“So, I heard. That was too small, and this is too big. Had they seen the Internet coming they probably would have never moved, or at least they would have built something smaller.”
“And cheaper?”
“You’re right about that. I’d rather pay reporters than a mortgage, but what are you going to do?”
“Well, don’t feel too bad. The New York Times made the same mistake, only about a billion dollars bigger.”
“Yeah, there’s that,” Popp said, smiling. “So, what can I do for you?”
“Well, as I explained over the phone, I’m looking into the murder of Elizabeth Pearsall. I thought you, or someone on your staff, might provide me with information.”
“Can I see your credentials?”
Scarne pulled out his wallet and opened it to his private investigator’s license. He handed it across. While Popp made a charade of studying it carefully, Scarne sized him up. The managing editor of the Register was of medium build and height, with an incipient belly that, probably as a result of all those award dinners, strained against his vest . He was a lot younger than Scarne expected, perhaps in his early 40’s, and had a full head of black hair, crew cut, flecked with grey at the sides. He was trying for a moustache, probably to offset his bushy eyebrows, large, sad eyes, and long nose.
“Who hired you?” Popp said as he passed the wallet back.
Scarne smiled enigmatically. Popp reached in a drawer and pulled out a pipe. He didn’t light it, but put it in his mouth as he tilted his chair back.
“Do you have new information?”
“Yes.”
“Can you share it with me?”
“Only that I have reason to believe that the murder wasn’t random. The girl wasn’t the target. Her father was.”
Popp stared at Scarne.
“That’s preposterous. Why hurt the daughter? Why not just kill Bob?”
“I’m working on the theory that killing a Pulitzer Prize winner, hell, killing any newsman, might get people wondering what he was working on. But a seemingly random tragedy that drives him into retirement is another thing.”
“Who would be that sick?”
“That’s what I intend to find out. By the way, where is the Pulitzer?” Scarne pointedly looked over at the other awards. “I’d have thought you would display it prominently.”
Popp was offended.
“It was displayed ‘prominently!’ Out there in the newsroom, where it was won. I sent it out to have it properly framed and to add a dedication to Bob. It will be hung in the main lobby. We’re going to have a little ceremony.”
Scarne was properly chagrined. After an awkward moment, Popp said, “But who would want to hurt Bob? The nursing home people?”
“I don’t know. Were there any other stories that he was working on, something someone might not want him to pursue?”
“Bob was always tilting at windmills. He was a bit of a dinosaur that way. I’m sure he pissed off a lot of people.” Popp seemed to consider what he said. “Look, don’t get me wrong. He was a good editor and a good friend. Have you spoken to him? I’m not sure he would like someone rooting into this, however well intentioned.”
“I’m not going to bother him unless I have to.”
“Good.” Popp smiled and crooked his pipe at Scarne. “Look, I’d like to help. But I can’t think of anything that Bob was working on that would cause someone to murder his child.”
“Did he have a particular interest in that racetrack that NASCAR is planning out here?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just something I heard.”
“If you are implying that his position on that could have led to a murder, well, I don’t see it. There was an initial burst of enthusiasm for the project, but that has waned, to say the least. Bob asked the same questions as everyone else. If anything, he was less strident on the subject than some civic leaders.”
The editor’s phone rang. He picked it up and listened for a moment.
“Thank you, Peggy. Tell them I’ll be right there.” With that, he stood up and came around the desk. Scarne rose. “I’m sorry I can’t spare any more time, Mr. Scarne. I have an editorial meeting in five minutes. Have you gone to the police with your theory?”
“Not yet. But I will. Can you think of anyone on your staff who might be helpful? Perhaps the reporters who worked on the NASCAR story.”
“Chris Tighe and Sandy Doyle did the NASCAR legwork for Bob. They wrote most of the early stories, but they’re not here anymore. I don’t even believe they are on Staten Island. And nobody is actively working the story now. If something comes up, we just pass it along to whoever is free. We’re short of staff and haven’t even replaced Bob yet.”
“I may want to speak to them.”
“Human resources might have their current positions. If you have a problem, tell them to call me. And Ev Harvey, our police reporter, was close to Bob. As was Madeline Quinn, at reception. She’s been here forever. Knows more about the paper than most of my editors. She can give you Ev’s number. You can talk to anyone you want, but they’re your best bets. I’ll ask someone on the city desk to sniff around. But it all sounds so unlikely. Monstrous really. I hope you will let me know if you come up with anything.”
“And vice versa?”
“Of course.”
Both men knew they were lying when they shook hands goodbye. Newspaper editors and private investigators use many of the same methods but rarely share what they uncover. That was fine with Scarne. He hadn’t expected to get much information from Popp, especially since he was unwilling to reveal his own source. But Popp would start making inquiries. The word would get out that the Pearsall case was alive. That might frighten some people. The more the better. Frightened people make mistakes.
Scarne went by Human Resources and then on the way out of the building stopped by Madeline Quinn’s desk. Another woman was sitting in her chair.
“Madeline went to the yuck truck for a cup of coffee,” the woman told him. “It’s around back by the loading docks.”
Scarne found Mrs. Quinn standing in line talking to other employees. He offered to buy her coffee.
“And perhaps one of those cheese Danishes?” she said. “My doctor would have a coronary if he knew. He’s one of those health nuts. Just got him. My old doctor died last year. Was 78. Probably not enough Danishes. We can sit in the shade on that wall over there.”
Five minutes later Mrs. Quinn was happily munching on one of the largest pastries Scarne had ever seen. She insisted he have half.
“I don’t know how much help you got from Beldon, but if you want to find out something about the murder or Bob, then he’s right, you should talk to Ev Harvey. They were very close. He was there when they found that poor girl, too. If Bob confided in anyone, it would have been Everett.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the latest iPhone, which she handled like a teen-ager. “Here’s his cell number. He doesn’t come into the paper much. Usually at one of the precincts, or the courts.”
Scarne spent another 10 minutes chatting with Mrs. Quinn. Finally she looked at her watch.
“Look at the time. I told Gladys to hold the fort for a few minutes. She’s probably ready to send out the cavalry. Whenever I’m a few minutes late they assume I’ve croaked. But let me walk you to your car.”
“That’s not necessary, Mrs. Quinn.”
He didn’t relish the thought of this spry octogenarian finding out that he’d parked in a handicap spot. With a low-slung sports car, no less!
“Nonsense.” She started walking away briskly. “I could use the exercise.”
When they got to his car there was a ticket on the windshield.
“Still up to your old tricks, I see,” Mrs. Quinn laughed. “Not that I blame you. Half the handicap stickers are bogus. Bad luck about the summons, though. Paper just ran a story on some corrupt cops. Payback time.”
Scarne sighed and pocketed the ticket.
“Good luck,” Mrs. Quinn said. “I
really mean it. Just between you, me and the wallpaper, Jake Scarne, I think there is something very fishy about Elizabeth’s murder.” Not much got by this old lady, Scarne realized. She should be working in the newsroom, not on the reception desk. Scarne gave her a kiss on the cheek. “If you talk to Bob, tell him we still love him and wish he would come back. Although I guess that’s not likely. Now run along.”
She poked him in the stomach.
“And go easy on the Danishes.”
CHAPTER 12 – PERPETUAL MOTION
Scarne tried Everett Harvey’s cell phone and got a recorded message. So he left one of his own. He then called the 120th Precinct and asked to speak to the detectives working on the Pearsall homicide.
A few moments later, a man said, “Detective Scullen, how can I help you?”
Scarne explained who he was and what he was doing, and asked if he could stop by.
“Do you have new information?”
Scarne was prepared for the question.
“Maybe. I also thought you might be able to bring me up to speed. And I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes, so I thought I’d let you know I’m around.”
“What do you mean ‘maybe’?”
“I mean I may have something you’d want to hear. Not over the phone.”
“Who did you say you’re working for?”
“I didn’t.” He could feel Detective Scullen chewing on that. But the cop would see him, he knew, because he was getting nowhere on the case. Moreover, anyone calling in on a homicide is automatically a suspect. “Can you come in now?”
“No, I’m on the road and have a few stops. How does 2 o’clock sound?”
Scarne next called the District Attorney’s Office.
***
The town of St. George, on the north shore of Staten Island, was the gateway to Staten Island from Manhattan. In addition to being a ferry and commuter rail hub, it contained a diffuse administrative complex that included the Supreme Court system, the District Attorney’s Office and Borough Hall. Various other borough, state and city offices – everything from the Veterans Administration to the local Parole Board – could be found within a five-block radius. Also within this city-within-a-city were many charitable and cultural non-profit organizations that relied on governmental largesse.
Under the latest revision of the New York City Charter, borough presidents were stripped of much of their power, and most of their staffs. In the other four boroughs, the BP’s had thus been reduced to mere ceremonial figureheads. On Staten Island, however, the local political machine of the incumbent was so powerful – and so feared – that the Borough President was able to place scores of his supporters in jobs at these non-profits, in return for his funneling city and state money to them. The non-profits, of course, contributed heavily to the BP and his party. In effect, they were government-sponsored slush funds. (It’s the perfect scam,” Dudley Mack explained to Scarne. “And, quite possibly, the long-sought perpetual motion machine.”)
Scarne spent a fruitless 15 minutes looking for a parking spot near the government complex. Most of the metered spots were taken by cars sporting official decals or signs identifying the driver as a government worker of some sort. He knew from Dudley that the merchants in the area were resentful, since shoppers could get nowhere near their stores. They, like Scarne, would have to park at the far end of the commuter parking lot and walk a quarter mile, uphill. Most potential customers would rather drive to a nearby strip mall. But the merchants were mostly immigrants of color, and could not afford to complain to the very police that were supposed to protect them. Those that did were soon hit with a blizzard of building and sanitary violations.
After leaving his car, Scarne headed toward the ornate Borough Hall, which sat on a hill overlooking the ferry terminal. There was a small parking lot just to the side of the building with five spots. The one nearest the stairs contained a black Lincoln Town Car with an “Office of the Borough President” license plate. Three adjacent spots also contained vehicles identifying them as official.
He was walking past the last spot, which was vacant, when he was startled by the blast of a horn from a vehicle turning into it. He backed off to let a white Lexus SUV with “M.D.” license plates pull in to the spot, which had a large brass “RESERVED” plaque at its head. Since Scarne was the only person walking by, and there were no other cars on the one-way street, it occurred to him that whoever was behind the wheel could have waited a second to let him pass. He looked back as the car door opened and the driver lumbered out.
The first thing Scarne noticed was the man’s feet, encased in huge brown loafers that could have doubled as gondolas. The rest of the man was equally enormous. He was dressed in a white linen suit that must have given his tailor quite a challenge, because it somehow fit wonderfully. His thick neck looked like it was bursting from his pink shirt’s collar. A striped pink and blue tie completed the bizarre arrangement. As he shut the door, he caught Scarne staring at him. His pig-like eyes, set in an incongruously small head, traveled over Scarne, as if trying to categorize or place him. When he couldn’t, he turned and trudged slowly up the stairs leading up to the building’s entrance. At the top stood a police officer, who was looking over everyone who entered. He greeted the fat man with a tight smile and a nod and opened one of the massive doors for him. But the cop aimed a baleful look at his back when he passed. Curious, Scarne walked up to the cop. He noted that no one else was getting help with the door.
“Excuse me, officer, who was that who just walked in? Big guy, white suit.” Except for street directions, cops, in general, don’t like to give out information, so Scarne added, “He waved to me, but Ill be damned if I can remember his name.”
“That’s Dr. Bimm.”
“Medical Examiner?”
The cop laughed.
“Only thing he ever examined were tits and asses. Was a plastic surgeon. Had clinics all over the place. Now he’s some sort of special advisor to the B.P. Always around. Like fly shit.”
“He has his own parking spot?”
“What can I say? Guy is so fat, we’re lucky he doesn’t take two spots.”
“Not bad,” Scarne said. “I had to park in Kansas.”
“You’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”
Scarne headed over to the adjacent building where, after clearing security, he was greeted warmly by Mary McCallister, District Attorney Daniel O’Connor’s administrative assistant. Scarne knew that McAllister had served O’Connor’s predecessor for many years, and he was surprised to see her in the same job. He’d heard, from Dudley Mack, that the new administration fired or transferred anyone they could and filled their jobs with party hacks. She insisted on getting him a cup of coffee and rolled her wheelchair over to the pot. After chatting for a minute, she buzzed him into O’Connor’s office.
The D.A. got up from his chair, smiling broadly. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his tie loosened. A blue suit jacket was hanging on a rack in the corner.
“Jake, how are you?” They shook hands. O’Connor pointed to a pair of chairs in front of his desk and sat in one. Scarne took the other. “I see Mary’s already got your coffee.”
“I was a little surprised to see her still here. I thought the new B.P. cleaned house.”
“Blovardi and I are in the same political church, different pews. I shook up this place, sure. Too many of the old A.D.A.’s spent their time in local gin mills. They’re in private practice now. I kept a few of the best. Some of the detectives. And Mary.”
Scarne and O’Connor had never been close. But the man was basically decent. He and his predecessors, of both political parties, did a capable job of keeping the borough free from violent street crime. O’Connor was a thin man, much shorter than Scarne, with a pleasant, if rather bland, Irish face, wispy blond hair and skin that needed to avoid the sun. But his complexion was good. Scarne knew he neither drank nor smoked.
“Like you, Jake, I’ve known the McCallisters since high school.
One of the borough hall crowd came over and told me to ditch Mary. His niece needed a job. I told him Mary had overcome incredible hurdles to get ahead and was also the sole support of a widowed mother. He called me a bleeding heart. I threw the prick out bodily. I also let it be known that this office would look closely at any cases of disabled employees forced out in other agencies.”
“Jeez, you’re restoring my faith in the human race.”
“What can I do for you, Jake.”
Scarne knew he had to be careful.
“Anything new on the murder of Bobby Pearsall’s daughter? That one must stick in your craw.”
“You bet it does, Jake. That kind of thing never happens out here. And I aim to make sure it doesn’t again.” He looked generally pained. “I was there, you know, right after it happened. Got the call and went right over. I can’t wait to get the bastard who did it. And we will get him. But what’s your interest?”
“Been asked to look into it.”
“By who?”
“A friend.”
“Who’s the friend?”
“Sorry, Dan. I can’t tell you. And it really doesn’t matter. But I understand the cops are working under the theory that it was a home invasion gone bad. Anyone consider the possibility that it wasn’t that random? Maybe she was a target. Or maybe her father?”
O’Connor leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
“What are you getting at, Jake? Somebody had it in for her, or Bob Pearsall? Makes no sense. There was loot piled up in the hallway, ready to go. Saw it myself.”
“What about a contract hit? Maybe Pearsall was working on a story that would ruffle some feathers. He’d won a Pulitzer. Might raise too may questions if he died under mysterious circumstances. But his daughter?”
“Who would be that twisted?”
“There’s a lot of money heading south in this borough, Dan. Serious money since the bridge was built and the Island became prime real estate. Is it possible the cops are too committed to one version of the crime?”
O’Connor bridled at the implied criticism.
“Listen, Jake, I’m sure you have the best intentions. But I can tell you the police are very touchy about anyone meddling in their ongoing investigation of a homicide. I am, too. I can’t let our personal relationship influence how I run this office. I’m sure you understand that.”
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