Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (15 page)

Life has a way
of kicking you in the gut when you least need it. Leaving the cigar in the
ashtray to die a natural death, I went to bed.

*
* *

I was waiting in
Chamberlain's office when he arrived.

"My, aren't
we the early bird." He grinned and threw a foot thick pile of folders on
his desk.

"Didn't
sleep so good last night. How's Kathleen feeling?"

"Better
than she's felt since you were out at the house. Heard Mabel had to leave town.
Her mother died up in Newfoundland."

"Yes, she
left me a good-bye note,” I said, no longer surprised at the speed of the small
town grapevine. "It would have been nice to see her before she left."

Chamberlain
nodded, said nothing.

"Listen,
J.L., hear me out before you say anything. We need to look onto Bowers and
Mabel. Now I'm not saying they're involved, but look at the facts. Bowers was
first at the crime scene; he had opportunity. Mabel has asked a lot of
questions about the case. More than normal. She got close to me and pumped me
for information. Then there's the Bowers and Mabel connection. It begins to add
up, J.L. Maybe Bowers didn't whack Rinaldi and Bilotti, but he could have taken
the money that Rinaldi was carrying from the murder scene and given it to
Mabel. Now she's gone to Newfoundland, or God knows where."

"If one of
my cops...” Chamberlain threw his head back and stared at the ceiling.
"Her Mama better be dead as a hammer!"

"All I'm
saying is check it out."

"Any luck
with the flight instructors?" He asked, changing the subject and rubbing
the back of his neck.

"Carl, the
flight instructor you introduced me to the other night, saw the airplane and
the van. What about the night watchman?"

"He's old,
Jay. His eyesight's bad. His hearing is worse. He remembers the airplane
landing and letting the van out on the ramp, but not much else. He couldn't
even remember the date."

"What about
the people in the van?"

"He said
the driver was alone and didn't get out until the van was on the ramp parked
next to the airplane. He remembered the driver wearing a baseball cap, but
can't tell us anything else. Did Carl get a look at anyone from the van?"

"No. The
van was pulling away from the aircraft as he was taxing in from a night lesson
with a student. He never saw the occupants of the van. He did see the jet which
picked up the Kent collection, and spoke with the copilot."

"Good."
Chamberlain stood up and smiled.

"We can
find out where it went, and who chartered it. It's not going to be easy. Carl
didn't get an 'N' number from the aircraft." Chamberlain looked at me with
a question mark on his face. "The 'N' number is a group of identifying
marks on the tail. The aircraft was a Hansa Jet. There are probably no more
than half a dozen still operating in the United States. It'll take some time,
but I think we'll be able to run it down."

"How much
time?"

"Two days,
three at the most. I may need some help with bureaucratic red tape,
though."

"You let me
know if any agency balks at giving you full cooperation." There was fire
blazing in the back of his eyes. "I'll straighten it out."

"We know
Anastasio shipped the art collection out from Knox County airport. Let's set up
another meet with him, now. I can work on finding the charter in the meantime."

"Good
idea." Chamberlain pushed aside the thick stack of folders. "I'll set
up the phones.”

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

While
Chamberlain set up the equipment to record the conversation with Anastasio, I
thought about what needed to be said. He had lied, which certainly did not
surprise us, about paying a fair price for the Kent collection. Although in his
mind he might believe it due compensation by canceling Ben and Betty Barnes'
grandson's debt. We wanted, somehow, for him to pay for sending Bilotti to Monhegan
Island to intimidate the old couple.

The more I
thought of what had been done to the Barnes' the madder I became. By the time
Chamberlain was ready, I had to force myself to calm down. Nothing would be
accomplished by being angry, it could only impede the investigation. No one was
going to intimidate Anastasio.

"Dial him
up,” J.L. said. "Everything's ready."

Taking a deep
breath, I punched up Anastasio's private number in Chicago.

"Yeah?"
A familiar voice said.

"Jay
Leicester for Gino Anastasio." It was hard to keep my voice calm.

There was a
pause on the line. Clicking noises echoed in the background. Finally the bored
voice asked me to hold for a moment. It gave me time to take another few deep
breaths. Two minutes went by.

"Do you
have news for me?" The whine of Anastasio's voice drilled through the
receiver, reminding me of his cadaver-like facial movements. "Have you
found my money and my art collection?"

Now both the
money and the Kent collection belonged to him. What audacity.

"We need to
have another meeting, Mr. Anastasio. You've kept some things from us. We are
very angry about the way you had Mr. and Mrs. Barnes treated. I thought we
understood each other."

"I know
nothing about mistreating the Barnes'." He paused for a minute. I clinched
a fist so tight the knuckles turned white. "Have you recovered the art
collection?"

"You know
very well the Kent collection was flown out of Rockland aboard a Hanza Jet on
the night of the sixteenth." Pausing, I swallowed hard. "We believe
you whacked your man Bilotti and Nat Rinaldi. What you did with the money, we
don't have any idea, but I'd bet my last nickel you know exactly where the Kent
collection is at this very moment."

"You may be
right, I may very well know exactly the whereabouts of the art collection. It
is necessary we meet again. The day after tomorrow at the airport in Augusta,
Maine. Ten a.m."

Chamberlain
started shaking his head and pointing at the floor.

"How about
the Rockland Airport, Mr. Anastasio?" I said, taking the cue from J.L.
"It would be much better for us."

"Don't be
late, private eye." He hung up. I threw the telephone receiver at its cradle.

"Why
Augusta?" Chamberlain asked out loud, more to himself than me.

Shrugging my
shoulders at the question, I said, "Anastasio's right about one thing,
J.L., we do not want to be late for this meeting."

"Don't
worry,” Chamberlain said with a firmness I appreciated. "We won't be
late."

Exiting the room
where the sophisticated electronic equipment was located, we went back to
Chamberlain's office.

"You want
some coffee?" Chamberlain asked as we sat down.

"No
thanks."

"Detective
Chamberlain,” Sergeant Bowers said over the intercom. "There's a call for
you, line three. It's a business burglary."

Chamberlain
punched the blinking button on the telephone. Listening to the one-sided
conversation, I watched him scribble information on a note pad. "I'll be
there in ten minutes,” he finally said into the receiver. Looking up at me.
"Duty calls. Dope addicts hit one of our local pharmacies. Want to come
along and watch a pro work?"

"If you
don't mind, I'll pass. I need to get in touch with Guy Robbins. We've been
missing each other for a week. He's the attorney friend down in Gulfport who
recommended me for this case. Sandy was with him when she got your call about
the body."

"Yes."
Chamberlain put on his coat and straightened his tie. "I spoke with him on
the phone the night Sandy returned my call. He seemed like a pleasant
sort."

"He's one
of the best, and a close personal friend. We grew up together. He throws a lot
of work my way."

"I
shouldn't be over a couple of hours,” Chamberlain said as we walked out.

Stopping out
front on the sidewalk and looking around at the several police cars parked in
the tiny lot, I said, "Let's meet back here, say around three o'clock? We
can go over this whole thing. Plan some tough questions to ask Anastasio."

"Fine. I'll
meet you then." Chamberlain headed for his car, a stern expression on his
face. He was already pursuing pharmacy burglars.

Back at the
Navigator Inn, Henry invited me for coffee in the restaurant. His sister was
filling in for Mabel until she returned. She had reddish-brown curls, wide-set
eyes, and a few freckles on the bridge of an upturned nose. A carbon copy of
Henry. One would call her face attractive if one ever noticed it, but there was
no particular reason to. She had a look of alertness, of eager interest, a look
that expected the world to contain an exciting secret behind every corner.

"So how's
your murder investigation going?" asked Henry.

"It could
be better. We think we've figured out who did it. Proving it is another matter.
We're making progress, though."

"The Mafia
guy, right?" Henry said with a knowing look, blowing on the hot coffee and
raising his thick eyebrows at me. "The Mafia hit'em both, stole the money
and the art collection." He sat back in his chair, a satisfied grin on his
face.

Sipping the
coffee and looking at Henry's sister, I did not respond. She stared back, a
smile at the corner of her tight, thin-lipped mouth.

"I read a
lot of mystery books. Always figure out who did the crime by the time I'm
halfway through."

"How did
you know about the Mafia guy, Henry?"

He blushed and
rubbed a callused hand behind his head. "Mabel or Sergeant Bowers told me,
I think. Oh, the lights blinking on the phone at the desk. Excuse me."

Right, I
thought, Mabel and Bowers, and they told Henry.

Thanking Henry's
sister and leaving a five-dollar bill on the table, I went up to my room to
call Guy Robbins. His secretary put me right through to him.

"Jay, I'm
glad we finally caught up with each other. How's the investigation going? Any
breakthroughs?"

"We may be
getting close. There are two locals we suspect may be involved with stealing a
half a million in cash from the crime scene. That's how much money Sandy's
brother brought to buy the art collection. One of them is a Police Sergeant.
There could even be a boat captain and his wife involved. As to who did the
killings...we're still working on it."

"What about
the local detective?  Is he involved?"

"Not a
chance. Would bet my life on it."

"You be
absolutely sure, Jay. By the way, Sandy was over in Gulfport day before yesterday.
She bought the Moran collection. We talked about her brother. I inquired as to
who was handling his legal affairs."

"Who is
handling them?"

"I am.
Sandy asked me represent both of them when we finalized the Moran deal."

Picking up a pad
beside the phone, I propped my feet in a chair, and made some notes.
"Isn't that a little strange? One would think they'd have an attorney on
retainer. Especially if they are as wealthy as you say."

"I don't
know, it surprised me, too. Sandy said something about not trusting Nat's
lawyer. I didn't press her."

"Well, good
luck with your new client."

"I've got
to go, Jay. Keep me informed. I have a vested interest now. Also, keep in mind
that the smoke ascends as lightly from the cottage hearth as from the haughty
palace." He hung up.

Sitting on the
side of the bed, holding the receiver, I did not truly know why Guy had wanted
to talk with me. He usually was not given to inane conversation. What did he
mean by that rising smoke expression? Did Guy know something that he was not
telling me?

The phone
started making a beeping noise. Replacing it in its cradle, I stood up and
walked out on the balcony. The soft murmur cars made passing along the highway
created a humming noise, remote yet intimate, like the rushing of blood through
my own veins. That quote about the smoke rising was familiar, but from where?
What could Guy have meant by it?

Sitting down in
the chair, I glanced over at the next balcony, remembering Sandy curled up,
almost invisible, in the corner. No one was there.

Watching two sea
gulls fight for position on top of a piling at the ferry dock, I mentally
listed the people who could possibly be involved with these two murders. J.L.
Chamberlain was not on my list. Barstein and his wife, Annie, Sergeant Bowers
and Mabel, they could, together or separately, have stolen the money. The ferry
captain and his wife were certainly on the scene. Sergeant Bowers was the first
officer to arrive. Mabel had an inordinate interest in the developments of the
case. So did Henry. There was the woman who supposedly discovered Bilotti's
body, what was her name...Wilma? J.L. checked her out and found nothing. Then
there's Anastasio and his connection. Though, as J.L. pointed out, why draw the
heat for so little gain? There's also my client. If she were involved, why hire
an investigator?

Could this case
be so simple as a local mugger who stumbled into something bigger than he could
have imagined? Is the Kent art collection sitting somewhere never to be
discovered again? I went back inside.

*
* *

Down in the
motel restaurant, I had lunch with Henry and his sister. We were the only ones
there. This time Henry did not want to play sleuth. He wanted to know about the
South. It seems that the man had never been out of the state of Maine.
Explaining that our progress into the twenty-first century is in fact edging us
forward toward becoming an industrialized section of the nation, I said not
everyone lives on a farm, plows a mule, and grows cotton. Though it surprised
him when I said that was exactly where I longed to be. Henry's image of the
South remained an enigma to him. Leaving the two of them to ponder the
situation, I left to meet with Chamberlain.

Sergeant Bowers
flagged me down as I passed his desk. He asked if I had heard from Mabel. I
said that I had not, and wondered to myself if he had."

"Detective
Chamberlain's in the back filling out the report on the Pigott Pharmacy
burglary." Bowers pointed toward J.L.'s office. "He's expecting you.
You know the way."

"Hello,
J.L. They leave any clues?" Plopping down in one of the spartan chairs, I
propped my feet up on Chamberlain's desk.

He looked up at me
and didn't smile. "They went through the roof." He held up a
hand-operated auger. A maul and a handsaw lay on the desk. "First time
I've seen this modus operandi. They usually break out a window, or jimmy a
door. But through the roof..."

"So what
did they get?"

"Not much.
A few Empirin compound #3 tablets, a hundred Seconals. They missed the good
stuff, thank goodness."

"You able
to lift any prints off these?" I pointed at the tools.

"They're
clean except for a few smudges. We found a red bandanna, but not much
else."

"Alright."
Taking my feet off Chamberlain's desk and changing position in the chair, I
said, "We've got the rest of the afternoon and all of tomorrow to figure
out how to confront the 'Chairman of the Board.' Any ideas?"

Chamberlain felt
the tip of the wood auger with his thumb, and laid it back on the table.
"We know he's not going to let me aboard the airplane. You're going to
have to go it alone, again."

"Don't mind
being alone with the man. Nothing's going to happen to me. We need to confront
him with good, clean, hard facts. See how he reacts. Let's go prepared."

Chamberlain rose
from his chair and took two steps to the window, his leather shoes squeaking on
the concrete floor. Turning, he looked at me, scratched his chin, and pondered
the situation, but said nothing.

"I agree
with what you said earlier. It doesn't make sense for him to draw all this heat
and risk the amount of exposure that could result over an investigation for so
small a problem. He certainly would not want the police digging into why one of
his moles was executed."

"Who can
figure the Mafia mind?" Chamberlain gathered up the burglary tools and put
them in a box on his desk. "Sometimes they do the stupidest things for a
warped sense of honor. They will destroy everything they've built for the Mafia
code of ethics."

"He's going
to have to explain why he felt it necessary to destroy an old couple, and where
he took the Kent art collection." Standing up, I paced the small room. A
hawk flew in erratic patterns beyond the office window.

Chamberlain
reached in the box and picked up the auger. He looked at it, turned it over in
his hand, letting me continue.

"I want to
confront Anastasio for what he did to Ben and Betty Barnes. He needs to know
we're turning up the heat. J.L. Chamberlain and Jay Leicester are not going
away. We're like two old pit bulls, once we get what teeth we have left into
him, the only way we let go is when we're dead. Or he is."

Chamberlain lay
the auger on the desk, sat down, leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands
behind his head, and smiled. The hawk dove toward the ground outside the
window.