CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) by Lawrence de Maria Page A
Authors: Lawrence de Maria
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You’re the detective.” If she was disappointed I wasn’t about to endow a wing on a new dorm, she hid it well. “He said you can wait in his office. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks. But I thought Dave retired as a Coast Guard Captain.”
She looked confused for a second, then smiled.
“Oh, yes, he did. ‘Commander’ is just a nickname the kids gave him. He’s really made an impression on them, with all his efficiency and can-do attitude. They love him. Now we even call him that.”
Dave had been hired by Spencer Bradley to shape up the college ship before it made the expected jump to university status. Dave wasn’t an academic, so there was a blessed dearth of tomes and diplomas in his office. Flow charts, graphs and corkboards dominated the walls and ledges. There were a few personal touches, family photos, and a framed and yellowed military wall map. I went to the map. It showed the landing zones for the planned invasion of the Japanese home islands in 1945. The assault beaches were named after American cars: Buick, Cadillac, Chrysler, Ford, Desoto, Pontiac, Lincoln, Studebaker, Packard and so on.
“Thank God for the A-bomb,” Dave said as he walked into the office. “That invasion would have been a bloodbath.”
“If they landed today, they’d have to use fewer beaches or come up with a different set of names,” I said. “I doubt they’d use Corolla or Camry. Where did you get this?”
“I’m third generation Coast Guard. My grandfather was involved in the planning for the invasion. He brought that home as a souvenir. A lot of people forget the Coast Guard was a fighting branch in World War II.”
“Also did a hell of a job during Katrina.”
“Glad somebody noticed.”
I thought of something.
“I’ve been seeing a lot of Coast Guard emblems on illegally parked cars lately. Is there something I should know about?”
He looked pained.
“Just between us?”
“Sure.”
“The Borough President wants the Guard to back one of his hair-brained schemes for a new Cromwell Center. He’s been passing out parking stickers and placards to officers like M&M’s.”
“What’s the scheme?”
“Would you believe a floating barge with basketball courts? Gives a whole new meaning to the pick-and-roll play.”
“Not to mention the dunk. But it would free up the shoreline for condos.”
“Still the cynic.”
“I’m just glad it has nothing to do with global warming.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Dave was a short, well-built guy, with buzz-cut black hair and brown eyes. He was probably 50, could undoubtedly fit into his old uniform and still moved with a military bearing. His dark blue tie had little yellow sailboats on it.
“Do I have to call you ‘Commander’ around here?”
“A simple ‘Sir’ will do,” he said, reaching into his desk for a thick manila envelope he slid across his desk. “It’s not much, I’m afraid. Been 14 years since Capriati graduated and there wasn’t a hell of a lot on him. I gather he was a pretty decent student. But other than being a damn fine wrestler he did a bang-up job of being inconspicuous. Never joined a fraternity, not even Delta Nu, which gets all the jocks.”
I knew he’d have read the material before letting it out of his sight. Once military, always military.
“Dom said he got into some minor scrapes off campus.”
“Good for him. Proves he was human, at least.”
I opened the envelope. Inside were copies of William Capriati’s college application forms, medical records, transcripts and graduation information, as well as various photos and articles about the wrestling team from school and local newspapers. Coach DeRenzi was in a couple of them. Dom’s looks had not improved with age, something I looked forward to telling him with photographic proof in hand.
“Good-looking kid,” Dave said. “The photos and clips weren’t in the school files. I had one of the kids at the school paper do a
“No, thanks. But I thought Dave retired as a Coast Guard Captain.”
She looked confused for a second, then smiled.
“Oh, yes, he did. ‘Commander’ is just a nickname the kids gave him. He’s really made an impression on them, with all his efficiency and can-do attitude. They love him. Now we even call him that.”
Dave had been hired by Spencer Bradley to shape up the college ship before it made the expected jump to university status. Dave wasn’t an academic, so there was a blessed dearth of tomes and diplomas in his office. Flow charts, graphs and corkboards dominated the walls and ledges. There were a few personal touches, family photos, and a framed and yellowed military wall map. I went to the map. It showed the landing zones for the planned invasion of the Japanese home islands in 1945. The assault beaches were named after American cars: Buick, Cadillac, Chrysler, Ford, Desoto, Pontiac, Lincoln, Studebaker, Packard and so on.
“Thank God for the A-bomb,” Dave said as he walked into the office. “That invasion would have been a bloodbath.”
“If they landed today, they’d have to use fewer beaches or come up with a different set of names,” I said. “I doubt they’d use Corolla or Camry. Where did you get this?”
“I’m third generation Coast Guard. My grandfather was involved in the planning for the invasion. He brought that home as a souvenir. A lot of people forget the Coast Guard was a fighting branch in World War II.”
“Also did a hell of a job during Katrina.”
“Glad somebody noticed.”
I thought of something.
“I’ve been seeing a lot of Coast Guard emblems on illegally parked cars lately. Is there something I should know about?”
He looked pained.
“Just between us?”
“Sure.”
“The Borough President wants the Guard to back one of his hair-brained schemes for a new Cromwell Center. He’s been passing out parking stickers and placards to officers like M&M’s.”
“What’s the scheme?”
“Would you believe a floating barge with basketball courts? Gives a whole new meaning to the pick-and-roll play.”
“Not to mention the dunk. But it would free up the shoreline for condos.”
“Still the cynic.”
“I’m just glad it has nothing to do with global warming.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Dave was a short, well-built guy, with buzz-cut black hair and brown eyes. He was probably 50, could undoubtedly fit into his old uniform and still moved with a military bearing. His dark blue tie had little yellow sailboats on it.
“Do I have to call you ‘Commander’ around here?”
“A simple ‘Sir’ will do,” he said, reaching into his desk for a thick manila envelope he slid across his desk. “It’s not much, I’m afraid. Been 14 years since Capriati graduated and there wasn’t a hell of a lot on him. I gather he was a pretty decent student. But other than being a damn fine wrestler he did a bang-up job of being inconspicuous. Never joined a fraternity, not even Delta Nu, which gets all the jocks.”
I knew he’d have read the material before letting it out of his sight. Once military, always military.
“Dom said he got into some minor scrapes off campus.”
“Good for him. Proves he was human, at least.”
I opened the envelope. Inside were copies of William Capriati’s college application forms, medical records, transcripts and graduation information, as well as various photos and articles about the wrestling team from school and local newspapers. Coach DeRenzi was in a couple of them. Dom’s looks had not improved with age, something I looked forward to telling him with photographic proof in hand.
“Good-looking kid,” Dave said. “The photos and clips weren’t in the school files. I had one of the kids at the school paper do a
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