Emma
Shields smile did not extend to her eyes.
“The
issue is now in doubt.”
Over
coffee, Scarne got her to talk more about herself. She was a graduate of both
Chestnut Hill in Philadelphia and the Sorbonne. Fluent in French and conversant
in German and Spanish, she worked as a correspondent in various European
bureaus of
Shields
before returning to the States, where she met, and
married, her late husband. They had a daughter, now seven.
That
took Scarne by surprise. She read his face.
“Disappointed?
Why does that matter to a man?”
He
suddenly felt defensive. And he was damned if he knew why.
“That’s
silly. I’m not disappointed. I’m a bit surprised you took so long to mention
it, that’s all. It certainly doesn’t matter to me.”
“Don’t
be disingenuous. Sure it does. A man looks at a woman who has a child
differently than a woman who is, shall we say, un-tethered.”
Scarne
hated being called disingenuous, especially when it had the ring of truth. He
started to say that since his only interest in her was professional, it didn’t
matter what ties she had. But he suddenly decided not to go there. That might
really be disingenuous. What he did say turned out to be the right thing.
“Emma,
if you were having lunch with a woman, how long would it have taken you to
bring up your daughter?”
She
gave him a long, appraising look, and smiled.
“Touché.
Want to see her picture? Her name is Rebecca.”
Please
let the child be pretty, Scarne thought, as she handed him the photo. This
woman reads me like a book. I don’t need a Seinfeld moment now.
The
child was stunning. Thank God.
“She
will break a lot of hearts.”
Emma
Shields smiled at the gallantry.
“Becky
is the reason I decided to talk to you. My father wants me back in the company.
For all his perceived male chauvinism and arm candy, he will leave the company
to the best qualified heir, man or woman. If I go back, it will be to protect
my daughter’s future. My father may be right about Ballantrae, but if he’s
not….”
Her
stepbrothers better watch out, Scarne thought.
“And
there’s something else. Rebecca loved Josh. In many ways he replaced her
father. Last summer she found a large shell on the beach. Josh put it to her
ear so she could ‘hear the ocean.’ I guess every kid is told that.”
Scarne
smiled. He still did it himself. The familiar hollow roar was a straight line
back to childhood innocence few adults could resist.
“She
ran to my father, so excited. But Dad was never much of a romantic. Despite, or
maybe because of, his many escapades. He told her it wasn’t the sea she heard.
The shell reverberates the sound of our own blood rushing past the tympanic
membrane. The inner ear. Rebecca was crushed. Later that afternoon Josh took
her to the library in town. At dinner she marched up to my father holding a
science book and the shell, which she passed around the table. She looked at my
father and said: ‘Human blood has the same chemical makeup as sea water, from
which all life springs. So we do hear the ocean!’”
“That’s
a wonderful story.”
“Josh
put the magic back in her childhood. I know my father tried to buy you off. Not
many men would turn him down. If anyone killed Josh, I want them punished. But
I love my father. I hope you won't do anything to hurt him...or Uncle Sheldon.”
Out
on the sidewalk, Scarne turned to her.
“I’m
sorry I made that crack about your portfolio.”
“You
had every right.”
They
shook hands. Scarne held hers for a moment.
“The
pictures on the wall. Rose Kennedy. The woman working in a war plant, ‘Rosie
the Riveter.’ The stripper, Gypsy Rose Lee. The woman with the microphone in
the dowdy dress. That was tough. Tokyo Rose. Every photo in the place concerns
a woman named Rose. Very obscure and very clever.”
Emma
Shields smiled.
“I’m
impressed. Now let’s see how you do up against the Dragon Lady.”
With
that, she turned and walked briskly up the street.
CHAPTER
14 – MIAMI LICE
Scarne
walked directly to the taxi line at Miami International.
“Take
me to 63
rd
and Collins in Miami Beach, please,” he said to the
driver of a yellow minivan that pulled up. “Place called La Gorce by the Sea.”
He threw his carry-on into the back seat.
“Sure
thing. You from New York?”
Russian
accent. There were a lot of Russians in Miami who immediately took to a city
surrounded by ocean, bays, rivers and canals and full of women not swaddled in
layers of sweaters and coats. They exchanged tales about the crummy weather “up
North” as Scarne looked out the window on the drive through downtown.
“Building
boom still going on? Thought the easy money dried up.”
“Don’t
get me started. The speculators and developers were like lice. Started all
these condo projects and now have to finish them. Can’t give them away. Serves
them right. All this construction clogged the streets. Takes forever to get
around. Costs me money. Same in New York, no?”
“It’s
the same all over. Where do you live?”
“Miami
Lakes. Near Shula’s. You know, the golf resort with the steakhouse? I rent.
It’s cheap, so many apartments on the market. But I’m gonna buy a two-bedroom
on Brickell. Flip it when the market recovers.”
Scarne’s
amusement showed on his face in the rear view mirror.
“I
know,” the cabbie said. “I’ll be one of the lice. Can’t scratch ‘em, join ‘em,
I say.”
They
entered the Julia Tuttle causeway, one of several that connected Miami to Miami
Beach. As they rode above Biscayne Bay Scarne enjoyed the spectacular view of
downtown Miami’s glistening skyline. The cabbie left the Tuttle and cut over to
41
st
Street, also known as Arthur Godfrey Road, which would take
them to Collins Avenue. He began pointing out restaurants.
“That’s
the Forge, most expensive restaurant in Miami. Wednesday nights, it’s nuts.
Would embarrass Caligula. Local rich bitches and the studs. Anything goes. I’ve
dropped off some unbelievable women. Went in once just to see the bar. Cost me
$15 for a drink! Took a look at the menu. Want a $100 steak, that’s your place.
Not me. The steer would have to blow me.”
From
the outside the Forge looked like a bank in Zurich. Scarne made a mental note
to stop by for dinner before he left Miami. He’d read about its famous wine
cellar, one of the largest in the world. And he knew something of the
restaurant’s colorful history from friends in law enforcement.
As
if on cue, the cabbie said, “Meyer Lansky, you’ve heard of him, right, opened
it in the 1920’s. The mob controlled this town. Some say they still do.”
“I
can’t believe you know who Lansky was,” Scarne said.
“Oh,
sure. A lot of these rich old Jews around here brag about the good old days.
Rich ones. Not poor Russian Jews like me driving cabs.”
“What’s
it like inside?”
“The
Forge? Beautiful. I could have sat at that bar all night, if I hit the lottery.
Very baroque. Hah! That’s the word. You go baroque eating there.”
The
cabbie roared at his joke. They crossed over the Indian River onto Collins
Avenue. Scarne’s cab headed slowly northward, dodging cement trucks. Huge
cranes loomed dangerously overhead, dozens of stories high, swinging girders
into place. There was hardly any room to walk on the sidewalks, and dust was
everywhere. Huge waste chutes spewed detritus into dumpsters. The racket was
unceasing.
“You
couldn’t pay me enough to work on one of those buildings,” the cabbie said.
“Last week three guys in Bal Harbour were working on a floor that collapsed and
they fell down to the next floor into wet cement. They drowned in it. Their
buddies started digging them out but the cement hardened and they finally had
to use picks and jackhammers. Can you imagine dying like that? No, I’ll stick
to my cab.”
“Accidents
happen.”
“This
ain’t New York, my friend. It’s Miami. Buildings fall down without planes crashing
into them. The building code dates from the Flintstones.”
They
pulled into the driveway of La Gorce.
“Looks
solid enough,” Scarne said casually.
“This
place? No, this is a good building. I know the guys who run it. I mean the
concierge and like that. They love it. You’ll see. It was built a few years ago
before all the lice came.” He turned in his seat and leaned toward Scarne.
“Hurricane hits, you can hole up here unless the city forces you to leave. It’s
a rock. Just be careful if you walk down the street past one of the new
monstrosities. Might fall on your head.”
An
attendant walked over, took Scarne’s Dakota and exchanged pleasant insults with
the cabbie in Spanish.
“What
did he say?” Scarne asked.
“Who
the hell knows?”
Scarne
paid his fare and walked into the lobby. A uniformed man and a woman stood
behind the counter of the concierge station facing a bank of security cameras.
When Scarne told them his name, the man offered his hand.
“I
am Mario. We’ve been expecting you. Did you know young Mr. Shields? A wonderful
man. We were all very sad about what happened.”
“I’m
a friend of the family, here to clear up some personal and legal matters. I
understand you have apartment and car keys for me.”
Mario
reached under the counter and brought out a thick manila envelope. He shook out
some metal keys and plastic disks.
“The
keys are for the apartment and car. These disks open and close all the security
doors in and out of the building, garage and grounds. Mr. Shields had me stock
the pantry and refrigerator with the basics. I’ll take you up.”
The
Shields apartment was on the 29
th
floor, just below the penthouse
level. Outside the door were
The
New York Times
and
Wall
Street Journal
.
“These
never stopped coming,” Mario said, picking them up. “I told Mr. Shields about
it, but he said to let the subscription run out and pass the papers on to other
tenants. I told the boy to deliver them up here while you were staying. A
little bit of home, no?”
“That’s
thoughtful. But they may never stop. I’d bet they are automatically renewed by
a credit card, charged yearly. And I think the cards are still active.
Mario
looked pained.
“I
never thought of that. I’ll call Mr. Shields and tell him.”
“Don’t
worry about it. I’ll take care of it before I leave. If I don’t speak to him,
I’ll just call the papers. There is a code on the label I can use.”
Mario
gave Scarne a quick tour. The two-bedroom apartment featured a living room with
wrap-around, floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Scarne walked right up to the
glass. He felt as if he was jutting out over the Atlantic Ocean. Looking down
he could several women sunning themselves on a pool deck. The master bedroom
had a bathroom suite as large as some Manhattan studios. There was a
pass-through bar between the kitchen and living room. An outside terrace
connected the master bedroom and kitchen and was accessible from both through
large sliding doors. The entertainment center in the living room had a large
plasma TV, DVD player and a sound system surrounded by a large bookcase whose shelves
alternated between books and sea shells of all varieties and sizes. Josh may
have worked for an alternative newspaper, but he lived like a Shields.
“The
cleaning lady was here Wednesday. She comes once a week.”
Scarne
walked to the bookcase and picked up a shell.
“Mr.
Shields liked his shells,” Mario said. “These are what’s left. The family took
a lot back home with them. He never went to the beach he didn’t bring back some
shells. He gave me some nice ones. The gym, sauna and steam rooms are on the seventh
floor. Do you want to see them now?”
“No,
this is fine. I want to unpack. You’ve been very helpful.”
Scarne
reached into his pocket and took out a $100 bill. Mario held up his hand and
said, “That isn’t necessary. Mr. Shields takes good care of the staff.”
Scarne
pressed the money into the man’s hand.
“I’m
sure. I’d feel better showing my own gratitude. Don’t fight me.”
Mario
smiled and took the bill.
“When
you need the car, call me at the desk and I will take you to it. The garage can
be confusing.”
After
he left, Scarne wheeled his bag into the master bedroom and unpacked. Then he
went to the kitchen and opened the folding doors to the liquor closet. The
“basics” included Kendall Jackson wines, and bottles of Grey Goose vodka,
Meyer’s Dark Rum, Glenlivet 20-year-old single malt scotch, Bombay gin and Remy
Martin cognac. Mixers for all. Thoughtful. Six real Cuban cigars lay in their
metal tubes. Very thoughtful. He was hungry. There were enough provisions to
last a month. He made himself a ham sandwich, opened a bottle of Sam Adams and
went out on the terrace, picking up the two newspapers off the coffee table
where Mario had dropped them. He’d have to remember to cancel them. Even the
wealthy shouldn’t have to pay for eternal subscriptions. Then he had a thought.
He pulled out his cell phone and called Evelyn Warr, getting the answering
machine. He left a message, which included the account numbers he read off the
subscription labels from both the
Times
and
Journal
.
After
finishing his lunch, Scarne put on a bathing suit and T-shirt. He found a pair
of flip-flops still in their wrapping next to the Jacuzzi bathtub. He
hesitated. He detested flip-flops. These were light blue with a flowery
tropical motif. What the hell, he thought. At least they’re not pink. He
grabbed a gaudily colored beach towel from a rack, thought better of it, and
took a solid white bath towel instead. On the way out he stopped at a small
bookcase. All the books were devoted to nature. He picked out the brightly
illustrated
Sport Fish of Florida: 231 Species: Food Values, Methods and
Ranges
by Vic Dunaway. He took the elevator to the seventh floor and
followed the signs to the pool deck.
The
pool was crowded. There was a nice breeze off the ocean. A small group of men
and women had pulled some lounges and chairs together and were smoking and
speaking French. Scarne had intended to take a quick swim, until he noticed
several fathers dipping their squealing diaper-clad infants in the water like
teabags. He resigned himself to a deck chair far from the maddening crowd. He
opened his book to the chapter on marine predators. There were plenty of sharks
in Florida waters, and many of them, especially the Hammerhead, Tiger, Mako and
Bull, were man killers. The section on
Carcharodon carcharias
, the Great
White, noted that it was only an occasional visitor to southern Florida. Under
“Food Value” the author wrote: “From whose viewpoint, the angler’s or the
shark’s?”
A
thin but pot-bellied man wearing a red-checkered boxer bathing suit walked over
and stretched out on a lounge chair next to Scarne.
“You
a renter or an owner?”
Scarne
looked over at the man.
“I’m
sorry.”
“Just
wondered if you rent or own here.”
The
man looked to be in his mid-30’s. He had a concave chest and what little hair
he had left on his head was blonde and wispy.
“Just
visiting,” Scarne said, turning back to his book.
“I
own three condos in this building,” the man said, undeterred. “Total of about
20 up and down the coast. Gonna buy more now, with prices dropping like they
are.”
Scarne
couldn’t see any way out of the conversation.
“A
lot of speculators are getting burned.”
“Last
time I looked, God ain’t making any more beachfront. But I’m no speculator. I
mean, I think I’ll make out in the long run, but I’ve got to put my dough
someplace. Ran a hedge fund in Connecticut. Made a fucking fortune. Retired at
36, can you believe it? Just having fun. Women down here are hot.”
If
it wasn’t for his wallet, Scarne thought, they’d have to be blind.
“Why
Miami Beach,” Scarne said. “You have that kind of money, I’d think Palm Beach
would be more your style.”
“Don’t
like the people,” the man said seriously. “Nouveau riche.”
Scarne
didn’t have a reply for that. Fortunately the man soon walked away. But the
respite was short-lived. Almost immediately two women took adjacent lounges.
One was incredibly pregnant and wore a thong. She wouldn’t have been the thong
type nine months earlier. Her stretch marks looked like an Amtrak route map and
her blue-veined, bulbous breasts threatened to burst the trace of fabric that
held them. She started slapping suntan lotion on all her exposed skin. What she
couldn’t reach the other woman, apparently her mother, did. It sounded like a
butcher flattening cutlets. It was all too much for Scarne. He decided to
chance the sharks.
He
took the beach elevator to the ground floor. He waved his electronic key in
front of a pad to use the elevator and again to get through the rear door to
the tropical garden that led to the beach. The garden had a small bath house,
as well as a children’s playground and barbecue pits surrounded by wooden or
stone picnic tables and benches. A half dozen or so feral-looking cats eyed him
suspiciously as walked to the beach gate. They undoubtedly were tolerated for
their ability to keep the rat and palmetto bug population under control. A
narrow trail led through the dunes to the beach.