CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) (10 page)

“You can do better,” I said, “than Pierce the Precious.”

“That’s an unkind thing to say about a man I’m seeing. And about me.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Alice.”

“Pierce has many fine qualities. He’s not himself around you. You project authority and he likes to see himself as a nonconformist. He feels threatened.”

“I think we both know what he feels threatened about.”

“I have to go,” she said. “Thank you for lunch.”

She started up the steps. Then she turned and looked down at me.

“Call me. But not right away. A few weeks? I have some thinking to do.”

A couple of students greeted her and she disappeared through the door. I went to find Pierce the Precious and ask him some non-theoretical questions.

CHAPTER 12 – TENURE

Lancaster was in his office in the History Department but had his door closed. I heard male and female murmuring and laughter. There was an uncomfortable looking chair in the anteroom and I sat in it. After a few minutes the door opened and the good professor came out, his hand on the shoulder of an attractive black co-ed. 

“I’m sure that with a little more effort on your part, Darlene, we’ll be able to get that grade up,” he said. “Don’t forget what I said about being available to help you after school. I do a lot of work and research at home but I can always carve out some time if you want to stop by.”

His fatherly smile evaporated when he spotted me. He dropped his hand from the girl’s shoulder so abruptly she gave him a quizzical look. Then his mask came back on.

“Just call me next week, Miss Plumb. And don’t forget that paper.”

The kid stammered a quick thank you and hurried out. He turned to me.

“What the hell do you want?”

“I just wanted to see if the theoretical history instructor worked in a real building.”

“I’m very busy, Rhode.”

“I can see that,” I said, nodding my head at the rapidly retreating co-ed. “I didn’t realize that you were still interested in the exploitation of women.”

“What are you talking about?”

“America’s Real Manifest Destiny: The Subjugation and Exploitation of Women?”

“I haven’t taught that course in years.”

“Yeah, I would guess that Oprah has negated some of its impact.”

“Women are still being exploited.” I smiled. He realized he was painting himself into a corner. “But there are other subjects with more immediate relevance,” he ended lamely.

“Look Pierce, I’m not here to debate your sex life or your bullshit politics. I just want to know why you lied to me about remembering William Capriati.” Some students and staffers were walking by. He glanced at them nervously. “Why don’t we take this into your office?”

“I didn’t lie,” he said. But he motioned me inside his door and closed it. “I don’t remember him. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

There was a chair and it looked a lot more comfortable than the one in the anteroom. Probably made the co-eds feel at home. I sat without asking.

“Because he took your ‘Manifest’ course. Because you gave him a lousy mark and tried to run him out of school. I can check the grades you gave the other students. I’d bet my mother’s Hummel collection they all got ‘A’s’. You hated Capriati’s guts for stealing your girlfriend. What happened? Were you running low on co-eds?”

He sat down heavily in his desk chair and scowled at me. ‘If looks could kill’ was a nice phrase and I’d seen a couple that fit the bill. Maks Kalugin probably had a doozy. But no one named Pierce Lancaster could pull it off. He just appeared to be constipated.

“You should try more roughage,” I said, to lighten the moment.

“Fuck you.”

I waited.

“Who told you this crap? That bitch Kaplan?”

Yeah. He remembered. Guys like Lancaster never forgot a blow to their ego. But we weren’t getting anywhere. I leaned into him. I noticed his irises were abnormally large. Fright? I didn’t think so. Drugs, maybe. 

“Tell me everything you remember about Capriati.”

“I don’t remember anything except the guinea bastard thought he was God’s gift to the universe. I’m through talking to you. And you can have Watts all to yourself if you want. Good riddance. I’m tired of waiting for that quiff to spread her legs. Must be a lesbo. Probably why she coaches the women’s swim team. Now get out before I call security.”

He swiveled his chair away from me in dismissal. Before it stopped I swung it full around so that he almost fell out.

“What are you doing?”

Now it was fright. I pulled him out of the chair by his collar and slammed him against the wall, then squeezed his throat so he couldn’t squawk. He did manage a squeak.

“Listen, I don’t know how a turd like you gets to be a professor of anything, but if you ever talk about Alice Watts like that again I’ll matriculate your balls.”

Just to make sure I got my point across I slammed him against the opposite wall. Some books and a cup of pens rattled off his desk. He face began to take on an unhealthy pallor. When I finally let go he slumped to the floor and flopped around like a flounder.

“Now call security,” I said as he struggled to catch his breath. “I’m sure President Bradley would love to hear about your views on women and exploitation.”

The wheezing stopped and he crawled back to his chair and sat. After smoothing his hair and clothes he looked at me.

“Uncle Tom Bradley?” Lancaster was still having trouble breathing. “He only got the job because he’s black.” Several deep breaths. “He won’t last if we have anything to say about it.” Almost normal breathing. “And we will.”

I thought about Darlene Plumb. Lancaster’s racial bias apparently didn’t extend to female students. His face began to lose its mottled look and he gave me a smug smile.

“Besides, it’s my word against yours.”

I don’t do smug. I tried for angelic.

“Actually, it’s your words, your Pierceness.”

I reached into an inside pocket and partially pulled out my cell phone. All he glimpsed before I put it back was some sort of small electronic device.

“Digital recorder,” I lied.

He blanched.

“What are you going to do?”

I opened the door. Several people were clumped outside. They were probably more used to soulful teacher-co-ed murmurings emanating from Pierce’s domain than the bowling alley sounds I’d just provided. There was another student sitting in a chair waiting for a session with Lancaster. She looked frightened.

“Beat it,” I told her.

She did. And so did I.

“I have tenure,” Lancaster yelled after me.

“And dandruff,” I shot back.

Juvenile, I know.

***

“Tenure is nothing to sneeze at,” Dave Clapper said. “I wish you had a real recorder, although it probably wouldn’t fly in court. But it might have carried some weight with the Disciplinary Committee of the Board of Regents.”

I had just finished giving him a rundown of my meeting with Lancaster.

“Jesus Christ, Dave. You have a professor who teaches kids about alleged discrimination, twisting history along the way, and manages in the space of about 10 minutes to slur black men, women, Italian-Americans and gays. Not to mention that he preys on his students and probably trades grades for sex. You have to do something.”

“Look, Alton. In the Coast Guard if we had a guy like that we’d probably take care of it. Come back to port one man short. But academics are a clannish bunch.”

“Bradley shouldn’t put up with it. If for no other reason than that Lancaster is out to get him.”

Clapper got up and walked to the window. He turned and sat on the sill.

“He knows about Lancaster. And just between us, he’s trying to figure out what to do. And not just to save his job. But Lancaster heads the opposition to our reforms and if we move against him it will look like retribution.”

“You could use my recording as leverage.”

“There is no recording.”

“Lancaster thinks there is.”

Clapper smiled.

“I like it. As long as he thinks it’s out there he may lay low. Buy us some time to figure out what to do about him.”

“There’s a kid named Darlene Plumb. She was in Lancaster’s office when I got there. He was setting her up to be his next conquest. Maybe you can use her to get something on him.”

“I don’t know. Why would she agree?”

“Cut her tuition. Or promise her a bunch of A’s, for God’s sake. She looked like she needs them.”

“You want Wagner College to countenance bribery and blackmail?”

“How better to prepare students for the real world.”    

I headed to my car confident “Commander” Dave would eventually find a way to scuttle Pierce Lancaster. I was fairly certain that neither Lancaster nor Justine Kaplan knew anything about William Capriati’s current whereabouts. And the information I had gleaned from Dave and the Registrar’s office wasn’t much to go on. All I had accomplished was to stir up some still simmering libidos and scare the daylights out of an amoral, hypocritical academic, of which there was no shortage. To be sure, there was Alice Watts. Maybe it wasn’t a bad day’s work after all. But none of it helped me with my case. The clock was still ticking for Savannah James. I called her mother.

“How is Savannah doing?”

“Thank you for asking. She’s resting. A little too much excitement yesterday, I’m afraid. She wanted to see the sights. I couldn’t say no. Who knows if, well, you understand. And we have more tests tomorrow. Have you made any progress?”

I told her what I’d found out, which didn’t take long.

“He didn’t leave much of a trace,” I said, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. I don’t think I succeeded. 

“Just a woman with some good memories,” she said with a rueful chuckle. “That was apparently his style. I should know.”

“I’m not sure you are getting your money’s worth, Ellen.”

“I don’t want you to stop. What is your next step?”

“I’ll check Capriati’s old neighborhood. See if anyone remembers his family’s business. They may have moved to New Jersey. I have his college yearbook. I might be able to track down some of his friends. I have a friend in the Police Department doing some checking for me and there may be some websites and databases I can surf that are not mainstream.”

“I appreciate everything you are doing. And Mr. Rhode. Alton. Savannah does too. You made quite an impression on her. She even tried the scones at the Plaza. I think she would like to see you again.”

“Any time.”

CHAPTER 13 – SNAKE HILL

After I pulled out of the Wagner parking lot I headed down Howard Avenue toward Clove Road. I had a friend at the 122
nd
Precinct in New Dorp who might be able to help me with Capriati. There was a light halfway down the hill put there for the sole purpose of annoying drivers. It was yellow and I went through as it turned red. The car behind me didn’t make it but ran the light. The car was red, too. A red Volvo. There was another light at the bottom of the hill. Red apparently being the color of the day, it was. I stopped. So did the Volvo. It gave me the chance to notice that its left headlight was smashed. I remembered the Volvo that skedaddled from the fender bender the night before. Volvos weren’t exactly scarcer than hen’s teeth in the borough, but the supply of red Volvos was probably limited.

When the light changed, I made a right and another right and headed back up Howard Avenue. The Volvo followed. I passed the Wagner campus and continued along Howard Avenue, which runs across the rim of Grymes Hill and is flanked by some of the priciest real estate in the city. I took my time. I knew where I was going but the street was easy to miss amid all the high hedges. When I finally spotted it, I made a sharp right turn and headed down Snake Hill.

It’s not really named Snake Hill, but that’s what everyone calls it. I don’t even know the name of the street. But it spirals precipitously all the way down Grymes Hill to Van Duzer and has more twists and turns than a politician’s story after he’s been caught sending naughty photos to high school cheerleaders. Whatever the street is called, it’s barely wide enough for a single car and is crowded most of its way with houses built into, or hanging over, hillsides. It’s the kind of road that when you made a hairpin turn you looked up at the backs of houses you’d just passed. The houses were expensive, but after a big snowstorm they probably had to drop in food by parachute. Where there weren’t houses, there were trees, or, rather, the tops of trees.

I couldn’t tell if the Volvo had also made the turn down the hill. It might be 50 yards back and shielded by the turns in the road. If it was actually following me, whoever was driving would speed up to make sure he didn’t lose me. I needed some distance, so I floored the Malibu. In a manner of speaking. I didn’t want to end up in the trees or roll down the hill. Or be obliterated by a car coming in the other direction. Despite its narrowness, the road was two-way. If it hadn’t been, anyone coming out the bottom would have to drive about six miles to get back up the top, since there were no other roads nearby that came down. But I knew Snake Hill from my misspent youth and would be surprised if my pursuers – if they were – did. So I got to the bottom as fast as I could alive, with only a couple of close calls.

I pulled out into Van Duzer, made a right, stopped, backed up and waited. And waited. And soon felt like an idiot. I was about to pull away when the Volvo shot out onto Van Duzer in a cloud of gravel and stopped in the middle of the street. Had there been any traffic there would have been a smashup. Or, I should say, another smashup. The Volvo’s side was scraped and dented, and there was shrubbery embedded in its front bumper and what looked like a small Japanese maple was caught in the roof rack. The driver had apparently been too incautious in his haste. I hadn’t heard anything; the hills probably muffled the sound. The damage went nicely with the broken headlight.

The driver couldn’t make a left. Van Duzer was one way against him. I saw another man in the passenger’s seat lean over and look at me. I waved. A car drove by honking madly as it swerved past the Volvo. Both drivers exchanged fingers. Then the Volvo made a right and tore off. I followed. He speeded up. So did I. Soon we passed the car that had honked, almost forcing it off the road. More fingers, this time from all three cars. I don’t usually do that sort of thing, but I was getting into the spirit of things.

Even Van Duzer has some nasty turns, and we were weaving in and out like Formula 1 drivers in Monte Carlo. By the time we got to the Staten Island Expressway, we’d run several lights and scared a passel of pedestrians and bicyclists. The Volvo made a right on the service road and entered the expressway at Clove Road. It was a good move. Beat up as it was, the Volvo was still more than a match for my poor Malibu. I would have lost sight of it sooner except for the maple sticking up from the roof.  I heard sirens. I got off at the Victory Boulevard exit before the cops could spot me. The Volvo was probably in Kansas by now. I needed a new car. Something with fewer dents and more horses.

Had I been tailed for two days? Or longer? Who would tail me? The last people who chased me rode camels. And who tails somebody with a red station wagon? I wondered if it had anything to do with Arman Rahm’s recent interest in me. But I’d never known a Russian mobster to drive a Volvo. And I’m sure “better dead than red” also applied to the new capitalists. Even Rahm’s lowliest soldiers probably drove Mercedes. As far as I knew, there was no such thing as a Swedish mob, at least on Staten Island. So it was probably something else. The Carluccis? Because I roughed up a couple of their thugs? Surely they had better things to do. Maybe the tail was a hangover from an old case. I’d go through my files, if I could find them among the detritus and banana plants in my office. And I’d check out the Volvo’s plate number, memorized during the chase before it went to warp speed while I was still on impulse power.

Clichés aside, it never hurts to bring donuts to a precinct, so I stopped for a dozen and two coffees on the way to the New Dorp Precinct. The 122
nd
fronts Hylan Boulevard, one of Staten Island’s busiest thoroughfares. Parking is at a premium. That is, there is none, at least for the public. So I pulled into the private lot behind the stationhouse and found a spot next to a squad car. There were a couple of non-cop cars nearby and all had some sort of medallion or placard on their dashboards: “Office of the Borough President,” “City Council,” “Board of Education,” and, again, “Coast Guard.” It must be global warming.

Not to be outdone, I reached in my glove compartment and took out an official-looking medallion on which was printed, in raised gold lettering,
“Chaplain. United States Marine Corps. Semper Fidelis.”
Above the words was the familiar Globe and Anchor emblem. Below that, a simple cross. I put it on the dash. It was, of course, fraudulent. The Marines use Navy chaplains. But I doubted anyone would notice. I left the rosary beads I sometimes hang from the mirror in the glove compartment. Overkill.

The 122
nd
Precinct covers the entire midsection of the borough and serves as the headquarters for the NYPD on Staten Island. It is home to the Borough Commander; the Homicide and Major Case Squads; Community Affairs Division; Public Relations Office, and the borough SWAT team. The 27-square-mile patrol area is the largest in New York City. Staten Island’s other two precincts, the 120 on the north shore in St. George and the 123 on the south in Tottenville, file their reports through the 122, which acts as a crime-statistic clearinghouse. Criminal activity has been picking up in recent years, mainly in the 120 and 122, although felony statistics in both precincts would be considered a rounding error in any other borough. Tottenville, the southernmost town in New York State, has the crime rate of a Sisters of the Poor convent; the last murder in the 123 was committed with a blunderbuss.

A sergeant at the front desk picked up a phone and punched in an extension.

“Guy named Rhode is here to see you.” He hung up. “Said I shoulda shot you on sight. You can go up. Second floor. Elevator is over there. Need directions?”

I shook my head and walked to the stairs. At the end of the hallway on the second floor was a door marked “Community Affairs.” I went in. A sturdy middle-aged woman with silver hair looked up from a
People Magazine
.

“Good morning, I would like to have an affair. Is this the right office?”

Betty O’Leary sighed. I was going to have to change my opening line. She was dressed in Talbot’s chic. Red skirt and pale blue blouse. A matching jacket was draped neatly on a hanger on a rack in the corner. She wore a black onyx necklace and matching earrings. The stone on her wedding ring was at least two carats. Betty was a civilian, one of hundreds hired by the city to ostensibly free up more cops for the streets and save some money. Since she was a retired schoolteacher now working on another city pension, I was pretty sure the money-saving part of the rationale was bogus. It was a plum job and not easy to get, but her cousin was a City Councilman. But she was a competent, no-nonsense type of woman and we got along.

“Don’t let him eat them all,” she said, pointing at the box I was holding. “He’s getting big as a house.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll save you a couple,” I said as I walked past her and pushed open a door that said “C. Levine.” Underneath it said, “Lieutenant.”