“Ever had this ice cold, straight up? Whitey used to give me a nightcap every now and then. It’s early, but I’m just off work. Kind of wound up. She opened a cabinet and pulled out rocks glasses. “How about it?”
“Sure. What’s your last name, by the way? I’m Jake Scarne.”
“Same as on your license. How nice.” She poured two strong tots of bourbon, which flowed viscously into the glasses. They clinked glasses. “I’m Daisy Buchanan.” She noticed the look on his face. “Hey. It’s my real name. Or rather the last name is. The ‘Daisy’ is a nickname. I was born Dorothy in Gatsby, Kansas. You can figure out the rest. I still haven’t read the book. Is it any good?
“You’d like it,” Scarne said, laughing. He took a sip of the almost-frozen bourbon. It was delicious. Almost like a cordial, but with a kick. “Listen, I’m going to check out the bedroom.”
“Don’t make a mess. I’m going to rest my tootsies and sip this.” She walked into the living room, kicked off her shoes, sat in a swivel chair at a large roll top desk and idly started looking at some scattered papers. Scarne was saving the desk for last, although he knew it was probably a waste of time.
There was nothing incriminating in bedroom; no sniper rifle broken down in an attaché case under the bed. Scarne had just finished looking through a closet and a chest of drawers when Daisy appeared in the doorway. She leaned against the wall, crossing her long legs, holding her drink in one hand and a newspaper clipping in the other.
“That murdered girl live on Staten Island?”
He walked over to her and took the clipping.
“It was in the roll top desk,” she explained.
The article, obviously a follow-up to previous story, had appeared in the New York Post, on Page 3, under the headline: ‘Police Say Slain S.I. Schoolgirl Was Raped.’ Scarne began reading:
“The 16-year-old St. Peter’s Girls High honor student found brutally murdered last week in a sedate Randall Manor neighborhood on Staten Island was also raped.
According to police Elizabeth Pearsall was sexually assaulted and then manually strangled shortly after walking home from school. Her body was discovered by the family cleaning lady, who arrived apparently moments after the killing. Police theorized that the victim walked in on a burglary in progress. They noted that various household items, including jewelry and silverware, were piled up in pillow cases near a side door.
“The burglar, or burglars, may have panicked and left the valuables behind,” said Daniel O’Connor, the Staten Island District Attorney.
The crime shocked the close-knit neighborhood, and garnered significant media attention because the murdered girl was the daughter of Robert Pearsall, the city editor of the Richmond Register, Staten Island’s community newspaper. Pearsall, who won a Pulitzer Prize for his investigation into nursing home abuses on Staten Island and across the nation, lost his wife two years ago and was devastated by the murder of his only child. He reportedly collapsed at the newspaper when he got the news.
District Attorney O’Connor, who pointed out that burglaries and violent crime were rare in his borough, said his office was devoting all its resources to solving what he called ‘one of the most heinous crimes in our memory.’”
Banaszak had not only clipped the article about the murder, but also had underlined, in red, the part about the rape.
“Is Whitey your guy?”
“Looks like it.”
“Damn. Never would have figured him for something like that.” She shuddered and finished off her drink. “I guess I’ve had a close call. Christ, I’m pretty good at sizing up people, especially men. He was so nice to me.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, he’s a pro, and probably wouldn’t harm a fly in his ‘civilian’ life. And he apparently didn’t have much to do with what happened to the girl. In fact, he probably regrets it, which is why I’m trying to find him. I’m after the people who ordered the murder, not him. Any ideas where he might be? Family? Friends?”
Daisy Buchanan shook her head.
“He never mentioned anyone. There’s no other photos around. Never saw anyone visit him. I used to kid him that he must be in the witness protection program. He thought that was hysterical. Now I know why. He’s probably the reason some people are in the program.”
They walked back to the kitchen, and she poured them both another drink. She hopped up on the counter to sit and Scarne stood across from her.
“If you find him alive, what are you going to do? Call the cops?”
“Ask him some questions first.”
“And if he won’t answer?”
“He’ll answer.”
She looked at him appraisingly.
“And you’re drinking the man’s bourbon. What about the people you said ordered the girl killed?”
“Cross that bridge when I come to it.”
“Raping and strangling a kid like that. Someone did that to one of my sisters, I’d kill them.”
“People who planned it weren’t counting on the rape. It was business.”
“That makes it worse, don’t you think?”
Scarne nodded. She leaned forward to clink her glass with his. Her smell, sensual and tinged with whatever she had done the past night, wafted over him. It was magnified by the bourbon. She noticed the subtle change in his posture, and laughing softly, brought the glass to her lips.
“I like you, Jake. We talk easy. And you haven’t asked what a nice girl like me is doing hooking.”
“We don’t know each other well enough to start unburdening our souls, Daisy. Besides, if a hit man likes you, that’s good enough for me.”
She laughed and then leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. She leaned against him, her hand on his chest and looked up.
“Something tells me we might eventually get to know each other,” she said. “But right now I’m beat. I’m gonna sleep for a week. Got at least a $3,000 head start on the weekend, so I’m on vacation, as of now. When you finish in here, just drop the keys in the umbrella stand outside my door. I’ll clean the place up later. Got a card in case I have to reach you?”
Scarne took out his wallet and gave her one. She took it and walked out to the roll top desk where she had left her pocketbook and put the card inside, pulling out one of her own. It was gold embossed, with just her name, cell phone number and email.
“Simple, but elegant,” he said, sliding it into his wallet.
“Just like me,” she said. “Except for the simple part.” With that, Daisy Buchanan from Kansas said “toodles” and walked out the door.
Scarne spent much of the afternoon searching the apartment, and then took on the nooks and crannies of the roll top desk, which were stuffed with old mail, bills, a Zagat’s restaurant guide, a subway map, seating charts for various local sports stadiums, playbills from Broadway shows, delivery menus from local ethnic restaurants, pens, pencils, a stapler, scotch tape and just about everything else one would expect in a New Yorker’s desk.
The last drawer he opened contained tightly cramped hanging files, each full of thick folders. It appeared that Banaszak didn’t throw much paperwork out. Since the drawer had not been locked, and other than the newspaper clipping Scarne hadn’t come across anything remotely tied to the Pearsall case, he was pretty sure that he wouldn’t find anything incriminating in the folders. But he knew he’d have to read every piece of paper in them.
Banaszak was a disciplined man. All the folders were neatly labeled alphabetically: ‘Automobile’ to ‘Zoo.’ Could there be a clue in Zoo? Was there an animal connection? He was tempted to pull that folder out and work his way backwards but it was easier to flip through the folders from the beginning, and start at ‘Automobile.’
There was nothing remotely incriminating or instructive until he hit the folder labeled ‘Veterans Administration,’ which Scarne noted sourly, was just before “Zoo.” In it were copies of various official forms related to Banaszak’s military experience, including his DD214 discharge papers from the A
rmy, and applications for medical and other benefits due him. Of particular interest were some brochures from the V.A. listing the hospice services available to qualified veterans. The preamble to one brochure stated that the V.A. was committed “to providing a peaceful journey to America’s veterans in their last days, to fulfill Abraham Lincoln’s Civil War pledge ‘to care for him who shall have borne the battle.’” Scarne opened the brochure and found a passage that Banaszak had highlighted:
“The V.A. is committed to the provision of compassionate and humane care to the terminally ill veteran and veteran's family. Hospice and palliative care are now included in the Medical Benefits Package for eligible enrolled veterans. Hospice and palliative care optimize the comfort and dignity of the patient through the effective management of pain and other symptoms. All medical centers assure that hospice care is made available to all enrolled veterans who need and select this type of care.”
Scarne, who himself had been in the V.A. system as a result of wounds, was surprised at the extent of the hospice and palliative care detailed in the brochures. He thought it likely that the dying Banaszak was now in one of the V.A.’s hospice units. But which one? They were undoubtedly spread across the nation, although Banaszak would probably choose one close by. He looked through the file, hoping to find a letter of acceptance or referral, but there wasn’t any. Banaszak might have taken it with him.
He called Evelyn.
“Find out how many V.A. hospitals offer hospice care. It’s probably on a Government website. Then call them and see if they are treating a Wit Banaszak. I could kick myself I didn’t think about hospice care when you mentioned the V.A. the other day. I may have to check myself in for observation, or lack of it.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. You got to him pretty quickly anyway.”
“In his condition, pretty quickly may be too late.”
Scarne gave her Banaszak’s service number, just in case Meryl Streep needed some help. He then went through the last folder. It turned out that Banaszak was life patron at the Bronx Zoo and had donated $1,000 to have a brick with his name placed on the path leading up to a soon-to-be-built nursery for the babies of endangered primates. Baby gorillas and Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. I have to meet this guy, he thought.
He didn’t feel right leaving too much work for Daisy, so he spent almost an hour repairing most of the disarray from his apartment search, then cleaned himself up in the kitchen, where he also had another bourbon, which reminded his stomach that he had skipped lunch. He called Evelyn and told her to order in some dinner for the both of them. Then he locked the apartment door and walked down the hall to Daisy Buchanan’s apartment. He could hear soft music through her door but no other sounds. She was presumably asleep. He dropped Banaszak’s key in the umbrella stand and took the stairs down. He headed left down the block toward Amsterdam Avenue to hail a cab.
Scarne never noticed the tall man dressed in a black suit and turtleneck who turned the corner at Columbus and walked up to Banaszak’s building.
CHAPTER 22 – THE WORM POOL
By the time Scarne got back to his office Evelyn had printed out a list of all the Veterans Administration facilities in the nation. It was six pages long.
“It’s quite a system. There are 20 Veterans Service Networks, spread out by region. In each network there are hundreds of hospitals, vet centers, community based outpatient clinics and the like.”
“I’ll be the one who’s dead by the time we find him.”
“It’s not that bad. Assuming Banaszak is in hospice care, the facility is probably in a hospital. We can eliminate 90 percent of these facilities. Let’s just call the hospitals, starting in the tri-state area. If that doesn’t work, given the time zones, we’ll do the East Coast and head west.”
They worked steadily for two hours, stopping only to eat some heavily sprouted whole grain sandwiches and drink “organic” coffee from a local health food store. Scarne was so hungry the sandwiches actually tasted good to him. The coffee tasted like coffee.
Some hospitals didn’t offer hospice care and were quickly stricken from the list. At the others they simply asked to speak to Wit Banaszak. Evelyn was calling the hospitals in the appropriately named VA Sunshine Network in Florida when an operator tried to connect her to Banaszak. She quickly hung up with an apology to the operator about an incoming call.
“The bastard is still alive,” she said in triumph. “And he’s in the bloody Veterans Hospital in Tampa.”
Scarne wanted to catch the 9:30 PM flight from JFK to Tampa.
“What good will that do, Jake? You’ll get in after midnight, even if it’s on time, which it won’t be. They won’t let you see him.”
“He’s dying in hospice, Evelyn. I’m so close.”
“You need a good night’s sleep. You show up looking like you do they’ll think you’re a patient.”
She was right, of course, as usual.
***
Feeling vaguely human and fortified by two blessedly sproutless Egg McMuffins and a large black coffee, Scarne was on the first nonstop the next morning, a Jet Blue Airbus 300 out of Newark. It was just 11 AM when his rental Ford Fusion pulled into the hospital parking lot of James A. Haley VA Medical Center on Coombs Blvd. in Tampa.
According to the information provided by Evelyn that he read on the plane, Haley was a modern tertiary care teaching facility affiliated with the University of South Florida College of Medicine. Of its 350 beds, 180 were designated as nursing home beds. Of those, 30 were set aside in a separate hospice unit. Banaszak had picked a good place to die.
The receptionist at the lobby desk directed him to the third floor, where the hospice beds were. Banaszak was in room 3303. Scarne got on the elevator with a lanky middle-age black man wearing dark green corduroy pants, a long-sleeved checkered flannel shirt and a baseball-type cap that said ‘U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln CVN-72.’ The man sported a bushy white moustache and neatly trimmed beard that matched his eyebrows and sideburns.
“What floor?”
“Three,” Scarne answered. “Thanks.”
“That’s my floor, too,” the man said. “You visiting someone?”
“Guy named, Banaszak. You know him?”
“Whitey? Sure, our crazy Polack.” The man suddenly looked curious. “You a friend or relative? Whitey said he had none of each.”
“Never met the man. Here on business.”
“Better wrap it up quick. Don’t think Whitey has much business left to do. I’ve got him in the Worm Pool and I think I have a good shot.”
“Worm Pool?”
“Yeah. Every week or so we chip in 50 bucks each and pick names out of the hat. If the guy you pick croaks first, you win. Serious dough. I got a good chance with Whitey. He ain’t been looking too perky.”
They reached the hospice floor and stepped out of the elevator.
“That’s pretty callous,” Scarne said coldly. “I wonder what the hospital administration would say, not to mention the patients or their families.”
“Hell, man, the patients run the pool.” He looked at Scarne appraisingly. “What, you think I work here, or am visiting? Shit. I’m a resident. I checked into this roach motel, and I ain’t checking out. I once picked my own name out of the hat. That’s too creepy, so they let me pick again.”
For the first time, Scarne noticed the hollowness in the man’s cheeks behind the moustache and beard, and how loosely his clothes hung.
“I’m sorry. I just thought, you know, with you walking around…” He didn’t know what else to say.
“Some of us have more time than others, and good days and bad days. This is a good day for me. We ain’t chained to the beds. They let us walk around a bit if we can. I like to go outside on the lawn in back, sit in the sun. I saw you looking at my outfit. It’s freezing in the ward. But it’s too much effort to change just to go out for a few minutes. You think I’d walk around in Florida in this outfit all the time? Where’s your head at?”
“You serve on the Lincoln?”
“Yeah. You know her?’
“Took a tour of her once with a buddy who was assigned to her Marine detachment. Couldn’t believe how big she was.”
“She’s a beauty,” the old sailor said reverently. “Spent my best years on her, though I did time on other Nimitz-class carriers. I was a senior chief on the landing crew. Great ships those flattops. Pride of the nation. People want to run down this country only have to look at our carrier fleet. Wished they named them after states, though.”
“What do you mean?”
They had stopped just short of the nurses’ station.
“The carriers are our capital ships, now, right? Just like battleships used to be. I guess I got no complaint naming ships after Abe Lincoln, or George Washington, or the Roosevelts or even Truman or Eisenhower. Maybe even Kennedy. At least they were dead a while. But the USS Carl Vinson and the John C. Stennis? Man, those were just payoffs to guys who threw money at the Pentagon. And the USS George H.W. Bush? Give me a fuckin’ break. No sir. Our big ships should be named after states. Binds the country together. The Tennessee. The Missouri. The New Jersey. When a ship with a name like that gets into a fight, people can identify. If it gets itself sunk, that’s like losing a piece of the country. Think about the Arizona. Or the Maine. Course, certain names should be retired, like them two. But you get the picture. Same with cities. In World War II, when the cruisers Vincennes, and Quincy went down off Savo Island and Indianapolis was torpedoed after delivering the A-bomb to Tinian, people in every city could identify. Can’t really get the same feeling about the USS Lobbyist, now can you?”
He laughed and then headed down a hallway, leaving Scarne standing in front of the nurses’ station. A pretty young nurse filling out paperwork and occasionally glancing at a bank of monitors looked up and gave Scarne a tired smile. After he asked for directions to Banaszak’s room, she brightened.
“Gee, you’re the first visitor he’s had,” she said. She had a lovely smile. “He’s just down that hallway, last room on the right. Just go right in.”
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