CHAPTER
33 – DRESSED TO KILL
Scarne
spent the next day in his office working on the files from Bimm’s computer. It
was Saturday and Evelyn was off.
He
downloaded the flash drive to his laptop and started going through the
documents. The legal and real estate mumbo jumbo was just as mind-numbing in
the light of day as it had been the night before. But because even the most
innocent-looking jargon might, in the right prosecutorial hands, become proof
of an illegal conspiracy, he didn’t delete anything. He knew, of course, that
there was a problem with the material’s provenance. Judges tended to look
askance at information obtained in the course of a burglary. But he was less
interested in proof that would hold up in court than in putting together a
roadmap that an enterprising journalist or rule-bending cop could use to piece
together a story or case. He would let others worry about getting convictions.
He would just give them some ammunition.
Of
course, he might not need anything if Dudley Mack was able to persuade Bimm to
spill his guts and implicate Arachne. Dudley’s powers of persuasion were
legendary. Scarne had a momentary vision of the blubbering Bimm strapped to one
of the Mack-Sambuca embalming tables as Dudley and Bobo filled syringes or
whatever went on one of the family mortuary rooms. He smiled, knowing that it
wouldn’t quite be that way. But since whatever Bimm said under duress also
probably had procedural ramifications, Scarne was determined to piece together
a workable narrative. And he knew just who would get the first draft.
The
work was excruciating, and even with the help of the Internet and several legal
databases to which he subscribed, Scarne was having trouble crafting a coherent
presentation. He finally broke for lunch, treating himself to a bacon
cheeseburger in Bill’s Bar and Burger in Rockefeller Center. Much as he wanted
a beer, he settled on black coffee, believing that combining alcohol and his
reading matter might cause fatal somnolence. He brought another coffee back to
his office and called Donald Tierney. The high-profile Wall Street lawyer had
been involved in several of Scarne’s previous cases. His referral in the most
recent had almost gotten Scarne killed, a fact Scarne reminded him of
frequently.
“Don’t
you know it’s Saturday,” Tierney said when he answered his cell phone.
“How
soon they forget,” Scarne said. “Where are you, on the golf course?”
“Have
you looked outside? It’s freakin’ forty degrees. Barbara has me cleaning out
the garage. What do you need?”
“I’m
wading through some files that have words in them that should be banned by the
Geneva Convention. Do you mind if I run a few by you? And maybe read some of
the documents to you?”
“Sure,
why not. It can’t be worse than what I’m doing. Hold on, let me get a beer.”
Scarne heard a refrigerator door open and shut and then Tierney was back.
“Might as well clean out the fridge while I’m at it. Go ahead, shoot.”
Scarne
began by reading from a list of legal terms he’d written down. As Tierney
translated, he took notes. When he finished, he said, “Human beings actually
talk like this?”
“Who
said anything about humans?”
Scarne
then read a sampling of the various property deals. Three beers later, Tierney
said, “I was wrong about it not being worse than cleaning out the garage. I
made the right decision not going into real estate law.”
“Thanks,
Don. I think I can take it from here. It’s like the Rosetta Stone. Once you
understand a few words the others fall into place.”
“I
assume whoever is behind those deals doesn’t want anyone noticing he’s behind
them. Are we talking illegality here?”
“On
the real estate deals? I don’t know. They may be legit. But they are also a
motive for a murder and I’m trying to piece together a scenario. It will have
more impact if it’s in English.”
“Why
don’t you just turn over all the documents to the authorities and have them
figure it all out?”
“Gee,
Don, why didn’t I think of that.”
Tierney
caught on almost immediately.
“Forget
I said that. In fact, forget we had this entire conversation.”
***
It
was almost 7 PM when Scarne finally finished the 12-page WORD document that
combined all the intelligible material he had gleaned from Bimm’s files.
Absolutely none of it could be proven without corroboration, but any reporter
or cop who read it would salivate. If he had to, he’d leak it to the tabloids,
which would have a field day: a young girl’s murder, the mob, an assassin
dressed as a priest, NASCAR, hidden real estate deals, tunnels under New York
Harbor, a billionaire mastermind. But it wouldn’t come to that. Emma Shields
would know what to do with the information.
Scarne
printed out two copies of the report. He put one in an envelope with the flash
drive and left it on Evelyn’s desk with a note for her to save everything on
her computer. The other he took with him when he left. He wanted a shower,
followed by a steak and martini dinner at Knickerbocker’s.
On
the cab ride downtown Scarne wondered how Emma would take it. She was fond of
Arachne. Then the thought occurred to him that Arachne probably had ulterior
motives for his relationship with her. He also wondered how far that
relationship had progressed. Did having the code to a man’s elevator indicate
that she was sleeping with him. Suddenly what had previously only nettled
Scarne became more ominous. The sooner she knew the better.
He
dialed Emma’s cell number. Got her voicemail. It was Saturday night. A busy
time in the Shields world. Perhaps she was on the yacht hosting one of the
company parties. Or at some charity or art function.
Or
perhaps she was with Arachne.
He
dialed her apartment. The babysitter answered. Ms. Shields had just left. A car
picked her up. No, I don’t know where she was going. You could try her cell
phone. Yes, I’ll have her call you when she checks in on Becky.
Back
in his own apartment Scarne called the corporate offices of Shields Inc. Got a
recording. He managed to track down the number of the Shields compound in
Connecticut. Some sort of houseman answered. Emma wasn’t there and Randolph
Shields was traveling. Would he or her brothers know where Emma was? The man
didn’t know and while he would not give out any cell phone numbers, he would
call them and tell them to call Scarne. Would that be sufficient? Scarne said
yes and then tried Emma’s cell again. This time he left a more urgent message.
“Emma.
Call me as soon as you get this. And stay away from Arachne. He lied about
knowing Bimm and I have information tying him to Elizabeth Pearsall’s murder.”
Scarne
then took a quick shower. Wearing only a towel, he was mixing himself a drink
when his phone buzzed. He saw the name. It was Emma.
“Emma,
I know this is a shock about Arachne, but we’d better meet.”
Only
it wasn’t Emma.
“I
couldn’t agree more, Jake.”
Arachne.
Son of a bitch.
“Where’s
Emma?”
“I’m
afraid she is indisposed. But not as much as she will be if you don’t come to
my apartment, immediately and alone.”
“What
have you done to her?”
“Nothing
yet. I gave her something to make her more compliant. It was just taking effect
when she got your message. The drug made her incautious. Acted like a truth
serum, I guess. Anyway, she told me what you said. Then conveniently passed
out. So, here we are.”
“If
you hurt her Arachne, I’ll kill you.”
“I’m
sure you will try. But let’s not lose our heads, Jake. Perhaps we can work
something out. I told you what to do. No police. Come alone. I’ll expect you
within the hour.”
Arachne
ended the call. Scarne called Dudley Mack.
“Fuck,”
Mack said. “What are you going to do?”
“Go
to his apartment. He sounded unhinged.” He gave Mack the address. “What about
Bimm?”
“We’re
at JFK now. Got his flight info from his secretary. Told her we were the livery
service but lost the info. But his plane landed a half hour ago. He wasn’t on
it. I don’t like it. But there’s another one due in any minute. Maybe the fat
bastard missed the earlier one.”
“Wait
for it. If he’s not on it. Head to Arachne’s.”
“No
cops?”
“That’s
what he said. I’ll get her clear then we can call the damn Marines for all I
care.”
“OK.
And, Jake. Remember, eyewitnesses and innocent bystanders can fuck up the best
alibi.”
Scarne
got dressed. Grey slacks, white shirt, blue Brooks Brothers sports jacket, the
Heckler-Koch automatic. Dressed to kill, he thought. The weapon was barely
broken in. He’d only fired a hundred or so rounds at the range. But the last
time a German-engineered pistol jammed Bismarck was chancellor.
CHAPTER
34 – GRAVITY NEVER SLEEPS
On
the way down in the elevator, Scarne tried a few draws from the Safariland
“Quick Gun” shoulder holster that Mack had given him as a birthday present.
(The card read: “It allows you to replace your gun with one hand, so you won’t
spill your drink.”)
The
cab made good time, although to Scarne the ride was interminable. Although he
was now expected, recalling Mack’s dictum about witnesses he had the driver
drop him at the garage entrance. He walked to the private elevator like he
belonged there. He passed a Bentley saloon whose driver, a tough looking Asian,
stared at him. Now, if only Arachne hadn’t changed the code. Probably should
have told Dudley about the elevator, Scarne thought. Hell, it won’t matter in
an hour anyway. He punched in the date and immediately heard a whine coming
from the shaft. Damn! The elevator was on the top floor. He wondered if that
would alert Arachne. The digital readout for the high speed lift quickly
counted down the floors until the door opened. Scarne had his hand on his gun but
the empty car yawned at him. He got in and pressed the button for the
penthouse.
Scarne
stood to the side with his weapon out when the elevator door opened again. He
peaked out and stared down an empty hallway. He walked through the apartment
and headed toward the living room. He recognized the music coming from the
apartment’s sound system: Broadway show tunes, apparently from the same
collection that played the night of Arachne’s party. A real Johnny One Note,
Scarne thought. As
Maria
from
West Side Story
wafted in the
background, he made a mental decision to shoot out a speaker if anything from
South
Pacific
came on.
In
the living area, Arachne was standing by a sideboard pouring a brandy into a
snifter. Ignoring Scarne’s gun, he motioned the decanter toward Scarne.
“Want
one?”
Scarne
noted that there was already a tray on the sideboard with two empty cocktail
glasses. They looked like margaritas. One of Emma’s favorites.
“Jake,
I’m actually glad you are here,” Arachne said. He took a long pull on his
brandy. “This solves many problems.”
“They
are just starting for you, Arachne.”
Scarne
heard a low moan coming from the terrace. As he quickly moved past Arachne he
noticed there were scratches on his face and the beginnings of a black eye.
Emma Shields was lying on a lounger in a corner of the terrace, eyes closed,
motionless. He went to her. Emma’s blouse was open, her braless breasts
exposed.
“Don’t
worry,” Arachne said, walking out and leaning against the rail. “She’s merely
unconscious. It will be a blessing in the long run. Or, I should say, the short
run.”
Scarne
put away his gun, buttoned her blouse and wheeled on Arachne.
“You
were going to rape her?”
“That
wasn’t my original plan. I thought she’d fuck willingly. But it turns out my
initial advances might have been a bit primal. I’m afraid I don’t take
rejection very well. But I played the perfect gentleman. Apologized. Offered
her another drink, to which I added a little something to make things go
smoother. And it did. When she woke up she would have a little bruising and a
wonderful memory. I would be solicitous, tell her how much I loved her and ask
her to marry me. Off we’d go into the sunset.” Arachne took a sip of his
brandy. “ But then you called. So, I gave her some more chloral hydrate to keep
her quiet while I thought of Plan B. And, so, here we are.”
Scarne
moved in front of Arachne.
“You
miserable son of a bitch. I’m going to let the cops have you for Elizabeth
Pearsall. But I want a piece of you for myself first.”
Arachne
merely smiled, then looked past Scarne and said, “You took your damn time.”
Scarne
didn’t turn. It was the oldest trick in the book. Except it wasn’t.
“Please
don’t move. Put your hands behind your neck.”
The
voice came from behind Scarne. It sounded vaguely familiar. He did as he was
told. Arachne’s smile grew broader.
“Jake,
allow me to introduce Mr. Roddenberry.”
Scarne
turned slowly. A man he recognized immediately was standing a few feet away,
holding a silenced automatic.
“Hello,
Father.”
“Hello,
my son.”
Arachne
looked confused, then said, “Oh. I forgot you two have met.”
“Twice,”
Sobok said.
Scarne
looked at him.
“The
race track?”
“Well,
we didn’t actually meet, but I watched from the stands. You are a difficult man
to kill, Mr. Scarne.”
“You
are 0 for 2.”
“The
first time doesn’t count. I didn’t intend to do you serious damage. But your
point is well taken. I’ve never even been 0 for 1, as you say. Now, please turn
around and face Mr. Arachne.”
When
Scarne did, Sobok pressed the gun under his chin and quickly and efficiently
relieved him of his weapon, which he pocketed.
Scarne
said, “Roddenberry?”
“Private
joke,” Sobok murmured in his ear. “He doesn’t get it.”
Arachne
looked past Sobok, as if expecting someone.
“Where
is Cong Bao? I told you to bring him.”
“With
the car,” Sobok said. “I thought it would go smoother without him. Too many
gooks spoil the pot and all that.”
“You’re
sure you can handle this one by yourself.”
“Quite.”
“I
hate it when people talk about you like you’re not even here,” Scarne said.
“How about filling me in.”
“It’s
simple,” Arachne said. “You and Emma are lovers. She threw you over for me. You
came here to confront us, overpowered me and in a jealous rage pushed her to
her death. Then, wracked with guilt and grief, you killed yourself.” He looked
over the railing. “It put you over the edge, literally.”
“You
just came up with all this?”
“Yes.
It’s not elegant. But I think it will do. Killing two women you love would be
too much for any man to take. I can see from the look on your face that I have
hit a nerve. Yes, I know about what happened down in the Keys in the Ballantrae
matter. Don’t worry, Emma didn’t betray any confidence. But when you appeared
on the scene I started asking questions and fortunately I have friends in high
places who like to gossip. You are quite the tragic hero in some select
circles. I actually met Ballantrae once. We hit it off, as you might imagine.
After your upcoming suicide I will make sure that your part in that affair
reaches a wider audience. The unwashed masses will eat it up. But tell me, how
does it feel to kill a lover?”
“You
son of a bitch.”
Scarne
took a step toward Arachne. Behind him the gunman said, “Don’t even think about
it.”
Scarne
stopped.
“I’m
supposed to just jump?”
“I’m
sure you will take some persuading. But I think Mr. Roddenberry doesn’t want to
go 0 for 3. If I have to, I will help out. Any bruises I suffer will just
augment the injuries that Emma conveniently has already supplied and add
verisimilitude to my heroic battle when you overpowered me. As for any injuries
you suffer, Jake, I’m afraid they will be obliterated by your impact on the
sidewalk below.”
“You
can’t seriously think you can get away with this?”
“A
murder-suicide involving one of the world’s most beautiful and powerful women and
her deranged lover? A tragedy that I courageously tried to prevent. It will
play out for months. No one will look too deeply.”
“Others
know what I know.”
“Then
why aren’t the police here?”
Because
I wanted to be a fucking cowboy and didn’t tell them, Scarne thought bitterly.
He knew Mack would see through Arachne’s story. But he couldn’t tell this
madman that. He might simply have “Roddenberry” wait in ambush for Dudley
before he had a chance to act. Dudley was tough, and there was Bobo, but this
man was a pro; it could go either way. The only way Arachne could be dealt with
for sure would be for Scarne to remain silent. But that would doom Emma as
well.
“The
sympathy and publicity that this soap opera engenders will be invaluable,”
Arachne continued. “I can picture an entire spate of reality shows. Nobody will
remember who Trump is.”
“You’re
pitiful, Arachne. Next thing, you’ll be going to the Donald’s hairstylist.”
Arachne
flushed and edged toward Scarne, raising his hand. It was what Scarne had
hoped. But before he could do anything Arachne smiled and stepped back.
“Very
good, Jake. But let’s get this over with.”
Scarne
played his last, desperate card.
“Bimm
won’t keep his mouth shut forever. He’s too greedy.”
Arachne
laughed.
“Finally,
we agree on something. He was indeed a liability. I’ll spare you the details,
but as Lacuna would have put it, Bimm is sleeping with the fishes. From what I
understand he became something of a tourist attraction. But look on the bright
side, Jake. In a few weeks we’d be in my new apartment on Spruce Street and
your fall would be 76 floors. Here it’s only 34. You may even be able to have
an open casket. ”
“You
would do this to Emma?”
“I
would do it to anyone who gets in my way. Console yourself. She is asleep.
Unfortunately for the both of you, gravity never sleeps, as they say.”
Arachne
looked at Sobok and nodded.
Scarne
whirled around but was too late.