Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (20 page)

The look of a
peculiar panic grew in her eyes. It was not the look of understanding, but of a
ferocious refusal to understand – as if she wanted to turn the violence of her
emotion into a fog screen, and she hoped that it would not blind her to
reality, but that her blindness would make reality cease to exist.

Taking a deep
breath, I sat back in my chair, placed both hands in my lap, and looked out the
oval cabin window of the plush corporate jet. I was going to both hate and
enjoy the next half-hour.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR

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
wherever 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. Too 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.