Read Online SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3) by Lawrence de Maria - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lawrence de Maria
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aristocratic trappings to serve the Communists and then moving to America to become that most capitalist of institutions, a crime family.
“We’ve had these scares before,” Arman continued. “He will bounce back. By the way, I saw you looking down Lara’s blouse, Alton. What would Alice say?”
“She would worry if I didn’t.”
“How is she?”
“She’s leaving for Paris on a sabbatical. The Sorbonne.”
Arman looked at me closely.
“How long?”
“At least six months.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I think it sucks. For me. But it’s a wonderful opportunity for her.”
“You can always visit her.”
“You in the relationship business now, Arman?”
He smiled.
“A woman like her does not come along very often, my friend. Six months is nothing.”
“It might be longer.”
He put out his hand and I took it. Then he turned and went back into the house. Kalugin didn’t. In fact, he opened the car door for me.
“That Polack priest,” he said, “is no fool.”
“What does that mean?”
“If he says there was murder, there was murder.”
CHAPTER 8 -- BAGELS
After I left the Rahms, I called Cormac Levine in the District Attorney’s office in St. George, where he had recently been reinstated to his old job.
“Come on down,” he said. “You know that bagel place on the corner by the courthouse?”
“You want to meet me in a bagel shop?”
“No, Sherlock. I want you to bring in some bagels. Hold on.” I heard him talking to people in the background. Jesus Christ. He was taking orders. “OK. One sesame with cream cheese, two cinnamon raisin with butter and a toasted plain with low-fat margarine. Four coffees, black. The java in here would take the paint off a cesspool. We got a fridge. We’ll do our own milk and sugar. And get whatever you like. Not that we’re paying.”
“You sure nobody wants a turkey club or a pizza?”
“Hold on, I’ll ask.”
He was serious. I broke the connection before I had to rent a U-Haul. It was turning out to be a humbling day. Both the crooks and the cops had me running errands.
As usual, parking around Borough Hall was at a premium. The municipal lots were jammed because of the overflow from the commuter lots still recovering from the storm, The side streets were full of cars owned by the men and women who worked in Borough Hall, the courts, the St. George Precinct, the D.A.’s office and the many other government offices in the area. It seemed that every car had an official sticker in the window. It drove local merchants crazy, since potential customers were limited to a few metered spots. The local paper, surprising everyone, actually had the nerve to write an article about the abuses but nothing seemed to have changed. I did hear, however, that the paper’s delivery trucks were running up more moving violations than normal.
By some miracle, I found an unoccupied meter almost directly in front of the bagel shop. I didn’t know how long I’d be and wasn’t willing to risk a $125 parking ticket, so I reached into my glove compartment and pulled out my “Marine Corps Chaplain” emblem and threw it on my dashboard. It was, of course, bogus. Navy chaplains take care of the Marines. For added measure I hung some rosary beads off my rear view mirror.
In the bagel shop I made sure to tell the Pakistani owner that I was picking up an order for the “police” and wondered if he could keep my meter up to date while I was with the “District Attorney.” He sighed resignedly but brightened when I insisted on paying for my order and gave him an extra $20 for his trouble. I was pretty sure that wouldn’t have happened in Karachi, where he might be told to watch the meter if he ever wanted to see his family again.
I had bought a couple extra of everything to give to the guards in the lobby of the D.A.’s building. I was carrying so many food bags one of them asked me if the private investigation business was slow. He
“We’ve had these scares before,” Arman continued. “He will bounce back. By the way, I saw you looking down Lara’s blouse, Alton. What would Alice say?”
“She would worry if I didn’t.”
“How is she?”
“She’s leaving for Paris on a sabbatical. The Sorbonne.”
Arman looked at me closely.
“How long?”
“At least six months.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I think it sucks. For me. But it’s a wonderful opportunity for her.”
“You can always visit her.”
“You in the relationship business now, Arman?”
He smiled.
“A woman like her does not come along very often, my friend. Six months is nothing.”
“It might be longer.”
He put out his hand and I took it. Then he turned and went back into the house. Kalugin didn’t. In fact, he opened the car door for me.
“That Polack priest,” he said, “is no fool.”
“What does that mean?”
“If he says there was murder, there was murder.”
CHAPTER 8 -- BAGELS
After I left the Rahms, I called Cormac Levine in the District Attorney’s office in St. George, where he had recently been reinstated to his old job.
“Come on down,” he said. “You know that bagel place on the corner by the courthouse?”
“You want to meet me in a bagel shop?”
“No, Sherlock. I want you to bring in some bagels. Hold on.” I heard him talking to people in the background. Jesus Christ. He was taking orders. “OK. One sesame with cream cheese, two cinnamon raisin with butter and a toasted plain with low-fat margarine. Four coffees, black. The java in here would take the paint off a cesspool. We got a fridge. We’ll do our own milk and sugar. And get whatever you like. Not that we’re paying.”
“You sure nobody wants a turkey club or a pizza?”
“Hold on, I’ll ask.”
He was serious. I broke the connection before I had to rent a U-Haul. It was turning out to be a humbling day. Both the crooks and the cops had me running errands.
As usual, parking around Borough Hall was at a premium. The municipal lots were jammed because of the overflow from the commuter lots still recovering from the storm, The side streets were full of cars owned by the men and women who worked in Borough Hall, the courts, the St. George Precinct, the D.A.’s office and the many other government offices in the area. It seemed that every car had an official sticker in the window. It drove local merchants crazy, since potential customers were limited to a few metered spots. The local paper, surprising everyone, actually had the nerve to write an article about the abuses but nothing seemed to have changed. I did hear, however, that the paper’s delivery trucks were running up more moving violations than normal.
By some miracle, I found an unoccupied meter almost directly in front of the bagel shop. I didn’t know how long I’d be and wasn’t willing to risk a $125 parking ticket, so I reached into my glove compartment and pulled out my “Marine Corps Chaplain” emblem and threw it on my dashboard. It was, of course, bogus. Navy chaplains take care of the Marines. For added measure I hung some rosary beads off my rear view mirror.
In the bagel shop I made sure to tell the Pakistani owner that I was picking up an order for the “police” and wondered if he could keep my meter up to date while I was with the “District Attorney.” He sighed resignedly but brightened when I insisted on paying for my order and gave him an extra $20 for his trouble. I was pretty sure that wouldn’t have happened in Karachi, where he might be told to watch the meter if he ever wanted to see his family again.
I had bought a couple extra of everything to give to the guards in the lobby of the D.A.’s building. I was carrying so many food bags one of them asked me if the private investigation business was slow. He
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