THE CARBON STEEL CARESS Read online
Page 10
Van Heerden looked at the hand gun, at Donal, and at Minetola. Their steel glares were convincing. He decided. “Perhaps I know of some thing that may be of assistance to you. A young woman had some diamond gemstones. I do not know if they belong to this Mister Della Porta. I appraised the diamonds. They were VVS1 quality, near flawless. Beautiful diamonds, magnificent clarity. I estimated value of two and a half million dollars, American. I would have paid dearly to have had them.”
“Stop screwing around”, Donal shoved the cocked .38 against Van Heerden's temple, giving the barrel an authoritative push. “You bought the diamonds.”
The fat man, getting the message, sighed and said, “Ja.
I purchased the gemstones. My purchase was legitimate. I paid the top price to the woman.”
“And you know who the woman is.”
“Ja, I know. I became curious to know and I had a private detective trace her to Moultrie Bay, South Carolina. She is a lawyer with the firm of Trent, Goodsell, Archer and Windsor.”
Donal was surprised, not shocked, but genuinely surprised by Van Heerden's revelation. He looked Van Heerden in the eye. “The woman's name is Joan Wiley Capers.”
“Ja, this is correct.”
Donal nodded. “You bought from her how many times?”
“Once only.”
“Arnie,” Donal said, threat implicit in his tone of voice.
“Three times.”
“When?”
“I do not remember.
“Dates, damn you.”
Van Heerden sighed again, “Last week was the last time. The other times were in June, near the end of the month, perhaps the twenty eighth, and once again in July. Soon after the American independence holiday, perhaps the day six, or
seven.”
The dates aligned closely with the Echols murder and with the open Palm Beach and New Orleans cases.
“I want the Della Porta diamonds.”
Van Heerden's eyes shifted to the Mosler as he spoke.
His fear smell overpowered the sweat odor of the dingy room.
“The diamond's, Arnie.”
“I pay the woman eight hundred thousand dollars for the diamonds. The diamonds belong to me.”
Donal smiled; he pulled the fat man to his feet. “Open
the safe.”
“You can not take mine diamonds.”
“My client's diamonds.”
“Please.”
“Enough. Get the stones.” Donal shoved Van Heerden toward the Mosler.
Van Heerden puffed out his chest. “Mine diamonds. I will not open the safe.”
Minetola used a backhand motion to slap the barrel of his pistol across Van Heerden's nose. Blood spurted. “We don't have time for your nonsense.”
Van Heerden wiped blood from his mustache. He looked at the slick red stain on the back of his hand and fainted.
“Shit”, Donal said. “Get a wet towel Sal.”
It took both of them several minutes to bring Van Heerden around and then another five minutes to calm his hysteria.
Minetola said to Van Heerden. “Ready to open the safe?”
Van Heerden nodded. He spun the dial back and forth through an overly complex five number combination and pulled the safe door open.
Donal said, “Back away.” The fat man complied.
Donal pulled out two trays of cut diamonds and a box. “Which are the Della Porta diamonds?”
“They are in the box.”
“Chair,” Donal, using the gun for directional emphasis, gestured Van Heerden toward an overstuffed armchair. “Watch him Sal.”
Donal placed a teak box atop the safe and opened it. The clear stones, lying against the dark blue velvet lining, caught the sun rays that streamed through the barred window. Colors of the light spectrum danced before the detectives eyes. “Jeez,” he uttered.
Van Heerden screamed, “Mine; mine gemstones; do not take them.”
Donal said to Sal. “Find something to tie him. And stuff a sock or something in his mouth.” He took Van Heerden's passport from the safe, looked at it, and tossed it into the fat man's lap. “You just might get loose before the law shows up. If you do, I'd suggest getting your fat ass back to Amsterdam. And, I'd advise staying there.”
In the car Donal said, “You shouldn't have hit him, Sal.”
“Man was stonewalling. Rapping him was a way to get him to concentrate on the business at hand.”
“It's not my way.”
In Minetola's apartment Donal made three quick calls from a throwaway cell phone. One to the offices of Trent, Archer, Goodsell and Windsor in Moultrie Bay where he learned that Joan Wiley capers had resigned; one to Hook at his home on Saint Catherine's island; and an anonymous call to the Atlanta Police Department. He provided Atlanta police the address of Van Heerden's walk-up and suggested they take a look.
Maria heaped plates with antipasti and followed them with steaming bowls of minestrone. Then insalada and a main course of chicken, hunter style, with side dishes of spaghetti with meatballs, chicken livers, and Sicilian sausages. Sal kept their glasses full of Chianti Classico. Finally the desert, cannollis and cappuccino.
Over the past year Donal had been contemplating opening an Atlanta branch office. The plan, if it came to fruition, would likely include Sal as the Atlanta office manager for Donal Associates. Maria sure wasn't hurting Sal's campaign.
Donal put down his fork and said, “Wow! What a
wonderful meal.”
“Maria's simple southern cooking,” Sal said.
Maria smiled. “The deep south,” she replied. “Palermo.”
“It was a magnificent meal, Marie,” Donal said. “Superb.”
Sal drove Donal to the airport. He took Donal's stash gun, promising to keep it at his office for Donal's possible future need and ended the conversation they had been having about the possibility of the Atlanta branch office by saying, “By the way, you're right, I shouldn't have hit the guy this afternoon. My head wasn't together. I'm sorry.”
***
Donal, back from Atlanta, sat in Hook's office in the Sheriff's section of the new Moultrie Bay administration complex. Hook said, “The important thing is when the Joan Capers sold diamonds to Van Heerden. The dates correlate closely with both Marie Della Porta's murder and the out of State murders.”
“You're picked Micah and Joan Capers up?” Donal asked.
Hook, watching the heavy homeward bound traffic on the street below, said, “Smallsmith's leading a detail. They should have them by now.” He peeled a wrapper from a cigar. “If we're wrong, there'll be hell to pay.”
“We're not wrong, A.J.” Donal said, “Micah and Joan Capers are the murderers. Her print will match with the one you lifted off the Della Porta shower door and with luck, we'll also get her prints, or his, on the teak box. Van Heerden said that the diamonds were in that box when she sold them.
Hook rose from behind his desk, frowning. “Lab's working on the box now. Keep your fingers crossed, “ he said.
“It came together when Van Heerden gave me the address where he had Joan Capers traced. Trent, Goodsell, Archer and Windsor. I called the law firm and checked. All five of the most recent victim's had Moultrie Bay connections. They all purchased properties in the county and Joan Wiley Capers was the closing Attorney for each transaction. The Wiley-Capers connection was the link that wasn't in Smallsmith's files. It appears that Wiley-Capers selected the victims based on information she obtained through client attorney confidences.”
“It's a wild story,” Hook said. “I figure the earlier razor murders were done by Micah Capers acting alone, before he hooked up with Joan Wiley.”
“Reasonable guess. We'll find out soon enough.” Donal stopped and stared at the smoke circling from the end of Hook's cigar. “Even without the earlier murders the Della Porta case will go to the Grand Jury and stick.”
“I'll know it's stuck when they're sentenced. Not before.”
Both men looked up expectantly as Alphonsos Sm
allsmith entered.
“Well,” Hook asked?
Smallsmith slumped into a chair. “They're gone, A.J.,
No trace of them.”
“God damn it.” Hook slammed his fist on the desk top. “Their house is all but empty. Nobody's living there.”
“You're sure,” asked Donal?
“Hell, yes. It's furnished, but that's all. No food, no clothes, no personal effects. Empty.”
“You find anything at all?”
“Nothing useful, A.J. We didn't want to tear the place apart without a warrant. We got in and out fast but I had a good look. I doubt there's anything there.
“We went to the law firm first hoping to pick the Capers woman trail. Nothing. She didn't give much notice and they had only her local address. Skinny bitch I talked to was upset. Wiely-Capers, it seems, left client affairs in disarray. I had a hell of a time getting anything from the woman. All she wanted to do was piss and moan.”
Donal couldn't help grinning. He nodded toward
Smallsmith, “Looks like Al is the newest member of the Lillian Archer fan club, A.J.. What did she tell you, Al?”
“Between the pissing and moaning she said the Capers woman planned to go abroad with her husband. I pressed her but no details. Said she didn’t know anything else.”
Hook said, “Put out a pickup bulletin. Get downstairs and get everything in motion. Priority code. Get a warrant and tear the Capers place apart. They left spoor, find it. Track them.”
“Got you. Anything else.”
“Soon as you get the bulletin out get back here. Until they're behind bars we don't want this Capers stuff going
public. The Sheriff and Drucilla will have to know what's going on but no one else. We'll need a strategy that will hold the public, especially the media wolves, at bay and still not piss them off any more than need be.”
“I have a client, A.J.,” Donal said.
“Yeah, okay. Fill Tony in but make sure he keeps what you tell him to himself for now. I'll have Dru call him later and punctuate the need to keep a lid on publicity.”
Donal left Hook's office and drove across town to Androlini's home. At least he would be able to tell Tony who had killed Marie and why. Donal prayed that that the knowledge that the murderers had been identified and were being traced would help Tony. If anything could.
It was close to five minutes before the door was opened. Again Tony and Donal seated themselves before the empty fireplace.
“It's almost over, Tony. We know who killed Marie. Their names are Micah and Joan Capers.”
Androlini jerked upright. “That's ridiculous. The day Marie was killed I was at their wedding. How can you expect me to believe that they murdered Marie.”
Donal, was momentarily caught off guard by Androlini's announcement that he had been a guest at the Wiely-Capers's wedding, he paused, thinking, those bastards.
But it figured from what he knew about psychotics. Duality of personality was classic, experienced in almost every case of this sort. Donal had seen other people like Tony, shocked, unable to reconcile apparently rational social behavior and sociopathy in the same person.
Donal took a deep breath. “It's true, Tony. Joan Wiley Capers was Joe's lawyer. She found out that Joe was holding diamonds.”
Androlini interrupted, “That rotten bastard. Him and his crooked deals. Marie was killed because of some goddamn hunks of stone. Tortured ...
“Tony,” Donal said quietly, watching the older man wrestle with emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.
“I'11 be all right, Johnny. Tell me the rest.”
Androlini heard Donal out in silence, then said, “Joe probably bragged to the woman about the diamonds.” Following his own logic, Tony said, “He killed Marie, with his greed and his big shot mouth. If he wasn't dead I'd kill him with my own hands.”
“Tony, listen. Joan and Micah Capers kill because they're psychopaths. They're being charged with the other murders as well as Marie's. They're responsible for all of the razor murders.”
“They've been arrested?”
“Not yet. They will be.”
Tony turned his grey, withered face toward Donal. “Then it's not over.”
Donal left Tony Androlini sitting in the slowly darkening room. The diamonds that Donal had taken from Van Heerden were in his pocket. During the course of his conversation with Tony, Donal had decided that now was not the right time to put the gemstones in his client's hands. He'd attend to that at a later date.
Donal told Tony that he'd stay on the case until Marie Della Porta's killers were captured but felt his work was essentially over. The police, in Moultrie County or the other jurisdictions would get Capers and his wife. I need a stiff drink, he thought. And I need Victoria. He could get the stiff drink at the nearest bar. Victoria, still in Columbia, was miles away.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Columbia, SC
September 7
Six a.m. Saturday morning the phone rang shattering Jack Faulkner's sleep. He jammed his head against one pillow and pulled a second against his exposed ear. The phone's ringing pierced the makeshift noise block. Reluctantly he rolled over onto his back and reached a sinewy hand to the bedside table. On the twentieth ring he picked up the receiver.
“Yeah.”
“Mornin', Jack.” It was Brad Ellerby’s secretary Jeremy McMichaels.
Faulkner, head throbbing with a martini hangover, more asleep than awake, managed to complain into the receiver, “Christ sake, get outta my life, you sawed off twerp.”
“Rise and shine, Jack.”
“Up yours Jeremy.”
Faulkner dropped the receiver into its cradle and lay back staring at the ceiling. He took a crumpled cigarette, last one, from the red Pall Mall pack, and lit up. He stared at the logo on the cigarette pack and the Latin inscription, In Hoc Signo Vinces. Yeah, sure, he thought, that's exactly what I was up to last night. Pissin' away bucks try'n' to conquer gash half my age in Champs's sports bar. Shit, at forty seven, I ought a know better than to cruise the meat markets. My luck, I'll pick up a dose a clap. Or AIDS. The thought of AIDS made him shudder.
Thirty seconds later the telephone's ringing began again.
“Hey, fella, come on now, wake up.”
“All right, dammit, I'm awake.” Faulkner propped himself on an elbow, coughed into the handset, took another drag on his cigarette, and said. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Not a thing. But your boss, now; he's a different story. He wants you on special duty in two hours. You get to accompany two German Industrialists and their lovely fraus on an all expenses paid two week tour of our lovely State.”
“What?”
“That's right, my boy. Governor wants security for these Kraut big shots and Ellerby can't do the duty. He was rushed to the hospital. Appendix.”
“Ruptured?”
“Naw. They got him to the hospital in time.”
“Too fuckin' bad. Peritonitis would be good for him.”
“That ain't no way to feel about your boss. Man's considerate enough to call me with the news that you're his pick to be his replacement on this all expenses bennie. Called less than an hour before he was to go under the knife. Impressive dedication to the demands of his job. Admirable; don't you think.”
“Admirable, my ass. Who is it Ellerby wants me to nursemaid?”
“Kurt Wolfson and that unreconstructed grandson of the Third Reich, Albert Sprauge.”
“Shit. Heavy hitters. Wolfson chairs Deutschland Metal Fabrications and Sprauge is the German Industrial Minister.”
“Got that right. Checking out South Carolina as a possible site for building heavy construction equipment. Treat 'em good.”
“I have a choice?”
“Nope. I'm sending a car. It'll be in front of your place at a quarter to seven. Driver will have the itinerary and Brad's briefing book for you. Enjoy.”
“Balls.”
“Whose?”
“Yours, pip-s
queak. I had you here, I'd cut them off and toss them in an alley for a cats' breakfast.”
“Now, Jack. You don't mean that.”
“Drive over here and find out, asshole.”
“Ciao Jack.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Moultrie Bay, SC
September 13
Nine-thirty at night, equipment pumped conditioned air, fighting to keep the Lowcountry heat and humidity at bay. Sheet lightning whitened the sky at irregular intervals but no rain came. Donal tossed a file folder on the heap and pushed splayed fingers through wiry hair. Eight days had passed since he had identified the razor murderers. Eight days of digging for information and eight nights collating and analyzing mountains of case data. Eight days and nights of nothing. No rain, no relief from the heat, and no progress through the paper jungle created by the search for Joan and Micah Capers. Donal was bone weary and frustrated.
He had spent that afternoon in Charleston with psychiatrists, his least favorite professionals. What one put forth as gospel, another would insist was baseless speculation. The people with the string of letters after their names called serial killers a lot of different things, psychotic, sociopathic, psychopathic, anti-social; all jargon; all multisyllabic -tic, -hic, and -ial words that provided nothing.
Donal figured that no matter the label, no matter the prefixes and suffixes, no matter what the various and disagreeing psychiatrists said, it all meant the same thing,
--Micah and Joan Capers were insane. Donal knew that much before he talked to the shrinks.
He stared at the piles of paper on his desk, journals of the American Psychiatric Institute that used obscure terms and impenetrable circumlocutions to detail fruit cake cases of various combinations and permutations, all of the vicious variety. And reams of detailed notes from numerous interviews that he had conducted with anyone he could find who had ever known Micah Capers; superior officers in the Army, college professors, Capers’s acquaintances.