CHAPTER
23 – DO YOU GOLF?
“What
did you mean when you said you knew who I was, Ms. Loeb?”
Alana
Loeb wasn’t smiling. But she didn’t look angry.
“Randolph
Shields called us. We were expecting you. There was no need to play cops and
robbers, or even a building inspector.”
“Then
you know I’m looking into his son’s death.”
She
shook her head sadly.
“Poor
Sheldon. I’m not sure how Victor will react to this insanity.”
“I’m
not so sure it’s insanity, Ms. Loeb.”
“You
think we had something to do with it,” she said coldly. “I would be careful,
Mr. Scarne. There are laws against slander.”
“Look,”
he said. “I’m not saying he’s right about Ballantrae being involved. Makes no
sense to me either. But I’ve spoken to a lot of people, including the medical
examiner, and I can no longer dismiss the possibility that Joshua Shields was
murdered. His computer and notes are missing. He was preparing an unflattering
article about your organization. Perhaps there are other explanations but the
fact remains that the article never got printed.”
They
were interrupted by a woman carrying in a tray with a coffee service.
She
placed it on the table and started to pour.
“Thank
you, Maria,” Alana Loeb said. “You can leave it. I’ll take care of our guest.”
Which
she did, quickly and efficiently.
“Reporters
keep a lot of stories on their computers, Mr. Scarne. Maybe he was writing
about dope rings or ghetto gangs. Miami has a vibrant criminal subculture.
Companies don’t kill people to prevent unflattering articles. There would be
daily massacres. Why pick on us?”
“If
I find out that he was working on other stories, I will pursue them. But you’re
all I’ve got for now. If there is nothing here, I go away. But I have to start
somewhere.”
Alana
Loeb looked exasperated. She put down her cup and leaned forward.
“You
seem like an intelligent man, Mr. Scarne. I don’t doubt that you have Sheldon’s
best interests at heart. You proved that by turning down Randolph’s offer to
drop the case. Oh yes, he told us. I, for one, find your actions admirable. I’m
sure Randolph rarely has anyone turn down his money. He must have been
shocked.” She smiled and sat back, crossing her legs elegantly. “So I don’t
think we will make you an offer. More coffee?”
“I’m
fine.”
“Sheldon
has obviously become undone by the deaths of his son and wife in such short
order. I know he had been indiscreet and you are aware of our interest in
investing in Shields Inc. There is a tremendous amount of money involved. I
hope we can rely on your discretion in that regard. But there is much more at
stake. Your investigation has the potential to rip a family apart and humiliate
a fragile old man. I hope I’m not talking out of school here, but Randolph told
us he’s thinking about forcing his brother to seek psychiatric help, perhaps
even have him committed. Are you really willing to risk that?”
“It’s
not my call, Ms. Loeb. Surely you can see that.”
“Well,
surely you can understand that it’s not in our interests to encourage you in
this matter. I speak now as chief counsel and I think that from here on out you
will have to deal with our legal department.”
“Gee,
I was hoping to meet Mr. Ballantrae.”
“I’m
afraid that isn’t possible.”
From
the doorway a voice said, “Oh yes it is.”
Scarne
stood as the man walked in the room. Alana Loeb remained seated.
“I’m
Victor Ballantrae.” His dark eyes bored into Scarne’s. “What’s this all about,
Alana?”
She
stared at Ballantrae for a moment and then told him, in a few clipped, concise
sentences. Her tone was businesslike and lacked deference. As she spoke, Scarne
took the measure of the man. Ballantrae was at least four inches taller than he
was and a good deal heavier, broad shouldered with a hint of a belly. Good
suit, strange, overblown face. Thug at the core, he decided. Ballantrae
listened with apparent indifference and then turned to Scarne.
“I
usually refer matters like this to my lawyers. I have a passel of them. No one
wants to further complicate a family tragedy but I have a reputation to uphold.
My company is expanding rapidly. We are in the financial services industry.
Trust is what we sell.”
The
snake oil sincerity grated on Scarne.
“Mr.
Ballantrae, Sheldon Shields asked me to look into his son’s death, not
specifically your company. I agreed to do so with the proviso that I was to be
given a free hand. I’m just going over old ground but that’s the way I operate.
Don’t read too much into it and please spare me the Wall Street sales pitch.
I’ve been around the block and done some research. You may sell trust, but you
get a commission. But for what it’s worth, I’m not here to embarrass anybody
because you screw your competitors or inflate your profits. If you had nothing
to do with Josh Shields’s death – and I’d guess you didn’t – then you should
want to help me. If you don’t, it will only make me more curious. You’d be better
off stonewalling the cops. They have many priorities. This case is my only one.
I won’t stop until I’m satisfied I’ve covered every base.”
“I
don’t appreciate threats.”
“Neither
do I. Randolph Shields is trying to put me out of business. I don’t like that.
I intend to give his brother his money’s worth.”
Ballantrae
looked like he was making up his mind. Then he let out a guttural laugh.
“What
the hell! Do you golf, Mr. Scarne?”
“Excuse
me.”
“I
would like you to be my guest at my club tomorrow for a round of golf.”
This
is bizarre, Scarne thought.
“I
golf.”
“Great.
I don’t have time to talk now. I’m giving a speech at the Biltmore. What do you
say? I can arrange clubs for you, shoes and the like.”
“I
won’t need anything. Just tell me where and when.”
“Pelican
Trace, in Boca Raton. You may have heard of it. Let’s say noon. We can have a
bite of lunch first.” Ballantrae put out his hand. His grip was hard and meant
to intimidate. “Alana can show you out.” As he left, he said over his shoulder,
“Don’t forget your checkbook.”
At
the elevator, Alana Loeb said, “Victor is very competitive, Mr. Scarne.”
“So
am I. I’m looking forward to our match.”
The
doors opened.
“And
I hope to see you again, Miss Loeb.”
“Alana.”
She
extended her hand and smiled faintly as he stepped into the elevator.
***
Alana
Loeb walked to Ballantrae’s office. He had his feet on his desk and was
watching a replay of the interview.
“You
make a lovely couple,” he said.
“Victor,
what are you doing? Golf?”
“What
about it?”
“He’s
dangerous. And smart. He’s highly regarded in New York, with powerful friends.
You’re not going to charm him or buy him off. Just refer him to our attorneys
while we figure out what to do.”
“Our
lawyers would only antagonize him. I want to see what he’s made of. Golf is a
great way to size up a man.”
“Don’t
insult my intelligence. This is about dick size and you know it.”
“I
don’t need advice from you on that subject. Not any more. Besides, I’m not
going to charm him, you are. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you.”
“Stop
talking like a pimp, Victor.”
“I’m
not asking you to fuck him. I know you’ve become very choosy about who you
sleep with. I want to know what he knows, if anything. You should want that,
too. I don’t have to remind you what’s at stake.”
He
looked at her bitterly. She realized Victor had yet to accept the change in
their relationship. He still wanted her; that much was obvious. How much of
that desire was caused by hurt pride? Did he love her? As always, she began to
calculate how to use his vulnerability. Love, what a terrible affliction; what
a weakness. She had never made that mistake and never would. But not for the
first time Alana Loeb wondered if there was something wrong with her.
“What’s
the matter, Alana?”
Ballantrae
was looking at her strangely, and she realized she had been someplace else for
a moment. He slowly came back into focus.
“Nothing,
Victor. Maybe you’re right. It can’t hurt to get to know Mr. Scarne better.
He’s not hard to look at and certainly is in good shape. I’ll see what I can
do.”
She
enjoyed the sulky look he gave her.
***
When
Alana Loeb got to her office, Garza was standing at a window looking at the
ocean. There was a folder and a small box on her desk.
“It’s
all in there,” he said.
“What’s
in the box?”
“A
fruitcake.”
“Thank
you, I think. Just give me the highlights.”
Garza
picked up the folder and flipped through the pages.
“Quite
a character. Exotic background. Only child. Orphaned in grade school when the
small plane his father was piloting went down in the mountains. The boy
miraculously survived. Hardly a scratch.” He looked up. “His mother was
half-Cheyenne Indian, by the way.” Garza started reading again. “He was then
raised by his grandparents, Giacomo and Elizabeth Scarne. Giacomo, a decorated
Italian sub commander imprisoned in Montana in1943, met Elizabeth, maiden name
Bairn, while with a P.O.W. work crew that grew its own produce on the Bairn
farm in return for day labor.”
Garza
looked up.
“Giacomo
was repatriated to his native Sicily. He apparently came from a prominent
Palermo family, old nobility, much like the one in Giuseppe di Lampedesa’s
book.”
“The
Leopard.”
Garza
smiled in appreciation. He liked Alana Loeb, more for her intelligence than her
obvious beauty.
“Yes,”
he said. “Giacomo could have lived a comfortable life in Sicily, but he
returned to Montana, married Elizabeth and become a citizen. They had the one
son, Adam. Elizabeth died a few years after the plane crash so it was basically
just Giacomo and the boy.”
Garza
closed the folder and looked at her. She had a strange expression on her face.
“What?”
“Nothing,
really. I find it interesting about the grandfather raising him.”
Garza
shrugged.
“Incidentally,
‘Jake’ is not a diminutive of his grandfather’s name,” he said. “It is his
given name. His full name is Jake Bairn Scarne.”
“How
did you get all this?” The former Cuban intelligence officer never ceased to
amaze her. Castro’s loss was Ballantrae’s gain.
“The
grandfather earned a law degree and eventually became a county prosecutor, then
a judge. Apparently highly respected. Even for Montana it’s a unique story. The
family was profiled in the local press and some state magazines. It’s now all
on the Internet, and I made a few calls.”
“What
else?”
“The
old judge died while Scarne was recuperating from wounds. Marines. Detached to
Army Special Operations. He’s a damn war hero. Silver Star. Must run in the
family. Apparently he was captured in Afghanistan but managed to escape. That’s
the Indian blood in him,” Garza said admiringly. “But he wasn’t treated gently
by the towel heads. From a description of his subsequent medical care it was
pretty obvious he was tortured. Bottom line, he’s been a hard man to kill, from
the plane crash onward. Anyway, after getting out he joined the N.Y.P.D.
Attended Fordham Law at night and eventually wound up as an investigator with
the Manhattan District Attorney. Left suddenly and went private.”
“Why?
Anything we can use?”
Garza
sat back and stretched.
“Something
political. Still waiting to hear back about that. You thinking about hiring
him?”
As
she filled him in, Garza reached into his jacket pocket and took out a gold
case with the initials “F.C.” It was, she knew, one of Garza’s prized
possessions, given to him personally by the Cuban dictator in better days. He
took out a small cigar and lit it. She didn’t object. The scent of fine tobacco
was an indelible memory of her childhood, along with the smell of oak casks and
lovingly waxed saddle leather. After she finished speaking, the Cuban blew a
perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling and leaned forward.
“You
want my advice, Alana, don’t screw around with him,” Garza said. “He’s no fool.
He spotted Christian tailing him in Manhattan.”
“You’re
sure?”
“The
description fits some photos I found in his apartment.”
“Can
he identify Keitel?”
“I
doubt it.” Garza laughed. “Christian said that after standing in the rain for
two hours wearing a ski hat he looked like every other derelict in Manhattan.
But seriously, this Scarne has a reputation as a straight arrow. Worse, he’s
persistent. And anyone who is part Cheyenne and part Sicilian is probably all
trouble. Let us handle this.”