THE CARBON STEEL CARESS Page 6

  Donal left the office and drove home. Victoria should be there by now. He hadn't seen her for a month. He was looking forward to this weekend with her and by damned he was going to have it; uninterrupted. Then he remembered his appointment with Hook in the morning. “Hell,” he muttered, well, he'd just have to make that meeting short.

  Donal tossed his keys onto the hall table as Victoria entered the living room. “Hi stranger,” she said, smiling. He opened his arms and she came into them. “Damn,” she said, as they broke their embrace. “It's good to be back.”

  Donal took her hand and pulled Victoria onto the sofa, kissing her. “Missed you, babe.”

  “Mrnrnrn,” she murmured, pressing closer to him and then, breaking away. “Make me a drink and bring it into the bedroom.”

  “Martini?”

  “Think I'll be venturesome. Put an onion in it.”

  “Gibson. That's pretty exotic. Think I can handle it?” “You'll manage. You always do, lover.”

  Donal brought the chilled drinks back to the bedroom and handed a classic stemmed cocktail glass to Victoria. “Just like Nick and Nora,” he said.

  “Except no Asta and no cigarettes.”

  “No Asta, but we have the damn cat”

  The cat had followed Donal from the kitchen and now stood stiff legged on the bed. “Meow,” it said.

  Victoria reached over and gave the critter a few scratches under the chin. The cat collapsed on the duvet, totally relaxed, purring.

  Donal picked the cat up and walked to the bedroom door. “Out you go,” he said.

  “Oh, let her stay, “ Victoria said.

  “Like hell I will,” Donal said. He put the cat out into the hall and pulled shut the bedroom door.

  “Meany,” Victoria said.

  The cat punctuated that by hurling her body against the closed door’ She yowled.

  “Stay out there.”

  Victoria laughed. “She sipped the Gibson; the tip of her tongue flicked for an instant over her lips. “Perfect. My confidence wasn't misplaced.”

  Donal said, “Welcome home.”

  “Thank you. I want ...

  “What,” he teased?

  “Mmm.”

  “Horny Professor. Your University colleagues know that side of you, Doctor Summerville?”

  “Nope. To them I'm Ms. Prim.” She reached up and removed his tie and began to undo the buttons on his shirt. “The hell with my colleagues. To hell with everybody but us,” she said.

  The cat gave a final half-hearted yowl and stopped throwing body blocks at the door.

  Victoria, naked, hair tousled, lay propped on her elbows. She traced the outline of the dark bruise on Donal's thigh. “Poor baby,” she said, mock concern in her tone. She leaned forward, kissed the tender spot, then grinned. “The bad guy was seventy-two years old?”

  “Ain't funny. The bastard clobbered me. Hurts like

  hell.”

  “You'll live. Come on. Get up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m hungry.”

  Donal laughed, “Somehow I should have known. A lady of many appetites.”

  Victoria slid from the bed, “Got that right, Johnny Donal. Come on. Feed me.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Moultrie Bay, SC

  August 4

  Victoria reached her arms around Donal's waist as he lathered his face. She slipped fingers between the towel and the hard muscle of his stomach.

  “No time, sweet lady. I've got to get to A.J.'s office.” “A.J. can wait. I haven't seen you for a month.”

  “He could, honey. Tony Androlini can't. I gave him my word.”

  “You're spreading it thin, Johnny. I too have your word.

  “Come on, baby, be reasonable.”

  “The man has a horny woman and he wants reason. Freud thought the ladies were a tough read.”

  Donal replied, “Little Viennese dilettante thought a lot of dumb things.” And quickly followed with, “I'll be back in an hour. Promise.”

  “I shouldn't wait.”

  “But you will.”

  Victoria looked up at him, “But I will. Now get out of here and get back fast.”

  “Two hours, tops.”

  “One, Donal.” Victoria stepped into the shower.

  The cat, who had come into the master bath as Donal left, jumped up onto the vanity top and began to methodically knock objects to the floor with a claw sheathed paw.

  Victoria called from within the glass doored shower, “What in the world are you doing out there, Johnny.”

  The cat paused, looked toward the shower door, said, meow. She pawed a mug that contained shaving soap and Donal's badger bristle brush. The mug teetered for a second or two and then fell, clattering across the ceramic tiles. The cat jumped down from the vanity and ran from the bathroom before Victoria could get the shower door open and poke her head out.

  In Hook's office, Donal dropped into a worn green leather armchair.

  “The Della Porta murder has done it, Johnny. Our darling Drucilla is off the effin’ wall. We come up with something soon or I won't have to retire. She’ll make sure my ass is out.”

  “Who's your chief investigating officer?”

  “Myself. Smallsmith is backing.”

  “Alphonsos? He's a kid.”

  “That's all you know my friend. Alphonsos's been with the Department for... hmm, I guess, over ten years now. He's no kid. And he's come up with an interesting hypothesis.”

  “Oh?”

  “By Alphonsos's reckoning the Della Porta murder looks to be part of the string of razor murders, but it may not be.”

  “Why not?”

  “Alphonsos is concentrating on differences. One, there is no evidence of breaking and entering like in the other killings. Two, the murder occurred in the early evening, near as the M.E. can put it, between six and seven o'clock. That's another pattern break. Three, there were two people involved in this murder. A man and a woman.”

  Donal raised an eyebrow.

  “Forensic evidence proves it out. Lab boys found several things. Pubic hair in the bed. Both sexes. Woman's hair wasn't Mrs. Della Porta's. The sheets on the bed were blood smeared and they found semen with the blood.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A print. Woman's. Only one in the house that can't be

  accounted for. We passed it on to the FBI. Slim chance they'll be able to identify it.”

  “Odds of hitting it big in the power-ball lottery are better. Where was the print found?”

  “On a glass shower door in the master suite bathroom.

  The killers showered after the murder. Cool. Crazy bastards but cool. They had to have been confident that they had the house to themselves and that they wouldn't be disturbed.”

  “A man and woman team could add up to different killers or maybe the razor killer changing mode of operation again. Trying to throw you off.”

  “Yeah, we figure that too. For all the good it does us,” Hook said. He continued, “Did Androlini give you anything that could help? Smallsmith talked to him or rather he tried to. Tony was so agitated Smallsmith couldn't get much out of him.”

  “Tony thinks that his late brother-in-law might be the key. He doesn't buy the idea that his sister was murdered by the same killer that killed those other women.”

  “Why?”

  “Tony insists that his sister wouldn't have let anyone into the house that she didn't know. He's adamant on that score. Was the alarm system on or off?”

  “Off.”

  “So that's no help.

  “Tony also told me that his sister's late husband was no good. He says his brother-in-law, Joe Della Porta, was mafia.”

  “Smallsmith confirmed that and he picked up other rumors about the husband.”

  “Like?”

  “Like Joe Della Porta had been laundering cash; turning it into gemstones. He may have left some stones hidden somewhere in the house and somebody came after them. Smallsmith and his c
rew tossed the place stem to stern. They didn’t find a thing, but maybe.”

  “Cash for gemstones could fit with what Tony told me. He gave me a list of Della Porta's business associates.” Donal handed the list to Hook. “Androlini said, “Gli amici degli amici.”

  Hook said, “Guinea talk. I usta hear seventeen year old roids from up north talking shit like that in the barracks when I was a D.I. Thought they were tough guys. What's it actually mean?”

  “It's a Mafia colloquialism. Translates to 'the friends of the friends.' The names Tony gave me belong to guys who came here from Philly and Atlantic City.”

  Hook read the list. Donal had it right. All Cosa Nostra recently relocated to Hilton Head to grab some of the lucrative resort business and prepare for the possibility of legalized gambling in South Carolina. Mafia passing as entrepreneurs; the mobsters regrouping, not on the wane as the FBI and Federal prosecutors armed with the RICO statues would like the citizenry to believe.

  Hook looked up, shaking his head. “Any one of these sweethearts is capable of damned near anything, but not this. These guys are mob assholes, but they're not nuts. Their business is money.”

  “I'd still check them out.”

  “Of course. We'll rattle their cages but don't hold your breath. The Della Porta killing isn't their style.”

  “Except for the gemstone angle. That could be reason to use the razor M.O. as cover.”

  “Why?”

  “So no one, epecially you guys, would suspect burglary. Unreported theft could make dealing off the stones a lot easier than if there was a police bulletin out on them. There was a shitload of publicity after the Cynthia Echols murder that likely made the fences nervous. So, if the perp could find a way to keep the robbery quiet ...

  “Yeah, right. But,” Hook paused, “that makes it damn near impossible to figure out if this is the serial killer or a motivated murder disguised as copycat.

  “And why the female partner? It's a batty twist.”

  “Doesn't figure.”

  “No, sure doesn't. Two perps, one of them a woman says psychos. But the gemstone idea could be reason for a cover-up. I’m exploring it.”

  “And hope it leads somewhere,” Hook said.

  “I take it that you haven't had any luck making any connection between the Della Porta murder and the other victims?”

  “Nope. No link.”

  “My gut says keep looking. It might be in Joe or Marie Della Porta's past. I'm going to talk to their lawyers. I also want to talk with people who knew Marie. Can you get me a list of her friends and acquaintances?”

  “Sure,” Hook pushed an intercom button. “Xerox copies of your interviews and bring them along with the list of everyone you talked to, Alphonsos. And bring copies of the Echols file and the razor killer files.” Hook turned to his friend, “to hell with Drucilla. You're in.” He reached into his desk drawer and came up holding two thick Coronas. “Cigar, while we're waiting?”

  “Havana?”

  Hook grinned, “You betcha. Drucilla gets 'em from some good old boy politico buddy. She's too much a lady to smoke 'em so she gives them to McBride. Sheriff grabs them but he's tryin' to live clean since his heart attack so I help him.”

  Donal waved the cigar offer off. “Been forever since I've had one of those. Tempting.”

  Hook rotated the cigar between thumb and forefinger and passed it slowly beneath his nose. “A Havana is always a treat.” He inhaled the rich aroma of the Cuban wrapper. “I’ll never quit.”

  Smallsmith came in with bulging folders and handed them to Hook. He nodded to Donal who raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  Donal glanced at his watch; already he'd been in Hook's office for more than an hour. He took the folders from Hook and said, “Told Victoria I'd be back before now. Thanks for your help, A.J.. Good seeing you Alphonsos.”

  “Let me know if you need help with the lawyers,” A.J. said.

  “Shouldn't have a problem. Joe Della Porta left a will, that much Tony knows. But, Tony’s pretty sure Marie died intestate. If so, Tony's next of kin and her residual legatee. That should get me what I want. If it doesn't, I'll holler.” Donal waved a hand, “See you later.”

  Watching him leave, Hook, tapped his cigar with a thick forefinger. With Donal privately involved in the investigation he could tap the P.I.’s expertise without incurring the County Council's and the Exec's wrath.

  “If anyone can find us a break on these killings, Donal can,” Hook said.

  “We'll see,” Smallsmith replied. “He's good, A.J., but he ain't David Copperfield.”

  “Sometimes I've wondered,” Hook said, and hitched his pants.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Moultrie Bay, SC

  August 6, A.M.

  Donal tried to ignore the alarm but finally surrendered to the shrill buzz. He reached out and slapped the off button atop the clock, which skittered across the bedside table top, fell from the edge, and clattered across floorboards. The cat, startled by the sudden interruption of its sleep, ran out from under the bed ready to do battle, back humped, hair bristled, tail fat.

  Victoria stretched and said, “Six forty, Monday morning lover. Up. Back to the real world.”

  “Hmnun,” Donal muttered into the pillow. He shoved an arm out from beneath the sheet, reaching for Victoria. “Come over here, babe. You're my real world.”

  “Get up, you randy goat.”

  “Baaa,” he bleated, rolled over and sat up, running fingers through his hair.

  The cat back under the bed reached out and poked Donal's ankle with a sharp claw.

  “Ow, dammit.” Donal pulled his feet up out of the cat's reach. He asked, “Columbia stint ever going to end, babe?”

  The cat jumped up onto the bed and Victoria petted her. “Soon, I think. Professor Harper is recuperating. He'll be back soon. I hope. When I agreed to teach his class I didn't bargain for this much temporary duty time. Never thought the Ph.D. would turn me into an itinerant.” She shooed the cat from the bed.

  “You don't look like a wandering bum.” Donal laughed.

  “What's so funny?” Victoria sat on the edge of the bed, snuggling against his chest.

  He kissed her neck.

  “Umm. She pulled away from him.

  Don't smell like Hennessey.”

  “What’s this Hennessey stuff?”

  Donal tightened his arms around her. “Never mind.”

  “Come on, get up. My plane leaves in two hours. You promised to get me to the airport.”

  Donal drove back to town from the Hilton Head Airport and pulled the car to the curb in front of Nikko's store front restaurant. Entering, he took the sports section of the fishwrap, more properly, The Moultrie Bay Gazette, from the pile of papers on the counter and found an empty stool. “Fifty bucks says this new kid O’Toole takes the PGA.”

  Nikko, the owner-cook and extra pair of eyes and ears for Donal, drew coffee and slid a mug across the counter. “Nah. The kid’s a hitter. Gets wild off the tee. He doesn’t like the tight courses.” Nikko cracked a pair of eggs, sliding them from their shells to the griddle. He flipped a pile of onion/potatoes and pressed bacon strips to a sizzle with the back of his spatula. He buttered a bare spot on the griddle and poured hotcake batter. “A grip it and rip it player. No finesse.”

  “Ha, no one putts like the guy. Put some money where your mouth is?”

  “Gimme strokes.”

  “Whoa. You're the guy says O’Toole cant do it.”

  “All right. Even.”

  “Bet.”

  Nikko shrugged. “Be a easy fifty.” He placed a heaped plate, cholesterol special --bacon, eggs, home fries, hotcakes, and buttered toast-- in front of Donal.

  Donal syruped the hotcakes and peppered the eggs and potatoes black.

  “You order food to hold up the pepper,” Nikko stated.

  Donal grunted an incomprehensible rejoinder.

  A disreputable wino sat two stools away nursing a cup of coffee. Nikko pour
ed a shot of Four Roses into the wino's coffee and said, “Come on, Hennessey, drink it and get the hell out. You stink up the place.”

  Private Billy Blue, Sheriff's patrol, holder of the dubious distinction of greatest seniority among Sheriff's Deputies without ever having been promoted, perched on a wobbly counter stool. Dressed in grease encrusted jeans, a ripped khaki jacket, and a baseball cap with a Caterpillar Diesel patch he looked as bad as Hennessey. He was exhausted and irritable from another long night undercover harassing hustlers and hookers.

  “Yeah, move it, Hennessey,” said Blue, echoing Nikko. “Go on outside and do something, break a law. Get your skinny ass thrown in the County jail. They'll make sure that you get a shower.”

  “Aw, bull,” responded Hennessey. “You cops is all mout. You never pick me up no more.”

  “You can thank your fuckin’ ACLU for that,” Blue threw in. “Defender of the little guy's liberties; protector of downtrodden bums like you.”

  “What the fuck is a ALU,” muttered Hennessey, wandering out the door?

  “ACLU, dummy,” Blue shouted at Hennessey's retreating back.

  Other characters lined the scarred red Formica counter

  and filled the six wobbly tables in the small restaurant. The County and Federal District courts were a block and a half away and between the cops and the crooks the place was always filled with weirdoes.

  Donal finished his breakfast and tossed the fishwrap onto Nikko's counter.

  Donal dialed and waited. A singsong voice came over the line, “Trent, Goodsell, Archer, and Windsor, Attorneys at Law.”

  “May I speak with Attorney Joan Wiley, please? This is John Donal calling.”

  “Attorney Wiley was married last week and she is on her honeymoon. Her married name is Capers. Could anyone else assist you?”

  “Perhaps. Is another Attorney in the firm familiar with

  the Joseph Della Porta estate?”

  “I'll connect you with Attorney Archer.”