Sobok
spotted a sign for food and lodging at the exit for Valdosta. The symbol for a
Cracker Barrel restaurant made up his mind. He was particularly fond of the
chain, which he considered pure Americana. It took a lot to stand out in a
Cracker Barrel in Georgia, so no one gave him or his outfit a second glance. A
half hour later he drove away sipping coffee, his mouth watering with the smell
coming from the paper bag on the seat next to him. He took out a disk from an
audio book he had plucked from a carousel near the restaurant checkout and fed
it into the CD player. It was a Spenser novel narrated by Burt Reynolds and
would make the drive to Savannah more than pleasant. Sobok wondered idly why
he’d never come across a Travis McGee audio on the road.
Leaving
Valdosta, he cut over to a state road, 84, which would be slower, but scenic,
and less scrutinized in the unlikely event that the police were seriously after
him this far from Tampa. He reached in the bag and pulled out a ham biscuit. It
was dripping maple syrup. This would be sloppy, he thought happily. Not to
mention the pecan pie. One never went wrong with Cracker Barrel pecan pie. He
wiped his sticky fingers on his flannel shirt, which he planned on ditching
with the rest of his outfit at first chance, and pulled out a sausage biscuit,
also dripping.
Sobok
loved working in the United States.
***
Scarne’s
X-Rays were negative, and Levin gave him some pills for his headache, which
helped him weather a series of further interrogations by state, local and
Federal officers, some of whom he could hear arguing jurisdiction in the
hallway. He was eventually told he was free to go but warned he might be called
back to identify the “priest” when he was caught. He assured everyone he would
make himself available, sure in the knowledge the killer would never be caught.
Scarne’s
one non-police visitor was the sailor from the
Abraham Lincoln
.
“I
didn’t want to win that way,” the man said.
“What?”
“The
pool! I had Banaszak, remember? But I hear I had outside help. That ain’t fair.
I put the money back in the pot. It’s a carryover. Next winner will have a real
windfall.”
“What
does a winner do with the money?”
“Spend
it fast.” They both laughed. “Seriously,” the man said, “most of the guys ask
the staff to pick up some presents for the kids who visit their fathers and
grand-pops and the like. Makes the place less depressing for them. And some buy
gift certificates at restaurants and shops for the nurses. Not all the money,
of course. No use in winning if you give it all away.”
“What’s
your name?”
“Franklin.”
“I’m
Jake. Do me a favor and go in that closet. Should be some money in my pants
pocket. Take out $100 and put it in the pool.”
“You
ain’t eligible, Jake, although I also hear you came close.”
“I
don’t want to pick. And for God’s sake, don’t put my name in the goddamn hat!
Just add it to the kitty. Please.”
“You
got it.”
Levin
discharged Scarne, with instructions to seek medical attention if he felt
nauseous.
“And
stay away from priests. I’d avoid rabbis, as well, if I were you.”
***
When
he got back to his hotel, Scarne poured himself a bourbon on the rocks and
called room service. He knew he was lucky to be alive after the confrontation
with Father Death, or whoever that was in the parking lot. So, despite Levin’s
suggestion that he take it easy, he wanted to feel alive. The food arrived just
as he was emerging from a long, hot shower.
He
called Dudley Mack as the waiter set out his food: a rare Kobe beef cheeseburger,
fries and a piece of apple pie. Comfort food.
“Another
damn priest,” Dudley said after Scarne told him about Banaszak’s murder and the
break-in at his apartment. “Why don’t you just declare war on the Vatican?”
“This
guy wasn’t a priest. Lacuna must have brought in more hired help.”
“No.
It wasn’t Lacuna.”
“How
can you be sure?”
“Because
Sallie Mae is dead. They found him and his bodyguard trussed naked in the
basement of his goomah’s house last night. I was just about to call you.” There
was a pause. “Somebody torched the bodyguard’s nuts.”
“Good
Lord.” Scarne’s headache suddenly didn’t seem so bad.
“Lacuna’s
squeeze saw him. Fits the description of the good Father.”
“How
did you find that out?”
“Please.”
“Forgive
me. He didn’t kill her?”
“Nope.”
“A
hit man with a heart.”
“A
real pro. Not worried about being identified. Got what he wanted and left.
Sallie Mae told him everything he knew.”
“How
can you be certain of that?”
“Only
Buccatelli, the bodyguard, was tortured. Salle Mae got one behind the ear, presumably
as a consideration for being forthcoming. If he hadn’t spilled his guts, his
balls would have been barbecued as well. Not your run-of-the-mill hit man.
Smart, too. After leaving Sallie Mae, he tosses Banaszak’s flat and finds the
V.A. stuff. Flies right down to Tampa, uses a priest of opportunity, so to
speak, snuffs Banaszak like a fly, cold cocks you and presumably leaves town
the same fucking day.”
“Why
didn’t he kill me?”
“Same
reason he left Sallie’s mistress alive. Didn’t think you were a threat, or
worth the bother.”
“I
am now.”
They
were both silent for a moment. Finally Dudley said, “Listen, Jake. I don’t want
you getting killed doing me a favor. You’ve done enough. This guy is no
cupcake. Sallie Mae was a tough guy, and his bodyguard might have been even
tougher. And our friend took them like they were Girl Scouts.”
“I’m
touched. But you don’t have a say in the matter. It’s personal now.”
“Just
because you got a little bump on the head?”
“And
because a crucial witness was murdered 10 feet from me. And because I chatted
with the killer and damn near asked his blessing. And because the people who
hired him, whoever they are, think nothing of raping and murdering a young
girl.”
CHAPTER
24 – CALLING THE PENTAGON
Back
in New York, Scarne spent an unproductive morning in his office trying to get a
line on the faux priest who killed Banaszak. He finally called Dick Condon,
reaching him during a break at a conference in the Pentagon, where he was
leading a team of N.Y.P.D. terrorist experts sharing their expertise with other
government agencies.
“I
feel a lot safer knowing that you are in Washington,” Scarne said.
“I’m
not sure how I should take that,” Condon said. “You need something. What is
it?”
Scarne
described the incident in Florida.
“Sounds
like you’re up to your old tricks, Jake. Forgive me for asking, being only a
lowly fucking Police Commissioner and all, but why am I only hearing about this
now.”
“I’ve
been to the cops. I don’t like to run to you every time I need help. I’m saving
you for the big stuff, like fixing parking tickets. Anyway, I couldn’t tell you
everything, and I don’t like doing that.”
“But
you don’t mind lying to the people who work for me.”
“I
have my standards.”
Condon
made a sound halfway between a grunt and a laugh. Scarne heard a voice in the
background say, “Chief, they’re starting up. We should go back in.” Condon
said, “I need five.” Then, to Scarne, “Tell me everything.”
Scarne
did.
“A
priest,” Condon said. “Just what we need. This is a mare’s nest. But we’ve got
to do something.”
“I
don’t know what else the department can do that Scullen isn’t already doing. I
gave my word that I wouldn’t expose the priest.”
“You
might change your mind if you were clapped in jail as a material witness until
you gave me his name. I like you Jake, but not that much. I don’t fix parking
tickets but I can fix your sorry ass.”
Scarne
knew the threat was hollow.
“You
really want to go up against the diocese and your pal, the Cardinal. The Church
has caved on a lot of things. But I think they may hold the line on the
sanctity of the confessional. Stick with fighting terrorists. You have a better
chance.”
There
was a long pause. Scarne wondered if the cell call had been dropped. But then
Condon said, “Scullen is a good man. Bit of a burn out. They wanted to stick
him behind a desk at One Police Plaza but I knew that would kill him so I sent
him to Staten Island to wait out his pension. I’ll give him a call and tell him
I’ve taken an personal interest in this.”
The
other voice came back.
“Chief,
we’re up next. They’re looking for you.”
“Oh,
for God’s sake, Delaney. Get back in there and tell them I’m defusing a bomb in
the Joint Chiefs’ bathroom or something.” Then, “Jake, go down to the Plaza and
describe your hit man to our Interpol liaison unit. Tell them to check with the
Florida State Police for any fingerprints they may have lifted in the hospital,
although I’d bet that’s a non-starter. And spend some time with our sketch
artists. I’ll have Delaney set it all up. Give him something to do. He’s about
to have a canary. I have to get back in the conference. But Jake .…”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll
give you a little room on this. But I want to hear something soon, or I’ll pull
the string on you and take my chances with the Vatican. Got it?”
“Sure,
Chief. One thing, though.”
“What?”
“I
got this ticket for parking in a handicap spot.”
“Oh,
fuck off.”
***
When
the Police Commissioner tells his subordinates to cooperate, they cooperate.
Within an hour of arriving at One Police Plaza in downtown Manhattan, Scarne had
met with the Department’s Interpol unit and, for good measure, its Organized
Crime Task Force. E-mails and FAXes were sent. Computers computed. A dozen cops
worked the phones. Florida was contacted, as was the F.B.I., D.E.A., C.I.A. and
some agencies with initials Scarne never heard of. He even caught one detective
Twittering.
“Assassins
Twitter,” he asked incredulously.
“No,”
the cop laughed, “but you’d be surprised what people know about on Twitter,
Facebook, LinkedIn and all the rest. Can’t hurt to send out his description.
You never know.”
“I’m
not sure I want to,” Scarne said.
A
Deputy Chief who looked like a college professor sent Scarne down to sit with
not one, but two sketch artists, one of whom did it the old-fashioned way and
the other who used a computer to generate likenesses in
Avatar
-like 3D.
When they were finished, one of them, the older sketch artist who still used
pencil, said, “You know who this guy looks like?”
“Yeah,
I know,” Scarne said.
He
was starving, having skipped lunch. The cops said they’d have something soon
and he ran out to get a bite to eat a local pub one of the artists said made a
great corned beef sandwich. It did. It also made great mugs of beer. He was on
his second when he called his office.
“I
was about to call you, Jake,” Evelyn said. “I just got off the phone with
Aristotle Arachne. He wants to talk to you. He gave me his number. Said you can
call him anytime.”
Things
are looking up, Scarne thought, taking the number. He had another beer. Feeling
refreshed and optimistic, he was back in the Plaza at 5 P.M. The cops had drawn
a blank. Every query had come back negative.
“This
guy apparently doesn’t exist,” one of the Interpol squad cops said. “Maybe he
really is an alien.”
“My
contact at the agency said if we ever find him, they want to offer him a job,”
said another detective.
“Balls,”
Scarne said.
***
“Thanks
for getting back to me so promptly,” Arachne said when Scarne reached him.
“Making any progress on that case you told me about at my apartment?”
Sure,
Scarne thought. I’ve turned up some promising dead ends. But he said, “Yes.”
Mainly because Emma has the code to Arachne’s apartment elevator and he didn’t
want to sound incompetent. Childish.
“Good,
good. I’ve been thinking about it. You said you wanted to nose around NASCAR
and I promised to help. There’s a fellow who handles some security for them.
Name is Michael Honker. He’s working out at Pocono Downs in Pennsylvania the
next few days. I’m headed there tomorrow and can introduce you. We can hop out
there in my helicopter, say, around 11 AM?”
Scarne
accepted the offer but declined the ride. He didn’t mind driving the two hours
out to the Pocono Downs racing complex in Wilkes Barre, PA, since it would give
him a chance to put the rebuilt gearbox in his MGB through its paces on the
open road. After he rang off he called Emma Shields.
“Did
you hear the joke about the priest, the hit man and the private eye?”
“No,
how does it go?”
“It’s
long. Any chance you can get a baby sitter?
The Girl with the
Dragon
Tattoo
is at the Angelica. Then we can get a late bite at Knickerbocker’s
and I can regale you.”
“I’ve
already seen it.”
“It’s
the Swedish version. With Noomi Rapace. She’s terrific.”
“Jake,
I can’t.” She hesitated. “Actually, I have a babysitter. And I’ve made plans.
Ari invited me to the opera.”
Scarne
felt a familiar twinge. There was no reason Arachne should have mentioned it,
of course. But he was still nettled. The opera, no less.
“That’s
OK. Short notice. Have a good time. Perhaps we can do the ballet next week.”
“Childish,”
he said to himself after they hung up. He thought about calling Daisy Buchanan.
That would be worse than childish. She was, in her own way, a nice girl. He
settled for Noomi Rapace. The movie was terrific and all the murders and mayhem
suited his mood. The Swedish dialogue, thankfully abetted by subtitles, was
less jarring than the dialogue in some German films he’d seen. German was a
tough language to be romantic in, Scarne knew. If you didn’t read the subtitles
you’d think the actors were discussing how to invade Poland rather than trying
to get a fräulein in the sack.
After
the movie he went to Knickerbocker’s on University Place near his apartment and
had too many bourbons and nothing to eat. Then he went home to sleep, slightly
drunk but thoroughly disgusted with himself.