FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6)

by Lawrence de Maria

  Scarne had called Maura at her hotel earlier.

  “That’s correct.”

  “She told me that she was very concerned. Apparently her daughter is missing.”

  “Yes. She was home recovering from an illness. There was an argument. Mother and daughter type of thing. Alana upped and left without saying where she was going. Her mother thought she might have come back to New York. And that’s where I come in.”

  It was the story Scarne and Maura Dallas had agreed he would use whenever he questioned anyone. No mention of a kidnapping.

  “You want to know if she’s back in school?”

  “No. That’s been checked. But she had friends here, acquaintances. Perhaps they know something.”

  “Have you spoken to her roommates?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Has the family gone to the police?”

  Scarne was ready for that. He smiled.

  “She has done this before. The family has money. They do not believe she is any danger, or real trouble. Maybe she did a bunk with a boyfriend. But this is the longest she’s been out of contact. Naturally, they want to be sure.”

  Russell’s assistant walked into the room carrying two steaming mugs. The mugs were off-white with thick handles and thick rounded rims, and looked like the ones every diner in America served coffee in, when there were diners. They even had faint surface cracks.

  “Thank you, Shana,” Russell said as the woman placed the mugs down.

  “Don’t forget the root canal at 11,” Shana said as she walked away.

  “Can’t wait.”

  Scarne looked at her and she laughed.

  “Faculty meeting. Inside joke.”

  The coffee was good.

  “These mugs bring back some memories,” Scarne said.

  “My grandfather owned a diner in Ohio until an interstate put him out of business. He had cases of them. Everyone in the family has a bunch. I think coffee tastes better in them, don’t you?”

  “Always did.”

  “Well, the good news Mr. Scarne is that I will tell you everything I can about Alana Dallas. The bad news is that there is not much I am allowed to even tell her mother. Most colleges protect the privacy of their students, and Barnard, being the liberal bastion it is, is even more anal in that regard.”

  The “liberal bastion” and “anal” gave Dean Russell away. She thought the policy was a crock. Scarne knew he could push the envelope.

  “What can you tell me?”

  She picked up the folder and opened it.

  “Alana Dallas is an excellent student. Her marks are superior and her instructors have generally favorable things to say about her.”

  “Generally?”

  Russell looked at Scarne. She considered what to say.

  “Barnard is a superb institution,” she said, carefully, “which relishes open discourse and original thinking. We want to turn out well-rounded women capable of succeeding in whatever fields they choose.” She paused. “But like most elite colleges, no, that’s not accurate, like most colleges, political correctness reigns supreme. Some of Alana’s instructors have commented that she rebels against that.”

  “You are saying she doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”

  “She has been called a wiseass, on occasion.”

  Scarne laughed.

  “Is that an academic phrase?”

  “No, just an accurate one.”

  “I’ve been called that. I consider it a badge of honor.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “So, there have been complaints?”

  “Alana and I have had a few discussions.”

  “What did you tell her?’

  “I told her to be more diplomatic when discussing politics and history with some of the highbrows here.”

  “How did she take it?”

  “Very well, since I also told her she was usually right.”

  “Would any of these professors hold a grudge? Perhaps, wish her harm.”

  Russell looked at Scarne.

  “I thought she ran off.”

  Sharp lady, Scarne thought.

  “I’m sure she did. But you never know.”

  “Why do I think you are not telling me everything, Mr. Scarne?”

  “Because I’m not. And someday you may thank me for it.”

  He smiled, but there was something in his eyes that made her pause.

  “None of her teachers would hold a grudge, Mr. Scarne. As I said, they all gave her top marks, despite whatever differences they may have had. I can only speak for the Barnard instructors of course. But her marks at Columbia are just as stellar.”

  “Alana took courses at Columbia?”

  “Many of our women do. Barnard was founded in 1889. The relationship with Columbia was formalized the following year. We are not a large institution. Our total undergraduate enrollment is about 2,400. You have seen our campus. Our facilities are limited. Columbia offers a world of opportunities to our students. As for Alana, I never heard about any conflicts over there.”

  “Would you know?”

  “Well, I’m on pretty good terms with Josh Swartzberg. You might want to talk with him. He is the Dean of Columbia’s Department of English and Comparative Literature. Alana was taking one of his courses and the adjunct teaching it thought so much of Alana that he was worried her prolonged absence would hurt her standing. He and Josh wanted me to know that she could work from home to keep her grade up. But I think they expected she would be back by now. I guess it’s all moot if you don’t find her. She’s missing all her finals here at Barnard.”

  Scarne stood, and so did Russell.

  “I want to thank you for your help,” he said. He took out his card and gave it to her. “If you think of anything else, I’d appreciate a call.”

  “I can’t imagine I was much help,” she said.

  “I learned enough,” Scarne said. “You were honest with me. You didn’t throw me out of your office. The coffee was good and you know your mugs. And I am going to risk being assassinated by the lurking PC brigade and say that no time spent with a beautiful woman is ever wasted.”

  Russell laughed.

  “Don’t worry. It will be our little secret. I happen to like the occasional sexist remark, as long as it’s directed at me.”

  She put out her hand and Scarne took it. Her grip was firm and warm. If one could tell something by a simple handshake, Scarne thought, Regina Russell was someone he wanted to get to know better.

  “One more thing, Doctor,” he said. “I think I’ll go chat with Swartzberg over at Columbia. “Where’s his office?”

  ***

  Regina Russell watched Scarne walk down the hallway. She looked at his card. She guessed that she had a 50-50 chance he would call her and ask if she’d like to meet for a drink, perhaps dinner. She had already decided that she would accept. In fact, she had decided that if he did not call, she would call him.

  Russell had been married and divorced early, and over the years had occasional and usually unsatisfactory affairs. But not in the last two years. She wanted no part of the so-called singles scene. She thought bar hopping at her age was unseemly. And most men in the academic community simply did not interest her. They were invariably self-centered and tried to prove that they knew more than she did, which was rarely the case. But Jake Scarne was different. There had been an immediate attraction that she was positive was reciprocated. He was a good-looking devil who radiated something she never felt with the men who made the occasional pass at her – danger.

  “He’s got quite the reputation, Regina. I just did an Internet search on him.”

  Russell turned and smiled at her assistant, who had walked up beside her.

  “And why would you do that?”

  “I saw how you two were looking at each other,” Shana said. “You should call him. He’s a hunk. Got killer eyes, don’t you think? Speaking of which, wait until you see some of the stories about him in the press. I put them on your desk. He
’s the real deal. And unattached, as far as I can tell.”

  “What are you, my mother?”

  “I’m just looking out for you, girl. I’m getting tired of fending off those losers with the patches on the elbows of their jackets.”

  “They are not all losers, Shana.”

  “Oh yeah. What about Professor Dickless?”

  “Shana!”

  Earl Dickens, who taught European Folk Art, was a frequent visitor to the office.

  “Earl is a wonderful guy,” Russell protested. “We’re just good friends. And he’s gay, for God’s sake.”

  “I rest my case. So, when are you gonna call the private dick? I mean, eye.”

  “I’ll wait to see if he calls me.”

  “How long are you gonna wait?”

  “Not very.”

  Both women laughed.

  Regina Russell went back to her desk and began perusing the material on Scarne that Shana had printed out. She now vaguely recalled reading about the man. Some of his cases were lurid, involving murder, espionage and huge financial schemes. Dead bodies seemed to be the norm.

  One thing Dean Regina Russell knew for sure.

  Jake Scarne would not waste his time looking for a girl who ran away with her boyfriend.

  CHAPTER 11 - BLUEBERRY PIE

  Scarne headed over to the Columbia campus to speak to Joshua Swartzberg, the dean of the university’s Department of English and Comparative Literature. Colombia was a much larger operation than Barnard but thanks to Regina Russell’s directions, he found Philosophy Hall quickly enough. When he got to Swartzberg’s office, just about every chair in the waiting room was filled by students.

  Scarne walked over to the woman at the desk. Her nameplate said: Ms. Mary Mulgready. He gave her his best smile.

  “I’d like to see Dr. Swartzberg.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Then, it’s impossible. Dr. Swartzberg has a busy schedule. You will have to come back.” She looked at a calendar on her desk. “I may be able to fit you in next Wednesday at 11 A.M. What did you say your name was?”

  She poised a pen above the calendar.

  Scarne stopped smiling. He must have misheard her.

  “Next Wednesday?”

  Mulgready looked at him.

  “Do you have a hearing problem?”

  A student in a nearby chair laughed. Scarne, who had a low tolerance for academics, bureaucracy and rude people, took a deep breath.

  “My hearing is fine,” he said. “And I’m afraid I’m busy next Wednesday. I’m having my nails done. The only time I can fit Swartzy in is now.”

  She grew cautious.

  “Do you know Dr. Swartzberg?”

  “We have a mutual friend. Dean Regina Russell, over at Barnard. She suggested I come over here.”

  At the mention of Russell’s name, Mulgready’s mouth turned down. It was an ugly mouth to start with, with a red hash of lipstick above a not-so-faint mustache. The scowl made it uglier.

  “Russell works at Barnard,” the woman said. “I work at Colombia. Next Wednesday is the best I can do. Do you want the appointment or not. I’m very busy.”

  It was the tone of a woman who despises any other woman who is more attractive than she was. Which, Scarne knew from looking at Mulcready, took in most of the planet. The beautiful Regina Russell was probably a particular thorn in Mulcready’s side, especially since she probably knew her boss liked the other woman. Scarne realized that the only way he’d get to see Swartzberg would be to barge into his office. And from the look on Mulgready’s face, he might have to shoot his way in. That gave him an idea.

  “Well, I think I’ll just sit and wait. Maybe something will open up.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Scarne smiled and took an open chair. He took off his suit coat and draped it on the back, pulling out his cell phone. Every eye in the room took in his shoulder holster and the gun it contained. He dialed a number, pretended to wait for someone to answer, and started speaking.

  “Did Rocky get out of the hospital? No. Jeez. I only winged him. No kidding? The bullet broke a bone? I bet he’s pissed. Well, that will teach him to give me lip. Tell you what. Send him some flowers for me. He’s lucky they’re not lilies.”

  Scarne closed the phone. Now he waited. It didn’t take long. The students sitting on each side of him got up and left. Slowly, one by one, they all did. Soon he was the only one in the waiting room other than Mulgready, who was staring at him with an open mouth. Scarne put on his jacket. The door to Swartzberg’s office opened and the Dean ushered a young woman out. She walked past Scarne with a quizzical look at all the empty chairs. She glanced at Scarne.

  “Yanks won 5-2,” he said. “Tanaka went six and struck out 7.”

  Scarne had called a Major League hotline and listened to the previous night’s ball scores. The girl hurried out.

  “Where is everyone, Mary?” It was Dean Swartzberg. He sounded annoyed. “You said I had a full schedule.”

  Before she could answer, Scarne walked over to him and held out his hand.

  “Dr. Swartzberg,” he said. “Jake Scarne. Regina Russell sends her best. She suggested that you might be able to help me.”

  At the mention of Russell’s name, Swartzberg brightened. He looked around.

  “Come on in.” He shot a look at his sputtering assistant before going into his office. “I seem to have plenty of time.”

  Scarne turned to Mulgready.

  “Josh and I don’t want to be disturbed,” he said, and shut the door in her face, which was a mottled shade of red.

  Swartzberg waved Scarne to a seat by his desk.

  “How do you know Regina, Mr. Scarne?”

  “She is helping on a matter concerning one of her students. Alana Dallas. I understand the girl takes some classes here at Columbia.”

  Swartzberg tented his fingers.

  “Dallas. Alana Dallas. Why is the name familiar? Wait, I know. She’s the student who became ill. One of my adjuncts was in here about her recently. He was worried about her missing exams. I presume she is still out. Are you family? Or a friend?”

  Scarne took out his credentials and passed them to Swartzberg.

  “No. I’m a private investigator hired by the family to locate her.”

  Swartzberg looked at the license and passed it back.

  “I don’t understand. I thought she was sick.”

  “Oh, she was,” Scarne lied. “But she recovered and then took off. Naturally, her family is concerned. She is still supposed to be on medication. They thought she might have come back to New York. It’s a long shot, but I wondered if she might have been in touch with someone at Columbia.”

  “I did not know the Dallas girl personally,” Swartzberg said, “and I don’t know what I can do, legally. We have so many rules about student confidentiality. I probably can’t give you a class list without some sort of court order and it doesn’t sound as if this situation warrants one. I mean, is the girl in danger, or anything?”

  Scarne sensed that Swartzberg was a decent guy and was trying to be helpful. He had to lie, again. It was becoming a habit.

  “No.”

  “I don’t know what good a class list would be to you, anyway. If I recall, Dallas was taking Mr. Willet’s English Literature courses.” Swartzberg looked slightly abashed. “While we here at Columbia pride ourselves at keeping class sizes small, averaging 20 students per instructor, that particular course does not help the ratio. It’s taught in a lecture hall. Must have 70 students.”

  “Willet must be a hell of a teacher.”

  Now Swartzberg did look embarrassed.

  “That has little to do with it. He’s an adjunct. Now, that doesn’t mean he is not a fine teacher. But a lot of students, both at Colombia and Barnard, need that course to fill out their majors. So, it is very popular. Your best bet would be to talk to Willet. He might know if she was close to anyone in h
is class. If he was willing, and I don’t see why he wouldn’t be, he might talk to them on your behalf and set something up.”

  “Where do I find him?”

  The Dean pressed a button on his phone and picked up the receiver.

  “Mary, will you see if Mr. Willet has a class today, or is proctoring an exam? Willet. Luke Willet. The adjunct who teaches English Lit. He was here recently inquiring about one of his students who went ill. Alana Dallas. A Barnard girl. Thank you.”

  Swartzberg smiled.

  “Mary tends to look down on adjuncts,” he explained. “It is a common prejudice around here. Probably at all universities. It’s unfair, really. Some of them are quite good, and they do a lot of the heavy lifting. Some full professors think that teaching a class is beneath them. Luke is talented. Nice guy. I hardly recognized him when he was in here. He’d shaved his mustache and beard.”

  Scarne decided that his first impression was correct. Dean Swartzberg was one of the good ones. He took out one of his cards and passed it over to him.

  “If anything comes up, Doctor, or if you hear something, especially if it strikes you as out of the ordinary, I’d appreciate a call.”

  “Of course.”

  The phone buzzed and the Dean picked it up.

  “Really. That’s too bad. Thank you.” He started to put the phone down, then stopped. “Wait. Do we have his contact information? Phone number, address? Write it down and give it to Mr. Scarne when he leaves.” He listened to something Mulcready said. “Yes. I know. But I want to make an exception in this case.”

  He hung up.

  “You were almost in luck, Mr. Scarne. Willet was supposed to proctor a class today, but apparently he called in sick.”

  “I’m going to get my shots up to date,” Scarne commented. “Lots of illness going around here.”

  Swartzberg laughed.

  “Well, you heard me. I told Mary to give you his contact info. I don’t see what harm that can do. You can probably do an Internet search and get it.”

  They shook and Scarne left. When he got to Mulcready’s desk she handed him a slip of paper.

  “Thank you, Mary,” he said. “By the way, I love what you do with your hair.”