THE CARBON STEEL CARESS Page 7

  “Fine. Mr. Archer would be fine.”

  “Ms. Archer. Attorney Lillian Archer.”

  “Her then.” The switchboard operator’s tone annoyed Donal.

  “Yes, sir. I'll connect you.”

  “Mr. Donal,” A severe near baritone female voice boomed. “This is Lillian Archer. How may I help you?”

  “I'm investigating the Della Porta murder and I had hoped to speak with Attorney Wiley ...err, Capers.”

  “She's away. Honeymoon.” The voice sounded disapproving; of honeymoons, of marriage, and most of all, of men.

  “Ms. Archer, it's urgent that I speak with someone who is knowledgeable about the late Mr. Della Porta's legal affairs and business dealings.”

  “That would be Attorney Capers.”

  Donal felt that he was caught in a series of revolving doors.

  “And you, Ms. Archer.”

  “I'm privy to some information.”

  “I'd like to look through the estate records.”

  “Mr. Donal, I don't believe”

  “Don't believe what?” Donal cut her short, patience gone.

  “We are not free to divulge client information. Lawyer client relationship.”

  “You have no client, Ms Archer. Both Mr. and Mrs. Della Porta are dead. Mrs. Della Porta was heir to her husband's estate and she died intestate. My client, Anthony Androlini, her brother, is the residual legatee.”

  “You're an Attorney?”

  “Among other things,” Donal snapped.

  “No need for you to be short with me, sir.”

  “Do I look at the papers?”

  “On whose authority, Mr. Donal?”

  “My client's authority, Ms. Archer.”

  “Don't try to bluff me, sir.'

  “Believe me, Ms. Archer, I'm not bluffing.”

  “The validity of your clients claim is a court decision, not yours or his.”

  “Fine. I'll get a court order if that's what it takes.”

  “No court order would be granted on your flimsy claim of representation.”

  “Don't tell me the law.”

  “Our law firm will cooperate as far as is ethical, Mr.

  Donal. Mrs. Capers may be in the office tomorrow. I'll have her contact you.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Archer.”

  That tooth pulling battle done, Donal dropped the receiver in the cradle and turned to the list that Androlini had given him. William Rumors, Carlo Genevese, Marc Antonio Rudella, three hard cases from up North. He took car keys from his desk, deciding on a trip to Hilton Head to visit with Carlo 'Three Fingers' Genevese, a hood that he had known as a kid in Philadelphia. He dropped a note with the other two names on Mike's desk and left the office.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Moultrie Bay SC

  August 6, PM

  Capers held the door of the BMW as the woman slid onto the front seat. Moth clouds circled the halogen globes atop the ornate lamp standards that flanked the driveway. The humid August night exacerbated the blond man's foul mood. “Your Mother is a pain in the ass.” He slammed the car door, marched around the vehicle, and got into the car. He turned the engine over and twisted the air-conditioner's temperature control knob to its coolest position.

  The woman, a defensive note to her voice, said, “I know she can be tough to take but she is my mother.” She pulled her light shawl onto her shoulders to counteract the blast of icy air flowing into the car's interior.

  “What's that supposed to mean? She's your mother all right, and she's a bore. Your stuffy goddamn father isn't any fucking better.”

  “Drop it. We don't see that much of them.” Privately Joan Woely-Capers agreed with her husband's assessment of both her mother and her father, but she wasn't about to jeopardize what would eventually be a sizable inheritance. And, she didn't want to listen to what had become her husband's irritating litany of complaints about her family either. She fought an urge to say more. Better to keep peace, she thought.

  Capers drove in silence toward Moultrie Bay. Approaching the Woodrow H. Melton swing bridge that spanned the Intracoastal Waterway and that, like other bridges throughout South Carolina, was dedicated to a gunned down State policeman, he finally said, “next time you visit them alone.”

  “All right dammit, I will,” she snapped, ignoring her just a moment before resolve to keep peace. “Changing the subject, I'm going to lose money on the Della Porta diamonds.”

  “How can you lose money? The damn diamonds didn't cost you anything.”

  “Like hell.”

  “What did they cost?” Capers slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “They were a gift from the woman.”

  “Oh, stop that nonsense. It’s business and I expect top dollar.”

  “You think it's a business, I don't.”

  “Don't hand me that. I never noticed that you were uninterested in what we 'acquired' in the course of our extracurricular activities. The proceeds provided the capital for you to invest in that goddamn airplane. Personal jets aren't small ticket items.”

  The acid in the woman's tone further ignited Caper’s temper, stirring the migraine. “Money's not my main interest. Obviously it is yours.”

  “The money is the game.”

  “Forget it, just get rid of the stones.”

  “When I get my price.”

  “Sell them in Savannah. Clearey will take them.”

  “That would be really stupid. Clearey was dickering with Della Porta. I don't know if Della Porta showed the diamonds to him but it's possible that he did. Clearey could recognize them.” She paused, thinking, “it's a damn shame I can't sell to him, he pays well.”

  Capers attempted to curb his anger. He had a different game to play. And he needed Joan as an appreciative spectator if not a participant. “I'm trying to tell you, the pleasure pays the discount,” he said.

  Joan went on as if Capers hadn't spoken. “I'll get rid of them through Arnie Van Heerden. He knows Colombians looking for ways to invest their coke dollars. Arnie will get me a decent price.”

  “Stop worrying about money? We have more than we need.”

  “I don't do this to get ripped off.”

  Capers, furious that his attempt to mollify his wife had fallen on deaf ears, pulled into the short brick drive of their Craven Street house. “Deal the goddamn stones off to whoever you want to. I don't give a fuck what you get for them. It bores me.” He slammed the driver's door, leaving his wife in the car, and stormed into the house.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Moultrie Bay, SC

  August 7

  Late Tuesday morning Donal arrived at the offices of Trent, Goodsell, Archer, and Windsor. Attorney Capers had called his office early and left a message that she was free to discuss the Della Porta legal affairs with him at eleven thirty.

  Donal was met as he stepped into the office anteroom by a gaunt, six foot three inch, henna-haired woman wearing a mantailored shark skin suit. She tightened her nostrils as she peered through her bifocals. She looked as if she were smelling something left behind by a dog. She introduced herself as Lillian Archer and extended a bony hand, attempted conciliation, a failure; her demeanor simply not conciliatory. She fell back on a feeble attempt to defend her brusqueness of the preceding day. Hers was somewhat confusing behavior as Donal had put their previous days argument from his mind seconds after their phone conversation and, now, had no clue as to the why of her oddball stumblings.

  Joan Wiley Capers rescued Donal from the woman. “Lillian's a pill. I've tendered my resignation and she thinks my spending time on your questions is slacking. She feels that I owe every minute of the the few days to billable hours.” Joan lead the P.I. through the reception area of the office suite, down a wide hall to her office. She seated herself at a highly polished cherrywood conference table. Donal took a seat across the table. A notepad and two newly sharpened pencils were placed in front of Donal's chair. To Donal's right were neat stacks of ledgers and files marked, 'D
ella Porta.

  “I understand from Lillian you are an attorney as well as a private investigator, Mr. Donal,” she said. “Odd combination.”

  “Not really. I was a cop before I became a lawyer. When I finished law school, I found that I was still more interested in investigation than practicing law.”

  “You were a policeman here in Moultrie Bay?”

  “No. State Patrol.”

  “Did you go to law school in South Carolina?”

  “USC. Nights.”

  “Must have been tough.”

  “It’s tough no matter how you do it. You did it so you know. Are you a product of one of our State law schools?”

  “No. Yale.”

  “Good school.” Donal somehow felt that law school hadn’t been quite as tough for Joan Wiley Capers as it might have been for folks like himself who slogged through at night and on weekends. She had an aura that said money, connections, more money, more connections, and still more money. Nice aura, Donal thought. He suspected that her resignation was to make way for bigger and better things.

  “Shall we get down to work, Mr. Donal? I’m sure that your time is valuable.”

  Donal translated. Attorney Joan Wiley Capers’ time was very valuable.

  But she fooled the detective. She worked with him for more than two hours, providing files on Joe Della Porta's estate records and transcripts of Della Porta’s court battles that the she had handled. She went over Della Porta's will point by point, patiently explaining trust arrangements and codicils. She pleasantly and professionally answered Donal’s long list of questions.

  Donal found nothing in the files to provide the slightest hint that the Della Porta business and legal affairs were were in any way shady They contained nothing that could be connected to the murder.

  Joan Wiley Capers concluded the meeting. “That’s everything I know about the Della Porta family affairs, Mr. Donal. Mr. Della Porta’s dealings with the firm were fairly extensive, as you can see. We handled import and export license requirements for him and, of course, his personal legal affairs. I’ve gone over all of those with you. I hope the information that I provided will be of some help.”

  Joan Wiley-Capers accompanied Donal from her office to the elevator. There, she linked her arm through that of a lean, blond man who had been waiting in the anteroom. “I’d like you to meet my husband,” she said. “Micah, this is John Donal. Mr. Donal is a private investigator looking into the Della Porta murder.”

  Capers shook hands with the P.I.. “A dreadful crime.

  Horrible.” He paused for a second, and then continued, “I’m in no hurry. If you two have more business to complete I can wait.”

  “No, we’ve finished,” Joan said. “Would you join us for lunch, Mr. Donal?”

  “Thanks, I’d like that, but I’11 have to pass. He glanced at his Rolex. “Another committment. Sorry. Gotta go.”

  Donal fed the cat some leftover bits of Veal Francais that Victoria had brought home from their dinner on Saturday at the Plantation House Inn. Victoria, the cat’s fav, always brought a kitty bag. The cat meowed appreciation.

  Changed from suit to casual clothes, Donal drove back the Sheriff's offices. He picked up Hook at curbside. They drove to Nikko's greasy spoon. Donal's gastronomic tastes covered the culinary spectrum. Veal Francais one meal; burgers and onion rings another. Didn't much matter to him; he seldom met chow he didn't like.

  At an alcove table Donal said, “Nothing useful in the estate records, A.J.. That end of Joe Della Porta's life was clean.”

  “Worth the try,” Hook replied. “By the way, Bucko, an Attorney Archer called the C.E. yesterday morning about you. Gave Dru an earful.”

  “Bitch trying to sic a sister on me, huh?”

  “Yeah. She told Drucilla you were abusive. Complained that you were interfering with the lawyer-client relationship and screamed to have your license lifted. Dru's a tough cookie. She listened to Archer's line of bullcrap for a couple of minutes and then blasted her.”

  “I figured someone spoke to Archer. She tried making peace this morning. It didn't work. Her heart wasn't in it. But, what the hell, she tried.

  “How come the C.E. suddenly changed her position? You keep telling me she doesn't want me involved.”

  “She found out that you're representing Tony Androlini.

  Drucilla ain't stupid. Tony's a mover and shaker in Moultrie County and Dru knows who spreads the jam on her political bread. No way she'll get on the wrong side of Androlini.

  “After Lillian Archer called to complain about you, 'her honor' touched base with Harry Trent, the senior partner in the law firm. She and Trent have been hunkered down in the political trenches together for God only knows how long. The C.E. had herself a pure D belly-laugh when she told me that Trent described Archer as a prune with a parchment. Said he'd have a crack at straightening her out. He promised Drucilla that at least he'd make sure you got cooperation. Did you?”

  “In spades. Attorney Capers gave me everything I asked for but nothing was helpful.”

  “Well, the wind blew some good, Johnny. Our dear County Exec has ordered me to show you every consideration.” Hook smiled a canary eating cat smile. He had his buddy in on the investigation and he had his bosses blessing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Moultrie Bay, SC

  August 8

  Mid-morning sun slanted through the kitchen window and picked out burnished highlights of the copper cookware depended from the wrought iron rack affixed to the high ceiling. Capers and Joan sat together at the center island. Behind them, racked wine bottles glittered in the sunlight. The woman, pensive --rolling her coffee cup between her palms--finally broke a long silence. “It's senseless. We barely speak to each other.”

  Capers folded the magazine section of the Sunday Charleston Post and Courier to a celebrity profile. He put the magazine section down and looked at his wife. “Boredom. Getting married was a mistake.”

  “How can you ...

  “Look, routine isn’t for me.”

  “Routine,” she echoed.

  “Yes, dammit.” Capers stood, walked across the room, and poured coffee. He stirred sugar into the steaming black liquid. “No one knows but you and me.”

  “What do you mean, no one knows?” Joan stared at him, eyebrows raised, expression quizzical.

  “I'm speaking English. Don't parrot my words as if you don't understand me.”

  “I don't understand. We don't want anyone to know.”

  “Don't we?”

  “What?”

  “Our sectets pale my darling. They simply aren’t as rewarding as they once were.”

  “What about the stones? Aren't they reward enough?

  We've amassed a fortune.”

  “Bah. They're nothing.” Caper’s eyes narrowed, warning his wife that she was near the precipice of his patience. “It's time we upped the ante.”

  “How?”

  “Do something exciting. We've been dealing with ciphers. Nobodies.”

  Joan furrowed her brow. “You elude me. Why should we change? We've succeeded.”

  “Succeeded to be bored,” Caper’s sneered. “On Hilton Head you said that you could cure boredom. Well, baby, you lost your touch.” Caper’s abruptly left the kitchen, returning with car keys in his hand.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the airport.”

  “I'l1 come with you.”

  “No.”

  “Please, don't go. We have to talk.”

  Capers stared coldly, turned, and left the house.

  Joan went into their bedroom taking with her the

  folded Post and Courier Sunday magazine section that he had left. She glanced at the article on Claudia Chatrian that the Capers had been reading and then tossed the magazine onto the bedside table. She parted the bedroom curtains, and stood, watching as her husband backed the car from the driveway and turned toward the Woodrow H. Melton memorial bridge.

  Their fragile r
elationship, built on perverted lust, risk, and the ultimate thrill of murder, was crumbling. The apex had been reached on their wedding night with Marie Della Porta's murder and the grotesque consummation of their marriage on their victim's blood fouled bed. He was tiring of her. She was boring him.

  Joan winced as his words echoed in her mind. Their first days together had been perfect, better by far than her most intimate fantasy dreams. Then he had found her special, challenging. Then he had loved her. Then she had believed his love would be forever. She'd never conceived the possibility of his love failing.

  ... Lying together in bed on the evening after their first murder together, Capers had asked her how she knew about the cache of diamonds in the Hilton head villa. Sixty three perfect stones, weighing from one and a half to five carats. Their value well in excess of a million dollars even after the deep discount she had to accept to deal them off for quiet cash.

  At first evasive, she reconsidered and decided to come straight out with it. She said, the villa belonged to Cosimo Belgardo. He was a wine merchant with sidelines. One was dealing in hot diamonds. Belgardo and I were acquainted. He liked to brag in bed.

  Capers hadn't responded, seemingly he didn’t care about her having had sex with Belgardo, and she had hurried on with her story, disconcerted by the lack of expression in his slate grey eyes. -Not all men, not you, she had continued-- I’ve heard that you're different. Sam told me ...

  His eyes had hardened and he had grasped her wrist, easily encircling it with his long fingers.

  -Wolfe talks too much. What did he say?

  She had attempted to pull away.

  -Let me go.

  He had increased the pressure.

  -Answer me.

  Defiant, she ignored the pain.

  -I said let go of my wrist.

  -I asked you a question Cunt.

  -Don't you play rough with me, you bastard.