“Jesus.
I thought we were investigating a simple homicide, not a massacre. You think
they all skipped?”
“No,
they travel a lot. They’ll be back. I think Goetz and the Antigua thing came
out of left field for them. Something is unraveling. You make any progress on
the shooting?”
“Found
another olive.”
“Come
on. I’ve given you what I’ve got.” Or most of it. “Maybe we can help each other
out. I’m not a suspect, am I?”
“A
few more bodies in this thing, and I’ll put you down as a serial killer.”
Scarne
was glad he hadn’t mentioned Sheldon Shields.
“Antigua
going down as self-defense? You know who the guy was?”
“Yes
to the first, and no.”
“Well,
I don’t like you for Goetz,” Paulo said, “and the other thing is off my
reservation, though I’m gonna find out who he was. This is a colossal shit
storm. You and I know Goetz wasn’t the target. Sounds like it was Loeb. I can
tell you that you got the bullet right. Didn’t find the rifle. Probably at the
bottom of the river. Tracked down the speedboat to a hotel dock, where it had
been tied up illegally. Stolen earlier from a marina controlled by some
wiseguys. Don’t know if that means anything. Garza and Keitel aren’t your
typical Wall Street types. Nothing much on them. Their history is a black hole,
but I’ve got them pegged for ex-military, maybe mercenary. We’re checking with
the Feds now. Other than that, bupkus. What are you going to do now?”
Scarne
didn’t want to tell Paulo about the funeral. He had given him just enough to
keep the pressure on Ballantrae and maybe off himself.
“I’m
going home to get some rest. This is out of my hands now.”
“Sure,”
the cop said, not believing a word. “And you’ll keep in touch, too.”
“Of
course. And you know how to find me.”
“I’ll
just follow the bodies.”
CHAPTER
39 – CANDID CAMERA
After
arranging with Mario to ship his golf clubs and most of his clothes separately,
Scarne managed to catch a late afternoon flight out of Lauderdale. His battered
visage and bandaged hands earned him extra scans and pat-downs from T.S.A.
personnel at the airport and nervous glances from his fellow passengers. By the
time the plane landed at LaGuardia, he could feel wetness inside his shirt and
knew some sutures had given way.
Evelyn
had already left, but he had his cab wait while he dropped his damaged cell
phone off at his office; she could remove the SIM in the morning. His next stop
was the emergency room at St. Vincent’s Hospital near his apartment in the
Village, where he was re-patched, jabbed with more antibiotics, given some
painkillers and told not to drink alcohol. Then he went to Knickerbocker’s for
a couple of martinis and a steak. Before he left he ordered a third martini.
“This
one’s for you, Sheldon,” he said, draining the drink.
Then
he walked, unsteadily, to his apartment and slept. It wasn’t until the next
morning that he realized that someone had been in his apartment. He stood for a
long time at his chess set, reading the note explaining the brilliance of a
move he hadn’t made, before he angrily swept the pieces off the board.
***
Scarne
almost never drove in Manhattan; keeping an automobile there was an
extravagance. The airports were easily accessible by limousine, taxi or train.
As for road trips outside the city, renting was infinitely less expensive than
the cost of ownership. But he loved cars and felt naked without one of his own
at his beck and call. Fortunately, the garage rates in Greenwich Village were
among the most reasonable in the city.
The
underground lot Scarne used was adjacent to his building at 2 Fifth Avenue. He
paid a $100 premium over the regular $400 monthly flat “courtesy” rate the
garage offered to his building’s residents. That got him a sheltered spot on
the ground floor next to the cashier’s booth, where it was unlikely to be
dinged. He also made sure to meet all the attendants and learn their names. His
$10 tips on the infrequent days he used the car, plus various gifts (bagels,
cookies, cakes, wine), insured that he was treated like family.
The
object of all this affection was a perfectly restored and lovingly maintained
1974 MGB Roadster, painted in classic British Racing Green. The two-seater
convertible zipped in and out of traffic and was easy to park. And when
liberated from congested city roadways, it was an invigorating ride.
When
Scarne walked into the garage’s 8
th
Street entrance, the attendant
on duty immediately took a set of keys from a drawer. He flipped them to Scarne
and began pulling the tarp off the gleaming MGB. It would be folded neatly and
stored in a special bin in the cashier shack.
“How’s
the family, Emmanuel?”
Scarne
never called the attendant “Manny,” as some customers did. He knew how proud
the man was of his Haitian lineage.
“They
fine, Jake. We were very blessed.”
Among
Haitians, losing
only
two second cousins in an earthquake was considered
providential.
Scarne
smiled and handed him $10.
“You
need another letter or anything, let me know.”
Scarne
had pulled some strings to help get some of the parking attendant’s family out
of Haiti.
“I
’preciate it. I’d like to get my sister out now. It’s lookin’ good.”
Emmanuel
Moliere watched Scarne pull out into traffic. He could hear the muted, but
throaty, rumble of the MGB’s engine long after it was out of sight. Jake sure
loves that car. Good man. Always polite and interested. Even when recouperatin’
from something bad. Moliere had seen his share of wounds, from bullets to
machetes. Looks like Jake just went through another grinder. Dish it out, too,
I bet. He got that look in his eyes.
***
St.
John the Divine, in Fairfield, Connecticut, serves one of the richest
congregations in the nation. The service for Sheldon Shields was set for 11
A.M. Cremation would follow. Parking near the church was nonexistent, so Scarne
flashed his P.I. license to a town cop directing traffic and said he was on the
family’s security payroll. He was directed to a handicapped spot in the lot
right next to the church. Given his bruises, he didn’t think the consideration
was completely undeserved.
As
he expected, the church was filled. He was standing in the back when Emma
Shields came in with the family. When she spotted him, a look of disbelief,
then consternation, crossed her face. It wasn’t the reaction he expected, but
maybe he’d surprised her. The service itself was simple and moving. Emma and
her father gave elegant eulogies that brought out the humanity of Sheldon.
Scarne was surprised at the emotion shown by Randolph as he remembered his
brother and their early years together. Emma held up well, until she noted that
Sheldon, his wife and son – “the entire family” – were all gone within a few
months of each other.
“Uncle
Sheldon is now with Aunt Adele and their beloved Josh,” she said, her voice
faltering briefly.
That
kind of loss, Scarne knew, could not be completely mitigated by anything he
accomplished. But it would be something.
A
choir sang “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” undoubtedly in honor of Sheldon’s
fascination with the Civil War. Finally, a piper played “Amazing Grace” and
then everyone filed out. Randolph Shields and the rest of the family
congregated at the foot of the stairs outside the church talking to well
wishers as the limousines pulled up. Scarne started to walk over to offer his
condolences when Nigel Blue intercepted him.
“Mr.
Shields would like to see you at the house. Follow the cars going back for the
repast.”
It
was less an invitation than an order.
***
The
Shields family compound was located in Southport, a tony Connecticut community
on Long Island Sound that is part of Fairfield, which itself is 20 miles east
of Greenwich. After entering the estate grounds, Scarne drove up a long
tree-canopied road toward a huge gabled mansion that could only have been
Randolph’s. The access road itself was flanked by acres of fields, on some of
which white-coated valets were parking cars. After dropping off his roadster
with a valet who miraculously knew how to drive stick, he walked through a
foyer to a large dining room, where a groaning board heaped with food was
beginning to attract the attention of the growing crowd. A bar set up in the
corner was doing a brisk business. Scarne had just started nursing his wounds
with a stiff bourbon when Nigel Blue spotted him.
“Mr.
Shields wants you in the library.”
They
walked toward the back of the house and stopped in the hallway outside a small
den. Blue handed Scarne a DVD disk.
“You’re
to watch this.” He pointed to a small entertainment center in the den. “Then go
through there.” With a hook of his thumb he indicated the double doors opposite
the den behind them.
Blue
left. What the hell! But Scarne did as instructed. The TV was already on and he
inserted the disk. Video images appeared on the screen. They weren’t of the
best quality but were clear enough so that the hairs on the back of his neck
rose, and he got a sick feeling in his stomach. The first 10 minutes of the
disk showed a couple making love. It was shot from above, at a slight angle.
The action had been spliced, as there were quick cuts to various positions and
activities. There was a strange, constant flickering throughout, as if a camera
shutter was rapidly opening and closing.
Scarne
felt sweat running down his back. Only moonlight and ambient light streaming
over the bed made the activity visible. But the light and the shadows – and
especially the damnable flickering – had the effect of making the couplings
highly charged and erotic. It was, Scarne thought wildly, like watching an old
black-and-white stag film or a peep-show at a carnival. Could the pair of
lovers be identified? There were blessedly no sounds. But Scarne’s hopes were
soon shattered by the last few minutes of the video, shot in the morning as
dawn began bathing the room.
Tangled
in the sheets in post-coital exhaustion were he and Alana. And the flickering
continued. What kind of camera produced that effect? Then Scarne remembered the
fan over the bed. That’s where the bastards had placed their camera. The
flickering was nothing more than the fan’s blades lazily cooling the lovers.
But who would do something like this? Scarne’s mind raced. The room had been a
last-minute change. Or had it? And what was the connection with the man who
tried to kill Alana in the shower? Scarne felt his rage building. He had been
played the fool. Then he forced himself to calm down. His humiliation was not
over. He ejected the disk and put it in his jacket pocket. He then walked out
to face the music.
CHAPTER
40 – CELL CLONE
There
was a fire blazing in a stand-up hearth in the library. Randolph Shields was
standing with his back to a large desk, looking out a bay window towards the
fields beyond. A rich man’s view. Scarne could see horses doing horsey things.
The word gamboling popped unbidden into his head. Shields turned when he heard
Scarne enter. He was holding a manila envelope.
“Emma,
I wonder if you would let us have a few moments alone?”
She
was sitting in a high backed chair.
“I’d
rather stay.”
“I
don’t want you to hear this, Emma.”
“Dad,
I’m as much a part of this as you are. I saw the disk, after all.”
Jesus,
Scarne thought.
“Suit
yourself. You’re a big girl.”
Shields
walked over to his desk. He did not sit down and he didn’t offer Scarne a seat.
Emma crossed her legs and put her hands in her lap. Scarne made a concerted
effort to not look at those legs. It was, he reflected, hardly the time.
Instead, he looked at her face and read disappointment and pity in her eyes. He
would have preferred anger. Randolph provided the anger, tossing the envelope
on the desk toward Scarne.
“Open
it.”
It
was addressed to Sheldon Shields. In it were glossy photos and a single sheet
of note paper. The photos were stills taken from the disk, carefully chosen to
minimize interference from the fan. The note was neatly typed:
“Dear
Mr. Shields:
Do
not trust Jake Scarne. You have placed a great deal of faith in him. As you can
readily see, that faith was misplaced.
A
Friend”
“I
don’t suppose you know who sent this to your brother.”
“I
don’t think it matters. It was found on the tracks near Sheldon’s body. My
brother sent you off on a wild goose chase. You saw a big payday, complete with
a vacation in the sun. You’re the kind who takes advantage of other people.
Sheldon trusted you. When he saw the disk and the photos it robbed him of his
last hope. He was very fragile emotionally. He never got over the death of Josh
and his wife. This betrayal must have devastated him. He killed himself. I hope
you had a great time with your little strumpet.”
Strumpet?
What was this, a Dickens novel? But Scarne held his tongue. Emma had remained
silent during the tirade, but now she spoke.
“Dad,
we’re not sure it was a suicide. It could have been an accident. And one
detective said they were looking into the possibility Uncle Sheldon was pushed.
What Mr. Scarne did was despicable but until we’re sure what happened we should
leave the hyperbole out of this.”
It
was a rational statement, by a woman not afraid of her famous father. But the
only word that stuck with Scarne was “despicable.” He would have preferred 50
lashes. Randolph Shields shook his head dismissively. Before he could spout
more Victorian dialogue, Scarne cut him off.
“Mr.
Shields, your daughter is right. I am despicable.” They both stared at him.
“But that doesn’t change the fact that I think your brother was murdered, as
was his son before him. There are too many dead bodies turning up in this case
to think otherwise. Four, at last count, including your brother. Yes, it’s
possible he thought I had been stringing him along and he killed himself. But
it’s just as likely that the people who sent him the photos wanted you to think
that. I won’t be able to sleep until I find out how he died.”
“It
doesn’t look like you get much sleep anyway,” Shields said.
A
cheap shot. As badly as he felt, Scarne didn’t need any moral lectures from
“Randy” Shields, whose own sexual exploits were legion. But he let it go.
“Who
else died?” It was Emma.
Scarne
told them everything. He saw the incredulity on their faces. When he finished,
Shields spoke.
“Victor
Ballantrae is a tough, shrewd businessman, with more money than God. You expect
me to believe that he is a killer. The only one he might reasonably want to
kill is you, and I’m not sure I’d blame him. You diddled his chief of staff,
who is probably his mistress, and did your best to damage his reputation. And
for all that, he’s not holding it against me. He was one of the first of my
friends to offer his condolences after Sheldon’s death. He reiterated his
support for my company. He knew my brother was mentally unbalanced. You must
think I am! You actually think that by spinning this fantastic yarn you can get
me to continue funding your so-called investigation?”
“How
do you explain the murder at the pool and the man I killed in Antigua?”
“Probably
a jealous boyfriend,” Randolph said. “Now, get the hell…”
“Dad,
just a second,” Emma interjected. “Do you have any proof of anything, Mr.
Scarne?”
“Not
yet.”
“There
is no ‘yet,’ Scarne,” Randolph shouted. “You’re fired. I don’t want you
anywhere near my family. You’ve done enough harm to us. And I intend to take
this matter up with the proper authorities. I’m going to get your license, if
you even have one. And I’m going to recoup every cent of the money my brother
paid you. I’m sure he never expected you to buy the most expensive piece of ass
in Miami with it. Now get out! Your appearance at Sheldon’s funeral was an
abomination.”
Scarne
could have pointed out that Randolph wasn’t his client, so he couldn’t fire
him. What was the point? He couldn’t look at Emma. So he turned and walked out.
***
Scarne
got back to Manhattan at 4 P.M. He waved Evelyn into his office.
“Things
may get rough around here for a while. Randolph Shields may try to shut us
down. And I may have given him enough ammunition to do it. Get Don Tierney on
the phone for me.”
Evelyn
had a strange look on her face.
“Jake,
there’s a problem with your cell phone.”
“I
know that. I told you to get me a new one. Use the land line, for God’s sake.
What’s the matter with you?” It was the first time he’d ever raised his voice
to her in anger. He immediately apologized. “Sorry. It’s been a rough couple of
days.”
“You
don’t understand, Jake.” She held out her hand and opened it. In her palm was a
tiny wafer. “The phone tech found this in your old phone when he switched your
S.I.M. card. He said it was very sophisticated. State of the art, he called it.
He also said you probably know what it is.”
Scarne
did. He picked the miniature transceiver bug out of her palm. His cell phone
had been cloned. Someone had been listening in to all of his calls. But for how
long? He’d only bought the phone recently and the last time the tech had
switched S.I.M. cards nothing was amiss. Since then it was never out of his
sight or not on his person. Then he remembered the locker attendant at Pelican
Trace who told Scarne that the club didn’t allow cell phones on the course.
He’d left it in his locker. Except there was no club rule. They’d been one step
ahead of him. Bugging his phone, burgling his apartment.
“What
are you thinking, Jake?”
He
looked at Evelyn. He hadn’t used the phone much, except to make appointments in
Miami, and most of those preceded the golf match. But he did call Evelyn and
dictate a memo on his progress. And in that call he mentioned that he had not
yet reported to Sheldon Shields. Had someone decided to cut off the investigation
at the head? Killing Scarne would have raised too many questions. Sheldon, and
probably even Randolph, wouldn’t have let that go. But killing Sheldon and
disgracing Scarne solved everything. It was a brilliant gambit. And it looked
like a winning one.
“Jake?”
“Evelyn,
I need some time to think. Don’t call Don just yet. Where is my new phone?”
“Right
there.” She pointed to a small brown package. “On top of the gift that Sheldon
Shields dropped off.” She gave him a concerned look and walked out, closing the
door quietly.
I
haven’t exactly covered myself in glory on this one, Scarne thought as he idly
pulled the package over. I never took the case seriously from the beginning.
Basically went through the motions. Perhaps that was a bit harsh, but he didn’t
feel like cutting himself any breaks when it was possible he’d gotten his
client killed and destroyed his own livelihood.
He
opened the cell phone and checked its contact list. Everything seemed to be
working. He began to unwrap the package.
What
about Alana? Did she know about the video? That seemed unlikely. After all, it
was he who insisted they take the cottage when she was arguing with the hotel
manager. And he was convinced that their lovemaking was genuine. Of course, he
had saved her life in Miami, and she expressed her gratitude physically. But
the things she said in bed, the reactions to his touch, the murmurs, the tears,
the pure happiness, seemed to be as surprising to her as they were to him. And,
now, after saving her again from the man in the shower, he was sure she loved
him.
Inside
the package was a book, swathed in hunter-green tissue paper. There was a note
in a small Crane envelope:
“Dear
Jake,
Thought
you might like a copy of Pullen’s “Twentieth Maine.” It’s a first edition. I
had two. I kept the one I gave to Josh. I wanted you to have mine.
Best,
Sheldon”
Scarne
stared dully at the book and felt sick to his stomach. What must that bereft
old man thought of him? But he still couldn’t believe that Sheldon Shields
killed himself, even if he viewed the video. Still, deep in his gut, he knew
that whatever happened on that subway platform was his fault.
He
had to prove it was murder. He owed that to Sheldon. But what if Alana Loeb had
a hand in that murder? And Josh’s?
The
woman he now also loved.