CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) by Lawrence de Maria Page A

all that got was a kick in the shins from Nancy.
    “Oh, we never go to the movies,” Lucille said. “Clive spends all his free time in the den on his computer, surfing the web.”
    I filed that away. If I ever had to bring Clive down, evidence was probably only a hard drive away.
    “C’mon Lucy,” Clive said quickly. “Let’s get something at the buffet table.”
    He didn’t have to tell her twice.
    “You’re a son of a bitch,” Nancy said when they’d left. “Are you going to spend the whole night insulting my board members?”
    “Only the perverts on your exec committee.”
    “Clive is the only real pervert in the group, and now he’s my pet pervert. And I keep him on a short leash. Votes my way any time I ask him.”
    “How did you use the information I got for you?”
    “I had to be subtle. He kept pressuring me about letting him manage our investment portfolio, or else.”
    “Or else, what?”
    “Or else he’d make sure I got a lousy performance review.”
    “What did you do?”
    “I told him that if he was so unhappy with me I could arrange for him to get on the board at the Snug Harbor Children’s Museum, which has a much bigger portfolio.” I waited for the punch line. “After all, I said, a chicken fucker like him would be perfect for the job.”
    I laughed so hard people stared at us.
    “If I’m a son of a bitch,” I said. “What are you?”
    “Just a bitch. I’ve got to mingle. Why don’t you? But for God’s sake stay out of trouble.” She smiled. “I’ll make it worth your while later.” As she walked away she gave me what I hoped was a surreptitious pat on the ass.
    I mingle well with two martinis in me, but with three I could qualify for the Olympic mingling team, so I ordered another. On the rocks this time, lest some of the academic blatherers begin to make sense. I started across the room assuming I’d eventually run into someone I knew or a hors d’oeuvre. I hadn’t gone very far when I approached a cluster of people standing around a waiter holding a tray. One of them was a woman who looked very familiar. She was staring at me. It had every indication of being a productive place to drop anchor. When I reached the group I recognized her. Alice Watts. She was still trying to place me.
    “It can be hard to picture someone with clothes on,” I said.
    That damn third martini. The others in the group, including the waiter, stared at me. But Alice laughed. It was a great laugh, unaffected and appreciative.
    “You were the man in lane eight this morning, the one with the bullet holes.”
    “You noticed?”
    “Hard not to. My girls did, too. They thought you were dashing.” Dashing? “One of them said you looked like a bank robber.”
    “I’m not sure how to take that.”
    The laugh again.
    “It’s a compliment. They all loved Johnny Depp in that Dillinger film. There is a slight resemblance, you know.”
    “Alice. Who is this fellow?”
    It was the man at her elbow.
    “I’m sorry, Pierce. This is…”
    She realized she didn’t know my name.
    “Alton Rhode,” I said and held out my hand. “I met Ms. Watts this morning at the Wagner College pool.”
    He hesitated but then gave me a perfunctory shake.
    “Professor Lancaster,” he said, with the emphasis on ‘Professor.”
    Pierce Lancaster? We both had parents who had a lot to answer for in the name game. He was dressed in jeans and a black shirt, over which he wore a grey woolen sports jacket with dark grey elbow patches. His flowing, but carefully coiffed, white locks spread to his collar. He was about 50 but trying to look younger.
    The waiter who had been serving our little band ran out of his canapés and departed but was immediately replaced by another bearing a platter of shrimp the size of small lobsters. I took one happily. So did Alice Watts. I held mine up before biting into it.
    “This must be genus oxymoron,” I said.
    I was hoping to pass as an academic.
    “What?” Lancaster said.
    “He