SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3) by Lawrence de Maria Read Free Book Online

radiator ledge next to the window with the fly smear. I opened the window.
    “Try to blow the smoke out, Father. If Abby gets a whiff, you’ll be giving me the Last Rites.”
    “I am not a coffee drinker, Mr. Rhode, but I understand that most private investigators keep a bottle of something stronger in their desk.”
    I laughed.
    “You’ve read too many thriller novels.”
    Truth was, I’d just relocated my bottle. I walked over to the small fridge in the corner.
    “Bourbon all right?”
    I held up a bottle of Rebel Yell.
    “It’s not vodka, but beggars cannot be choosers, my son.”
    I poured him a drink in one of the coffee cups sitting on the fridge. It was just past 10 AM, a little early for me, but an old master sergeant told me once that letting a man drink alone was a court martial offense in his book. Most of what I knew about life came from old sergeants. I poured myself a stiff shot.
    “I am not a whiskey priest, if that’s what you are thinking, Mr. Rhode. I would not have made it to this age if I were.” We clinked cups and took swallows. “But a man without vices is not a man. As I said, I prefer vodka, but this is excellent. Thank you.” 
    He took his cup to the window and lit up an unfiltered Camel. While he smoked and drank at the window, I sipped my bourbon and read the other material attached to each obituary. It was a mixed bag. Each pile contained printouts of what was obviously Internet searches that basically augmented the information in the obituaries. There were also some other newspaper clippings about the men’s businesses and other activities, mostly social or related to sports.
    John Clifton, 62, owned a Ford dealership in Oldbridge, New Jersey. His face was a frequent advertising presence on local cable television, but I’d never met him.
    Ralph Lydecker, 60, ran the family lumber business in Mariners Harbor. Lydecker Lumber was well known on Staten Island, having been established in 1898. Ralph was the latest Lydecker to run the place. I met him once or twice when I needed some supplies during my periodic bursts of home improvements. Nice fellow, as I recalled, who didn’t necessarily try to sell you the most expensive material in his yard. I wondered who was running the business now. With all the rebuilding that would follow the recent storm, Lydecker Lumber would do very well.
    I also knew, or at least had seen, Mario Spinelli, who owned the Spinelli Home for Funerals in Pleasant Plains. I had been to one or two wakes in his parlor. His was the most recent media clipping, since there was a story about his generosity in providing free funeral services, including caskets, for two reclusive drowning victims of the Superstorm whose bodies had not been claimed.    
    All three men were active in various associations related to their parish, Our Lady of Solace. Their participation as coaches of various parish basketball and baseball teams, as well as those in the borough-wide Catholic Youth Organization, was also highlighted in clips from the parish newsletter that Father Zapo had compiled. All had died suddenly, of apparent heart attacks. Clifton and Spinelli at home, a few hours after dinner; Lydecker while playing golf. I compared the dates of their demise. They were roughly spaced a year apart, with Clifton’s death the most recent, just over two months ago. All left widows, and a total of seven grown children among them.
    “I have a lot more information,” Father Zapo said as he sat back down after two cigarettes, “but frankly, it’s not much different from what you have in front of you. I didn’t think I had to copy everything. Besides, Monsignor Barilla keeps a close eye on our Xerox machine. It’s got some sort of counter on it. We each have a code. Isabella is kind enough to do some of my copying for me, using her code, but I don’t like to abuse the situation and perhaps get her in trouble.”
    “Isabella?”
    “Yes. Isabella Donner, one of the young women in