Marathon Murders

By Steve Orlandella

Thriller! Ex-baseball player Vic Landell, Florida's favorite private investigator, is off to Boston to help his father Pete Landell, retired Lieutenant of Detectives in the Boston Police Department, find the killer of his former partner John "Jack" Flynn, Sergeant of Detectives, Boston PD. Vic's girlfriend Marcia "the redhead" Glenn, attorney and television news anchor, goes along to help. What unfolds is more than simple murder. The Landells and the redhead run into thugs, smugglers, two men who are out to kill them, and a luscious blonde from Vic Landell’s past. The plot unfolds against the background of the Boston Marathon as seen through the eyes of our sarcastic, sardonic, sometimes jealous hero. In “Marathon Murders”, there is something for everybody – crime, intrigue, baseball, glamour, romance, television, history, and a six-foot redhead playing poker with the mob. A compelling read for those who love crime fiction, mystery and romance. “Marathon Murders – a Vic Landell Mystery.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay W. MacIntosh
• Release date: Feb 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370340033

Steve Orlandella

Steve Orlandella (1950 - 2016) spent his career working in television, most of it in baseball. He studied broadcasting, history, and theatre at California State University, Northridge. While working on his degrees, he joined the University staff as Producer-Director of Educational TV. In 1979, he joined KTLA Channel 5 in Los Angeles as a news producer, senior sports producer, and director of "News at Ten". In 1985, he was promoted to KTLA's Supervising Producer/Director. He produced and directed entertainment programs, Angels baseball, and Clippers basketball games. In 1987, he worked for MCA/Universal as Producer of Media for the Merchandizing/Licensing Division, later becoming an independent producer/director. He produced winter and summer Olympic specials, Kings hockey games, promos and commercials for Z-Channel and Sportschannel, and directed boxing, pro and college basketball. In 1993, he became Producer for Dodgers Baseball for nine seasons. He won Golden Mikes, Associated Press Awards, and was nominated for Emmys twelve times. He received two Emmys for his work with the Dodgers. In 2005, he launched Steve Orlandella Productions and Ormac Press. His published works include "Burden of Proof", "Capitol Murder", "Marathon Murders", "Dance with Death", "Midtown Mayhem", "Titanic", "The Game", and "Stevespeak".

Book preview

What’s in a Name?

He was born on a farm in Maryland. He served his country in the First World War and became ill with the Spanish flu and later contracted tuberculosis – spending most of his time in the Army as a patient in a Washington hospital. As a result of his illness, he could not live full-time with his wife and two daughters, and the marriage fell apart. He was a firm believer in the notion that you write about what you know. And since he was an alcoholic, his two most famous characters were, as well. He devoted much of the rest of his life to unpopular causes. He wore his country’s uniform again in the Second World War. His reward? After the war, he was investigated by Congress and testified before the House Un-American Activities Committee about his own life, but he refused to cooperate with the committee. As a result – he was blacklisted. He was sixty-six when lung cancer took his life. In his obituary, The New York Times said of him, the dean of the 'hard-boiled' school of detective fiction. For any fan of mysteries, his name is said with a smile. For someone like me who would love to be just a poor copy of the original, it is said with reverence. Samuel Dashiell Hammett – It is to him that this book is humbly dedicated.

OVERTURE

It is one for the books – the winter of 2014-15. Our nation in general, and Massachusetts, in particular, has taken a pounding. In Boston, by the middle of March, the all-time snow record is broken. It seems as if snowstorms are stacked up over Logan, waiting their turn to land. Arctic air from Canada, lake effect from the west, and the word no New Englander wants to hear in the dead of winter, or for that matter, in the spring. The Northwest has torrential rains; the Midwest has blizzards; and the Southern Plains have tornadoes. But the East Coast sometimes receives all three at once – in the form of a Nor'easter.

Your local weatherman will tell you a Nor'easter is a macro-scale storm along the East Coast of the United States. To a Bostonian, that is far too genteel a description – it is pure hell. Nor’easters can cause severe coastal flooding, coastal erosion, hurricane force winds, and whiteout conditions. By the third week in March, the City is just getting back on its feet, but the past winter has given a whole new meaning to the phrase, Boston Strong.

Florida, for the most part, passes through Dante’s Icebox relatively unscathed. We get our usual three days of freezing north of Orlando, and the orange growers bring their windmills and smudge pots out to protect their precious crops. On Siesta Key, we receive a small amount of rain and a few cool days, but for the most part, we skate on through. Don’t hate us too much.

Chapter 1 – 02/15/15, The Rites of Spring

Today is the first day of spring. Now, before you tap dance on my windpipe and explain to me how it’s March 21st that heralds the arrival of better weather, consider this. I aced Astronomy at Boston College. I know all about the vernal equinox. I know that it’s the point at which the ecliptic intersects the celestial equator with the sun having a northerly motion. But, pitchers and catchers have reported to the Pirates camp in Bradenton. My beloved Red Sox are domiciled down the road in Ft. Myers, while six miles up the Trail, the Orioles are setting up shop at Ed Smith Field. In this house today is the first day of spring.

My girlfriend and rising star – in that order, please – feels exactly the same way, with a caveat. Her heart is twenty-five hundred miles to the west in Scottsdale. The Arizona desert is the spring home of her long-suffering Cubbies. It has been a hundred and seven years since the last time they won a World Series with only their mantra to sustain them - Wait ‘til next year! Over a century of ineptitude with the prospect of still more on the horizon. A fact not lost on their poor, wretched fan base, including arguably their tallest rooter, Marcia Colleen Glenn.

Our life together is changing. After three years in the exclusive employ of WWSB, the ABC affiliate in our town, the redhead signed on the dotted line with the Network. The Net sees her, among other things, as the replacement for Barbara Walters. But The Marce’s new career path only requires her to labor about twelve weeks out of the year, so my little redheaded workaholic has held on to her anchor chair at WWSB.

For your humble servant, the investigation business continues at a pace. It is a never-ending source of amazement to me what people can lose – cars, boats, diamond rings, along with the ever-popular spouses. And when a valuable disappears, they call me. Add to that my old standby – following horny husbands and wayward wives, and you have a reasonably full plate.

Now let’s discuss politics. This past September, a gunman fired two shots into the back of our Congressman Robert Martin. Robbie’s death led to the defeat of his signature legislation, the Florida Wetlands Bill. His widow Sandee has picked up Martin’s fallen flag. She is a friend and odds-on to replace her husband in the House of Representatives. Both The Marce and I have been campaigning for her whenever possible.

And now the stunner – two weeks ago the mountain came to Muhammad. My father Pete Landell, former Captain of Detectives, temporarily deserted his home on Cape Cod to spend a glorious month in the warmth of Florida. Of course, the day he arrived, it came down in buckets. Could have predicted that one. Regardless, the Oracle of Falmouth is now the Oracle of Sarasota.

All of this brings us to the rites of spring, well the one rite of spring around here. Let’s call it part rite-part national holiday, because on the 22nd of March, my never-ending redhead turns 32. Yours truly is attempting to pull off what is most likely the impossible - a surprise party. The Marce is a reporter, meaning she is equal parts six-foot goddess and bloodhound. Here we go, my cunning and guile up against her nose – and legs – for news.

The venue will be the backyard of my home on Siesta Key. Since this is Florida and set to start at 1pm, it will obviously be a pool party. I have the requisite swimming pool and Jacuzzi plus a little bonus – a 15-foot Boston Whaler tied to my dock.

Now for the guest list. What began in my mind as a small, intimate party for a few friends has grown completely out of proportion. First on the list is her boss – WWSB news director Diane Kallan. She’ll be the front man for the entire staff and crew of the 5pm news. An instant mob scene and a chance for the staffers to run rough shod over my liquor cabinet. Along with them will, of course, come "Mucho Pompaso himself. Hal Dishman is his name. He is the redhead’s co-anchor, and his nickname explains the rest. Add to that a half-dozen reporters, two sportscasters, and a couple of weather bunnies," as The Marce would say – Ta-da, instant party!

And I’m just getting started. My father who had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, to Logan Airport in Boston, has decided to stay an extra month. Why? To spend a little more time with his son? Puh-leeze! Five years after the death of my sainted mother, he has found someone else to love – the fairways and greens of the Prestancia Golf Club. That’s one guest room gone. The other is soon to become the BOQ of my older brother, Tommie. BOQ is what the Navy calls bachelor officer’s quarters. My brother is definitely an officer – a Lieutenant Commander. He is a member of VFA-1o3, the legendary Jolly Rogers, and flies an F-18 Hornet off the deck of the USS Abraham Lincoln. And he is most definitely a bachelor. In my life, I’ve had my share of women – all right, more than my share, but my brother makes me look like a first timer. Growing up, we competed for everything – especially girls. I used to be able to hold my own, but no more. Not since he trotted out the ultimate weapon – a dress white Naval Officer’s uniform. So, the advisory is going out to all the single women in Sarasota and Manatee Counties.

The Ritz-Landell will be full to the brim. The out-of-towners will have to find other lodging. Out-of-towners? Well, as a famous redhead would say, Yup. The first call goes to Austin, Texas, home of Katelyn Glenn Johnson and her husband, Nick. She is, by nineteen months, the older sister of the redhead and plucked from the same magic gene pool – another stunner – 8.5 at least. She is also a valuable reference source about her younger sibling as well as the person who gave her the first of oh, so many nicknames, The Marce.

Katelyn and her husband met when she was nineteen and a freshman at the University of Texas. Nicolas Johnson was a junior studying to be, what else, a lawyer. They dated through college and married shortly after she graduated. No dumb brunette, she exited with a degree in Chemistry. Like so many other Longhorns, the couple decided they wanted to stay in Austin. Surveys say it’s the most livable city in the country. Obviously, the guy who took the survey has never been to Sarasota. Nick has been in practice for ten years, and they have two children, a boy and a girl. The girl’s middle name is Marcia. So…

Katelyn!

Well, Vic! Still looking for your fastball?

Yes, it runs in the family.

How are you?

Pretty good.

And my little sister?

Same as always, working on her plan to take over the world.

She’s laughing because she knows it true.

Laugh now, you won’t think it’s so funny when you have to bow down to her.

You bet I can because you’ll be the guy right next to me, the one on his knees.

Sad, but true.

OK, Katie, time for a little redhead research.

Shoot.

What else would a Texas girl say?

How does your sister feel on the subject of birthday parties?

Birthday parties? Vic, that’s not an easy question to answer. Through grade school and junior high, it was mostly just family gatherings. The Marce didn’t have a lot of friends. By the time she was seventeen and the most popular girl in school, for obvious reasons, she said she didn’t have time for parties.

I’ll translate for you.

You mean she didn’t have time for all the people who didn’t use to have time for her?

On the nose. Let me tell you something about my sister, something you might already know. She’s six feet tall! Does she really need to wear five-inch heels? She wears them to tower over everyone, so she can instantly dominate any gathering.

There is bitterness, just a trace of bitterness. That said, it manifests itself in some very amusing ways.

True. Was she really auctioning off dates in Washington?

Saw it with my own eyes.

I just figured out what’s going on here. The man who always has a plan, has a plan. OK, Lefty, spill it.

There are times when she sounds just like her sister – this is one of those times.

I’ve got two words for you: surprise party.

Brilliant! I think.

Excuse me?

How are you going to keep it a surprise? You realize we’re talking about the snoopiest woman I have ever met – the girl who asked our pediatrician if he would x-ray her Christmas presents.

I had never heard that, but I believe it.

So, are you available on the 22nd of March?

I believe we are.

Want to come to a party?

Who is it for?

Your shy and understated sister.

Wouldn’t miss it.

I’ve blocked out some rooms at a hotel in town.

Now, let me see if I can guess which one? It wouldn’t be the Ritz-Carlton, would it?

She had me. It’s no secret that César Ritz is right behind Thomas Jefferson on my list of greatest people who ever lived.

You’ll love it. The pool and Jacuzzi are open twenty-four hours a day, and so is room service by the pool.

If that’s the best you’ve got – we’ll take it.

Excellent.

Now someone told me that you are a member at the TPC Golf Club at Prestancia. Is that true?

And did you hear this from someone who is rather tall and intensely redheaded?

No wonder she is a TV anchor – she loves to spread news.

I can’t recall.

Well, if you and your ambulance-chaser husband will stay a few days, we can play.

It’s a done deal.

Great. Can we get your folks to temporarily give up Los Colinas for the Sun Coast?

Are you kidding? Since my father retired last year, they’ll go anyplace – any place except home. I will call them and give ‘em all the details.

The guest list is shaping up. We now add some of her friends, some of my friends and some of our friends. That last category includes our Saturday night dinner and movie pals, Detective Matt Voorhies and his girlfriend Brandi LaMore. Everyone receives the same instructions – gag gifts only. So, with The Marce having reached the ripe old age of 32, get ready for lots of Poligrip, Metamucil, and Depends. That’s fine for the guests, but the Official Marcia Glenn Boyfriend Handbook will tell you that the boyfriend – me – doesn’t, you’ll pardon the expression, get off with a gag gift. I’m on it.

If the subject is birthday gifts, we must start with a little distance measuring. Let’s see, the moon is 250,000 miles from the Earth, and the Earth is 93 million miles from the sun. Now it gets a little tougher. There are only two places in the world where you can find the redhead’s measurements. Those from the neck down are at the Vera Wang salon in New York. The ones from the neck up are across town at Harry Winston. It’s at the world-famous jewelers that we will find what we are looking for – the exact distance between the bottom of her earlobes and the top of her shoulders. And since nature, like me, abhors a vacuum – I intend to fill that space. Harry’s Florida salon is in Bal Harbour, about ten miles north of Miami Beach.

Hey, Baby.

What’s the lead story tonight?

You don’t want to know.

Must be a beauty.

Tell me anyway.

They are widening Highway 19.

Not exactly the moon landing.

That’s OK, you’ll have your audience glued to their seats.

Thinking about becoming a news producer? Think again.

Gear change.

Baby, I have to go to Miami tomorrow morning to interview a witness about a stolen yacht.

I don’t dare say I’m going to Bal Harbour. That would invite a Pavlovian response from the redhead. In her house, Canaveral means blast, and Bal Harbour means bling. I’m now on the hook for the cost of the gift plus ten Hail Marys.

Dinner?

Absolutely.

Pick me up at six.

Yes, ma’am. You call it.

Anything but Mexican.

I have mentioned on many occasions that Sarasota has everything. That comes with a proviso – the Mexican food is terrible. I don’t know why, but the closest thing to good south of the boarder cuisine is the Taco Bell across from the high school.

OK, no Mexican – I love you.

I love you more.

Not even close, Irish. Not even close.

It’s now 10am the following morning, and I’m in the R32 headed for the Atlantic. Stop me, if you have heard this before – I love Florida – love Daytona, love Pensacola, and love the Keys. The only place I don’t love is Miami. I am no fan of redistribution, but if you had to make a case for it, here is the place to start. Pockets of obscene wealth separated by miles of squalor.

We start out on I-75 headed southbound. We pass Port Charlotte, pass Ft. Myers, and after an hour-and-a-half, come even with Naples. Now the road turns left. We all know that in the United States north-south highways have odd numbers, I-95, I-405, etc. Well, for the next one hundred miles, I-75 is very much an east-west road. Welcome to the Everglades Parkway. The what? You may know it by its other name – Alligator Alley.

What was originally built as a two-lane toll highway connecting the two coasts of Florida, is now a six and in places, eight-lane super highway. The name Alligator Alley was given, ironically, by the American Automobile Association when it was planned because they believed it would be useless to cars, merely an alley for alligators. However, as alligators often frequent the waterways beside the road, and occasionally the road itself, the nickname has developed a somewhat literal meaning. The name was officially adopted in 1966. There is a catch fence the length of the road, a dramatic improvement over Cape Canaveral. The causeways between the Cape and Merritt Island have no barriers, and visitors to the complex are cautioned that if their car breaks down, under no circumstances get out!

The folks at Harry Winston have been given a heads-up and will be prepared for me. So, what is prompting this 200-mile jaunt across the state? Well, if Marilyn Monroe was right, and all the evidence says she was, Diamonds are a girl’s best friend! Thus, we are searching for rocks, ice, and maybe some baguettes.

Eventually, I-75 turns south and we continue on what is now Interstate 595, past the Fort Lauderdale airport and the cruise ship port. Here 595 comes to an end. That puts us on A1A. Past Dania Beach, Hollywood and finally Bal Harbour.

Harry Winston's father Jacob started a small jewelry business after Harry's mother and he immigrated to the United States from the Ukraine. While growing up, Harry worked in his father's shop. Legend has it that when he was twelve years old, he recognized a two-carat emerald in a pawn shop, bought it for 25 cents, and sold it two days later for $800. Now controlling the business, Harry began building his own collection of stones. Some collection. By 1945, he owned two of the most famous diamonds in the world – the Hope and the Portuguese – eventually donating both to the Smithsonian. Today, the Harry Winston Diamond Corporation operates eight salons in the United States as well as seventeen more around the world, all guided by the Mother Ship in New York. If you want to turn a head at the Academy Awards, you tell then your ice came from Tiffany. If you want to get a second look, you mention your rocks are from Cartier. However, if you want to terminate the conversation, you need only drop two words – Harry Winston.

I have in the past bought baubles, bangles & beads for selected lady friends, but now we are going to new heights. Of course, the woman I am shopping for goes to new heights, literally and figuratively. On Collins Avenue, I pull up in front of a row of stores – the Bal Harbour Shops – one of them Harry Winston. And while the façade may be new, the interior is of another time. Rich wood paneling, plush carpets, and low tables holding a king’s ransom in jewels. If Marilyn herself were to walk in behind me wearing that pink dress, dripping in diamonds – I wouldn’t be surprised. Welcome to the Super Bowl of bling.

As I enter the salon, I am immediately met by a tall, distinguished man in what appears to be a Savile Row suit and sporting a placid look on his face.

Good morning, sir, my name is Alexander Tóth. And how may I help you?

The last name is a giveaway. These days, most of the people in the diamond trade are of eastern European extraction. I’m guessing he’s probably Hungarian.

Mr. Tóth, I’m Vic Landell. I believe you were expecting me.

Yes, of course. We have the information you requested.

We move to one of the tables.

Here is our dossier on Ms. Glenn – just in from New York.

He opens the file. On top is an 8x10 color glossy of the redhead.

She is a very beautiful woman. You are a lucky man.

And that’s why I’m here. To insure I keep getting lucky.

Here are her measurements. I believe you were interested in ear lobe to shoulder? May I assume this is for ear rings?

No, it’s for an ankle bracelet and a tummy chain.

Yes, it is.

According to our records, it is 5.6 inches to the point on her shoulder directly beneath her lobes. The distance is the same on both sides – they are symmetrical.

Very good. So, we have five inches to work with. I want solid gold drops – about four inches each, and at the bottom I want a single diamond – a red diamond.

Mr. Tóth’s placid look is gone.

Diamonds can occur in almost all colors of the spectrum, with yellow being the most common of all the fancy colored stones. Although all-natural fancy colored diamonds are extremely rare, none are more so than the red diamond. Unlike other fancy color diamonds that derive their color from impurities such as nitrogen and boron, red diamonds are made purely from carbon, just like colorless diamonds. The red color of the diamond is created by a rare deformation in its atomic structure, also known as plastic deformation. When a red diamond is retrieved from underground and light is allowed to pass through the irregular lattice, the unusual bending of the light causes the diamonds to reflect a ruby-like color.

Mr. Landell, I have to tell you, red diamonds are very rare.

I know that – that’s why I’m here and not at Wal-Mart.

I’m aware of that. Are you telling me you can’t get them? That I would have better luck at Tiffany or Cartier?

That gets him where it hurts – in his pride.

This is Harry Winston, we can get anything. I only mean to say it will take some time.

"Ms. Glenn’s party