TURTLE DOVE (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 7) by Lawrence de Maria Page A
Authors: Lawrence de Maria
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like the woman you saw?”
“That photo is 40 years old and in black-and-white. Sure, it bears a vague resemblance to my Harper, but that’s to be expected. If someone is running a scam, they’d look for a substitute with similar features.”
“Yeah. I guess an albino dwarf might raise questions. You gonna go to the publisher with your theory?”
“God, no. I need rock-solid proof. I don’t want to get sued.”
“What about the guy who married the reformed, ah, escort? Lowenthal?”
“It’s Lewinsohn. You’re Jewish for Christ’s sake. How can you get the name wrong?”
“I’m not Jewish for Christ’s sake, thank you very much. I’m Jewish for Jehovah’s sake. After listening to your story, I’m not sure I could get my own name right.”
“Well, I can’t go to Barry yet, either. Same reason. If the investment bank gets a whiff of this, they might dump Albatross. That’s the publisher. And if I’m wrong I will have created a lot of damage for no reason. Besides, if there is something fishy and I create a stink, whoever is behind it may go to ground. I want to find out what happened to Anna Dickson first.”
Sullivan walked by, chewing.
“Damned good bagels, Rhode.”
He went into his office.
“Mike’s gonna have little black seeds in his teeth all day,” Cormac said. “He’s giving a luncheon speech to the Urban League later. I wonder if I should tell him.”
I knew Mack wouldn’t.
CHAPTER 14 - LEON
Cormac told me not to expect any answers from the crime lab for at least a week, so I drove to my office to catch up on some work, which much to my surprise and delight, had actually come my way recently.
“As it is,” he said, “I’ll have to tell the lab boys that this is an important cold case, so they don’t get too curious. I haven’t used the Lindbergh baby in a while. Might be a good time.”
When I got to my office, there were three black people in it. Abby Jones was the only one who really belonged there. Abby, whose given name is Habika, originally worked the security desk in the lobby of my building. She had put in 20 years in the Army, retiring as a staff sergeant in the Military Police. When I met her she was a divorced mother working to put a daughter through college. We bonded over a shared love of eggplant parmigiana sandwiches from the Red Lantern tavern in nearby Rosebank. It was soon apparent that she was wasted on a security desk and I hired her part-time. She had half-brothers who were, respectively, a cable technician whose red-tape cutting made me the envy of the building, and Leon, an oft-arrested former gang banger turned minor crime boss who also occasionally came in handy. I soon made her my full-time business manager, and my office suite was now the Pine-Sol center of Staten Island. Her knowledge of criminology and her military contacts had helped me solve several cases, and I paid for her to get her own private investigator’s license.
One of the two black men standing next to Abby’s desk was her brother Leon, the on-again, off-again felon. He had obviously finished his most-recent stretch in jail. I also recognized, but had never met, the other man. It was the Rev. Rufus T. Futterman, pastor of the Fox Hills Baptist Church in one of Staten Island’s more-blighted neighborhoods and a local political firebrand.
“I believe you know my brother, Leon, Alton. And this is Rev. Futterman.”
“Yes, I’ve seen his picture on TV.” I shook both their hands. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“I told the Reverend that you might be able to help us out,” Leon said.
In fact, I did owe Leon a favor for some help he gave me on a sting I ran against some jewel thieves a while back. But I wondered about the “us”.
“Let’s go into my office,” I said.
As we walked away I spied a brown Amazon box on Abby’s desk, which was cluttered with files, newspaper clippings and computer printouts. Abby is not a clutterer. The printer in the corner was
“That photo is 40 years old and in black-and-white. Sure, it bears a vague resemblance to my Harper, but that’s to be expected. If someone is running a scam, they’d look for a substitute with similar features.”
“Yeah. I guess an albino dwarf might raise questions. You gonna go to the publisher with your theory?”
“God, no. I need rock-solid proof. I don’t want to get sued.”
“What about the guy who married the reformed, ah, escort? Lowenthal?”
“It’s Lewinsohn. You’re Jewish for Christ’s sake. How can you get the name wrong?”
“I’m not Jewish for Christ’s sake, thank you very much. I’m Jewish for Jehovah’s sake. After listening to your story, I’m not sure I could get my own name right.”
“Well, I can’t go to Barry yet, either. Same reason. If the investment bank gets a whiff of this, they might dump Albatross. That’s the publisher. And if I’m wrong I will have created a lot of damage for no reason. Besides, if there is something fishy and I create a stink, whoever is behind it may go to ground. I want to find out what happened to Anna Dickson first.”
Sullivan walked by, chewing.
“Damned good bagels, Rhode.”
He went into his office.
“Mike’s gonna have little black seeds in his teeth all day,” Cormac said. “He’s giving a luncheon speech to the Urban League later. I wonder if I should tell him.”
I knew Mack wouldn’t.
CHAPTER 14 - LEON
Cormac told me not to expect any answers from the crime lab for at least a week, so I drove to my office to catch up on some work, which much to my surprise and delight, had actually come my way recently.
“As it is,” he said, “I’ll have to tell the lab boys that this is an important cold case, so they don’t get too curious. I haven’t used the Lindbergh baby in a while. Might be a good time.”
When I got to my office, there were three black people in it. Abby Jones was the only one who really belonged there. Abby, whose given name is Habika, originally worked the security desk in the lobby of my building. She had put in 20 years in the Army, retiring as a staff sergeant in the Military Police. When I met her she was a divorced mother working to put a daughter through college. We bonded over a shared love of eggplant parmigiana sandwiches from the Red Lantern tavern in nearby Rosebank. It was soon apparent that she was wasted on a security desk and I hired her part-time. She had half-brothers who were, respectively, a cable technician whose red-tape cutting made me the envy of the building, and Leon, an oft-arrested former gang banger turned minor crime boss who also occasionally came in handy. I soon made her my full-time business manager, and my office suite was now the Pine-Sol center of Staten Island. Her knowledge of criminology and her military contacts had helped me solve several cases, and I paid for her to get her own private investigator’s license.
One of the two black men standing next to Abby’s desk was her brother Leon, the on-again, off-again felon. He had obviously finished his most-recent stretch in jail. I also recognized, but had never met, the other man. It was the Rev. Rufus T. Futterman, pastor of the Fox Hills Baptist Church in one of Staten Island’s more-blighted neighborhoods and a local political firebrand.
“I believe you know my brother, Leon, Alton. And this is Rev. Futterman.”
“Yes, I’ve seen his picture on TV.” I shook both their hands. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“I told the Reverend that you might be able to help us out,” Leon said.
In fact, I did owe Leon a favor for some help he gave me on a sting I ran against some jewel thieves a while back. But I wondered about the “us”.
“Let’s go into my office,” I said.
As we walked away I spied a brown Amazon box on Abby’s desk, which was cluttered with files, newspaper clippings and computer printouts. Abby is not a clutterer. The printer in the corner was
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