Madman's Thirst (7 page)

Emerald Shields didn’t mention
that Aristotle Arachne had made it very clear that he found her just as
fascinating. And had confided that his marriage was on the rocks.

CHAPTER 9 – NEW TRICKS

  They were on the sidewalk
outside the Gotham. A group of chattering students hurried past them and
entered a small Indian restaurant a few doors down. Despite being full, Scarne
savored the smells emanating from the place. That was one of the things he
liked about the East Village. With NYU, Cardozo, the Fashion Industry of
Technology and other schools nearby, restaurants and businesses catering to
student wallets were plentiful. Some of the best food in Manhattan – Indian,
Italian, Japanese, Greek, and even French – was readily available for a
relative pittance. And the college-age kids lent a happy urgency to street
life.

“Would you like to come back to my
place?”

Scarne was surprised. Not by the
offer, but by the location. Both their apartments were nearby, but they always
went to his. Then he remembered the sleepover.

“What if Becky has a tummy ache
and wants to come home?”

“I told Fanny to call me if that
happened.” She smiled wickedly. “My girlfriends like their little conspiracies.
They’re always trying to fix me up. This might keep them off my back.” She
laughed. “That’s funny, on my back to get them off my back.”

“Are you drunk, Emma?”

“A little. Come on. Let’s go to my
place. Afterwards, I can lounge and eat bonbons and watch crappy TV shows like
a normal woman for a change.”

Emma lived in a brownstone on 10
^th
Street. Most of the rest of the family lived in Connecticut, but with her
increasing responsibilities in the company, she found that a Manhattan address
gave her more time with her daughter. Between business and her duties as a
mother – and she was a devoted mother – Emma had little time for a regular sex
life. She told Scarne that she had been celibate during the final year of her
husband’s illness and her one or two forays after his death had been furtive
and unsatisfying. Then Scarne came along. They had been friends and occasional
lovers for about six months, but Scarne had been clear that he wasn’t ready to
risk his heart again, just yet.

“I know you think I got you on the
rebound,” Emma told Scarne one night after he apologized for his reticence,
“and that I helped get your head straight after what happened, but I had
selfish motives, as well. You’ve helped me as much as I may have helped you.
You’re the only sex I can fit into my busy schedule.”

She had said the line flippantly,
and he laughed, but he knew it to be at least partially true. He admired her
for her candor and practicality. Their roughly twice-a-month trysts, while
always satisfying and occasionally spectacular, were enough for her and left
him free of encumbrance. Neither knew where their arrangement would eventually
go, and that made their lives more interesting in the interim.

Emma’s house was three blocks
away, and they walked casually, until she said, “Why are we walking so slowly?”

“I don’t know. I guess I don’t
want to seem too anxious. What about you?”

 “The same. Should we break into a
trot, or maybe a gallop?”

“There’s a difference between
trying not to look anxious and being ridiculous. Besides, we might get hit by a
bus.”

“Well, we’d really be fucked then,
wouldn’t we!”

“You are tipsy.”

 Laughing, they finally reached
her building, a three-story brownstone. After closing the gleaming mahogany
front doors behind them, Scarne remarked on the “new home” smell.

“We just completed a custom
renovation. Cost a bloody fortune. My brothers started it, and, well, I had to
finish, didn’t I? Next step is redecoration. Place is a bit masculine, don’t
you think. Becky’s room is the only one with any color. Couldn’t wait on that.
Want a quick tour?”

“Very quick.”

She laughed and led him through
the downstairs.

“We kept four
original marble mantelpieces
,
but just about everything else is redone.” Passing a den on their left and a
staircase to the upper floors, they went through a parlor with white oak
flooring into a large maple kitchen with a center island surrounded by the most
modern appliances including a ConServ “Eco-Fridge” refrigerator, a
Fisher-Paykel “double-dish drawer” dishwasher and a dual-level Imperial gas
range and oven.

Scarne
pushed a few buttons on the latter.

“Nice,”
he said. “What time is lift-off?” He smiled. “I’m a Whirlpool kind of guy
myself.”

“My
brothers aren’t,” Emma said. “Toys for boys.”

A door
at the rear of the kitchen opened out to a deck and small garden. A spiral
staircase twirled up to the roof.

“Where’s the maid?’

“I gave her the day off.”

Walking back to the foyer, he
asked, “Have I been set up? Sounds like you planned our afternoon like D-Day.”

Emma laughed, and, startlingly for
her, ran her hand down the front of Scarne’s trousers.

“You can always go back to your
ship, sailor.”

He made a grab for her and she
twirled away, laughing.

 “I want to take a quick shower,”
she said as she headed up the stairs. “My bedroom is on the second floor. Just
follow the running water. There’s a nice bottle of Veuve Clicquot in the fridge
and an ice bucket on the counter with flutes. Why don’t you bring it up with
you?”

“I take it back, Emma, Eisenhower
and Monty had nothing on you.”

She was still in the shower when
Scarne left the champagne by the side of the bed and shucked off his clothes.
Her back was facing him when he entered the steamy room but she turned at the
blast of cooler air. He stepped into the stall and took the soap from her hands
and started washing her back as she leaned into him.

“Ouch,” she said, reaching down. “That
doesn’t go there.” They both laughed. She sat down on a bather’s ledge in the
corner and alternately raised her legs and braced them against his upper thigh
so that he could do a better job. Then she stood and took the soap began
lathering him. They let the water run a few minutes to get the soap off and
then she said, “I can’t wait” and pulled Scarne’s right hand between her legs.
He began stroking and she tightened her arms around his neck. Her breath game
in short bursts and then her body tensed. She whispered urgently, “I’m coming,
Jake, hold me.”

Scarne used his left hand to lift
her gently by her buttocks as she climaxed. He could feel her toes clenching
the top of his feet. After a few minutes her paroxysm and cries subsided and
she sat back down. Her head was at his groin level. She was still breathing
heavily.

“Now, it’s your turn.”

She put her hands on his hips and
pulled him towards her and enveloped him with her mouth, tentatively at first,
and then with an enthusiasm that he both appreciated and found surprising. It
was something she had never done with him before. It wasn’t long before he had
to grip her shoulders for support.

***

Later, snuggling in bed, Scarne
said, “This room isn’t what I would have expected. Who furnished it, Abigail
Adams? Is that a Chippendale dresser?”

Emma laughed. “Actually, it’s a
Hepplewhite. This house was basically a bachelor pad. My brothers are quite the
little Colonials. I think they made girls walk the plank if they didn’t come
across. They moved to Connecticut when they got married. Thank God one of them
took the Maine Sea Captain Bed, circa 1801, that used to be in this room. It
was huge. I felt as if I should harpoon something before going to sleep. This
bed used to be in the guest room. It’s called a “Ball & Ring Bed” and dates
from the revolution.”

“Well, I get the ‘ball’ part,”
Scarne said, leaning over and kissing a nipple, which almost immediately began
to harden. “But I’m not sure I want to know about the ‘ring’ thing.” He began
working on the other nipple as his hand slipped between her legs.

“Mmm. That’s nice. But the ball
and ring refer to the bedposts, topped by small wooden cannonballs. “And the
rings, oh, the hell with it. Don’t stop. You can bite harder. I’ll finish the
history lesson later.” 

***

Much later, after another bout of
lovemaking in which Emma had displayed even more ingenuity, Scarne reflected on
the experience while she napped. Woman never failed to surprise him, he
admitted, but a few of the things she had done reminded him of someone else. He
had believed that experience to be unique. What the hell, it was probably all
available in
Cosmopolitan
or one of the other women’s magazines that
alternated “summer dining recipes” with graphic primers on oral and every other
kind sex.

***

They were in the kitchen sharing a
pot of coffee and some decadent day-old Italian pastries. The ice bucket and
its empty bottle stood on the counter. Emma was dressed in a robe and wearing
fluffy rabbit-head slippers. Her hair was disheveled and there were small red
blotches on her upper chest where the robe draped open. Her face was relaxed,
almost somnolent. Scarne was wearing all his clothes but his sport jacket,
which was draped on a stool.

She poured him another cup of
coffee and said, “It’s black tie, of course. Can you pick me up at 6:30? I want
to make part of the cocktail hour at least. And that will give us some time to
talk to Ari. He’ll be pretty busy during the function itself.”

“Sure, but I want your assurance
that both your daughter and the maid will be here. And the First Marine
Division, if you can arrange it. I’m not sure I can survive another bout with
you alone.”

Emerald Shields blushed to her
hairline and threw a mini sfogatelle at him, which he caught, laughing. He put
the crunchy sea shell shaped pastry in his mouth and took a sip of his coffee.
“My favorite,” he said, and came around the counter and kissed her. “See you
Saturday.”

After cleaning up the kitchen,
Emma went back to her bedroom, smiling at the disaster her bed was. Jesus, what
an afternoon. I acted like a slut, but I don’t feel slutty. She straightened
out the sheets but decided not to make it. She fully planned to spend the rest
of the day (God, it was almost time for the news!) relaxing under the covers.
But first she went to the bookshelf recessed above the bed’s headboard. She had
almost died when she spotted the DVD sitting atop one of the books. She turned
crimson again thinking how she saw it. Thank God for the “woman above”
position. And thank God Jake was oblivious when their positions were reversed.

Emma wondered if he suspected anything.
He looked surprised a couple of times. Then she decided that she didn’t care.
Let him wonder. What was the downside? This kind of sexual expertise will come
in handy no matter where our relationship, or my life, leads me. Suddenly she
realized that, perversely, she was looking forward to having Scarne and
Aristotle Arachne both vying for her attention at the upcoming dinner. The
thought excited her, even after all her recent exertions. It was apparently
true; she was in her sexual prime. She certainly didn’t need sex to get ahead,
or as a weapon. She just liked it. It was thrilling to see a powerful man lose
control. She had heard some incredible things about Arachne from her
girlfriends. 

Emerald Shields picked up the
infamous DVD. Taken surreptitiously in the Antigua villa Scarne had shared with
Alana Loeb, it was meant to discredit both of them. Emma walked over to her
desk and put it in a drawer under a pile of stationery. Jake had never asked
about the sex video after the dramatic and humiliating confrontation in her
father’s library following her uncle’s murder. Ballantrae’s plan had backfired,
setting Scarne on the road for revenge – and the ultimate tragedy of Alana
Loeb’s death. I will destroy this video soon, Emma resolved. Just as soon as I
learn everything Alana Loeb has to teach me. For all her evil, she was quite a
woman, Emma thought with a touch of envy.       

CHAPTER 10 – IN THE HUNT

Scarne had set his alarm for 6
A.M. After putting on a pot of coffee, he spent 30 minutes doing nonstop push
ups, knee bends and sit ups. As if I didn’t get enough exercise yesterday, he
thought, smiling at the memory. But it felt good to be back to the regimen that
had been his norm prior to his recent lassitude. After two cups of black
coffee, orange juice and a two eggs softly scrambled with fresh chives, he
showered and started walking the two miles to his office overlooking Rockefeller
Center.

The late October sun was still low
in the cloudy sky. It felt more like a gloomy day in late November. Most
everyone on the streets was bundled up but Scarne, energized, barely felt the
chill. It was obviously the Pearsall matter. He had little to go on, and there
was not going to be any payday – a sobering thought considering the upcoming co-op
assessment. But he was back in the hunt, and his prey had killed a child.
Getting in shape would clear poisons from his body; finding out who killed
Elizabeth Pearsall might clear some from his soul.

***

“So, what do we know?”

Evelyn Warr didn’t reply
immediately. She was unwrapping sandwich bags and opening two frosty Sam Adams Octoberfest
beer bottles. They were having a late working lunch at his desk. Scarne had
spent the morning and early afternoon reading everything he could find on the
Internet about the Pearsall murder and the proposed NASCAR track, and lining up
appointments for the next day on Staten Island.

He always let Evelyn pick the
food, which ordinarily would be full of sprouts. But today she was in a
celebratory mood and wanted to indulge him. Jake was more animated than he’d
been in weeks. He had a real case, unlike the humdrum marital and insurance
work he had been content with (he said) for the past few months. The office
filled with the smell of pastrami from the Carnegie Delicatessen as Evelyn doled
out some potato salad, spread the pickles and applied the mustard.

Evelyn put a large piece of cheese
cake to the side. Scarne’s eyes followed it like a Great Blue Heron stalking a
frog in the Everglades. He knew he would only get a sliver. The rest of it, and
half of Evelyn’s sandwich, would go to one of the homeless men she passed on
her way home.   

“Well, for one thing, the killer is
Polish.” she said finally. “Or at least is of Polish extraction. And might be
named Gadomski.”

She wrote something down on the
yellow legal pad now balanced delicately on the knee of one of her delectable
legs. She took a bite of her sandwich. How she could write, converse, drink
beer and eat a dripping mile-high pastrami sandwich at the same time was a
mystery to Scarne. She would emerge spotless. He stood a good chance of looking
like a Rorschach test. 

“This would be a lot easier if our
man was Czechoslovakian with a name that looks like a line on an optometrist’s
eye chart,” Evelyn said. “But we’ll make do. He has pancreatic cancer, is
presumably in his 60’s if he fought in Vietnam. He, or his family, went to St.
Stanislaw Roman Catholic Church on Staten Island.” She looked up. “Was that
really the church in
Working Girl
? Melanie Griffith was wonderful. So
was the theme song, by Carly Simon,
Let the River Run
.” Evelyn was a
movie buff. “The song won an Oscar, though it had precious little to do with
the plot. And he is left handed.”

Scarne stopped in mid bite,
pastrami hanging off his lower lip.

“How the hell do you know that?”

“Just kidding. Wanted to see if
you were paying attention. Wipe your mouth.”

Scarne laughed. Evelyn Warr,
sweet, smart, sexy and very British, was the kind of office manager (secretary
or office assistant would never do) that any executive would kill for. Now she
theatrically drew a line across the pad.

“That’s what we know, above the
line, so to speak in bridge parlance. Let’s see what we can infer below the
line.” She looked at Scarne. “Your turn. I’m tired of doing all the work.”

Scarne was halfway through his
sandwich. He took a forkful of potato salad and a swig of beer.

“I think he is still local.
Probably not on Staten Island, or Dudley would have flushed him, but elsewhere
in the tri-state area. If he was from way out of town, I doubt he would have
come back to confess his sins, no matter how badly his conscience bothered him.
He’s nearing the end, sought comfort at the church of his childhood. He told
the priest that he had the best doctors in ‘the city.’ I think we can assume he
means Manhattan. Find out what hospitals specialize in treating pancreatic
cancer here. See if they are treating anyone named Gadomski. Meanwhile, I’ll
run down that bakery on Staten Island. Maybe somebody in the old neighborhood
remembers something.”

“I wonder if hit men have medical
insurance,” Evelyn mused. 

“He may be old enough for Social
Security by now,” Scarne said. “And could be on Medicare.”

“The mind boggles,” she said.
“But, listen, Jake, I’m going to run into confidentiality problems with the
hospitals.”

“I know. Maybe you can just ask to
speak to Mr. Gadomski, or inquire about his condition. Everyone has a concerned
aunt. Use guile.”

“You mean lie?”

“You’re a Brit. Make believe you
work for a London tabloid.”

“What about the V.A. hospitals?
The military is a veritable finishing school for professional assassins. You
Yanks have been fighting one war or another for 60 years or so.”

“We only picked up where you Brits
left off,” Scarne retorted. “Still, let’s hold off on that for now. The V.A.
system has gotten a lot better, but I don’t think it can compete with our top
private hospitals in oncology. They probably refer the tough cases to the
experts. While you are at it, compile a list of all the Gadomskis in the
tri-state area. It can’t be that common a name.”

“There are 45, with 23 in
Manhattan alone,” Evelyn said, one step ahead of him, as usual. “I have them all
listed on my computer. Only two on Staten Island, though. I presume you’ll
start there.”

“Yeah. That’s where I have my
biggest clue.”

“Which is?”

“A jelly donut.”

“Don’t despair, Jake. Sherlock
Holmes didn’t even need a jelly donut to solve a case. Of course, he was
British.”

She began to cut a sliver from the
slice of cheese cake.

“Is that going on a microscope
slide?’

“You’re such a baby. I’ll take
this one.”

She then cut a piece for Scarne
that, to his surprise, wasn’t transparent.