CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) (17 page)

Ellen James was talking to the bartender, who was laughing. She occasionally took a sip from a martini. The room was full and there were several good-looking women in it, but I caught men glancing at her. It was not hard to see why. She had looked beautiful in my office. Now she looked regal. She was wearing a backless black satin pleated sheath dress, accented with emerald-cut diamond earrings and a double strand of white pearls. A white silk wrap was folded over the back of her chair.

There was an empty seat next to her, which surprised me until I saw her silver clutch on it. When I walked up to her she offered her hand and then leaned in and gave me a peck on the cheek.

“My alibi is here, Frank” she said.

I glanced at the bartender, whose name tag said “Frank.” He looked embarrassed.

“At first Frank thought I was a hooker,” she said. “I told him I was waiting for my date, a famous detective. He let me save the seat but I don’t think he believed me.”

I turned to Frank.

“I’ve never seen this broad before in my life. Do you know how much she charges?”

They both laughed and Frank said, “I actually thought she was Charlize Theron. You can’t be much of a sleuth if it took you this long to find her. I’ve had to fight off half the guys in the joint. And some of them are here with their wives. What will you have?”

I ordered a Beefeater martini and sat down.

“Famous detective?”

“I’ve been drinking.”

We chatted about everything, and nothing. I told her about the murals.

“They are charming,” she said. “I’m glad it wasn’t Salvatore Dali.”

When her second drink came she recited:

I like to have a martini;

I can take one or two at the most.

I finished the ditty for her.

Three and I’m under the table;

Four and I’m under the host.

Very good,” she said. “You know your Dorothy Parker.”

“I read a lot of cocktail napkins. Occupational hazard.”

She looked at me.

“Speaking of occupational hazards. Tell me the truth. Are you in danger? From those people you mentioned.”

“It’s just a distraction.” Nando would undoubtedly take offense at that. “My primary concern is Savannah.”

“ I don’t want anything to happen to you.” She put her hand on my arm and I felt a jolt in my solar plexus. “You’ve done more for us than anyone. I want you to stay on this, but only if you feel safe.”

I thought about her daughter in the hospital and the ravages of chemotherapy.

“Wild horses, little lady.”

She looked at me. I’d been hoping – and dreading – that look.

“Alton, would you like to skip dinner?”

I almost said something stupid. But I didn’t.

“Yes.”

Without a word she stood up. I followed her to the elevator. She had taken a suite near the top floor facing Central Park.

“Why don’t you fix us a drink,” she said.

There was a sideboard with all the fixings. I made two martinis and tried not to think of Dorothy Parker although I was pretty sure where this was going. We took our drinks to the window and stood looking down at the park, our shoulders touching. I turned toward her. She put her hand behind my neck and pulled me into her. We kissed. It lingered. Her tongue darted into my mouth and she pressed into me. I could feel the hard points of her breasts. When we came up for air, I said, “Ellen, do you think this is a good idea?”

My voice was hoarse. She took my hand and brought it up to her breast.

“Why, do you have a better one?”

I sure as hell didn’t.

Making love to an elegant, intelligent woman for the first time has always presented a problem for me. There is a fine line between a natural male urgency and the desire to draw things out, to savor the experience. To basically not act like the randy teen-ager that lurks in all of us just below the surface. With so many delights to choose from, I usually don’t know where to start. I shouldn’t have worried. Urgency was at the top of Ellen’s list, too. Her need was feral. We barely made it to the bed, dropping clothes in our wake. Once there, I tried to slow things down but she was having none of it.

“No,” she gasped. “Don’t bother. I’m ready. Please!”

Her hands, insistent and practiced, guided me. She stared straight into my eyes for a moment, and then came fast and loud, proving once again that elegance and sexual release are mutually exclusive, as they should be. Afterwards, as we lay there trying to control our breath, she giggled as she pulled off the rest of her clothes. So did I, although without the giggles. I put my hand on her stomach below her belly button. I could feel the occasional post-orgasmic twitch. Her legs still trembled.

“I’m sorry,” she said as I leaned over her. “I guess I really needed that. But it couldn’t have been very good for you.”

“I hope you didn’t think I faked it.”

“Of course not,” she said, laughing. “But, good Lord, what must you think of me?”

“I just hope the room is soundproof.”

She turned crimson. I kissed her nearest nipple, which was still hard.

“I think you are wonderful,” I said. “I just wish I’d had more time to explore your naughty bits.”

She put her hands behind her head and stretched her body. I took in the view. Her breasts were small; she was a model, after all. But they were firm and well-defined. Her waist and hips were nicely proportioned. She must have worked hard to stay in such wonderful shape after having a child. But it was almost 14 years ago. I looked down. She was mostly shaved, but it was obvious she was a natural blond. Her legs ran on forever. Like her belly, they were toned.

“Do you like what you see?”

“What’s not to like?” My voice was hoarse again.

She laughed, closed her eyes and took my hand.

“Start there. Then take your time. And then I think I owe your naughty bits some attention. We have all night.”

CHAPTER 21 – TRANSFUSION

When I awoke I looked over to Ellen’s side of the bed. Or the side on which she had eventually wound up. We had covered it all at one point or another and even managed to almost fall off entirely. There was only an indentation in her pillow. In the movies the lover always looks surprised to find the bed empty. I’m always surprised when I wake up to find someone else lying next to me, so my reaction was muted.  Besides, I heard the shower running. There was a knock on the suite’s front door.

“Room service.”

I threw on a shirt and trousers and went out into the living area, gun in hand, shutting the bedroom door behind me. After I looked through the peephole, I put the gun in my waistband, covering it with my shirt. I didn’t think the Carluccis would go through the trouble of dressing a hit man in a hotel uniform. Or actually sending up a large tray of food. They had already proven how cheap they were with their $2,000 hit offer to Porgie.

Besides, I was so hungry I probably would have eaten an Uzi. I opened the door and the man wheeled in his cart. Without asking he went to a small table by the window, began lifting the covers off platters and set the table. Coffee, orange juice, Eggs Benedict and various French pastries. Perhaps it was a murder attempt after all. I tipped him and he left just as Ellen emerged from the bedroom, wiping her hair and wearing one of those fluffy white robes you get in upscale hotels. I could tell she had nothing on under the robe but I headed for the Eggs Benedict. I might need my strength.

“Oh, good,” she said. “Perfect timing. I hope you like Eggs Benedict.”

“I could eat a horse.”

“I bet you could, you poor man,” she said. “I made you miss your dinner. I hope you weren’t too disappointed.”

She leaned across to kiss me and her robe opened. The Eggs Benedict lost their place in line. She saw my gaze and closed the robe.

“No. I’m starving, too.” She laughed. “Besides, I have to go to the hospital. They’re going to discharge Savannah. I just called.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Ellen hesitated, looking embarrassed.

“That might not be a great idea, Alton. She knows I’m coming straight from here. If you’re with me she might put two and two together. She’s at that age. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t believe I have sex.”

“Then you’d better straighten out the bedroom. It looks like a tsunami hit it.”

She laughed so hard some eggs dripped from her mouth.

“I have an idea. You clean up here while I go. Can you kill a couple of hours? I’ll take her shopping. That will cheer her up. Then we can all meet for lunch as if you just came into the city. I know she wants to see you. And we can tell her what you found out.”

We decided on Isabella’s at 1 P.M., which is just down the street from the Museum of Natural History on the West Side. Hopefully the Eggs Benedict would only be a pleasant memory by then.

After Ellen left I called the front desk for a razor and toothbrush. I gave the bellhop my suit and other clothes, telling him that I needed everything cleaned and pressed within the hour. He didn’t think that was possible until I gave him a twenty. I was mildly disappointed when he left without commenting on the fluffy white robe I was wearing. I had just finished shaving, showering and straightening out the bedroom when he came back with my clothes. Savannah was a sharp cookie, so I had him take the incriminating remains of the breakfast with him.

***

I took a cab through Central Park and killed a couple of hours looking at dinosaurs in the museum before walking to Isabella’s, a trendy restaurant on Columbus Avenue that is a favorite with the lunch crowd because there are usually some celebrities in attendance. The food is better than good and its bartenders make a terrific Bloody Mary, one of which I was sipping as I waited for the James girls. The celebrity pickings were slim. I did spot a perfectly coiffed silver-haired doctor who was a regular on one of the evening news shows. He usually had a segment devoted to the latest medical study or Surgeon General’s report warning everyone that nothing they ate was good for them. He was sitting two tables over with two gorgeous women who were hanging on his every word. The women were eating salads. He was downing a bacon cheeseburger with fries. If I walked over and shot him I was confident that no jury in the world would convict me.

I turned to my menu. Looking at tyrannosaurs had whetted my appetite. By the time the James girls walked in carrying shopping bags from Saks and The Gap I had narrowed down my lunch choices to either the
Hay and Straw Linguini With Chicken, Mushrooms and Sundried Tomatoes
or the cheeseburger, which also had a fancy description that couldn’t disguise the fact that it was just a cheeseburger, albeit Jurassic  size. Neither would go particularly well with my tie should, as was likely, I dripped on it. When I rose up to hold the chairs for Savannah and her mother I shot a glance at the TV doctor, who was having altogether too much fun with his burger and women companions.

I was not quite sure how Ellen would greet me in front of her child. Jumping each other’s bones in the middle of Isabella’s, while it would have given me great satisfaction with the doctor watching, was probably out of the question. The tables were too close together in any event. She settled for a warm handshake. Considering where our respective hands had been most of the previous evening I knew we both felt ridiculous. I also shook Savannah’s hand. All very formal.

The waiter took our drink order: Bloody Marys for the adults, a Coke for Savannah. When he returned with our drinks he asked if we’d like to hear the specials. We said sure, because it’s polite when someone has taken the trouble to memorize them. I even listen when they read the items from a pad. But I rarely order specials, since I suspect that many of them consist of things left over from the previous day covered with a dramatic-sounding sauce. That’s not a knock on Isabella’s. I was fairly certain we could trust its kitchen not to pull a fast one. But it really didn’t matter. Discretion being the better part of valor, I had already decided on the chicken dish, since eating Eggs Benedict and cheeseburgers three hours apart would probably result in the TV doctor giving me CPR.

While the waiter went to get our drinks I took the time to study Savannah. She was wearing a lot of makeup but I could tell that she looked healthier under it. Her skin color was better. I told her as much.

“She had a transfusion,” Ellen said. “Always perks her up a bit.”

When the waiter returned with our drinks both mother and daughter ordered cheeseburgers, medium rare.

“You’ll probably have to help us out with them,” Ellen said, looking at me.

Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good. With all the bases covered, I ordered my healthful chicken dish with just the right amount of enthusiasm.

“Excellent choice, sir. It’s my favorite.”

Waiters often say that, especially when you order something that sounds so elegant. I doubted if he’d ever had the “hay and straw linguini,” whatever the hell it was. Probably not something the chef would whip up for the staff. Just once I would like a waiter to take my order and say, “Are you nuts? How can you eat that crap?”

As we chatted I caught several people looking at Savannah. I realized that in her own way she was as stunning as her mother and, perhaps because of her waiflike quality, more exotic. She had an ethereal beauty, with fine delicate features and a figure, that while thin, was blossoming. From a distance she would be seen as childlike. Close up, something else.

Our meals came. The chef had knocked the linguini out of the park. I passed some around. They loved it. I’d have to tell the waiter to try it sometime. Ellen tried to give me half her burger but I manfully negotiated it down to a quarter. There was an easy familiarity about our conversation and our entire interplay with each other. I caught Savannah looking at us and smiling. It was a sly, knowing smile and not one I would associate with a child. It even made her look older. Perhaps I was not acting as normally as I thought. It’s hard to sit quietly with a woman and her child only a few hours removed from a hotel room that you and the mother had virtually demolished in passion.  

Dessert was out of the question, but we ordered some strawberry shortcake anyway. It was good to see Savannah dig in. The transfusion had apparently done wonders. When we finished, Ellen said, “Mr. Rhode has some news. He may have a lead on your father.” She hesitated. “And he found your grandmother. Your father’s mother.”

Savannah’s face lit up.

“Can I see her?”

I looked at Ellen.

“If you want,” she said. “But she is very sick and may not understand much. We can talk about it later. But it’s more important that we find your dad. Mr. Rhode is going to Florida to look for him.”

After lunch I headed back to Staten Island. I had several of the yearbook and student newspaper photos clips of Capriati enlarged at a Kinko’s, which I found out was now called FedEx Office. In addition to printed copies, I had images downloaded to a flash drive. When I got to my office I tried my hand at “ageing” Capriati, using a Photoshop application on my computer. The results were less than optimal. If Capriati looked like Abraham Lincoln I had a good chance of spotting him.

I called Cormac Levine. He said he’d have one of the precinct techies try his hand with the photo.

“How fast do you need it?”

“I’m heading to Florida tomorrow. I’ve got a lead on him.”

“Tell me.” I did. When I finished, he said, “Oranges. Jesus. Well, while you’re down there send me a case. Irene loves them. Fax me the photos.”

“I’ll email them to you, as well. It might be easier for your guy to work with.”

“Jesus, more with the emails.”

I booked an 11 AM flight on Continental out of Newark for the next day. Then I spent a couple of hours paying bills and cleaning up some neglected paperwork. Mac hadn’t called back. I went home to pack. No one followed me. Perhaps Nando hadn’t lined up more hitters. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe Harvard would beat Alabama.

I was eating warmed up pizza and drinking a Pinot Noir that did it justice when Cormac called.

“I got a bunch of copies for you.”

“A bunch?”

“Yeah, my techie got carried away. We got clean-shaven, various beards and moustaches, the whole kit and caboodle.”

“You must really want those oranges.”

“Just don’t forget. Can you pick these up?”

“Be easier if you FAXed them to my office. I’ll grab them up before I take off.”

I didn’t want Mac struggling with emails that might wind up in Mongolia, and my good FAX machine and printer were in my office.

“Anything else I can do for you. Maybe wash your car?”

“I’ll send some grapefruit, too. By the way, does Capriati look like Abe Lincoln?”

“Just give me the fuckin’ FAX number, will ya. I’m busy.”