Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (19 page)

It was cool in
the chandlery. I could see both our breaths when we exhaled. "How do you
ever get this building warm?" I asked, rubbing my hands together, hunching
my shoulders up around my neck. Even with the old leather flight jacket on, it
was nippy in here.

Annie looked at
me with an incredulous expression. To someone who lived in Maine and made her
living from open boats on icy, wind swept seas, it must have sounded like a
stupid question.

After eyeing me
without saying anything for perhaps thirty seconds, Annie put her hands on her
hips, squared her shoulders, and jutted a prominent chin at me. "What the
devil you want here, man?"

"The first
time we met, the day I showed the photographs of the two men who were killed,
you said Nat Rinaldi bought some things here at the chandlery."

"Yes, I
remember. So what?" She did not move, only stared. Did I see it in her dark
northern eyes, a spark of fury? Directed at whom?

Moving toward
the long, flat, tables where merchandise was neatly arranged, I said, "You
think real hard about what he bought. Try to remember each item."

Working my way
around the tables, picking up wool mittens and caps, I could not find what I
was looking for. "Please, Annie, this is important. What did he buy?"

Without
realizing it, my voice had risen in a crescendo. Lack of sleep had me on edge.

"Jesus,
man,” Annie said, looking at me weirdly. "Take it easy. If I can find the
ticket, I'll tell you exactly what he bought."

A receipt. I had
not thought about her writing a ticket for the purchases. I continued moving
around the tables, searching.

"Here it
is,” Annie said, holding up the ticket. "Everything is listed. He paid in
cash. You want to look?"

I read Annie's
neat printing on the ticket.

1 Wool
cap..................$4.99

1 pair wool
mittens..........6.99

1 hand painted
bandanna.....11.69

Tax...... 1.66

Total...$23.67

"Yes,
that's it. Do you have any more of these hand painted bandannas?"

"All this
for a bandanna? You're here at five a.m. for an Indian scarf?"

The door at the
rear of the chandlery slammed shut. A man stood looking at us. "Annie?
What's going on?" He walked hesitantly toward us. Then he recognized me.
"Leicester, what are you doing here this time of day?"

"He's
looking to buy one of those Bandannas hand painted by the Indians."

"What?"
He cocked his head and looked at me earnestly with a faint, ugly smirk.

"It's
true,” Annie said. "He's been sitting out in the parking lot all night, waiting
to buy an Indian scarf."

"Leicester?"
Barstein walked up close to me. His breath smelled of cigarettes and stale
coffee. He stared, blinking rapidly. He had long eyelashes. They gave the black
eyes an effeminate quality that made a stunning contrast to the brutish face
with the jagged, welted scar.

"I can
explain." I held up both hands in front of me in the cold air of the chandlery.
At least I hoped I could.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

We sat in the
unmarked police car at the Augusta airport, waiting. The sky was gray, and a
low overcast hung depressingly across the landscape. Visibility hovered around
a half mile. Intermittent rain fell bringing a damp chill to the air. J.L. kept
the engine running to defrost the windshield. The wipers, set to pause, would
swipe across the glass every thirty seconds, clearing away the mist, and
revealing the airport runway.

J.L. sat calmly
peering out through the windshield, his scholarly-like face not giving away his
inner thoughts. He would have made a good poker player. I wondered if he did play.

We would watch
as aircraft suddenly appeared through the dense fog, touch down on the wet
runway, and throw up thick, foamy spray as the crew reversed the engines.

"I've often
wondered how they do that?" J.L. asked, more to himself than to me.

"Do
what?" I wiped at some fog forming on the inside of the windshield.

"Find the
airport on days like today. The aircraft appear like ghosts from the clouds,
perfectly lined up to land. It has always been amazing to me."

Laughing, I
thought of how many days like today I had flown airplanes down to landing
minimums, sometimes seeing the runway, sometimes not. "Maybe someday I
will explain to you how it's done." It would take too much time to do it
now. There were other things to think about.

"Humph,”
J.L. grunted. He pushed up his shirtsleeve and looked at his watch. "What
time is this flight due in?"

"About ten
minutes ago. They're probably running late due to the weather. The airport only
came up to landing minimums a half-hour ago. There were probably several planes
stacked up in a holding pattern waiting for the visibility to improve."

J.L. didn't say
anything. He stared out the windshield, watching a Boeing 737 reversing its
engines, kicking up spray.

*
* *

Leaving the
chandlery two days ago, I had driven back to J.L.'s home and explained what I'd
found. We made our plans, working them through as thoroughly as we could. Now
we sat waiting for Sandy Rinaldi to arrive from New Orleans. It was necessary
for her to return to Rockland in order to wrap up the investigation.

Convincing Sandy
to make the trip all the way back to Maine took some doing, but she finally
relented.

We watched the
new-generation turboprop commuter aircraft taxi up to the gate. The ground crew
immediately rolled a cart filled with umbrellas out to the exit door of the
plane.

Sandy was the
first to debark. Even from a distance one could recognize her tall, lithe
frame. Blond hair flowed down around her shoulders. Sharp, high cheekbones and
dark eyebrows were a stark contrast to the gray, cloud-covered morning. She
held the umbrella high above her head and moved swiftly toward the terminal
with a determined stride. Her white, long-sleeved blouse, black slacks, and
high-heeled shoes looked expensive and professional. She was an impressive
woman. I could not escape the feeling of admiration I experienced the first
time we met.

J.L. and I went
inside the terminal. Sandy was standing straight, her head level. The planes of
her face had a military cleanliness of precision and a feminine fragility. Her
hands hung still, by her sides, parallel with the long straight lines of her
black slacks. She spotted me and waved.

Walking to where
she stood, I kissed her on the cheek. Her perfume wrapped around me like a warm
embrace, reminding me of pleasant things long passed. She greeted me with overt
cheerfulness. Her eyes switched back and forth across mine, inviting me to
browse among her thoughts.

"I'm so
glad to be off that little airplane. We've been circling around up there for
over an hour. The pilot said at one point that if the fog didn't lift in ten minutes
we would have to divert to Lewiston, wherever that is?" She shook her
head, an ash-blond wisp falling across her face. She brushed it back with a
flair.

"Well, I'm
glad your plane landed here."

Sandy looked up
and recognized J.L. "Hello, Detective Chamberlain. It's good to see you
again."

"Sandy,”
J.L. said, extending his hand.  "Welcome back to the North Country. Hope
your trip wasn't too bad."

"It was
fine except for the last hour. I'm here safe and sound, though."

"Let's
retrieve your luggage before someone else does." I pointed toward baggage
claim.

"I only
have one small bag." She handed me the boarding pass with the baggage tag
stapled to the inside. "It's blue with a red ribbon tied to the
handle." She made a tightening, sidewise movement with her hips, the equivalent
of a shrug, and walked toward the front of the terminal. J.L. winked at me and
followed her.

Sandy settled
into the backseat of the unmarked police car. She sat straight, the lines of
her face relaxed, the shape of her mouth softened by the faint, purposeful
suggestion of a smile.

Putting the bag
into the trunk, we headed back to Rockland. The weather was getting worse. Wind
gusted and shook the car; scud blew across the highway obstructing visibility.
Chamberlain drove slowly and carefully.

We rode in
silence for a few miles.

"Oh, by the
way." Sandy tapped me on the shoulder. "Guy Robbins said to tell you
hello. I called him yesterday morning before leaving New Orleans concerning
some business we needed to discuss. I told him I would be seeing you
today."

"Thanks.
It's always nice to hear from Guy."

Chamberlain
parked in the doorway of the Navigator Inn. He unlocked the trunk for me. As I
retrieved Sandy's bag he said he would make sure Sergeant Bowers stayed put at
the police station tomorrow. I nodded in agreement.

"I'll see
you both in the morning." He got back in the car and started the engine.

Sandy and I
waved good-bye.

*
* *

The cold front
of yesterday was gone. The sky was crisp and clear with a sharp, cold wind
gusting across Penobscot bay. It was the ending of winter, the beginning of
spring in the North Country.

We had set up a
meeting with Gino Anastasio this morning. Chamberlain was right on time. Sandy
and I were waiting in the lobby of the Navigator Inn.

We could see the
airplane from the road as we drove into the Knox County Airport. The sleek,
twenty-five million dollar Gulfstream G-IV glistened in the bright morning sun.
We drove out on the ramp to the airplane. As we approached, the airstair door
opened and our familiar escort came down the stairs. J.L. stopped the car and
shut the engine off.

"Good
morning, Detective Chamberlain, Mr. Leicester, Ms. Rinaldi,” the well-dressed
young man said. "Mr. Anastasio is ready for you. Please follow me."

"We're
meeting him aboard his airplane? Why are we doing it this way?" Sandy
asked with a smile that was amused, astonished, and involuntarily contemptuous.

"It's the
only way he'll see us, Sandy. You've got to remember who this guy is, one of
the most powerful Mafia figures in the world."

Chamberlain and
I got out of the car and he opened the door for Sandy. Turning, I looked at
her. What I saw was the easy, casual figure of a woman in a natural setting. I
noted the uncommon lightness of her posture; a weightless way of standing that
showed an expert control of the use of her own body. A tall body in simple
garments; a thin blouse, light slacks, a belt around a nonexistent waistline,
and loose silky hair that glittered like tinsel in the wafting wind. We went
aboard.

The flight crew
still sat in their seats, staring out the windscreen, probably ashamed of their
employer, but cashing the paychecks just the same. The hum of the auxiliary
power unit was soft and soothing, keeping the climate aboard to a comfortable
level.

Sandy paused and
looked around at the plush interior. She was impressed, but she didn't comment.
J.L., as before, looked around, shook his head, and continued down the aisle of
the cabin toward the onboard office with the oval table.

"The
policemen and the woman are here,” the young man said, announcing us.

Anastasio
glanced up, said nothing, waved us into the leather chairs around the table. He
wore the same blue jump suit, sat in the same seat. His cadaver-like appearance
had not changed. Sandy was shocked at the man before her. She could not prevent
the jolt of surprise that threw her head up.

"How about
some coffee?" I turned and looked at the young man.

He smiled at me.
"Anybody else?" He said with a bored tone in his voice.

"Nothing
for me,” Chamberlain said. Sandy shook her head.

"Rinaldi,
the art dealer,” Gino said in his shaky, squeaky voice, the blue veins
pulsating across the thin skin of the balding head. "I wondered what you
would look like in person."

Sandy said
nothing, but she held his glance. I saw the faint movement I'd noted as typical
of her: the movement of her proudly intractable mouth curving into the hint of
a smile.

A smirky grin
stretched across Anastasio's ruined teeth. The scraggly, thin hair waved in the
air as he nodded his grotesque head. Looking up at me and waving a bony arm, he
said, "You're lucky to have such a client, Mr. Leicester. So beautiful,
too." He looked back at Sandy with a leer.

Sandy crossed
her legs and continued to look at Anastasio, staring directly into his evil,
black eyes, but she remained silent. J.L. shifted position in his seat and
crossed his arms. The suit returned with my coffee, placed it gently on the
table, and disappeared.

"Your phone
call was quite interesting. I was forced to cancel several important meetings
and make many changes to arrive here today." His cold eyes stared into
mine. The ugly grin changed from a smile to a sneer as he spoke, seemingly
uncontrollable and unconnected to the content of his words. A bony arm waved an
arc across the breadth of the cabin. "Let's proceed."

"Yes, Mr.
Anastasio, it is time." Setting the coffee cup and saucer on the table, I
said, "First, let me say we appreciate you taking time to come to Rockland
for this meeting, time away from your business."

Sandy shifted
position in her chair and raised her eyes at me with the rhythmical abruptness
of the involuntary. Chamberlain uncrossed his arms and sat erect in his seat.

Anastasio raised
his bony arm, and nodded.

Laying the thick
file folder on the table, I opened it up. Everything was there, neatly,
thoroughly prepared and typed. The latest fax copies were stapled to the inside
of the front cover. "You know,” I said, looking at Anastasio. "We
could never figure a motive for a man of your power to so overtly hit a mole
like Tony Bilotti. Most murders are done for revenge, spite, money,
possessions, or by an irate family member. None of these things fit. If you
wanted Bilotti whacked, why do so in such a high profile manner? Then kill an
unknown art dealer at the same time, adding more publicity? All this wouldn't
wash, not with me, not with Detective Chamberlain."

Sandy, looking
intently at me, uncrossed, then recrossed her legs. The fabric of her slacks
made a swishing noise. Chamberlain remained silent, unmoving.

I continued.
"The odd thing was the Rockwell Kent art collection. Your statement that
you acquired, 'or paid a fair price for,' I believe were your words, the
collection as a gift for your wife put you at the scene. The fact that she
wanted a Norman Rockwell collection was irrelevant. Then we found out that your
mole roughed up an innocent old couple on your instructions to extort the Kent
collection from them for the sins of their grandson. That kept you involved.
But the motive? The missing four hundred and fifty thousand in cash means
nothing to a man of your power and wealth. You, yourself, said you paid your
chauffeur as much in a year. The motive. It still eluded us."

Anastasio's
death grin stretched tightly across the transparent skin on his ugly head. He
nodded at what I was saying, but made no other comment.

Turning over a
page in the file, I said, "Your open cooperation and honesty confused us
at first. We thought it was a way of learning how our investigation was
progressing, finding out what information we were garnering, a way for you to
prepare a defense for your mistakes. But if you wanted that kind of information
you would have tried to buy it. You didn't do that. Not from Detective Chamberlain,
not from me, and not from any of the hard working, but poorly paid officers of
the Rockland Police Department who were working with us. Every time we thought
we could put you in the middle of these murders, we'd run into a brick wall.
There were only two conclusions to draw: you were too smart for us, or you
were...innocent."

The swiftness
with which Sandy's eyes moved to me was an involuntary answer to an unexpected
question, but the swiftness with which they moved away – to look down at the
table, at the cabin walls, at Chamberlain, anywhere but at me – was the
conscious answer to the meaning of the question.

Anastasio's grin
grew even tighter across his ruined teeth. The man was enjoying this. For that
I was sorry. J.L. looked at me and nodded. Things were on schedule.

Beads of sweat
appeared on Sandy's face. She wiped a finger under her right eye. Reaching into
my back pocket, I pulled out a handkerchief. It was a large, hand painted
bandanna made by local Indians. I had purchased it from the chandlery the other
morning at 5:30 a.m. Offering it to Sandy, I said, "Here, do you need
this?"

"Thank
you." She reached for the handkerchief, taking it without looking. Then,
seeing it for the first time, her head jerked up. It was only an instant pause,
her eyes did not move, but it seemed to me that her glance was stressed, as if
in special awareness of seeing me. Deep down in the inner core of her brain synapses
fired between neurons. Electric current made connections faster than any
computer ever designed, creating memory, analyzing data. Finally, realization
turned to undeniable truth.