CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) (16 page)

“Could you check, please?”

She was back in a few minutes, smiling triumphantly, with a cut-up orange and a box.

“Still a bunch left.”

She placed the box on the table next to the bed. I twirled it around. There was no return address. But there was a label:
Wiggins Citrus Groves, Naples, FL (Orange You Glad You Stopped By!)

Betty gave Mrs. Capriati a quarter of the orange and she began sucking on it. Tears started running down her cheeks and mingled with the juice around her mouth.

“Billy,” she said, but not to me.

“Will she be OK?” My voice was a little thick.

“Sure. I’ll watch her eat. She’ll fall asleep soon. You can go.”

As I stepped into the hallway I heard Florence Capriati sobbing.

“My baby Billy.”

CHAPTER 20 – NAUGHTY BITS

I had no proof that the oranges came from Billy Capriati or, if they did, that he was in Florida. If it was him, he might have ordered them over the Internet. But that probably would mean leaving a trail, and he didn’t seem to be the kind to do that. If he was in Florida, I had only about 22 million people to work through, although given his sex and age I could probably wean that down to about a million. Got you cornered, pal. Of course, if he was in Naples, that improved the odds.

It was no use speculating until I got back to the office and worked the computer and phone. I probably should have been more elated, but no one leaves a nursing home skipping the light fantastic. That reminded me. I got out my cell phone and called the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office. I asked for Tim Condon. As was the case with most of the cops I knew, our relationship had cooled since I went private. But it wasn’t personal with Tim and he always took my calls. I asked him if his office had a section that handled nursing homes.

“White Collar Crime Unit handles elder abuse. I think they do homes, too. Why? You find your car keys in the freezer?”

I told him what I saw.

“That’s Ocean County. They have their own prosecutor’s office.”

“I know. But maybe somebody in your shop knows somebody in that one and can make a call. Might just be some health violations but I got some bad vibes. I wasn’t there long and still spotted enough to make me uneasy. Can’t imagine what an expert might find.” I also didn’t like Patchett handling Flo’s cash envelopes, but didn’t mention that. “If they are stingy on upkeep maybe somebody’s skimming Medicare money.”

“I’m shocked, I tell you. Shocked.”

“Will you talk to someone?”

“Sure. You have a dog in the fight? A relative?’

“No, just back-tracking a missing person. His mother is in the home.”

“Any luck with mom?”

“She thought I was him.”

Condon laughed. But he was the kind of cop who would follow up, especially where kids or old people were concerned. Somebody in Ocean County would look into Shady View. My dime, Patchett. Your ass.

I called Ellen James. I certainly didn’t want to get their hopes up based on a box of oranges, but she had a right to know about Billy’s mother. So did Savannah. Ellen didn’t answer her cell and I left a message. I next called Wiggins Citrus. I was rewarded with a recorded message: the farm was closed from June 30 to November 15, a few days hence. I comforted myself by thinking that I probably wouldn’t get much information from the citrus grove anyway. If Capriati sent the oranges and was true to form he probably paid cash. There would be no record. I could FAX his old photo, but that would be a million-to-one shot. I could hire someone to computer “age” the photo. In fact, there were probably programs I could use myself. But he might have colored his hair, had plastic surgery or gained 500 pounds.

I’d dealt with a couple of ship-trace outfits in Miami that specialized in Florida searches. But Ellen James said she had already hired some big investigative outfits and that base was probably already covered. I thought about contacting some local PI’s in southwest Florida and farming out the search. But even if I claimed urgency who knew how much effort they would put into it. They might drag it out just to run up the bill. And what if they got lucky? There was a reason Capriati was so hard to find. He might take off. All indications pointed to my undertaking a probably fruitless trip to Florida. Well, maybe not fruitless. I could always buy some oranges.

My cell phone buzzed.

The caller ID said “A. Carmichael.”

I had a bad feeling as I answered.

“Mr. Rhode.” I knew the voice. “This is Angela Carmichael.”

“Yes, Mrs. Carmichael.”

“Porgie is in the hospital. He would like to see you.”

I made it to the Richmond Medical Center in Grant City in under 15 minutes. I didn’t even bother checking for a tail. When I walked into his room, Porgie was sipping out of a straw held in place by a pretty woman with a worried, strained look on her face. At least I assumed it was Porgie. His features were indistinct and his head was swelled up to the size of a soccer ball. His left arm was in a sling cast.

“Mrs. Carmichael?”

Before she could answer a man sprang out of a chair in the far corner and moved toward me.

“Who are you, pal?”

He looked familiar. I had only caught a glimpse of the other man in Porgie’s car on the day of the chase but I was pretty sure this was his dim friend, the one whose name he wouldn’t give up. 

“Back off, Cosmo, it’s OK.” It was Porgie, rasping through grotesquely swollen lips. “I asked to see him.”

One of the remaining bulbs in Cosmo’s almost vacant chandelier blinked on.

“You’re the bastard we were following. The one that chased us.”

“Cosmo!” Porgie started coughing. His wife wiped his mouth. “Angie, maybe you could get a cup of coffee or something. I gotta talk to Mr. Rhode.”

“Sure, honey.” As she walked past me she said, “Can I get you something Mr. Rhode.” Her eyes were glistening and I felt like a heel.

“No, thank you. And I’m sorry about all of this.”

“Not your fault,” she said.

When she was gone Cosmo resumed his rant.   

“It is your fucking fault. None of this woulda happened if you’d let us tail you.”

I had no answer to that so I merely said, “Cosmo, why don’t you go look after Angie. She shouldn’t be alone after what happened.”

I didn’t even know what had happened but that seemed to make sense to Cosmo. He looked concerned and headed out the door. I went over to the bed.

“I’ve known him since we were kids,” Porgie said.

“A friend is a friend. So, tell me what’s going on.”

He pushed a button lying by his good hand and the bed started whirring as it elevated his upper torso. It was hard to tell through the swelling but I think he grimaced. I was worried about his arm in the sling but it worked out OK. When he was comfortable, he said, “I guess I don’t look so good.”

“Be thankful for that, Porgie. Dead men don’t swell. At least not for a while.”

“The Carluccis have a hit out on you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Nando Carlucci asked me to do the job. Said it was a way to redeem myself for fucking up the other thing. Said I owed him.”

“How is it supposed to go down?”

“He said to make it look like an accident.” He tried to laugh but it hurt too much. “The way you drive that wouldn’t of been too hard.”

I don’t know if I had been in Porgie’s shape I could have made that joke. It said something about the man.

“How much did he offer?”

“Two thousand.”

Even given the state of the economy that seemed embarrassingly low. Besides, hits were presumably recession-proof. Porgie must have noticed the look on my face because he quickly added, “He said he’d also fix my car for nothing.”

Terrific. It was obvious I had been away too long. I had to restore my reputation before I became a target for anyone who needed a lube job and a tire rotation.

“Why did you say no, Porgie?”

“I know what I am, Mr. Rhode. I ain’t no altar boy. But I ain’t no killer. I never hurt nobody in my life didn’t try to hurt me first.” Porgie was slurring his words because only one side of his face appeared to be working properly. “Besides, you were decent about everything, all things considered. I was gonna take your advice, about getting a job and going straight.”

“I take it Nando wasn’t happy with your attitude.”

“You got that right. He thought I wanted to negotiate. Offered me more money. When I told him I wouldn’t do it for any amount he went batshit. He and a couple of his goons worked me over pretty good.”

I looked at all the tubes and machines he was tethered to.

“How are you fixed for money, Porgie? You need some.”

“Nah. Angie’s got good insurance from work. It’ll cover most of this.”

“What about the stuff it doesn’t cover?”

“We’re OK. Guys down the harbor are passing the hat.”

“I appreciate you telling me this, Porgie. I won’t forget it.”

“That’s OK, Mr. Rhode. You don’t owe me nothing. I did it for Angie and the kids. I’m outa that life now. But Carlucci ain’t gonna forget it either. He’ll find someone.”

As I walked to my car I pondered my next move. Well, actually, I knew my next move. Dinner. But after that at some point I would have to ask Nando what the hell was going on. After seeing Porgie, I felt that I owed the fat bastard a visit. But that wouldn’t do the Carmichael family any good. Better to let him think I was still in the dark about his interest in me. I wondered if he still wanted to make it look like an accident. I hoped so. That might give me an edge. It sure beat getting shot in the back of the head or being blown up starting my car. A hell of a thought to have while starting your car. But nothing happened. Getting blown to pieces by an I.E.D. back in the United States would have been hard to take. I was running the risk that Nando was now so annoyed at me he’d throw caution to the wind but I had to take that chance. If I could see the “accident” coming, I might be able to grab whoever was setting me up. Porgie was hired help. The next guy might be a font of information. I wasn’t worried about getting him to talk. I misplaced my copy of the Geneva Convention somewhere in Sandland.

I was getting hungry. Actually, that’s a misnomer. When one is perpetually hungry, you don’t have to get there. I stopped by Pal Joey’s, my neighborhood pizza parlor, to order a pie to go. It was apparently going to be a race between the Carluccis and cholesterol. Given my recent diet, my money was on the latter.

“Cut it in nine pieces,” I told the counterman. “I’m really hungry tonight.”

I was opening the pizza when Ellen James called me back. I asked after Savannah.

“She’s in the hospital.” Before I could say something, she added, “Her chemo knocked her out this time and they have to run some more tests anyway, so they want to keep her a couple of days. These setbacks aren’t unusual.”

I told her what I had found out. I also told her what our options were.

“Alton, you’ve accomplished more in a few days than the high-powered firms I hired have in months. I want you to follow up, not some people in Florida I don’t know.”

“He may not even be in Florida. It may be a dead end.”

“I have a feeling it’s not. But I don’t know if I should tell Savannah about Billy’s mother. She’s too fragile right now.”

“The old lady won’t be around forever, Ellen.”

“Neither might my daughter,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “And from what you say the poor woman wouldn’t know what was going on.”

“I’m sorry. It’s your call. But she could be another DNA match.”

“Would they allow us to get marrow from a woman who can’t give her consent?”

“They might allow a test.”

“It would probably take a court order. The whole process might take too long. I can work on that but I want you to go to Naples. If it’s a question of money, I can give you a lot more.”

“I haven’t even dented your retainer. And you know it’s not about money.”

“Now it’s my turn to apologize. I’m sorry.” Her voice softened. “Alton, do you have plans for dinner tonight? I feel terrible saying this, but I have a free night in Manhattan and I want to enjoy it. Will you join me? I promise not to bombard you with too many questions about the case. I just feel like spending some time with an adult who is not wearing a white coat. Savannah won’t mind a night alone. She knows I need an occasional break. We’re used to this. Please. It will be my treat.”

“There you go, talking money again. I’ll come in if you let me buy dinner. Deal?”

We agreed to meet at Bemelman’s Bar at the Carlyle at 8:30 P.M. I put the pizza in the fridge and went upstairs to shower and change. One doesn’t go to the Carlyle to meet a beautiful blond in one’s pizza-eating clothes. I put on a blue Brooks Brothers pinstripe suit, white Charles Tyrwhitt shirt and burgundy Ferragamo tie.

Living on the North Shore of Staten Island, I had three choices if I wanted to drive into the city: Through New Jersey using the Goethals or Bayonne bridges or over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge through Brooklyn. The wrong choice could add anywhere from an hour to an Ice Age to the trip, depending on traffic. I left it up to Gladys, just to have someone to blame. She went Goethals to New Jersey Turnpike to Lincoln Tunnel and I made it to the Carlyle in just over an hour. You just never know.

Smaller and more intimate, Bemelmans is not as well-known as its sister Café Carlyle, where Bobby Short charmed a generation of audiences. Bobby was dead and I still regretted never hearing his interpretations of Cole Porter, George Gershwin and Duke Ellington. But with dark brown leather banquettes, black glass table tops, black granite bar and gold-leaf ceiling, Bemelmans is a perfect Manhattan bar. Its famous murals, depicting scenes from Central park, were painted by Ludwig Bemelmans, better known as the creator of the Madeline children’s books. In return the Carlyle let the Bemelmans family live for free for almost two years.