CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) (4 page)

Wagner was on Grymes Hill, not far from my office.

“Maybe. College alumni associations are better than the C.I.A. at keeping track of people. Is there anything else I should know?”

“Only that you must locate him quickly. I can’t emphasize that enough, Mr. Rhode.”

“How quickly?”

Ellen James hesitated and looked at her daughter.

“Before,” Savannah said.

I turned to her.

“Before what, honey?”

“Before I die.” 

CHAPTER 4 – LAST HOPE

As a conversation stopper, it was hard to beat. Savannah finally broke the uncomfortable silence.

“Mom, can I go watch the man working on the door? I think it’s neat how he does the letters.” Then she turned to me. “She finds it easier to talk about it when I’m not around.”

I looked at her closely and realized she was older than I’d thought. She could have been 14, maybe 15.

“Sure, sweetheart, if it’s OK with Mr. Rhode.”

Thank God.

“Of course it is. She can make sure he spells everything right.”

The girl, clutching my card, got up and walked out the door, shutting it behind her.

“I’m sorry about that, Mr. Rhode. Sometimes Savannah can be too direct. We don’t keep secrets from each other, but she should be more tactful in front of strangers.”

A pigeon fluttered to a landing outside my window. It was an older building, which meant it had ledges. And windows that opened. That made it easier to clean off the pigeon crap. Some of it had been there since Prohibition, and it took a chisel. The pigeon looked into my office and flew away, looking for a more upscale ledge.

“What did she mean, Ms. James?”

“Savannah has leukemia, a particularly virulent form. It was in remission but it’s come back. None of the drugs work anymore. She’s getting weaker and there’s the threat of infection and other complications. She needs her father.”

That explained the girl’s short hair. Chemo? A wig? Great. I’d scared a dying child. There was a pet shop down the block. Maybe I could borrow a puppy to kick.

“I’m sorry.” I cleared my throat. “I can understand why Savannah wants to find him. And maybe he would like to know, even help. But it’s just as likely that after so many years, he might not care. How would she take that?”

Ellen James leaned forward and placed her hands on her knees. The outline of her breasts became more prominent. I tried not to notice. Really.

“You don’t understand. The doctors at Sloane say that her only chance is a bone marrow transplant. She has no siblings.” She took in a lot of air. “And I’m not a match. I don’t have any living relatives we could type. It’s possible they can find someone – unrelated – genetically similar, but it’s a long shot. Sometimes it takes months and there are often complications with a stranger’s marrow. Immune responses are never fully suppressed.” Her voice took on a determined intensity. She sat back suddenly and her eyes radiated a fervor that was almost palpable. “My daughter has suffered enough! She’s had so many drugs, so many shunts and transfusions. It’s why she keeps her arms covered most of the time. She’s embarrassed at how they look. She’s getting to that age where those things are important to a girl. Look how she reacted to getting a little paint on her dress? No, Billy is her best hope. Maybe her last hope. I must find him. His marrow can save Savannah. I won’t lose her. I can’t. She’s all I have in this world.”

Tears formed in her eyes and began rolling down her cheeks. She reached into her pocketbook for a tissue and began dabbing them. She stood and walked to the window. Her shoulders were shaking. I got up and stood next to her and stared at New York Harbor. It was alive with fishing boats, small freighters, water taxis, cabin cruisers, skiffs, private yachts, sailboats, cruise ships, and NYPD and Coast Guard patrol boats. Because of the paint fumes, I had cracked my windows and I heard a distinctive horn blast as a yellow Staten Island ferry edged out of its slip at the St. George terminal.

“I’m sorry,” she said, blowing her nose. “You’d think it would get easier.” She took a deep breath. “I’m OK now. That’s certainly a huge ship. Almost seems too wide for that channel. We never got them that big in Savannah. Do the tugs ever miscalculate?”

The
Yokahama Maru
and the tugs were making the turn into the Kill, their captains earning every cent they made. I resisted the impulse to get my spyglasses.

“We have the best tug crews in the world,” I said, indulging in a little hometown pride. “They haven’t missed yet, which is why the Statue of Liberty is still there.” 

She smiled. We sat. The tears hadn’t done much damage and I realized she wore little makeup. Her face softened and I got a glimpse of what she must have looked like as a young girl. Even more beautiful, and that was saying a lot.

“Do you have children, Mr. Rhode?”

I shook my head. My throat was a little constricted.

“Well, when you do, you will know how I feel.”

“I’m pretty sure I know that anyway.”

She looked at me appraisingly.

“Of course you do. Forgive me. That was unkind. We get into our own little world, don’t we? No one else is important. It’s selfish, I know.”

“Sometimes you have to be. Tell me about Capriati. Start at the beginning.”

She took another deep breath and then started speaking. With a voice like hers, she could have recited the Congressional Record and I would have listened all day. If I could have whipped up a julep, I would have. There was a bottle of Woodford Reserve Sweet Mash in the binocular drawer but I was a tad short of mint. 

***

Ellen James said she was born in Savannah and like many Georgia belles headed to Atlanta right after graduating high school. She met Capriati when opening an account at the bank where he worked in Buckhead.

“I had just started my first job, for a company that built shopping malls throughout the South. I was so proud, having my own bank account and living independently, if you can call rooming with three other girls in a garden apartment complex independent living. And this vice president of a bank took an interest in me.”

“Bank vice presidents are usually one step up from teller,” I said.

“I know that now.”

Capriati swept her off her feet. There was even talk of marriage, sometime.

“Although, to be fair to Billy,” she added, “I did most of the talking.”

They’d been together for several months when one Friday he failed to pick her up.

“We were going out for a movie. He loved movies. After a couple of hours I called him. Left a message on his machine. He didn’t call back. When I couldn’t reach him the next day, I went over to his apartment. His car was still in its assigned slot. I rang his buzzer but there was no answer. Neighbors didn’t know anything. I was worried. Perhaps he had been in an accident. My girlfriends said I was overreacting. But if I was really concerned, I could contact the police. I did, and they told me, politely of course, that they had better things to do then look for a boyfriend missing one day. They suggested I call back if he didn’t show up for work.”

“And he didn’t.”

“No. I called the bank first thing Monday. Billy hadn’t come in. They didn’t seem worried. Probably figured he had a tough weekend. I left a message. But he didn’t call and I went over to the bank on my lunch hour. When I asked for him, their whole demeanor had changed. I was taken into the manager’s office. There were a lot of detectives in the room.”

“The bank reported him missing?”

“Yes, and a lot of money as well. Money Billy controlled. Wired out under his authorization. They asked me a million questions. What was my relationship? I must know where he was. That sort of thing. I told them everything I knew, but they still treated me like a common criminal, threatened to arrest me for withholding information. That’s when I realized I hardly knew anything about Billy. Thank God one of my roommates had a father who was an attorney. I couldn’t afford one. He came to the bank and they finally left me alone.”

“How much money was involved?”

“The papers said $90,000, but it must have been much more for them to get so worked up over it.”

“Not necessarily. Banks can steal billions and pay a fine. But steal a few grand from them they sic Eliot Ness and the Hound of the Baskervilles on you. Did they get him?”

“I don’t think so. There was nothing in the papers. He just disappeared. I even went back to the police and F.B.I. to inquire. By that time they knew I was just a fool. A few of them even took pity on me and told me they really had no leads. If he contacted me, would I, well, you know. But he never did.”

I sat back and looked at her. She read my expression.

“I know. If the F.B.I. couldn’t find him 14 years ago, when they had his address and everything, what chance do I have now?”

“They knew he was born here?”

“I guess so. I probably told them, if they didn’t know already.”

“He might have lied to you.”

“I thought of that. But he seemed to know Staten Island. He’d talk about growing up here. He knew I didn’t know anything about this place. Why would he make things up?”

“Listen, Ms. James.”

“Please, call me Ellen.”

“Ellen, I didn’t want to say this in front of your daughter, but Capriati could be dead.”

She sighed and gave a small wave with her hand.

“Yes. I know that’s a possibility. I’ve put it out of my mind for Savannah’s sake. But Billy would still be young and he was in great shape.”

“Young, healthy and a crook, with a lot of bad habits and perhaps nasty friends. He might be in a landfill.”

“Or coaching little league in some suburb and a member of the Chamber of Commerce,” she retorted. “Maybe he found Jesus.”

“Have you?”

“No, I found Nordstrom’s,” she said, smiling her wonderful smile.

“Have you gone back to the F.B.I. recently?”

“Yes, and they said the statute of limitations on Billy’s crime has run out. I told them about Savannah. They are sympathetic, of course. But what Billy did is pretty small potatoes in the current environment. He wasn’t John Dillinger. No guns, no leaping over the counter, just a keystroke. And apparently he never did it again, at least that they know about. They said they have more on their plate now, with everything that’s going on in the world, terrorists and all the billion-dollar Ponzis. They’d send out a memo, or something. But they can’t spare the resources to do much more.”

“What about the Atlanta police?”

“They can’t even find the files, it’s so long ago.”

“What was the name of the bank?”

“I think it was called Buckhead Savings & Loan. It was bought out years ago by a big national bank. Naturally, they never heard of a William Capriati.”

“What about the media. They are always looking for a story like this, especially if it involves a child.”

There was a knock.

“Excuse me.”

I went to the door and opened it. A carpet guy was standing there with a clipboard.

“We’re done. Just need your signature.”

I signed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw stencilman and Savannah in animated conversation. I closed the door and went back to my desk.

“Sorry.”

“I understand,” Ellen James said. “We know the feeling. We’ve been living out of suitcases for a while. As for the media, I’ve tried. Again, a lot of sympathy, but without a photo of Billy, they don’t think it has much sex appeal. I think I might be able to get a local station to do something, but who knows if he’s even still around here. And getting a national story? One reporter told me that transplant stories are a dime a dozen.” She smiled. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very diplomatic with him.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him he was an insensitive prick.”

CHAPTER 5 – HAIR TODAY, GONE TOMORROW

“Mother!”

We hadn’t heard Savannah come in. The stencil guy was just behind her.

I looked at Ellen James and we both laughed.

The stencil guy said, “We may have a problem.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“I don’t think so,” Savannah said.

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

Savannah followed the two of us out.

“What now?”

He pointed at the door:
ALTEN RHODES/INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES.
Then he handed me my business card.

“Kid noticed it. On your card it’s
Alton
. But my work order says
Alten
.” He whipped out a yellow sheet of paper and pointed a grimy finger at
Alten
. “See, right there.”

“I’m sure I spelled my name correctly over the phone,” I said. “I’ve been using it for quite some time. Your office must have made a mistake. You’ll have to do it over. It’s only one letter.”

“Not like Margie to screw up,” he said accusingly. “Now the spacing will be off. The ‘o’ will touch the ‘t’ and the ‘n’.”

“Call your office.” I turned to Savannah. “You OK out here for a few more minutes?”

“No problemo.”

I shut the door to my office and sat.

“Ellen, what happens if Savannah’s father isn’t a match?”

Her face became animated.

“Oh, he’s a match, all right. Not as good as a twin, but as close as you can get.”

“How can you be sure?”

She smiled, not at me, but at a memory. She looked out the window. We sat in silence for a moment.

“I was just 17,” she said, turning back to face me, her voice full of remembered wonder, “and in love with Billy, or thought I was. I’d kept a diary. You know how romantic a young girl can be about that sort of thing.”

“A diary? I don’t understand.”

“We’ve moved around a lot, Savannah and I, but I still had it. I went through it to see if I’d written something that could help me find him.” She opened her purse and pulled out a small white envelope. She reached across and shook something out onto my desk. “I hadn’t, but I found this between some pages. It’s from Billy.” She made that delicate gesture with her hand again. “It sometimes pays to be silly. I had a mitochondrial DNA test run on this. Thank God for progress. They don’t even need roots anymore.”

It was lock of fine brown hair. I suddenly remembered going through my mother’s secretary after she died. It was her favorite piece of furniture, a beautiful walnut Chippendale with lattice-work glass doors, claw feet and a drop-down desk that revealed a myriad of drawers and cubbyholes. In the bottom drawer, under a pile of old photos, birth and baptismal certificates, diplomas, newspaper clippings, grammar school report cards and assorted letters (including a frantic one I wrote from an Adirondack summer camp when I was eight, begging to come home) was a cloth-bound family journal. Pressed between the pages was a lock of my baby hair. 

“I don’t think you are silly,” I said.

“The doctors say Billy is a close match, much better than any stranger’s would be. His bone marrow can save Savannah.”

I put the hair back in the envelope and handed it to her.

“Even if you find him, how do you know he’ll go through with it?”

“It’s not like asking him for a kidney or a piece of his liver. People contribute marrow to help total strangers. There’s some discomfort involved when they harvest it, but it’s not a dangerous procedure. What man wouldn’t try to save his child’s life? Any child’s? Wouldn’t you?”

I realized that I would. And felt pretty good about it.

She leaned forward.

“Billy wasn’t a bad man. A little wild, maybe. That’s what attracted me to him. But down deep he was sweet natured. I’m sure he’ll do the right thing. We – you – just have to find him.”

“I have to level with you,” I said. “Given what you’ve told me, the chances of my finding Savannah’s father quickly are slim. There might be better ways for you to spend your time and money. Perhaps a large Manhattan or national firm with dozens of investigators would be a better bet. I’d be happy to recommend some.”

“I’m not concerned about money, Mr. Rhode. I have plenty of that. When I found out I was pregnant, I went back home to live with my mother. My father was dead. After Savannah was born I went back to work while my mother looked after her. I was a hostess at the Pink House, that’s a famous restaurant off Reynolds Square.”

“I’ve been there,” I said.

“Some movie people came in for dinner. They were filming
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
, the Clint Eastwood film, and one of them offered me a small part. I wound up on the cutting room floor, but one of the other actresses introduced me to her agent. I left Savannah with my mother and flew to New York. I got lucky. I wasn’t much of an actress but I signed with a top modeling agency. It was good timing. I had whatever look was ‘in’ that year. Pretty soon I was making very good money, and have ever since. Perhaps you’ve seen me in
Vogue
, or
Vanity Fair
?”

“No, I’m sorry. But I’m not surprised. You are a very beautiful woman.”

She barely smiled. It was probably the millionth time she’d heard that.

“Thank you. Most of my recent work has been in European magazines. I’ve even had small parts in movies in Italy.”

“Do you live in Europe?’

“After my mother died, I kept her place in Savannah. But I also have a small apartment in London. We spend a lot of time there.”

That explained the modulated accent.

“I’ll be honest with you, too” she said. “I’m not putting all my eggs in one basket. I have hired other investigators. Most of them, at least the ones in big firms, seem to rely on computers and databases. But you know Staten Island. It said in the papers you were born here. If you only work the local angle, what do I have to lose?”

It made sense. She needed hope and I needed a client. Conscience salved, I told her my rates, minus a hefty discount. She could undoubtedly afford me, but who charges full freight for a case where a child’s life may be at stake? Ellen James took out another envelope and passed it across to me.

“Is that enough for you to start?”

It was full of crisp $100 bills.

“More than enough.”

There was another knock and the stencil guy stuck his head in. He looked concerned.

“Little girl should probably sit down. Says she’s not feeling too good.”

Savannah walked in and sat.

“I’m OK. Just a little tired. And I’m thirsty. Can I have that Coke now?”

Luckily I had one left in the fridge.

“I’m afraid I’m a little short of glasses.”

“That’s OK,” she said and started drinking from the can. 

“We’re almost done, darling,” her mother said. Then she looked at me. “Is there anything else you need from us?”

“I don’t suppose you have an old photo of Savannah’s dad.”

“No, I’m sorry. He was kind of funny about that. Never liked to take photos.” She smiled. “There may be yearbook photos available from before we met. I can describe him, or at least what he looked like 14 years ago. He was very handsome. And well built. A little shorter than you, light skinned but Italian looks. Great smile. Light brown hair and brown eyes. I thought he was the cat’s meow when I first met him.”

“I’m proof of that,” Savannah piped up.

“Savannah!”

But we all laughed.

“Mr. Rhode, when can you start?”

“Right away. I expect to get my computers up and running today. But many of the people I have to contact won’t be in until Monday. Where can I reach you?”

“We’re at the Carlyle, off Central Park. You’d better take my cell number, as well.”

I wrote it down on the pad that had the other notes I’d been taking.

“Don’t they have facilities at the hospital for parents?” I saw the look on her face. I could have kicked myself. Savannah’s illness hadn’t quite progressed to that point yet.

“The hotel is more convenient,” she said, quietly. “And I thought Savannah might enjoy some luxury. It’s a nice little vacation for her.”

I handed back her pen and stood when they did.

“Will you allow me to take you both to lunch? Then I can drop you at the ferry.”

“That’s very kind. But we have car service waiting downstairs. Savannah tires easily and she needs a nap. And I promised her that we would have tea at the Plaza afterwards. We do it every time we’re in New York. She’s been looking forward to it.”

“I like those little sandwiches,” Savannah said.

“I’m a sucker for the scones,” I said.

When we left my office, Ellen James let Savannah walk ahead, then turned and put a hand on my arm. Keeping her voice barely above a whisper, she said, “I know you are the one who can find Billy. You will, won’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, without really knowing why. Or how.

The stencil guy held the door for us when I walked them to the elevators. When I got back to my office he was gazing reverently at his handiwork, as if he were El Greco deciding that
The Burial of Count Orgaz
needed more detail.

“I checked with the office,” he said. “Margie remembers that you did say ‘o,’ not ‘e’. Our bad. So the middle initial is on me. Had to redo the whole thing anyway. Looks great now, don’t you think?”

I was now
Alton B. Rhode
. He was so proud of his artistry that I didn’t have the heart.

“It’s a beautiful job,” I said, looking at what was soon to become the most expensive stenciling project in the borough.

“Anything else you need from me? Maybe a business logo or quotation above or below the names. A lot of people do that.”

“How about
Death to the Infidels
?”

“Catchy. Want me to price it out?”

Good Lord.

“Maybe some other time,” I said quickly.

He reached into his bag. I faced another clipboard. I signed with a flourish, even adding my new initial.

I didn’t feel like battling another Friday lunchtime scrum at the Red Lantern. Besides, I was still letting the dust settle after my run-in with the Carlucci thugs. So I grabbed a quick burger at the McDonalds down the street and brought back a large black coffee. McDonalds coffee is far superior to anyone else’s in my opinion, even those that charge three times as much for a fancy name.

After I moved most of the plants to the reception area, I spent the rest of the afternoon emptying boxes and assembling bookcases and furniture I’d purchased from IKEA. The last thing I put together was a computer workstation. I laid out all its components, as well as the plastic bags containing the nuts, bolts, screws, washers, plugs, dowels, castors and rollers that would hopefully turn the piles of laminated wood into something vaguely resembling the picture on the front of the box. The instruction booklet was 36 pages, and was divided into Swedish, German, French, Spanish, English and something that looked like Urdu. There was also a thick schematic folded in on itself like a Hagstrom map. I knelt down and spread out the schematic, which took up half the room. It was obvious I had inadvertently purchased a high-energy particle accelerator. The single Allen wrench included in the supplies did not seem up to the task. I’d gone this route before, so I’d taken the precaution of bringing my tool chest.

It was going to be a slog. My takeout coffee was gone, so I rummaged through some other boxes until I found the12-cup drip coffeemaker with which no respectable private eye office can function. Luckily the box with the Newman’s Own Organic Green Mountain Roast – another gift from Nancy the plant lady – was at the top of another pile. I took the carafe out to the men’s room in the hallway and filled it. I know I was supposed to run plain water through the machine first, but I thought a little dust and plastic shavings might give the caffeine a boost. I brewed all 12 cups.

It was well into evening when I finally finished the workstation. All the cabinets and drawers opened, even the one that slid out on rollers below the level of the desk to hold a computer keyboard so I wouldn’t get carpal tunnel. It did bang my knees, though. I hooked up my computer and attached all the cables and was mildly surprised that the high-speed Internet connection worked perfectly. I was tempted to begin a search for William Capriati on the web, but decided it could wait for the morning. The coffee was eating a hole in my stomach. I needed food and a hot shower.

There was a new guard in the lobby when I signed out, a frail-looking white guy who looked old enough to have been a sentry at Stonehenge. He wanted to chat. I was probably the last person in the building and it was going to be lonely overnight. I was dog tired, but I gave him 15 minutes. I’d been alone on post in much worse places – but alone on post was alone on post. I finally escaped after looking at photos of his seven grandkids. I was glad I didn’t have to lie about how cute they were. I bent my head into the rain and ran to my car. Ten minutes later I pulled into the driveway of the large side-hall Colonial I owned on St. Austins Place in West Brighton. St. Austins is a small street divided by a well-tended island strip. Well-tended because one of the families living on the block is related to the Borough Park Commissioner. The block is heavily canopied by trees, some of the oldest in the borough, and is anchored on one end by a 100-year-old Lutheran church and on the other by a Mormon meeting hall built a few years ago on the site of a home owned by a descendant of Sally Hemmings, reputedly Thomas Jefferson’s slave mistress. Both are beautifully landscaped, as are most of the homes on the block. Just keeping up with the median strip is a challenge.