THE VIRON CONSPIRACY (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS #4) (6 page)

CHAPTER 9 - ARMED AND DANGEROUS

The next morning Scarne spoke to Winston Todd. The lawyer told him that after her husband’s death Kate Vallance sold her house in Boone City and moved into an apartment the couple owned in Chicago.

“Bryan spent a lot of time in Chicago,” Todd explained. “He was a fixture at the CME Group, which is the name of the new commodities and futures company created when the Chicago Board of trade and the Chicago Mercantile Exchange merged in 2007. The BVM Corporation trades millions of futures and option contracts every day to protect itself from swings in commodity prices. Bryan was considered something of a wunderkind for his ability to spot potential price fluctuations. I’ll ring Mrs. Vallance and set up a meeting for you.”

Scarne then called Nigel Blue, the chief of staff at Shields Inc., the media conglomerate.

“I need a favor.”

He explained what he wanted.

“You spend so much time pretending to be one of our writers I could put you on salary,” Blue said.

Scarne had recently assumed the identity of a book reviewer on a case involving a publisher owned by Shields.

“Can I get medical?”

“We couldn’t afford to put you on our plan. You’re always getting shot or stabbed. Come by around 5. I’ll have something for you.”

Todd called back a half hour later.

“Kate wants you to go to her apartment.” He rattled off an address. “She suggested noon tomorrow, for lunch. Can you do that?”

Scarne said he could.

“Fine. I’ll call her to confirm. Best of luck.”

The rest
of the morning was spent with Evelyn on paperwork and some preliminary travel arrangements.  After that, a working lunch in the office was followed by an afternoon devoted to bringing Noah up to speed on some assignments he’d have to handle by himself in Scarne’s absence, which would be lengthy.

“Let me get this straight,” Sealth said at one point, holding up a file, “while you gallivant around the country working off a $100,000 line of credit, I sit in a hotel lobby trying to catch some hedge fund slime ball from Mamaroneck, wherever the hell that is, bonking a woman not his wife.”

“It’s in Westchester,” Scarne said. “And I’ll have you know I rarely gallivant. Take your Kindle. I never go on a stakeout without one. I read a lot of books just sitting around.”

“I don’t have a Kindle.”

“Just put a Kindle app on your iPad.”

Because of his last case, Scarne considered himself something of an expert on electronic publishing. Both Noah and Evelyn were getting throughly sick of his frequent suggestions on how they could improve their reading experiences. He handed Sealth another file.

“Now, here’s an interesting one.”

Sealth opened it.

“A fucking kidnapped poodle?”

“Fifi, to be exact. Mrs. DuPont thinks one of her ex-husbands snatched it, but she doesn’t know which one.”

“How many are there?”

“Five. That’s what makes the case so challenging. Fortunately, all the exes live in the Tristate area, so you won’t have to gallivant too far.”

Scarne was enjoying himself.

“The pinnacle of my career,” Sealth muttered.

“If the dognapper hasn’t already put Fifi in the microwave, see if you can get her back in one piece. Mrs. duPont is worth $60 million.”

***

Scarne had to decide what gun to take with him on what was shaping up to be an extensive trip. He never considered not taking a weapon, even on a case that might turn out to be a wild-goose chase. Sometimes, he knew, the geese shoot back.

Recently, he’d been carrying a Hechler-Koch and had grown quite fond of the powerful automatic. He had become so proficient with it that the N.Y.P.D. cops and F.B.I. agents who used the secret gun range in the basement of an old Borders bookstore on 21st Street and Sixth Avenue in Manhattan had become wary of his invitations for a friendly shoot-off. They didn’t begrudge Scarne’s privileged access to the Flatiron District facility; he was, after all, something of a pal of the Police Commissioner. They also didn’t really mind the $20 he invariably took from them; he was a good sport who usually then bought breakfast, lunch or some drinks, spending much more than the money he won. But all of them considered themselves crack shots — they wouldn’t be at Dick Condon’s “private” shooting gallery if they weren’t — but the son of a bitch could shoot the balls off a fruit fly. Their groupings were tight; Scarne’s were microscopically bunched.

For no reason he could explain, he now went to the glass-fronted lawyer’s bookcase that had been his grandfather’s. Above it was a John Noble lithograph Dudley Mack had given him, saying “the man who owned
it won’t be needing it anymore.” Entitled
Ah! Linoleumville
, it portrayed men in the 1890’s working on a wooden barque sitting in dry dock between an old Staten Island ferry and another tall ship that appeared to be a Yankee Clipper. Now called Travis, Linoleumville was on the northern shoreline of Staten Island on Fresh Kills. Despite its dubious provenance, the valuable lithograph was a favorite of Scarne’s. One of the famous maritime artist’s best works, the lithograph went well with the room’s nautical motif. Evelyn was frequently after Scarne to come up with a new decorating style but he had so far held his ground.

Scarne’s love of the sea came naturally.
He now carefully moved the silver frame that held the photo of his grandfather, Capitano di vascello Giacomo Scarne, and lifted the Noble lithograph away. He opened the small safe that had been hidden and removed a locked metal case resting atop a note. The case was a recent addition. Scarne, who loved any new technology, pressed his right index finger against a small translucent pad on the top of the box and was rewarded with a muted click as the lock disengaged. He smiled. It always worked, but it also always surprised him that it did. 

He took out the the blue-black Bersa Thunder and hefted it, as always impressed by its light weight and balance. Only 23 ounces, the Argentine automatic closely resembled the German Walther on which it was modeled, both in appearance and in performance. In some respects the .380 Bersa was a superior weapon. The Argentinians had engineered the Bersa so that its blowback action did not occasionally nick a shooter’s hand on recoil.

The Bersa had married well with a Brugger & Hock silencer that was long gone, probably rusting in a mangrove swamp in the Florida Keys, where Scarne had last used the gun during the Ballantrae affair. The only reason Scarne had the Bersa was that it had been sent to him, as a gesture of respect, by Andriy Boyko, the Ukrainian mobster who took it from his hand that night in the Keys and decided to let him live.

Scarne reached in the safe and took out the note that had come with the Bersa in an unmarked package. He smiled grimly as he read it:

“You have the balls of a Ukrainian. A firearm without serial numbers may be valuable to you. It is only a piece of metal. It has no memory. Nor should you. I would advise you to use it soon. But if you and I should meet again, let us try not to kill each other.”

There was no signature, just the letter
“B”
.

Scarne had not fired the weapon in anger since. He’d brought it to an underground gun dealer in Chinatown who owed him a favor for scaring away some juvenile Tong thugs trying to extort him. The dealer arranged to have a phony serial number stamped on the Bersa.

“Happy to oblige,” the man said. “Number belong to pistol in shipment from Virginia hijacked by Tong. Police have the number. You shoot someone and they find this one, Tongs have some splainin’ to do, Lucy. What can they do? Produce the real pistol? Break my heart.”  

Scarne kept the Bersa oiled and in good working order, occasionally taking it to the range. He knew Boyko was still in good working order as well. Noah Sealth kept track of his old Seattle nemesis. The Ukrainian, he told Scarne, had consolidated his power, taking over many of the rackets previously run by a weakened Brutti crime family.

“You did Andriy a big favor when you aced Carlo Brutti,” Sealth said.  

It was unlikely Scarne would ever forget the memory that Boyko alluded to in the note, but Scarne knew he could use the Bersa without compunction. It was truly only a piece of metal. He put it back in its case, along with two boxes of Cor-Bon 90-grain hollow point bullets. He pulled a rarely used attach
é case from a desk drawer and put the gun case in it. Then he left to meet Nigel Blue.

***

Scarne’s apartment near Washington Square in Greenwich Village was only a few blocks from the Shields headquarters building at Fifth Avenue and 12th Street, so he dropped off the attaché case first before walking over to the stately nine-story stone-and-brick building. Blue’s office was on the third floor. Scarne passed the empty office of Emma Shields, his sometime lover, who was still in Europe running the company’s operations there. Just as well, he thought. She’d probably have a lot to say about his forthcoming trip down memory lane.  

“Your name is Jake Stone,” Blue said when Scarne walked into his office. “And your picture doesn’t do you justice.”

“What picture.”

“The one on your Facebook page.”

“I don’t have Facebook page.”

“But Jake Stone does. Take a look.”

Blue, a trim black man with an easy smile, pointed to his laptop.

Scarne walked behind Blue’s desk and looked at the screen. There was indeed a “Ja
ke Stone” Facebook page with a blurry photo of a much-younger Scarne.

“Where did you get that photo?”

“Please. We’re a media giant. Want to see the one where you’re naked on a bear skin rug?”

“It wasn’t a rug,” Scarne deadpanned.

Blue laughed.

“We figured you’d want to keep your first name, so you’d react to it naturally. Nothing blows a cover like looking behind you when somebody calls your name. And your new last name starts with the same letter, in case you are wearing monogrammed cuff links or something.”

“You’ve been reading too many spy novels.”

Blue started scrolling through the Facebook page.

“We gave you a phony background. You’re a freelance writer specializing in biographies of powerful financial people. Even made up some projects you’ve done for us. Added some of your favorite books and movies.”

Scarne peered at the screen.

“For Christ’s sake, Nigel,
The Sound of Music
?”

“OK. I was having some fun. “I’ll have them change it to
Casablanca
instead. Everyone puts that on their Facebook page. The point is, this should pass muster with anyone checking up on your credentials. We decided against giving you a Twitter account.”

“Thank God. What’s the drill if anyone calls the magazine?”

“They’ve been told to say you are on assignment. If anyone is persistent, the call will be routed to me.” Blue smiled. “Want to tell me who that might be?”

“Probably someone from the BVM Corporation. I want to sniff around the company so I’m going to tell them I’m doing a biography on the former CEO, Bryan Vallance. That should give me plenty of access, especially if you back me up.”

“Why Vallance?”

Scarne was ready with the lie.

“No particular reason. Except given what happened to him I can stress the human-interest angle. Tragic death, that kind of thing.”

Blue gave him an appraising look. Randolph Shields, the head of the Shields empire, didn’t employ fools.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why you are sniffing around BVM?”

“Sorry.”

“I bet Emma could get it out of you.”

‘Which is why I’m glad she’s in Europe. I’d appreciate it if you would keep this to yourself, Nige. It’s delicate.”

“Sure.”

Scarne knew Blue would probably tell Randolph at some point. It didn’t bother him. He’d also tell his bo
ss that Scarne wanted it kept quiet. The old bastard wouldn’t spill the beans.

“Do you think you can pull off the author bit?”

“I’ll just act like an asshole who knows it all.”

“So, no disguise.”

Scarne laughed and got up to leave.

“Thanks, Nige,” he said. “I owe you one.”

“Yes, you do.”

On the way out the door, Scarne turned and pulled down the brim of an imaginary hat.

“Here’s looking at you, kid.”

CHAPTER 10 - GIMLET EYES

Scarne’s flight landed at Chicago’s O’Hare airport at 11:
15 AM and it was almost noon before his cab pulled up in front of the gleaming high-rise apartment building on Michigan Avenue. In the massive lobby a concierge and a security officer were sitting at a semicircular desk behind which was a bank of closed-circuit TV sets. They were expecting him. After leaving his luggage with the concierge, Scarne followed the security man to an elevator.

“I’ll call the penthouse, sir,” the man said,
using a special key card that allowed access to the 34th floor where Kate lived, “and let them know you are on the way up.”

A young Hispanic woman wearing a maid’s uniform greeted Scarne when the elevator door finally opened.

“Mr. Scarne? Mrs. Vallance is at the pool. I’ll bring you through.”

They walked down a short corridor past a large kitchen and a wine cellar and then turned into an expansive living area with a cypress ceiling and teakwood
-planked flooring. Bookcases lined one wall, while the other was dominated by a floor-to-ceiling, stainless-steel fireplace framed by smoked glass. There was a large photo of a distinguished-looking white-haired man on the mantel. Vallance. At the rear were sliders that opened to a terrace. Scarne could see someone swimming in a large lap pool. Lake Michigan, looking like the inland ocean it was, shimmered in the distance. He walked onto the terrace and watched the woman who might once have been his wife glide effortlessly through the water. Kate had always been a strong swimmer. He suddenly recalled the nights on a secluded beach in Cape Cod when they’d shed their clothes and swam out until they were nearly exhausted before heading back to shore. Only to find out that their exhaustion didn’t preclude a bout of energetic lovemaking on a blanket behind one of the dunes. He could still recall following her from the water, her tight buttocks glistening in the moonlight, swaying an invitation that no man still on the right side of the daisies could resist.

Scarne felt the old surge of desire and, uncharitably, half-hoped that the passing years had somewhat reduced Kate’s allure. His throat felt dry.

She stopped at the far end of the pool and came out of the water with a graceful surge. There was a blue towel on a chaise and she picked it up with one hand and scrunched her hair at her neck with the other to wring the water from it. Her hair was much shorter than Scarne remembered.

“I’ll be right with you, Jake,” she said, still with her back to him.

So, she had known he was there. There was a time, he knew, that Kate Ellenson would have run right to him. He’d have to remember that she was Mrs. Kate Vallance, a widow. Who was paying him $100,000.

Kate turned and walked toward him, past a small table that had been set for lunch. She dropped the towel negligently on another chaise and picked up a barrette to tie her hair back. Scarne had wondered if she was as beautiful as he’d remembered. She wasn’t.  She was much more beautiful. Her long tanned legs were as taut and shapely, made even more attractive by the high-cut, yellow, one-piece bathing suit she wore. The bottom “V” of the suit seemed almost to reach the top “V” and he could see the outlines of her small but still-firm breast
s and their semi-erect nipples showing through the cloth. Making a conscious effort to slam the memories of what that body looked like without a bathing suit back into the recess of his mind, Scarne concentrated on her still-arresting face.

Kate put out her hand and for a moment Scarne thought she wanted him to shake it. But then it continued on up to his face and she stroked his cheek.

“Darling Jake. How lovely to see you.” Then she leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips. There was warmth, if not heat. “How truly lovely.”

“How are you, Kate?”

She stepped back.

“Better. Now that you are here. I have so much to tell you. Let me go change. It’s a wonderful day. I thought we could lunch out here. Isn’t the view spectacular? I love Chicago.”

“It certainly is nice.”

The higher one was in a city, the better it looked, Scarne thought. From a penthouse, you were far removed from the murderous gang killings in Chicago’s poorer neighborhoods. Probably couldn’t even hear the shots up here.

“I just had to get out of Boone City,” Kate said. “The smell of soybeans was beginning to sicken me. And I don’t care if I ever see another tub of margarine.” She started to walk away. “I’ll have Aurelia bring out some gimlets. That was our cocktail wasn’t it? Fix us a drink, won’t you? I won’t be a moment.”

Kate strode inside with long, athletic strides, looking as good from the rear as she had from the front. Scarne took a deep breath and walked over to the table and sat down next to a stainless-steel wine bucket on a stand. The wine bucket and the linen towel draping the bottle it contained were both monogrammed with the letter “V.” Looking through the glass-and-bronze railing he could see sailboats tacking on Lake Michigan. A jumbo jet arched over the Sears Tower, which Scarne’s cab driver had reminded him earlier was now called the Willis Tower after its largest occupant.

“But most people still call it the Sears Tower,” the man said. “I don’t know why they have to keep renaming things. Pain in the ass.” 

Aurelia came out with a silver pitcher gleaming with frost. She placed it and a small red ice bucket on the table, along with a plate framed by lime wedges. In the center of the plate was a carafe of greenish-yellow liquid.

“It’s Rose’s Lime Juice,” the maid said.

Kate remembered.

“Mrs. Vallance says you are particular about your drinks. Like to adjust them yourself. Especially gimlets. Said you had a gimlet eye.”

The maid
said it with the resignation of a domestic servant used to guests who were particular about things. 

“Thank you, Aurelia.”

Scarne smiled at the memory. It had been a joke between Kate and himself. Few people knew that the phrase “gimlet eye” had nothing to do with the drink. A gimlet was also a small tool with a screw point used for boring holes. In the Marine Corps, officers and noncoms whose angry stares bore through you when you screwed up were said to be “gimlet-eyed.” Scarne had told Kate about one time he’d been the target of just such a brow-beating and she was so delighted she insisted on ordering the cocktail variety of the gimlet, which became “their” drink. And, when they argued, she often called him a “gimlet-eyed bastard.”

Now, Scarne poured a gimlet from the pitcher into a stemmed glass and tasted it. Close, but no cigar. He added a few drops of the Rose’s and squeezed in a lime wedge. A taste, another drop, and he was satisfied. Kate had always teased him about the routine. He made no apologies. There was nothing worse than a badly made vodka gimlet. And few things better than a perfect one. He was still looking for the perfect one, but this one came damn close, he decided.  

She came out onto the terrace while he was making her drink, on the rocks, as she preferred. She was now wearing red shorts and a short-sleeve white blouse. Her feet were still bare.

“I don’t have to tell you that you are still beautiful,” he said, handing her the glass.

She smiled and took a long pull.

“Like old times, right, Jake?”

Scarne leaned forward.

“Kate, I’m sorry about your husband.” He paused. “And the baby.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes glistened for a second. “Bryan was a good man. He would have made a wonderful father.”

Then she smiled.

“I’m not so sure I would have made a wonderful mother. I’m not all that different from the selfish bitch who ran off on you.” She finished her drink and held her glass out. “Have you ever forgiven me?”

Scarne took the glass, added more ice, and made her another gimlet.

“No.”

Kate laughed harshly, taking her drink.

“The same old Jake.”

“I never could lie to you,” he said.

“But you came anyway,” she said. “Was it the money? No. Of course not. I knew you would come. That’s why I went through Winston and told him to contact Don Tierney. I knew you would come to help no matter what, but I had to make a clumsy effort to pay you. I just couldn’t bring myself to call you directly after what I did to you. How is Don, by the way. I always liked him.”

“He’s fine.”

“And Dudley? I thought about going to him first, as an intermediary. But he never really approved of me.”

“He introduced us, Kate.”

“And told my girlfriends later it would have been better had he just shot you.”

Scarne smiled. That would be Dudley.

Aurelia walked up to the table and began serving lunch. Cold lobster salad and a side of asparagus spears with a Hollandaise sauce. The maid removed a bottle of Cakebread Cellars chardonnay from the wine bucket and poured each a glass. It had been “their” wine.

“Aurelia, this is fine for now,” Kate said. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

The maid left, closing the terrace sliders. They began to eat. Kate made more small talk, asking after old friends, recalling some pleasant memories. Scarne made appropriate comments as he studied her closely. He noticed a few lines around her mouth and eyes. Age, perhaps. But there seemed to be a tenseness about her that could also have explained them. Her face gradually softened under the influence of the gimlets and wine. 

“I think I will get slightly drunk today,” Kate said, sipping her second glass of chardonnay. “I hope you don’t mind. I feel like I can relax, for the first time in a long while.”

“Kate,” Scarne said gently, “perhaps you can tell me why you think there is more to your husband’s murder than the authorities believe.”

She looked at him carefully, as if remembering what had been between them.

“Yes. Of course. I almost forgot. That’s what you are. That’s what you do. I will tell you. But first let me tell you about Bryan and me. It’s important. You have to know him for this to make any sense. You may not want to hear it, but I have to tell you. Do you understand?”

“I’m interested in anything you want to say, Kate. Take your time.”