SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3) (18 page)

CHAPTER 34 – FINAL SCREAM

My eyes went instinctively to the food and coffee.

“Wha .…”

“Don’t try to talk. I can see what you are thinking. You haven’t eaten or drank anything. I didn’t poison the food or cake. I suspected you would be cautious about that. The doorknob, on the other hand ….”

The doorknob.
“Just let yourself in.”
A hard surface, perfect for
“the viscous liquid I occasionally use on hard surfaces.”

“Ah. I can see from your eyes that you get it. Once you opened the door, it was all over for you. I only had to keep you busy until it took effect. Hence, my lengthy and heartfelt confession. Thank God you weren’t wearing gloves. I might have had to go to Plan B.”

Isabella reached for her coat and pulled out a small pistol from a side pocket. A Beretta .25. That figured.

“Plan B,” she explained. “A real gun. I used my last water pistol dose on that man at your house. I’m glad this won’t prove necessary. So messy. And don’t worry. I cleaned the doorknob off when I went into the hallway before. I wouldn’t want to harm any visiting Jehovah’s Witnesses or Girl Scouts selling cookies. Oh, in case you’re wondering how I’ll explain you lying dead in my house, I won’t have to. By the time they find you I’ll be in Argentina. New name, new look. I don’t own this house. I rent. I always rent. You can imagine why.”

She started gathering her things.

“I’ll turn down the heat. There’s a cold snap coming. You should keep quite a while.”

Mary Naulls looked at me pityingly. I couldn’t move a muscle. I was having trouble breathing. She got up and leaned down. Her lips brushed mine.

“You should have fucked me, darling. It wouldn’t have changed anything, but at least you would have had a wonderful time. And I wasn’t going to pull a Bruce on you. You are young. I wasn’t worried about your virility.”

Then she bit my lower lip. I felt pressure but that was all. There was blood on her teeth when she stood up. She licked it away with her tongue.

“Very good,” she said. “Completely numb. Forgive me if I don’t clean up. I want to get going. Traffic can be murder going over the bridge.”

She started to walk away and then paused.

“Alton, I’m sorry about this. Really, I am. I dislike men, but you are different. You think I’m a monster. But I’m not. The men I killed were despicable. But I have my standards. Their children were grown. I would never harm someone who had children at home. Assuming they didn’t abuse them like my father abused me, they might have had a positive effect on their kids. We all want to look up to our parents. I killed hypocrites, but I’m sure their grown kids think the world of them. I can live with that.”

Isabella looked at me. My eyes were burning. I couldn’t blink.

“If it’s any consolation to you, I’m fairly certain that my next port of call, so to speak, will be my last. I wonder how many men I will be able to keep on a leash when I’m in my 50’s, Rantox or no Rantox.”

She laughed quietly and then disappeared from my vision. I started gagging, drowning in my own saliva. I heard the front door open, then a muted conversation. The voices got louder and then I heard a shot. There were sounds of a struggle, and of furniture breaking. Finally, a woman’s scream.

I knew that scream. It was unmistakably Isabella.

But I also knew, just before I blacked out, that she didn’t just have an orgasm.

CHAPTER 35 – BIGFOOT

“Are you going to eat that Jell-O?”

Cormac Levine was already reaching for it.

“Why should today be any different,” I said, pushing my tray closer to him. “I’ve been two days and I haven’t gotten to my dessert yet.”

“Yeah, but yesterday you couldn’t even swallow. That don’t count.”

That was true enough. It took a while before my nerve synapses were functioning on all cylinders. I still had unwanted twitches and spasms in my extremities.

We were waiting for Dr. Singh, the neurologist assigned to my case. He and Dr. Gallo, who stabilized me in I.C.U., were tag-teaming my recovery. Gallo, in particular, was quite solicitous, thinking that I might not have been poisoned had he done more research with Father Zapo. I finally convinced him that the priest’s death, while reinvigorating my investigation, had been natural. There was nothing for him to find. Now, with any luck, Singh was going to discharge me, and then I was going to hunt down the biggest cheeseburger in the borough. Maybe two.

Mac was doing his best to run interference with me with the platoons of detectives, scientists and media who wanted to know how I managed to survive. They also wanted to know who had so fortunately showed up at Isabella Donner’s house to save me. Finding out who killed her was also a priority, but Cormac, as a detective in the District Attorney’s Office, was able to deflect that line of inquiry by claiming jurisdiction.

“Kalugin still among the missing?”

“Yeah,” Mac said, with strawberry Jell-O dripping on his chin. “And I hope he stays that way until I can figure out what to do about the dead broad. The F.B.I. is buggin’ us, not to mention the Canadian cops.”

“There were no witnesses. I was out cold. Even if I could identify him, I’m not giving him up. He saved my life after she shot him.”

Mac snorted.

“The only other person who fits the description the EMS guys gave is Bigfoot.”

“He’s not that tall,” I said. “I presume you went to see the Rahms.”

“Yeah. Arman said Kalugin was taking his regular two-week vacation in Siberia. My guess is that he’s been shipped out to lay low and recuperate. With their dough, it’s probably the Mayo fuckin’ Clinic. Arman wouldn’t say much, but I got the impression that Maks wasn’t hurt that bad. Bullet probably bounced off.”

Cormac had filled me in on what the cops had managed to piece together. One of the EMS guys had tried to stop Kalugin from leaving the scene since he was bleeding down his arm. The man backed off when Kalugin, using his other arm, lifted him off his feet.

“I can’t see him going down for Donner,” I said. “Anyone else, they might give a medal.”

Mac laughed.

“I know. The boys on my squad have been dying to nail Kalugin for a dozen unsolved homicides. It’s driving them nuts that he may slide for this one. But I think they’ll go along. You know how it works. They’ll take some of the credit for getting a serial killer off the streets. The D.A. is already spinning it that way.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Means Sullivan may finally be getting some of his moves back. Did you make that call to Toronto?”

I had asked Mac to tell the big shots in the headquarters of the Ontario Provincial Police that Constable Annie Barrett in Cashman was instrumental in tracking down Mary Naulls.

“Yeah. They sure talk funny up there. Anyway, I laid it on thick. After I finished singing her praises they have to think she’s a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Stephanie Plum.”

“Stephanie Plum?”

He shrugged.

“Irene has all the Evanovich books. Read a couple myself. Pretty good stuff. What’s the story with the Barrett broad?”

“Good cop. Works for an asshole who blew the original case and now has her riding a desk.”

“Not for long.”

Dr. Singh walked into my room.

“How was the Jell-O, Detective Levine?”

“Outstanding, Doc. I’m thinking about getting sick just to keep it coming.”

Singh laughed.

“Well, you will have to do that. Mr. Rhode can go home today.” He turned to me. “I’m going to miss you. You’re my first nerve gas patient, as well as my first frog poison patient. I’d only read about them in medical school.”

“Glad I could have been of help, Doc.”

Dr. Singh turned serious.

“You were very fortunate, Mr. Rhode. The man who found you not only recognized the symptoms, but knew what to do to keep you alive until Emergency Services arrived. He even told them what caused your condition. Thus, we were able to stabilize you until we could get the proper antidote. And that in itself was a miracle. Fortunately, the police went through the woman’s luggage and found some vials she prepared. But it was close. Your heart stopped twice, although not long enough to cause brain damage.”

“Which might have been an improvement,” Mac said.

***

I spent the next day at home. I was weak, but other than a slight tingling in my left leg that Dr. Singh said would eventually disappear, I felt pretty good.

Abby came by with the office mail and a shopping bag, from which she unloaded containers of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, collard greens, stewed apples, biscuits and gravy. And, finally, a sweet potato pie.

“What the hell is this, Abs? The road show of
Roots
? I thought you only ate Italian.”

“I only order Italian. I cook black. My family comes from the South. My great-great granddaddy was the slave cook for the largest plantation in Mississippi.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“No reason you should,” she said, laughing. “I just made that up. But I can cook up a storm. Nothing like home vittles to make a soul feel better. Where do you keep your plates? I damn near passed out from hunger making this stuff. It brought back memories. We’re going to have lunch together.”

She obviously wanted to make sure I would eat. I could have told her that would not be a problem. A man would have to be already dead not to dive into the spread she was laying out on my kitchen table. The delicious smells had obviously escaped the kitchen. I could hear Scar scratching at the back door.

After Abby left, I called Alice. Cormac had decided against telling her about what happened until he found out if the antidote was going to work.

“If you croaked, she’d come back for the funeral,” he explained. “If you made it, I was going to leave it up to you.”

“What about if there was brain damage?”

“I probably would have called her, cause if I didn’t she’d be pissed at me. But I would have tried to talk her into staying in Paris. Airfare ain’t cheap. Why waste a trip to visit a carrot.”

Despite his way with words, Mac’s logic was unassailable. And I told Alice that.

“So,” I said when I reached her on her cell, “there is no reason to come home now.” I’m no more a vegetable now then the last time I saw you. As I recall, I could hardly move then either.”

Alice laughed, but I could hear the tremor in her voice.

“I feel terrible. You could have died. I should have been there. I’m coming home. I want to see you.”

I knew how important Paris was to her right then.

“Alice. Don’t be a goose. I want you to stay in Paris. I’m warning you. I kept a vial of nerve gas. If you try to fly back I swear I’ll take it. With the appropriate wine, of course. A nice Pinot Noir.”

“You are such a goddamn idiot!”

I took a bottle of beer from the fridge and popped the top near the phone.

“Hear that! It’s the poison. I’ll take it unless you promise to stay.”

Her laugh was stronger then. The rest of the conversation went fine, although some of it would’ve gotten an R rating.

“Promise me you will visit me as soon as you are able,” she finally said.

“I’ll hop the first flight after I restore feeling below my waist.”

“Yes. That would probably be a good idea.”

The next morning I called Arman Rahm. He told me he was on his way out but suggested that we meet for lunch at Rod’s Steak House in Convent Station, NJ.

CHAPTER 36 - RETREAT

Rod’s sits adjacent to one of northern New Jersey’s finer hotels, the Madison. It is considered by many the equal of the best Manhattan beef emporiums, and is certainly any restaurant’s equal in ambiance, with its rich wood paneling, highly polished brass and antique furnishings. Rod’s also boasts two attached 19
th
Century Pullman railroad coaches that also serve as dining rooms, usually for private parties.

I found Rahm in a dark blue three-piece business suit sitting at a corner table by himself, although two men wearing leather jackets sat to his front and watched me approach their boss. One of them recognized me and said something to his partner. They both visibly relaxed. I nodded at them and sat. A waiter came over.

“What will you like to drink, Alton?”

He had a half-finished martini in a tall stem glass in front of him.

“That looks good,” I said.

He held up two fingers and the waiter disappeared.

“How do you feel?”

“Fine,” I said. “What are we doing in New Jersey and what are you dressed up for?”

“I always dress properly when visiting the Jesuits.”

“The Jesuits?”

“Yes, the Loyola House of Retreats in Morristown is just down the road.”

I knew that. In fact, I had once gone on a weekend retreat at the beautiful 30-acre property at a time when I was trying anything to get my head back on straight after a disastrous overseas tour. The sloping lawns, gardens and woodlands, and the strict discipline of silence enforced by the “Jezzies” helped enormously. In fact, that was the last time I was at Rod’s, a traditional stop for retreat-goers who wanted a good steak and some stiff drinks before entering Loyola’s welcoming, but austere, arms.

I was pretty sure Arman Rahm wasn’t planning to go on a retreat and I said as much.

“I’m visiting a sick friend who is recuperating under the watchful eyes of the good Fathers,” he said, smiling.

Our drinks came. I took a long pull. Then it hit me. The Rahms were hiding Kalugin in a Catholic retreat house! Arman saw my look of comprehension and laughed. Then he said, “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”

It was a fair imitation of Charles Laughton in
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
after he carries off Maureen O’Hara and gives her the protection of the church in the iconic cathedral. Some nearby diners looked our way but then quickly went back to their lunches when Rahm’s men stared them down.

“I don’t think that works anymore, Arman. I think the Catholic Church traded sanctuary for a tax exemption.”

“I know. But who will look for him there? You won’t tell anyone.”

“How did you swing it?”

The waiter appeared. Rahm looked at me.

“Let me order. I know the chef.”

Without looking at the menu, he ordered Caesar salads, Maryland crab cakes and two 24-ounce Delmonico steaks, with all the trimmings, plus a bottle of Cakebread Cellars cabernet.

“Are we expecting the New York Giants offensive line to join us,” I said.

“It won’t go to waste,” he said, gesturing to his men at the other table. “And to answer your question, we have a close relationship with Mount Manresa.”

Mount Manresa is the 100-year-old Jesuit retreat house in Fort Wadsworth on Staten Island. It was scheduled to be closed and its operations folded into the Morristown facility. The 10-acre property was valued at almost $16 million and the consensus was that the storied grounds would soon go the way of all vacant land in the borough and be developed into condominiums and townhouses.

“Please tell me you’re not buying Mount Manresa.”

“Staten Island real estate is potentially the most valuable land in New York.”

“I thought you Russians only bought along the shore.”

“After Hurricane Sandy, we are rethinking that. Hell, the way things are going with global warming, Mount Manresa may be waterfront property someday.”

“And the Jesuits don’t have a problem with you?”

“With enough dummy corporations, one can buy anything. Besides, they’d rather sell to the devil they know then one they don’t. For some reason they hate Donald Trump.”

The crab cakes arrived and the waiter uncorked our wine. Arman went through the tasting routine but after the wine was poured he told the waiter to bring two ponies of chilled vodka.

“We can’t drink red wine with crab,” he explained.

“How is Maks doing?”

“A simple flesh wound. But I think it best he stays here until things blow over. He’s enjoying himself. He’s not a talker. The silence is wonderful for him. And the staff loves him because nobody dares break the rules when he’s around.”

“I hope to God he doesn’t go to confession.”

Rahm laughed.

“Yes, that would open up even a Jesuit’s eyes.” Rahm cut a piece of crab cake and pointed it at me. “What can you do for him?”

“Whatever it takes, Arman. He saved my life. What does your friend in the D.A.’s office say?”

I was one of the few people who knew that Rahm was sleeping with one of the Assistant District Attorneys in Mike Sullivan’s office.

“She tells me that they are not inclined to pursue the matter too closely.”

“I hear they will try to take credit for exposing Isabella Donner.”

“Are you surprised?”

The waiter came with our vodka. It did go well with the crab.

“Did Maks tell you why he went to the door when he did?”

“When he saw the woman wipe off the doorknob, he became suspicious. He assumed it was fingerprints, but we now know it was something more sinister. He waited a few minutes and then decided to go in. He got to the door just as she came out with her suitcases in hand. He called your name and when he got no reply he pushed past her. She panicked and shot him in the back. The shoulder, actually. Fortunately, it was a small-caliber pistol. Maks has survived much bigger bullets. He was forced to subdue her but, alas, his skills in that regard are not, how shall I say it, refined. You know the rest.”

Cormac said Isabella’s neck had been snapped like a twig.

“The police will probably treat it as self-defense.”

“Yes. He is quite embarrassed about that. It’s a first for him. I doubt there will be repercussions. The woman, after all, was a mass murderer.”

“I’m lucky she didn’t kill him. Then we’d both be dead.”

“Yes. And that was the least of your luck. Kalugin is familiar with various toxins. At one point the Soviet Union was prepared to nerve gas against the Taliban and other insurgents during our misadventure in Afghanistan in the 1980’s when he was stationed there. They never did, primarily because nerve agents are so dangerous to handle. The Soviet Army was never big on operational safety. After several Red Army soldiers died working with the hellish stuff, the idea was shelved. Kalugin was a witness to some of the deaths, which were quite gruesome. It made an impression, as much as anything can make an impression on Maks. When he saw the state you were in, he called 911 and did CPR on you until help arrived.”

Rahm saw the look on my face and laughed.

“Yes, my friend, the poison was one thing, but you may also be the only person on earth to have survived mouth-to-mouth with Kalugin. Undoubtedly something neither of you will want to repeat. Or talk about.”

He didn’t have to worry about that, I thought, as our steaks arrived. They were seared perfectly and delicious. I said as much.

“Yes,” Rahm said, “but I imagine most things taste better after surviving almost certain death.”

He was right, of course. For the next quarter hour we simply ate. I finally pushed my plate away and finished my wine.

“I’m having a hard time thinking that Maks Kalugin knows CPR.”

“All my men have been trained in it, as well as basic first aid,” Rahm said. “It comes in handy in their line of work.”

“Of course.” 

When the waiter came over to see how we were doing, there was still enough food left on the table to feed Rhode Island.

“Please box all this up,” Rahm said. He looked at his two bodyguards who had their eyes on the room and its entrances. Probably calculating lines of fire. “And add two pieces of your excellent cheesecake, to go. Then bring us cognacs. Your best.”

After the waiter left Rahm turned to me.

“How about after our brandy we go over and see how Maks in doing at Loyola?”

“Sure. But I’m not going to kiss him.”

Rahm laughed.

“Yes. And try not to make too big a deal about his saving your life. He is sick of doing it. This makes the third time in two years or so. He told me he either wants a raise or permission to kill you. You are wearing him out.”

“I repeat myself, but on each occasion he intervened I was only in danger because you guys put me there.”

“A minor point. But it is funny, when you think about it, Alton. This whole Naulls situation started with a Polish priest who used to be a Communist seeking the help of an old atheist adversary in the KGB to catch a serial killer using the Catholic Church as her cover. And it ends with us visiting your rescuer who is hiding out with the Jesuits. It’s almost enough to convince me that God has a sense of humor.”

“God?”

Our brandies came and Arman Rahm lifted his glass toward me.

“I said my father was an atheist, Alton. As you know, I believe in hedging my bets.”