Scarne
had to admit the whole thing smelled a bit off. But still…
“Mr.
Shields, respected, hell, even crooked, billionaires hire lawyers, not hit men.
What could Ballantrae possibly be involved in that justifies murder?”
“I
don’t like the son of a bitch but I can’t imagine what it could be. I obviously
don’t have anything I can bring to the authorities. They think I’m a crackpot.
Randolph is the only reason they humored me as long as they did. But they
convinced him it was an accident. When I told the police about the computer and
missing notes, they were barely polite. Apparently Miami doesn’t have a
shortage of murders that are easier to solve.”
He
reached in his pocket and took out a thick envelope, placing it on the table
and pushing it to Scarne.
“Bottom
line, I’ve got nowhere else to go. Here’s $20,000 to start. I'll pay your
expenses, too. Go to Miami, turn over some rocks. Maybe something will slither
out. You will find much of what you need to start in that envelope. Josh's
address, employer and so on. You can stay in Josh's apartment and use his car.
I’ll call Mario. He’ll have everything ready. If you turn up something, we can
make further arrangements. But this money is yours to keep for trying.”
“You
can’t be serious.”
“Why,
isn’t it enough?”
“That’s
not the point. Mr. Shields, I think you may be grasping at straws. What you
have told me is interesting. But this is all pretty thin. I don't want to take
your money on false pretenses.”
“Are
there any other kind of pretenses, Jake? If you conclude that Josh’s death was
indeed an accident, or perhaps a random act of violence, I’ll have to live with
it. But if Victor Ballantrae thought Josh was just a no-name, two-bit reporter
for a Florida weekly...well, I don’t know. I can’t live with the thought that I
may have caused my son’s murder. I have to find out.”
“And
what about your brother? I can’t be discreet about this.”
Shields
smiled.
“I
finally told Randolph what Josh said about Ballantrae. And the missing
computer, everything. He said I had no right to do what I did. He said Josh
thought everyone was a crook. Was exaggerating, trying to please me. He raised
many of the points you and the police have. We had a huge row. Claimed I was
jealous of him and wanted to run the company. Victor Ballantrae was a dear
friend and I was going to destroy everything. If Emma wasn’t there, I think we
might actually have come to blows.”
“Emma?”
“Randolph’s
daughter, Emerald. She and Josh grew up together and were always thick as
thieves. More like brother and sister than cousins. Hell, Adele and I
practically raised her, what with Randolph always scooting around the world,
and usually between wives and mistresses. Emma took Josh’s death particularly
hard. I’m not sure she agrees with her father.”
“How
did you leave it with your brother?”
The
old man looked at his brandy glass, twirling it as he spoke.
“I
was angry. I didn’t like what he said about Josh, although now I’m sure he
didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” He finished his drink. “I told him that I
wasn’t going to drop it. I was going to find out what Josh meant.”
“Sounds
like you’ve burned your bridges.”
“Randolph
and I aren’t speaking. It is what it is. I’ve lost my wife and my son. If Josh
was right about Ballantrae, and I can prove it, Randolph will come around. It’s
still family, after all.”
“And
if you can’t?”
“Then
I assume Randolph will put me out to pasture.” Shields smiled. “Or follow
through on his most recent threat – and have me committed.” He looked at
Scarne. “Will you help me?”
Now
Scarne signaled for another brandy. A $20,000 payday doesn’t come along every
day, he reflected while the waiter poured. But the potential risks for going up
against one of the most powerful media personalities in the world as well as a
rising Wall Street star were incalculable. And for what? A wild goose chase to
ease a grieving man’s conscience?
“Sure,”
Scarne said, without knowing why.
CHAPTER
5 – FIRST CONTACT
Keitel
considered his new vantage point on the median on Park Avenue a miserable
compromise. The constant stream of traffic made surveillance difficult but he
was probably far enough away not to be spotted by the nosy doorman. As an added
precaution he put his cheap and garish cloth ski hat, hastily purchased earlier
from an inexplicably cheerful Pakistani street vendor, in his pocket. As a
result his hair was now plastered against his head and he looked like he was
wearing a yellow helmet. Icy rain rivulets trickled down his neck. He was so
bedraggled two people dropped coins in his empty coffee cup! Where had this
sleet come from? It was April, for Christ sake. Someday he was going to kill a
weather idiot on general principles.
What
the hell was Shields doing in there? Eating a side of beef? A passing car
splashed more slush on his legs. We must have felt this way at Stalingrad.
You’d think we’d learn. He decided that his blood had indeed thinned in
Florida. No wonder the Dolphins lost most of their games north of the Mason
Dixon line. Of course, he reflected, they lost a lot south of the line, too.
***
Henry
Mosely held the door as Scarne and Shields walked out of the club together.
They quickly retreated back inside.
“Can
you rustle us a couple of umbrellas, Henry? We’re good for them.”
“Oh,
I know you are, Mr. Sheldon. But this fellow looks pretty shady.”
Mosely
disappeared into his cubicle and came out with two Totes from an endless supply
of lost or forgotten umbrellas.
“I
don’t know as these will be much help. It’s blowing pretty good out there. Why
aren’t you gentlemen in Florida?”
“Thanks,
Henry,” Shields said. “Believe it or not, we’re working on that.”
The
two men walked to the corner together.
“To
get to Ballantrae, Jake, you’ll probably have to go through Alana Loeb.
Remarkable women. Brilliant mind and truly stunning. Randolph’s tongue hits the
deck whenever she’s on the yacht.” Shields shook his head. “I don’t know what
she’s doing working for Ballantrae.”
“Maybe
it’s not all work.”
“God,
I hate to think so. It would be another reason to dislike the bastard.” He put
out his hand. “I know you will find out what happened to my boy, Jake. I
believe you are a man I can trust.”
Shields
turned and started walking downtown. Scarne watched him bend his umbrella into
the wind. He was soon lost in the crowd.
***
Keitel
spotted them coming out of the club, deep in conversation. He didn’t recognize
the younger man but he looked like a hard case. Cop? Keitel knew where Shields
was headed. He decided to follow the other man. At least now he could cover his
head.
***
Scarne
started back to his office, changed his mind, and crossed Park Avenue to St.
Christopher’s, one of the oldest Catholic churches in the city. The loss of
their only son and his wife in an air crash had not dimmed his grandparent’s
faith and as a child Scarne was herded to mass every Sunday. But he was not now
particularly religious, despite, or maybe because of, four years at a Catholic
college. And in more introspective moments Scarne suspected he was not as
forgiving as his grandparents.
An
old woman in the church vestibule was robotically feeding quarters into
electric votive “candles” that blinked on as the coins registered. Either she
had a huge family, Scarne surmised, or thought she was playing a celestial slot
machine. He recalled standing in front of a bank of real candles with his
grandmother as she showed him how to use the long taper to light the wicks in
the small jars. The wax and soot smell of those candles were rooted in his
memory. They always said a prayer for his parents although he was quite sure
they hadn’t spent even a moment in purgatory on their way to heaven and thus
didn’t need any indulgences. But it was a comforting ritual for a little boy and
he always picked candles that looked like they would burn the longest. He
assumed the modern versions were on timers set to maximize donations. The old
woman turned her head toward him, her face a mask of sorrow. Her hand kept
moving and the votives kept clicking.
Scarne
took a seat in a pew half way down the aisle. At this hour many of the
churchgoers were pungent street people seeking temporary shelter and warmth.
Although he now rarely saw the inside of any church save for weddings and
funerals, St. Christopher’s held a personal significance. It was Kate
Ellenson’s favorite church – and where they had planned to marry. He looked
toward the altar. If it hadn’t been for the war…
He
rose abruptly, disgusted at his mawkishness. He spotted a man staring at him,
caught unawares. The man quickly bent down to look at some missals in the slots
on the back of the pew in front of him. He hadn’t been in the church when
Scarne walked in. As Scarne passed him he noted that the man’s ski hat. It was
the same color as the one worn by the man he bumped into outside the club. The
one Mosely had stared away. He wasn’t sure about the jacket. Blonde hair stuck
out under the back of the cap.
Scarne
loitered in the vestibule. The old woman was gone. He put a $20 bill in the poor
box, hoping it would get to the poor. The Church had enough real estate, not to
mention all those pedophile lawsuits to settle. He immediately regretted that
facile condemnation, recalling the sturdy Hispanic priests of his youth, who
taught him much about life, including how to throw a wicked slider. Out of the
corner of his eye he spotted the man in the ski hat glance his way before
turning around.
Scarne
darted through a side door. Once outside, he peeked around the corner of the
building, his face hidden by his open Tote. A moment later “ski hat” ran out of
the front of the church, looking both ways.
“They
are giving a class in Surveillance 101 at the New School,” Scarne said as he
walked towards the man. “You might think about it.”
Ski
cap was not into witty repartee. He bolted down Park at a respectable clip,
considering the traction. Scarne was taken by surprise. He gave chase but the
man’s sneakers easily trumped tasseled loafers. Running with an umbrella made
Scarne feel ridiculous and he closed it. After half a block he assumed a
shooter’s stance, put the umbrella across the crook of his left arm and sighted
on the back of the fleeing figure.
“Bang,”
he said as the runner turned the corner, where a man who appeared to be
studying a map fell over. Momentarily disoriented, Scarne actually thought he
had plugged someone with his Tote. Then he realized his quarry had knocked the
man off his feet. The downed man started yelling in French.
“Man,
you know better than to shoot a loaded umbrella into a crowd.”
A
hatless vagrant with a toothless grin stood next to him. They both started
toward the corner where the sputtering man was already being helped to his
feet. The vagrant picked up a small brightly-wrapped parcel and handed it to
the tourist. He turned to walk away, water beading on his scruffy beard.
Scarne
handed him the Tote.
“Be
careful with it,” he said. “It’s got a hair trigger.”
***
It
was 4 PM when Scarne got back to his office. Evelyn was paying bills.
“Any
calls?”
“Just
Dudley. He wanted to know about Sunday dinner.”
Scarne
motioned Evelyn into his office and filled her in on the lunch and the incident
at the church. She took notes to be transcribed later onto a computer and
copied to a flash drive, a routine followed for both legal and billing reasons.
But Scarne also wanted to leave a trail, especially for Dudley, should
something happen to him. Evelyn wasn’t happy about the church thing.
“Do
you think it had something to do with you and Shields?”
“I
don’t know. It’s a stretch, unless someone knew I was meeting him, and that
would have had to come from him. I’ll check it out. It could also be a hangover
from an old case, or something else I’m working on now.”
Evelyn’s
mouth turned down slightly.
“I
don’t suppose it was an angry husband. He didn’t shoot you, after all.”
“Book
me a flight into Miami Tuesday or Wednesday. Then go home. It’s turned nasty
out there.”
“It
has?” She smiled sweetly. “I didn’t notice.”
After
Evelyn left, Scarne dialed Dudley Mack’s cell. Got a message. He called another
number. A husky and familiar voice answered.
“Mack-Sambuca
Funeral Home. How may I be of assistance?” Very proper.
“I
kill ‘em, you chill ‘em,” Scarne replied.
“Jake,
how are they hanging! Where you been? I was just talking to Alice about you.”
Not very proper. Scarne laughed, as he always did when the “real” Laura Mack
came out to play.
“Is
your miscreant brother around?”
“Oh,
Deadley’s somewhere, being a miscreant, whatever the fuck that means. When are
you gonna learn to speak English? Did you try his cell?”
“No
answer. Left a message”
“Probably
getting a nooner. Want me to track him down. Be my pleasure.”
“Good
God, no,” Scarne laughed. “Just tell him I’m on for dinner Sunday.”
“Great.
We can catch up on our sex lives.”
“I’m
afraid you and Alice will be doing most of the talking.”
“You
better believe it. Hey, did you hear me and Bobo are an item?”
“Bobo?”
“Don’t
be a snot. I could do worse. And have. See you Sunday, sweetie.”