Chamberlain tried to be as gentle as he could. He looked at me, then at Sandy. I nodded. He pulled the sheet from the head of the body. Sandy leaned closer, turned and walked out of the room, saying nothing. Taking a quick look at the face, I saw the hole where the bullet entered. There was no exit wound.
Going out after Sandy, I found her leaning against a far wall, head bowed, arms across her stomach.
"I'm sorry, Sandy,” I said, putting my hand gently on her shoulder, remembering how violently she'd reacted to me approaching her yesterday. "I know this is hard on you, but..."
"That's not my brother,” she said, not looking up at me.
Denial is sometimes a manifestation of events like these. Seeing someone lying on a slab, especially someone you love, does strange things to some people's mind.
"Sandy,” I said gently. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. I'm sure." She looked me directly in the eyes. "I've never seen that person before in my life."
Chamberlain was still in with the body. When I walked back into the room, he looked at me expectantly. "It's not Rinaldi."
"Jesus,” Chamberlain said, throwing his head back, and looking up at the ceiling. He pulled the sheet back over the unknown body.