FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6)

by Lawrence de Maria

CHAPTER 13 - RECON

  The next morning Scarne drove out to Pike County, while Vincent Anastasia remained in Manhattan to buy the items demanded in the video, and to await Maura Dallas and the ransom diamonds. Scarne would reconnoiter the general area of the drop, with the assumption that one man, dressed as a fisherman or hiker, could reasonably roam the area without creating suspicion from even the most watchful observers.

  Using Google Maps, Scarne located a public campsite about two miles south of Pecks Pond, along a small stream that connected a series of ponds and lakes. He’d passed several bodies of water of varying sizes on the way. Some were called ponds and some rated a lake designation. Scarne knew that the difference had something to do with their depth and not size, because a few of the ponds were larger than the lakes. He wondered who had first made the designations. Lake sounded more impressive. He couldn’t imagine a Pond Superior or a Pond Michigan.

  The campsite was typical of those found in state parks everywhere. A couple of wooden-slat tables, with wooden benches, and small stone barbecue pits cut far back from the encroaching forest, presumably for safety reasons. But this was not the drought-ravaged West, where brush and forest fires had become a staple of the nightly news. It had been a snowy winter and a wet spring in the East. There was no fire danger. The forest and thickets of Pennsylvania couldn’t have been ignited with a flame thrower.

  There was no rain this morning but the air held a chill and Scarne was glad he had opted for waterproof pants rather than hiking shorts. The pants were also allegedly infused with insect repellent. That was overkill, Scarne knew; this early in the season bugs wouldn’t be a problem. The rest of his outfit consisted of Gore-Tex mountain hiking boots, a Pathfinder waterproof shell jacket, and a baseball cap with a New York Yankees logo. Everything came virtue of L.L. Bean except the cap, which had the advantage of making Scarne feel slightly less ridiculous. He was still smarting from the wise-ass teen-ager in his apartment elevator who wanted to know if he was Natty Bumpo.

  “I prefer ‘Hawkeye’,” Scarne had replied.

  “And I’m Chingachgook,” the kid said, laughing, getting the last word in as the doors opened.

  Well, at least the boy had read The Leatherstocking Tales or, at least, The Last of the Mohicans.

  Scarne had bought a backpack as well. There were several other hikers at the campsite and none of them wore one, so he left his in the car. His jacket had roomy pockets and his five-shot .38 Smith & Wesson 642 Airweight Centennial fit snugly in the right side. The revolver was a new model and constructed with an aluminum frame and stainless steel cylinder, which made it light, but increased the recoil. Scarne was still not as proficient with it as he would have liked. He’d been a good enough shot when in the Marines to qualify for inter-service matches with both handguns and rifles. Ordinarily his groupings with any type of handgun, revolver or automatic, could be covered by a playing card. His most recent practice with the 642 got most of his rounds in that area, but a few had drifted several inches high. He knew he would get the hang of the new gun soon.

  Scarne was not planning on getting in a gunfight this day, but he thought that people who went into the woods without a weapon were asking for trouble, especially with the media reporting a spate of coyote, black bear and mountain lion sightings in the Tri-State region, which seemed to be going rapidly feral. The double-action revolver was hammerless, so it wouldn’t snag. Scarne smiled. That might come in handy if he ran into an angry squirrel.

  In his left pocket was a spring-loaded Marine Corps pocket knife with a five-inch serrated blade and a glass-breaker at the end of the handle. The same pocket also held a U.S. Army Tritium Illuminated Marching Compass, bought years earlier after he lost the one issued to him while in the Corps, a misadventure he made sure no one in his outfit knew about. The ribbing would have been unbearable. The Army compass, he had to admit, was much superior.

  Even without a compass, Scarne had a rough idea in which direction he had to walk to get to Pecks Pond. The woods did not appear to be that thick, but woods were woods, and one reason he’d chosen the campsite was the hope that there would be a trail heading toward his target. He was in luck. Several paths branched out from the perimeter of the clearing. He chatted with some other hikers while he downed the cup of coffee and two corn muffins he’d purchased earlier at a nearby country store. The hikers suggested one trail that they said would skirt Pecks Pond, which was apparently a popular destination. Scarne thanked them and set out.

  The trail was rudimentary and in some places the encroaching forest made it difficult to follow. But it was no Guadalcanal. Later in the hiking season, when it was more trod upon, it would be an easy walk. Even now, Scarne had no trouble. He’d always enjoyed the woods. The smell of wet foliage. The occasional animal sounds. The crunch of his feet on fallen branches and leaves. The fresh air and feeling of isolation. Maybe Hawkeye had the right idea. Scarne, with his trace of Cheyenne blood, had always felt a vague connection with the fictional frontiersman, who in James Fenimore Cooper's novels grew up among the Delaware Indians — the same tribe that roamed the woods he was now tramping through.

  Scarne tripped on a branch and almost fell. So much for his Indian heritage. He stopped his ruminations and concentrated on the task at hand. Reaching Pecks Pond in one piece.

  It was almost noon when Scarne got close enough to see the pond. The trail he was on split in two directions and probably circumnavigated the body of water in both.

  “What would Yogi do?” he said to himself.

  He recalled that Evelyn said that the Pecks Pond Inn was on the northern end of the pond, so he took the right fork of the trail. At one point he left the trail and walked through the woods down to the water line. A beaver popped its head out of the water and looked at him. It had a branch held between its buck teeth. Then it swam away, presumably to dam something up. Scarne wondered if the animals were ever not busy. He could see dozens of cabins on both sides of the lake and a large building and what appeared to be a dock at the north end. He assumed it was the inn. Back on the trail, he soon came to a rutted road that a few hundred feet down led to a cabin. It looked abandoned. Later he came to another road and another cabin. This one had a car in front of it. It crossed Scarne’s mind that the kidnappers might be using one of the cabins. But checking them all would take time or an army, neither of which he had. And even finding the right cabin, if indeed someone was holed up in it, might only spook the kidnappers and get the girl killed, if she was even still alive.

  It took Scarne almost two hours to circle the entire pond, which was oblong-shaped and about a quarter of a mile wide at its center. Scarne also estimated that it was probably a mile in length from north to south. He also decided that no matter what people called it, or however such things were determined, the damn thing was a lake. He could have made better time, but he was not the only hiker going in either direction, and he occasionally stopped to say hello or walk along with them if they were headed his way. He was quite certain that no one would have taken him for anything but a casual hiker. Despite that, he saw enough to realize that the kidnappers would have no trouble disappearing quickly with the ransom, especially at night. The Pecks Pond Inn fronted a small road that Scarne knew from the maps he’d seen lead to several larger roads. He wondered why the drop was to be made at the end of the dock. Did they plan to pick up the bag in a boat and then scoot across the water to a getaway car? Scarne had noted several outboards plying the lake. He decided that someone who knew the area could pick up the bag, and within minutes reach any spot along the shore. And what if they didn’t use a motor? In either case, if someone stopped them on the water, they could simply dump the bag with the diamonds overboard and claim ignorance. And how hard would it be to retrieve the loot later?

  Once off the lake, the only way to apprehend anyone would be to set up roadblocks. The surrounding area was remote and somewhat isolated, but frequented by hikers, fisherman and other transients. For all Scarne knew, the kidnap
pers were pretending to be out for a walk just like he was. Or maybe they were smarter, and were sitting comfortably in a cabin, warmed by a wood stove and drinking coffee. Most of the cabins were probably rented, or changed hands frequently.

  If the Dallassio family followed instructions and did not notify the police, there wouldn’t be any roadblocks. If, for some reason, the police were heavily involved, they were sure to be noticed. During the day, an increase in foot or vehicular traffic would be obvious. Helicopters, even with infrared, would be next to useless at night because of the noise they generated. The same went for boats, which to be effective would also have to be motorized. Putting a lot of cops in the woods at night, again with infrared capability, was possible but impractical. Such a plan would need dozens of officers to cover the shoreline and surrounding forest. If the kidnappers had infrared, all those warm bodies would stand out like fireflies. And if the person picking up the ransom was not apprehended in the act, he might not even have to leave the area. The diamonds could be hidden in a cabin, or even better, buried somewhere for future retrieval.

  The more Scarne thought about it, the more he admired the ransom plan.

  CHAPTER 14 - NOAH REPORTS BACK

  Noah Sealth called Scarne Saturday morning.

  “Got in late last night.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “A lot of nothing. But that might mean something.” Scarne knew Noah was not being cryptic or cute. If the avenues he was looking down were dead ends, then it probably meant they should go in other directions. “I didn’t think you wanted to wait until Monday to hear it.”

  “No. Things are happening.”

  Scarne told him about the ransom plan.

  “Smells,” was all Sealth said.

  “To high heaven,” Scarne said. “But we’re committed.”

  They agreed to meet for lunch.

  “I’ll have to cut out by 2,” Sealth said. “Lemaze class.”

  “I’ll forget you ever said that,” Scarne replied.

  ***

  Via Carota, the new West Village hot spot on Grove Street near Sheridan Square that Scarne suggested for lunch was only a few blocks from his Fifth Avenue apartment and he was already seated in a private corner table when Sealth arrived.

  “Trendy,” Noah said dubiously, looking around at antique nail barrels, metal baskets and the antique cabinets filled with teapots, porcelain creamers and cheese crocks. There were communal tables on which baskets of Italian bread were scattered. It was warm enough so that all of the sidewalk tables outside were filled.

  “The food is good,” Scarne said. “They just introduced a burger that’s supposed to be the best in New York.”

  They both ordered a craft Pale Ale from Staten Island’s Flagship Brewing Company, two green salads and the “Via Carota Svizzerina,” which the starched-apron waiter described as a “hand-chopped” New York strip steak seasoned with salt, pepper, rosemary, and garlic.

  “In other words, a hamburger,” Sealth said.

  “Hey. I only work here,” the waiter said. “I’ll get your beers.”

  The pale ale came. It was cold and bracing. Noah placed a small notepad on the table and began talking conversationally. Neither man worried about being overheard. The restaurant was bustling and the typical Saturday crowd of twenty-and-thirty-somethings paid them no mind. They could have been planning to blow up the Chrysler Building for all that anyone cared.

  “I spoke to the cops in both Seattle and Frisco,” Sealth said. “I didn’t ask them about the girl directly, but I’m certain that if they knew she was missing I would have picked up on it. My old partner smelled a rat. Never could keep anything from him. So I told him what was up. Had no choice.”

  Scarne nodded. The relationship between cop partners was too strong to question Sealth’s decision.

  “He’s gonna keep his mouth shut. I even went to see our old pal, Boyko. He asked for you, by the way. Said he’d heard about some of your recent cases, especially the one with the Russian and the germs. Said he’s happy he didn’t kill you that time in Florida. He hates the fucking Russians.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “Anyway, he says things are quiet up and down the Left Coast. Everybody is making so much money there is an informal truce. Nobody wants to rock the boat. Says he gets along with the Dallassios.” Sealth looked at his notebook. “Thinks Maura Dallas is, and I quote, a ‘shmatok dupy’.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s Ukrainian for ‘piece of ass’. Boyko even admitted to ‘borrowing’ Vinnie Anastasia on occasion. That’s a hoot. I knew Vinnie helped out the Bruttis. Didn’t figure he also was a rent-a-killer for the Boykos, too. He must be building up a lot of frequent-flier miles.”

  “Sounds like Andrii was very forthcoming.”

  “No skin off his nose. He owed me. Even made a couple of calls so when I visited some bad guys in Seattle and Frisco they didn’t shoot me.”

  “Anything from them?”

  “Nada.”

  “I presume you stayed away from the Dallassios.”

  “Yeah. I figured Maura and Anastasia have that covered.”

  “What about her former paramours?”

  Sealth broke off a piece of the crusty bread in their basket and dipped it in a small plate of olive oil.

  “That was the most fun,” he said. “Considering that she’s running one of the largest criminal enterprises on the West Coast, Maura Dallas has an active sex life. She’s had four lovers in San Francisco since taking over. But you know that; she gave you their names. Three men and a woman.” Sealth looked at his notepad. “Let me give you the rundown, starting with the last.”

  Scarne sipped his beer.

  “Javin King, 38. Software guru for Blaze Computers. Unmarried. Worth a fortune. Always in the media with a babe on his arms.”

  “She’s older than he is.”

  “Don’t matter to her. Older, younger. I think she draws the line at iron lung occupants. She keeps her boy and girl toys for a couple of years and then moves on.”

  “He seems unlikely as a suspect.”

  “They are all like that, Jake. Well-off, worldly, everything to lose by fucking around with the Dallassios.”

  “They all know who she is?”

  “Yeah. That wasn’t hard to find out. Besides, you sleep with someone a couple of years, you got to know.”

  “Who came before King.”

  Sealth smiled.

  “You’ll love this. Rafe Sayers.”

  “The quarterback for the Forty-Niners! The one who is always on Jimmy Fallon?”

  “The one and only. Course, he was retired by the time they had their fling.”

  “Wasn’t he married?”

  “He is now. But then he was between wives. I think we can cross him off the list. Picture of domesticity, and he has a lucrative analyst gig on Sports Channel.”

  Their salads came, lightly dressed with balsamic, lemon and olive oil.

  “Not bad,” Sealth grunted, as he chewed and flipped a page in his pad.

  “Then there is Dr. Phyllis Rawley,” he continued. “Brain surgeon.” Sealth looked at Scarne. “I shit you not. She’s a fuckin’ brain surgeon. One of the best out there. Looks like a movie star, married, three kids, goes both ways and doesn’t care who knows about it, including her husband, who apparently also swings for both fences. I hear they sometimes go away together with all their respective lovers. I hope they soundproof the rooms. No money problems, and between the surgery and the screwing, I can’t see them having time for kidnapping or anything else.”

  “Next.”

  “Assante Okeke, Consul-General of the Federal Republic of Niguma.” Sealth looked up. “That’s in Africa.”

  “I know where Niguma is. They’ve been in the media. Big producer of diamonds. Maura Dallas had an affair with a Consul-General?”

  “Big time.”

  “Well, that explains why the Dallassio family is in the diamond business.”
>
  Their burgers came. Sealth looked at the waiter.

  “Didn’t you forget something?”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “The buns.”

  “We don’t serve Via Carota Svizzerina with a bun. The dish speaks for itself.”

  “It must have laryngitis,” Sealth grumbled. “There are no French fries, either.”

  Indeed, there was nothing else on their plates.

  “Just bring us two more beers,” Scarne said.

  The waiter left.

  “Hell, what do you want for 20 bucks?” he said.

  “Man, for 20 bucks,” Sealth said, “this thing better blow me.”

  A couple of bites into his burger, Sealth stopped complaining. The chopped steak was seared, with a garlic-and rosemary crust that surrounded a rare interior.

  “You know, this is pretty good,” he said, breaking off a large piece of Italian bread and making a mini-sandwich. “More than one way to scalp a cat.”

  They finished with espresso.

  “You get anything from Dudley?”

  “No,” Scarne said. “He didn’t pick up anything locally, and that includes Atlantic City. I think he even made some calls to Miami. The Sambucas still have their fingers in the pie down there, even with all the Cubans and South Americans taking over most of the rackets. Nothing.”

  “You would think that between Dudley and me,” Sealth said, “we would have picked up something. Someone always talks.”

  “Unless, as we thought, it was a mob we don’t have any juice with. Chicago, Kansas City, someplace else in the Midwest.”

  “Even then, Jake, something should have leaked. All these guys do business with each other. It’s like Amazon.”

  Scarne finished his coffee.

  “So, if it’s not an inside job,” he said, “and has nothing to do with other mobs, what the hell is going on? What can we do?”

  “Pay the fucking ransom. Do you want me to tag along?”

  Scarne shook his head.

  “No. Anastasia wants only me. Thinks it would be too risky, otherwise. And we can keep an eye on each other. It is $20 million, after all.”