FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6)

by Lawrence de Maria

9 – DUDLEY MACK

  At approximately the same time Luke Willet was arguing with the annoying Mary Mulgready outside Dr. Schwartzberg’s office at Columbia, Jake Scarne was waiting for Emmanuel Moliere to remove the tarp from Scarne’s silver Ford Fusion hybrid. He planned to drive Noah Sealth to Newark International for his Alaska Air flight to Seattle.

  Moliere was one of the attendants in the garage next to Scarne’s Greenwich Village apartment at Fifth Avenue and 8th Street. He treated Scarne’s car as if it were his own, washing and occasionally polishing it when he had free time. Moliere was Haitian and, despite Scarne’s repeated insistence that the man owed him nothing, never forgot that Scarne helped some of Moliere’s family escape the horrors of the earthquake that devastated Haiti years earlier.

  As Scarne got in the Fusion, Moliere handed him a magazine. Scarne noted that it was the most recent issue of Car and Driver.

  “Page 22 might interest you, Mr. Scarne,” Moliere said slyly.

  Scarne sat behind the wheel, turned to the page and laughed. It was a review of Mazda’s new MX-5 Miata convertible, entitled, “Another Home Run: The Best Roadster Money Can Buy”. Scarne immediately fell in love with the pictures. He looked up at the grinning Moliere.

  “You never give up, do you Manny?”

  “You too young to be old, Mr. Scarne. Fusion is a nice ride, but you want something sexy, no?”

  It was the same friendly debate they always had. Moliere said he missed Scarne’s old cars, the classic 1974 MGB Roadster, and before that, a 2009 Mazda MX-5 Grand Touring hardtop, both convertibles.

  “I think it was time to grow up,” Scarne said. He looked at the magazine. “Probably has some good articles. Do you mind if I keep this for a day or so?”

  “Thought you might,” Moliere said, happily.

  ***

  Sealth and Juliette no longer lived in a fourth-floor walk-up on 79th Street near the Museum of Natural History. They’d found a small two-bedroom in a more modern building on Second Avenue and 61st Street. While they were now on the seventh floor, the building had an elevator, an important consideration for a woman soon to have a baby.

  Sealth was waiting outside the building when Scarne pulled up. He threw his bag in the back seat and picked up the Car and Driver. As Scarne pulled into traffic, he started thumbing through the magazine.

  “You see this article on the new Mazda,” Sealth said. “Hot-looking car.”

  Must be a conspiracy, Scarne thought.

  Forty minutes later they approached the American Airlines terminal at Newark International. Sealth was singing softly.

  “All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go.

  I'm standin' here outside your door. I hate to wake you up to say goodbye.

  But the dawn is breakin', it's early morn.

  The taxi's waitin', he's blowin' his horn.

  Already I'm so lonesome, I could die.”

  “Good Lord, Noah, Leaving on a Jet Plane?”

  “So?

  “Peter, Paul and Mary? You're a Suquamish Indian and a homicide cop for crissakes.”

  “Loved them. Mary was hot.”

  “Did you see what she looked like in her later years?”

  “Who looks good in their later years? She was hot when she sang it.”

  Scarne shook his head.

  “It’s a John Denver song by the way,” Sealth said. “Love him, too.”

  They reached the terminal.

  “I spoke to my old partner in Homicide,” Sealth said. “He said he’ll reach out to the O.C. guys to see if they’ve heard of anyone who might have it out for the Dallassios.”

  “Won’t he be curious as to why you are interested?”

  “Sure. But he was my partner. If I tell him not to be too curious, he’ll go along with it. And he’ll make sure the O.C. guys aren’t too curious, either. We’ve done this dance before. Then I’ll head to Frisco and talk to some guys I know. Same deal.”

  “You’re private, now, Noah.”

  “I know. But I’ve saved up a lot of chits. Never thought I’d get to collect them.”

  Scarne handed Sealth a piece of paper.

  “While you are out there, you might as well check out these names.”

  “Who are they,” Sealth said, scanning the list.

  “Maura Dallas’s lovers since she moved back to San Francisco. All local. She doesn’t think any of them are involved, mainly because they are all successful and she’s on good terms with them.”

  “Or they are afraid of her,” Sealth commented.

  “Same thing, I guess. Anyway, check them out.”

  “There are a couple of women on this list, Jake.”

  “It’s San Francisco, isn’t it?”

  Sealth laughed and got out of the car.

  “Say hello to Dudley for me,” he said before closing the door.

  After leaving the airport, Scarne decided to drive to Staten Island by way of Bayonne. A huge container ship heading up the Kill van Kull between New Jersey and the Island was passing under the Bayonne Bridge as he drove across. It looked close enough to touch. The steel-arch bridge itself was an architectural marvel when it was built in 1931, but was now obsolete. The Port Authority had authorized a $750 million project to raise the bridge roadbed to accommodate the latest generation of ships that would soon be transiting the newly widened Panama Canal. The bridge remained open during the work, with temporary beams supporting the existing roadway while the new one was constructed.

  “A catastrophe waiting to happen,” Dudley called it.

  Despite that, Scarne took his chances, willing to do anything to avoid the traffic on the Goethals Bridge and the Staten Island Expressway.

  ***

  Dudley Mack’s house sat on a one-acre parcel on Howard Avenue in Grymes Hill, just down the street from both Wagner College and the Staten Island campus of St. John’s University. From the street, it looked like an unremarkable, if sprawling, brick ranch. In fact, the property sloped down a heavily forested hill to Van Duzer Street 100 feet below, and the house was three levels deep in the back.

  Bobo Sambuca, Mack’s driver and bodyguard — and soon-to-be brother-in-law — answered the door. As usual, the massive Bobo gave Scarne a huge hug and a slap on the back. And, as usual, Scarne was happy to survive both. They walked through the house to the 40-by-80-foot deck at the rear of the third, or top, floor, which was supported by 30-foot steel beams that jutted out from the hillside. The view from the deck was one of the best in New York City, stretching from Coney Island up the Narrows to the Statue of Liberty and Manhattan.

  Dudley Mack was fiddling with a massive gas grill. It looked twice as big as the grill Scarne had seen on his last visit. Mack gave them a wave of the spatula in his right hand and continued to press a red button with his right.

  “Be right with you,” Mack said. “Damn starter isn’t working.”

  In addition to the repetitive, and ominous, clacking sound from the igniter, there was a pervasive smell of gas on the deck, even though there was a light breeze.

  “Where did you get that thing, Deadley? NASA have a garage sale?”

  “Fuckin’ piece of shit costs me a thousand bucks. And it won’t light.”

  “What was wrong with the other grill?”

  “Too hard to light.”

  “You should have Bobo video this, Duds. Might come in handy for an arson defense.”

  “I’ll get it going.”

  “I know you will. That’s why Bobo and I are standing way over here. I’ve been with you before when you’ve tried to light a grill.”

  As if on cue, there was a loud bang, followed by a whoosh. Mack reeled backwards.

  “There,” Mack said. “All set.” He headed toward a bar where Bobo was filling an ice bucket. “You ready for a drink?”

  Before Scarne could answer, he heard his name being called.

  “Hey, Jake, how’s it hanging?”

  He looked over the railing to a cabana and an in-ground pool se
t on rock ledge set away from the house. Alice Mack, Dudley’s youngest sister and Bobo’s future wife, waved at him from the lounge on which she was sunning herself.

  “Fine, Alice. Getting a head start on L.B.I.?”

  The Mack clan traditionally spent much of the summer down the Jersey Shore, where Dudley had completely restored a large oceanfront home in Harvey Cedars, a privileged enclave devastated when Hurricane Sandy tore through Long Beach Island. It was a favorite refuge for Scarne in the off-season, particularly when he was recuperating from misadventures caused by his profession.

  “Never too early, Jake. I hate going down there looking like an albino flounder.”

  Alice rolled over and put on sunglasses. She was topless. There were no neighbors who could see her through the foliage, but Scarne knew that didn’t matter. Alice Mack was a free spirit.

  “Bobo is gonna have his hands full with her,” Dudley said, walking over to Scarne and handing him a drink. “And I’m not talking about her boobs. Although they are spectacular.”

  “For God’s sake, Duds, she’s your sister.”

  “Yeah, and I’ve seen her flash those two snow cones at guys since they were bee bites.” They clinked glasses. “How’s the bourbon?”

  “Damn good. But it’s not Maker’s Mark.”

  “Thought I’d broaden our horizon. It’s Buffalo Trace. Friend of mine at JFK gave me a case from a shipment that got misplaced. Let’s sit down and chat while the venison steaks get to room temperature.”

  “Venison? In May?”

  Mack liked to hunt and usually brought home deer meat in the fall and winter, when the animals were in season.

  “There is a deer herd on Staten Island now,” Mack said. “Probably started by a couple of them that swam the Kill van Kull from Jersey a few years ago. Now they estimate a population of more than a thousand. Lots of them get hit by cars on the Expressway. A real danger.”

  “We’re eating roadkill?”

  Mack laughed.

  “Nah. Some of my guys who live on the South Shore are, how do you say, culling the herd. Informally, of course.”

  “What do the cops say?”

  “Not much, especially the ones I give venison steaks. I also point out that it keeps my guys from shooting other things. The meat is excellent, especially after you marinate it in port wine and rosemary. You’re gonna love it.”

  They took seats at a small table. Bobo Sambuca, holding a bottle of beer, joined them, putting down a bowl of mixed nuts. Mack started going through the nuts, looking for cashews.

  “Be simpler if you just put out cashews, Duds,” Scarne said.

  “More fun this way. I like the competition. Now, what did you want to talk about?”

  Scarne told him, in detail. When he finished, Dudley Mack said, “Is Maura Dallas as hot as I’ve heard?”

  “I can always count on you to see the big picture, Duds,” Scarne said.

  “Whatever. So, she doesn’t want to go to the cops?”

  “No,” Scarne said.

  “And it’s been, what, almost a month?”

  “Yes.”

  Mack got up and brought over the bourbon, ice and another beer for Bobo.

  “Noah is good, Jake, but it would be a miracle if he finds out anything. I’m sure the Dallassios are turning over every rock out there.”

  “I know. But I want to cover all the bases. I thought maybe you can check with some of your contacts here to see if they’ve heard anything.”

  “It’s not something anyone is likely to blab about.”

  “No. Obviously you can’t go around asking who kidnapped the kid, but anything out of the ordinary could be helpful.”

  Mack shrugged.

  “Sure. You gonna tell your pal Condon what’s going on?”

  “Haven’t decided. Maura Dallas said no cops, and I’m pretty certain that means the New York City Police Commissioner.”

  “Dick might not be too happy with you withholding knowledge of a kidnapping. He may take away your gun permit and Dick Tracy badge.”

  “I’m not sure it’s a crime in this state not to report a felony. The law varies from state to state.”

  “What about the Feds? Oh, fuck it. What am I talking about? You don’t care about that crap, anyway.”

  “I can always claim client privilege.”

  Mack roared.

  “Bobo, you gotta love it! Our buddy here is going to claim he’s keeping a confidence of one of the country’s biggest mob families.”

  He turned serious.

  “Kid’s dead, you know.”

  “Probably.”

  “Whoever did it, I hope they catch the son-of-a-bitch. I hate people who fuck with kids. And if you catch him and don’t know what to do, give me a call. They closed our landfill, but I know plenty of others.”

  “I think Vincent Anastasia will have first dibs.”

  “Yeah. I heard about Anastasia. Wouldn’t want him mad at me.”

  “Who is mad at you, Dudley?”

  It was Alice, up from the pool and thankfully no longer topless, although her bikini did not leave much to the imagination.

  “Sister Mary Marmalade over at Our Lady of the Missionary Position,” Dudley said. “She claims I gave her the clap.”

  Bobo started laughing. Alice looked at Scarne and rolled her eyes.

  “These two adolescents think that’s funny.”

  Scarne, who also thought it pretty funny, remained silent.

  “I’m going in the house to change,” Alice said. “When I come out I expect a cocktail and want to smell Bambi cooking on the grill.” She crooked a finger at Sambuca. “Bobo, I want to talk to you. Now.”

  Bobo meekly put down his beer and trailed her inside.

  “I warned the huge lug about my sister,” Mack said, laughing. “He’s fucked. There are guys who would turn over in the graves Bobo put them in if they could see him being led around by his pecker now.”

  Scarne looked at Mack.

  “Our Lady of the Missionary Position?”

  CHAPTER 10 - BARNARD

  The next morning Scarne took a cab up to Morningside Heights. He had a 10 AM appointment in Milbank Hall with Regina Russell, the Barnard College Dean of Studies. Both of Alana Dallas’s roommates had exams in the morning, but had agreed to meet him at a local coffee shop for lunch at 1 PM.

  Barnard's sylvan four-acre campus stretched along Broadway between 116th and 120th Street, and was situated directly across Broadway from Columbia University. Scarne knew little about Barnard other than it was considered the most exclusive of the private women's liberal arts college that make up the so-called Seven Sisters, a group of schools recognized as the equivalent of their Ivy League counterparts. With the help of a harried student’s pointed finger, Scarne had no trouble finding Milbank Hall in the concentrated campus that contained fewer than a dozen buildings. Although Milbank was, of course, the furthest facility from the entrance he used on Broadway near 116th Street. He could not recall ever entering a strange college campus anywhere near his ultimate destination.

  But it was a fine spring day and the walk was pleasant. The few students he passed all had an air of seriousness about them.There was a wide mixture of races among the young women and he noted, without a hint of political correctness, that many of them were exceedingly attractive. None of the girls gave him a glance, which annoyed the hell out of him.

  Dean Russell’s office was in the northwest corner of the first floor of Milbank Hall. Scarne was surprised there were not any students waiting in the outer office when he announced himself to the pleasant black woman who was the dean’s assistant. He was even more surprised when he was told to go right into Russell’s office.

  The dean stood when Scarne entered and came around her desk to shake his hand.

  “Mr. Scarne, how nice to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Dean Russell. Thank you for seeing me so promptly. I have to say that it’s a first for me. I usually wind up sitting in a
waiting room feeling like I did when I was called to the principal’s office in grade school.”

  She laughed. It was a good, deep laugh.

  “You’ve caught me on a good day. It’s exam week. Most of the students are either in class or studying in their rooms or the library.”

  Scarne’s ego was somewhat salved. No wonder none of the girls on campus paid any attention to him. But he noticed that Regina Russell seemed to be paying attention. Without being too obvious, she was sizing him up with her eyes.

  “Let’s sit on the couch,” Russell said, smiling. “It will be more comfortable.”

  She picked up a small folder from her desk. Scarne noted that she wore no rings. They walked over to a brown leather couch by a window that overlooked 120th Street. There was a small table in front of the couch. She put the folder on it and turned to Scarne.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “If it’s no trouble.”

  “None at all. I live on the stuff. How do you take it?”

  It had been a late and liquid night at Dudley Mack’s.

  “Black.”

  “Please sit. I’ll be right back.”

  Russell walked to her door, which was open, and said something to her assistant. Scarne noted that she had very good legs. In fact, she had very good everything. As she walked back to the couch, he finished his appraisal. He guessed she was about his age and at least five-foot-nine. Her tailored dark gray suit could not hide what was obviously a wonderful figure. Her wavy dark brown hair fell to the base of her neck. Her blue eyes were set wide apart and her eyelashes were dark and long. She had a strong, but not overly large nose over a wide mouth. She was, all in all, a beautiful woman. And her smile told him that she noticed that he noticed.

  Russell sat and arranged herself on the couch opposite Scarne. She put one arm across the back of the couch and slowly crossed her legs, giving him the view of her knees and ankles, of which she was apparently justifiably proud. Their eyes met and they smiled simultaneously as something as old as the invention of fire passed between them.

  “I received a call this morning from a Maura Dallas,” the dean said. “She said you were acting on her behalf and I was to talk to you as if I was talking to her. You would have questions about her daughter, Alana.”