Scarne
spread his towel, dropping his keys at one end under his book. He had to walk
out 30 yards before it was deep enough to swim. He glided through the water,
occasionally jackknifing to touch bottom and gauge the depth. Glittering
schools of bait fish scattered. At one point, a large shadow passed just below
Scarne. He felt a trill of fear in his groin. After a half mile he stroked
towards shore and beached. He walked back and found his towel, book and keys
untouched.
CHAPTER
15 – THE BEST MOJITOS IN TOWN
After
showering, Scarne called the Miami Beach Police Department and after the usual
bureaucratic wrangle was connected to its Homicide Unit. After another 10
minutes of explanation and name dropping, one of the detectives who
investigated the death of Josh Shields came on the line. They made arrangements
to meet. Scarne then called Mario, who told him to take the elevator to the
parking garage on the sixth floor. Scarne hoped that the lush Shields lifestyle
would be reflected in Josh’s choice of car. He didn’t want to be saddled with a
broccoli-fueled hybrid.
The
concierge was waiting when the elevator door opened, and led him to a low-slung
vehicle covered by a tarp – a good sign. The La Gorce garage extended from the
sixth through the ninth floor. The walls were latticed with openings, which
meant a strong breeze would bring in both salt and sand. Josh Shields thought
enough of his car to protect it from the elements. Scarne helped Mario pull the
tarp off the car.
“
What the hell?”
“This
was his baby,” Mario said. “Limited-edition Rouche Mustang Convertible. I just
had it detailed and tuned. Full tank of gas.”
“It’s
a beauty,” Scarne said, somewhat dubiously, as he looked at the bright red
400-horsepower muscle car. “But not exactly inconspicuous.”
“Don’t
you watch C.S.I.? This is Miami. Everybody has a crazy car.”
Scarne,
a car buff, liked nothing better than seeing what a high-performance auto could
do. Even so, the Rouche took some getting used to as he headed down Collins
Avenue toward South Beach. The manual transmission was a dream, but he doubted
he’d have to get out of second gear before leaving Miami Beach. He assumed he
could pass the Space Shuttle in sixth gear.
***
As a
rule, homicide detectives don't like to talk to private investigators, who they
believe will pollute their cases. If they must, they prefer to do it outside
their offices. Not only won't they be seen by their colleagues but there is
also the chance they can get a free meal, drink or at least a cup coffee.
Still, Scarne hadn’t expected Detectives Frank Paulo and William Curley to pick
the Fontainebleau. Newly renovated at a cost of $1 billion to recapture its
past Rat Pack and
Goldfinger
movie glory, the hotel, although reportedly
again facing bankruptcy, was once again the centerpiece of Miami Beach high
life.
From
his perch at the glass-enclosed “Bleau Bar” in the lobby Scarne watched a
seemingly endless parade of bikinied beauties gamboling in the pools below.
“You
Scarne?”
He
turned to see two men in sports coats and floral shirts. They both gave him the
cop stare. Despite Condon's intervention with the Miami police, second-guessing
a police investigation would not endear him with any cops.
“You
guys must be Crockett and Tubbs. How did you know it was me?”
The
cop who addressed him, a short, redheaded man with thick arms, looked at his
partner and sighed.
“I’m
Curley. This is Paulo. You weren’t hard to spot. Hotshot Big Apple dick looking
for clues out there at the pool.”
“You
picked this place. I guess you didn’t want to be seen with me.”
“Crap.
We come here all the time. Best mojitos in town.”
Scarne
decided that being a homicide cop in Miami Beach had its perks.
“Can’t
argue with you on that,” he said, lifting the mojito he’d ordered and signaling
the bartender for three more drinks.
"Captain
says that you are looking into the Shields case," Paulo said. He was a
tall thin man with a dark complexion and a beak nose.
"That's
right," Scarne said, "just trying to tie up some loose ends."
"You
working for the old man?" Paulo said.
Scarne
nodded.
"Guy
just won't leave it alone," Curley said. "No disrespect, but he can
be a pain in the ass."
"Which
is why he sent me. He knew you probably wouldn't take him seriously
anymore."
"And
we're supposed to take you serious?" Curley said.
"You're
here aren't you?"
"Only
because somebody made a phone call," Paulo said, “and that only got you a
courtesy visit. Timoney ain’t our chief. Miami Beach is a separate
jurisdiction.”
The
drinks came. Nobody clinked glasses.
"Look,
let's cut to the chase,” Scarne said. “I used to be a cop so I know that you're
not overjoyed being here, mojitos aside. But Timoney asked a favor from your
boss, who has banked it for the future. So you have to talk to me. I don't want
to step all over your investigation but I have a job to do. The boy's father
thinks he may have been murdered. You're convinced it was an accident. From
what I know so far that seems the more likely conclusion. I'll make just as
much money proving you right, so there is no downside in talking with me."
The
partners looked at each other and shrugged.
“Fair
enough,” Paulo said. Both detectives pulled up bar stools and faced Scarne.
“Why’d you leave the cops? You look too young to be retired. Disability?”
No
matter where he went, cops quizzed Scarne about New York’s disability and
pension policies, which were the envy of other jurisdictions.
“I
wish. Got suspended for holding a city councilman off a balcony.”
The
two detectives looked at each other.
“You
must have had a reason,” Paulo said.
Scarne
told them an abbreviated version of the story, which he knew wouldn’t hurt his
standing with them.
“Prick,”
Curley said.
“Listen,
we won’t have much for you,” Paulo said. “Homicide wouldn’t have even caught
the squeal except for the lack of I.D. on the vic and then him turning out to
be semi-famous. Family pressure kept us on it longer than it deserved, but you
know how that goes. We closed it. Opened it. Closed it again. Came out the
same. No signs of foul play. No apparent motive. No witnesses. No suspects,
unless you count jellyfish. M.E. wrote it up as accidental and we agree. I feel
sorry for the old guy, but he should let it go.”
“Nothing
about it bothered you?”
The
bartender put a couple of bowls of nuts on the bar.
“Thanks,
Hal,” Curley said as they all took a handful. “Look, you’ve been there. You
know how it goes. Young guy dies, you always look a little closer, even if his
family isn’t prominent. Guy is gay, even closer. I mean we probably shouldn’t
cause it’s kind of discriminatory to do that, but it is what it is. In this
case, the circumstances weren’t all that mysterious. I mean, he wasn’t found in
an alley behind a stud bar or anything. He was fishing in the ocean at night
and washed up crab-eaten a couple of days later. You know, sometimes even
healthy young gay guys die naturally or accidentally. Believe me, our captain
would have loved to make the Shields family happy by catching a murderer. But
there was no murder.”
“What
about the missing wallet and keys? His father doesn’t believe they fell out
into the ocean. Said his son would have left them in his bucket.”
“Probably
stolen,” Curley said.
“Credit
cards haven’t been used.”
“Then
they’re in the drink. Guy forgot to put them in his bucket. We’re lucky the
bucket was still there. Tide ran high and the water was rough that night. I
think there were even small craft warnings out that day. I know the lifeguards
were worried about rip currents.”
Scarne
suddenly thought of something.
“What
about his fishing rod?”
“What
do you mean?” Paulo said.
“Did
you find it?”
“Yeah.
It was in one of the rod holder things you stick in the sand, next to the
bucket. Where you going with this?”
“Well,
if he was fishing, and got stung by jellyfish or pulled in by a rip current or
had a heart attack, why was his rod on the beach?”
The
detectives looked exasperated.
“Hell,
we don’t know,” Curley said. “Maybe he had two poles working. A lot of guys do
that. Maybe he was looking for seashells. There was a pile by the bucket. Or he
just went into the surf to wash his hands off.”
“Or
kill himself,” Paulo said. “I know the father doesn’t want to hear that, but it
was my first thought.”
“And
all of it was still there?’
“Look,”
Curley said, “I know this is Miami, but nobody is gonna steal a fishing rod, a
bucket and some shells. That stuff might still be there if we hadn’t found it.”
“What
about his computer?”
“What
about it?
“His
laptop is missing, along with all his notes.”
The
cops looked at each other.
“We
didn’t know that,” Paulo said. “The family went through the apartment. Never
said anything to us.”
“They
were distraught. Didn’t think about it at the time. Maybe you guys should have.
Shields was a reporter, for Christ sake. Didn’t you think it odd that there was
nothing related to reporting in his apartment?”
Paulo’s
face reddened. He started to say something but the other cop put a hand on his
arm.
“He’s
right, Frank. Maybe we should have spotted that.” He turned to Scarne. “You
saying there was something on that computer that might have gotten him killed?”
Scarne
hesitated.
“I
don’t know. Just makes me curious.”
Curley
spotted the lie.
“You
wouldn’t hold back something in a homicide, would you?”
“I
thought it was an accident.”
It
took another round of mojitos to mend fences after that remark. But by the time
they left, they were all, if not pals, at least on the same side of the case,
whatever it was. They exchanged business cards and the cops said they would go
back and review their file, which Scarne assumed they would. For his part, he
promised to keep them informed, which they half believed. He also asked if he
could get a copy of their final report. They glanced at each other. The
councilman story had probably done the trick because Paulo said, “Why the fuck
not?” He said he would email a copy later that day.
Scarne
was hungry. He left the bar and went to the beach. After a short walk along a
boardwalk he came to the Eden Roc, another recently renovated Miami Beach
landmark. He sat at the bar at the hotel’s Cabana Club and ordered conch
chowder and a grilled grouper sandwich, washed down with a Sam Adams. After
which he picked up his car at the Fontainebleau valet and drove back to La
Gorce.
***
In
Manhattan, Garza was just about to leave Scarne’s apartment. The man was either
extraordinarily neat or the maid had just been there. Probably the former,
given his Marine Corps background. Garza had known about his service. Finding
the medals buried deep in a sock drawer told him something else about the man.
There wasn’t much else to learn in the place. Garza had gotten more off the
Internet and from his contacts.
It
would be obvious to a trained detective that the place had been tossed, but
Garza tried not to leave too much of a mess. He thought about pocketing a few
small valuables to make it appear more like a random burglary but quickly
shelved the idea. Scarne would see through the ruse.
Garza
paused before the beautiful chess set. Like many Cuban boys, he had been
brought up on the tales of José Capablanca, the charismatic Cuban grandmaster
who dominated the chess world in the 1920’s. Garza played a mean game himself
and he studied the position before him. There was a notepad next to the set. It
was Scarne’s turn. The move was obvious. What the hell was he waiting for?
Garza’s gloved hand hovered above Scarne’s white bishop, then picked it up and
moved it across the board to capture his opponent’s remaining knight. Scarne
would lose the bishop on the next move, to a pawn, but according to Capablanca,
Scarne’s remaining queen and knight would prove more powerful than black’s
remaining queen and bishop, both of which traveled in a straight line. A
knight, however, could jump over pieces and wreak all sorts of havoc.
Just
for good measure, Garza made a note on the pad and circled it. Then he left the
apartment and went to dinner.
CHAPTER
16 – THE SOUTH FLORIDA TIMES
The
next morning Scarne called the
South Florida Times
and made an
appointment to meet its editor, John Pourier, at 10 A.M. at the paper’s
Hollywood headquarters. He had picked up a copy of the weekly the night before
in the lobby of the apartment building and read it cover to cover before going
to bed. He thought it compared favorably with New York’s famed
Village Voice
.
Within its 128 pages were movie, book, restaurant and club reviews; sports and
business columns; community notices and news, and, considering the moribund
media environment, an incredible amount of classified and display advertising.
Most of its stories dealt with local political shenanigans and the blights of
overbuilding and traffic congestion. Miami’s hedonistic lifestyle and its
extensive gay community were prominently covered. The editorials pulled no
punches. From what he knew about Josh Shields, it was not surprising he’d found
a home there.
Following
directions given him by the editor, Scarne took Collins Avenue up through
Hallandale Beach and cut over on the Lehman Causeway to Ives Dairy Road.
Pourier said the route would help him avoid the rush hour madness on Interstate
95 near Miami. Great plan, didn’t work. He stopped at a small Jewish deli on
the way and the short delay allowed a freight train pulling at least 100 cars
to get to Ives Dairy just before he did. He killed 15 minutes munching a bagel,
sipping coffee and calling his office.
“I
checked with both papers,” Evelyn said. “Josh apparently stopped delivery when
he was going away for more than a couple of days. He had the
Times
and
Journal
donate the issues to schools.” She didn’t mention that she was the one who
arranged that for Scarne, who invariably forgot.
“What
about the time he was scheduled to go to Antigua?”
“He
arranged for a halt of service, just for a week.”
It
wasn’t conclusive he knew, but one more argument against suicide.
He
thanked Evelyn and rang off just as the railroad gate started to open. Once on
I-95 he made good time and exited at Hollywood Blvd., heading west. He soon
spotted the building he was looking for at the Presidential Center, in the
center of a huge traffic circle. The building was at least 20 stories with four
towers surrounding a large enclosed courtyard filled with benches, trees and
sculptures. The effect was more artful than utilitarian, and Scarne liked it.
He entered an elevator serving the South Tower, holding the door for two
short-skirted, long-legged women chatting happily in Spanish. Their clothes
were high quality and cut short. In New York they might have been criticized
for dressing in hooker chic but in the Miami area they were in uniform. Cuban
girls set the style and were among the sexiest women in the world.
The
South
Florida Times
occupied the entire 10
th
floor. Scarne walked in
through double glass doors. A receptionist was on the phone, transferring a
call. When she finished, she looked up at him and said, “Can I help you?”
She
was cute but wasn’t going to win Miss Elevator in this building.
“I’m
here to see John Pourier. My name is Jake Scarne.”
“If
you will take a seat, I’ll let me him know you are here. Coffee?”
Scarne
declined and sat down next to a rack of magazines. Two men sat on a couch
across from him. They both had coffees and as the aroma drifted his way he
regretted his decision. He began leafing through
Florida Sportsman,
which had numerous photos of attractive women in bikinis holding large fish.
“Mr.
Scarne? I’m John Pourier.”
Scarne
stood. Pourier belonged in a bank boardroom, right down to the suspenders and
club tie. He was a good deal shorter than Scarne and well fed. He pointed at
the photo Scarne was looking at.
“Hell
of a snapper.”
Scarne
laughed as they shook.
“Let’s
go back to my office. Want some coffee?”
This
time Scarne accepted. On the way through the cubicled newsroom, Scarne remarked
that it seemed strangely quiet. Half the desks were empty.
“It’s
always like this the first couple of days after we put out an edition. We use a
lot of stringers and part-timers. It will pick up, believe me.”
After
stopping at a small room to get coffee (and half a donut for Pourier – “I can’t
resist these things, as you can probably tell”) they walked to an expansive
corner office. A window ran the length of the room and Scarne could see the
traffic swirling around the circle below. In the distance glistening high rises
dotted the Atlantic beachfront. Pourier sat down, chewing his donut and
spilling crumbs on his blotter. Scarne sat across from him.
“Now,
what can I do for you? I understand that you have some questions about Josh
Shields. His father called by the way. Said you would probably stop by. Very
nice man. I’ve spoken to him before, of course, after Josh died.”
Scarne
looked around the office. Everything was expensive, down to the silver Movado
clock on the bookcase. A full set of the newest Cobra golf clubs leaned up
against the wall. Picture frames lined the ledge in front of the window. There
were shots of Pourier with a tall blonde woman and children in various venues:
beaches, ski slopes, lakes and athletic fields. Interspersed with the frames
were plaques and trophies. Scarne spotted one statuette of a man on a polo
pony, in the act of swinging a mallet. He couldn’t read the inscription.
“Am
I in the right office?”
Pourier
laughed.
“Yeah,
I know. I bet you didn’t think alternative journalism could be lucrative. This
is a great market. We have to fight off advertisers.”
“With
a polo mallet?”
Pourier
laughed.
“Oh
hell, I have to fess up. I don’t make that kind of money doing this. I made it
the old-fashioned way. I inherited it. Bought a piece of the paper and made
myself editor. Took a while to win over some of the longhairs out there” – he
hooked a thumb toward the newsroom – “but they came around after I skewered
some fat cats. Most people at my clubs don’t know what I do, for which my wife
is eternally grateful.”
“Did
you know Josh Shields was looking at Victor Ballantrae?”
“Not
until his father called.”
“Did
he tell you why?”
“No.
Just that he’d appreciate any help I could give you. I was surprised.
Ballantrae Financial is a big deal in these parts. Even advertise with us,
which is a bonus. We don’t get much advertising from banks, drug companies and
the like, as you might imagine. But Ballantrae is trying to make a splash in
South Florida and is covering all the bases, especially in the Latin community.
Young Cubans are the hippest people on Earth and our club coverage is the best
in Miami. And we have a growing South American population. They have a
god-awful amount of money. Own half the condos on Miami Beach.”
“What
kind of ads?”
“The
usual stuff. Financial planning, trusts, insurance, banking. Ballantrae also
sponsors golf and tennis tournaments and ran promos about those.”
“Would
you have printed an unflattering article about Ballantrae?”
Pourier
looked offended. He hooked a thumb at his polo trophy.
“I
said his advertising was a bonus. We don’t need it. We exist to piss off the
powerful and it hasn’t hurt our advertising. It’s something the mainstream
press hasn’t grasped. Getting in bed with the people fucking the country
doesn’t sell papers. They never learn.” Pourier sat back in his swivel chair and
put his feet up on his desk. “We run an exposé a week. South Florida has no
dearth of scoundrels. You might have heard about the city councilman who shot
himself in the lobby of the
Herald
after being caught with his hand in
the till? Everybody was shocked. Who kills themselves for stealing in Florida?
Anyway, I just told my staff to start looking into Ballantrae.”
“Come
up with anything?”
“Mr.
Shields asked me to cooperate with you. But professional courtesy only goes so
far. What’s in it for me?”
“Maybe
we can help each other out?’
“How?”
“I
might find out things you can’t.”
“And
of course, you’ll rush right over and tell me.”
“If
it doesn’t hurt my client.”
“I
don’t seem to be getting much out of this. Lots of quid, little pro.”
Scarne
knew that telling Pourier of Sheldon Shield’s suspicions was risky. Borderline
irresponsible, particularly if Ballantrae was innocent. But getting information
from the editor could save a lot of time. He assumed that Pourier wouldn’t risk
a lawsuit from a billionaire without hard evidence.
“Off
the record?”
“Sure,”
Pourier said.
“Josh’s
father thinks Victor Ballantrae might be involved in his death.”
Pourier’s
feet came off his desk and he sat up. He stared at Scarne.
“You
must be joking. I thought it was an accident.”
“Probably
was. But there are a few things bothering the old man, and I have to admit they
bother me too.”
“Such
as.”
Scarne
told him. Pourier started taking notes halfway through.
“Two
feet of water? Jesus Christ. I didn’t know that. Maybe I should have. And the
business about his computer and notes is inconsistent with the reporter I knew.
Josh was a good journalist. With his financial background and contacts, he
stood out down there, not that he flaunted it. I’m not sure how many people the
‘Hidless’ thing fooled inside the building but he got some great stories on
people who didn’t know who they were dealing with.”
“Like
Victor Ballantrae?”
Pourier
nodded. “It’s possible.” He picked up his phone and punched a button on his
console. “Lois, can you come in here? And bring whatever you’ve got on
Ballantrae.” He listened for a moment. “Yeah. The man and the company. I know.
Anything at all. Just bring it in here. Thanks.”
He
hung up and looked at Scarne.
“Why
isn’t Shields, the company, doing something?”
“Randolph
Shields thinks his brother is crazy. Ballantrae is also planning to buy into
the family business.”
“Good
God, man. I don’t know what Sheldon is paying you, but it can’t be enough.
Randolph Fucking Shields is nobody to screw around with.”
There
was a knock on the half-open door and a young woman walked in holding a manila
folder. Without asking she sat on a chair next to Scarne.
“Meg.
This is Jake Scarne. He’s a private eye. Jake, this is Meghan Pace.” He saw the
look on Scarne’s face and laughed. “Oh. Meg is our Lois Lane. Just a nickname.
My best reporter and soon-to-be deputy editor.”
Scarne
shook hands with Pace, a compact brunette wearing jeans and a sweater.
“Now,
what do we have on Ballantrae?”
She
hesitated.
“It’s
OK. We’re working on something together, so you can talk freely.”
She
did. Alternately glancing at her notes and documents in the folder, she painted
a picture of Ballantrae and his organization. Scarne knew much of it, from his
talk with Huber, but he didn’t interrupt.
“Ballantrae
seemed to arrive in Southern Florida full-blown about five years ago,” she
said, “simultaneously opening a flagship office on Brickell Avenue in downtown
Miami for its Financial Services subsidiary; satellite offices in Coral Gables,
Kendall and Lauderdale, and a research division with 40 stock and bond analysts
in Boca Raton. The investment banking unit has made some small deals locally,
mostly with high-tech startups in Port St. Lucie. It’s the offshore bank that
interests me. According to the company it has almost $10 billion in deposits
and is growing by 20 percent a year. It seems to be generating the most
revenue, selling certificates of deposit to rich South American expatriates in
South Florida. They’re apparently a hot item since they offer an interest rate a
couple of points higher than anyone else is.”
“I
can vouch for that,” Pourier said. “Some of my banking and broker friends at
the club are bitching. Ballantrae is cutting into their business.”
“Isn’t
that suspicious?” Scarne asked.
“According
to the sales brochures,” Pace said, “the bank is treated differently tax wise
and since they market directly to the public there is little overhead. They
also claim that as an international company they can invest in foreign markets
for higher returns. The CD’s aren’t FDIC insured, by the way, so there is risk.
Which they disclose. But investors are apparently willing to take that risk
because Ballantrae has never missed an interest payment on a CD. Whatever
they’re doing, it’s been approved by the SEC and a whole slew of state
regulators.”
“An
S.E.C. imprimatur doesn’t impress me,” Scarne said. “Madoff, Stanford and some
of the other crooks bragged about how the S.E.C. gave them a clean bill of
health. That’s how they suckered so many people.”