PEDESTAL (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 5)

by Lawrence de Maria

  Loquitor’s phone rang.

  “Excuse me.”

  It was soon obvious that it was a personal call. Loquitor swiveled his chair around to face a window and lowered his voice. There was some talk about groceries and soccer.

  Scarne took the time to think. Jamilia Turay believed that the prosecutors had acted fairly. Loquitor seemed to be a decent sort. It did not sound as if Manny Herrera had been railroaded into jail by some redneck prosecutor. Scarne, who had worked as an investigator for the Manhattan D.A., didn’t smell incompetence or racism in this State Attorney’s Office. Loquitor had been handed a no-lose case and he ran with it, but he didn’t bury Herrera like some prosecutors might have. Of course, that did not rule out incompetence or racism further down the line, with the police who initially arrested and investigated Alva Delgado’s death.

  Loquitor swiveled back and hung up.

  “Sorry,” he said. “We’re down to one car. Mine. My wife’s SUV is in the shop. She was stopped at a light and was rear-ended by some mutant texting on his cell phone.”

  “She OK?”

  “Yeah. It happened a couple of days ago. She had just dropped the kids off at school. And thank God it was her SUV. It’s like a tank.”

  “There ought to be a law about texting and driving.”

  “If they ever pass one in this state, you can be damn sure I won’t plea bargain those cases. Now, what else can I do for you, Mr. Scarne?”

  “Does the fact that I’m a fellow Knicks fan get me a look at your file on Manny Herrera?”

  Loquitor laughed.

  “Yeah. Sure. I’ll have my secretary bring it out. You can read it in the conference room.”

  Scarne would read the file, but he assumed it would be a waste of time. He knew that Loquitor was not only bowing to pressure from above in being so helpful. It was obvious that there was nothing in the file that Raymond Loquitor was worried about.

  “One other thing,” Scarne said. “I made a couple of calls. It’s not easy to visit someone in the Florida penal system. I was told the prisoner has to request the visit and approval can take up to 30 days. I’d like to talk to Herrera at some point. Is there anything you can do for me?”

  “Would you like me to drive you there, too?”

  “I couldn’t ask you,” Scarne said, smiling. “You’re down to one car.”

  “Oh, what the hell. Us liberal pantywaists are such soft touches. I’ll make a call. Poor bastard probably doesn’t get any visitors. Don’t think he has any family here.”

  ***

  Scarne went into the conference room and called Jamilia Turay. He told her about his plan to meet Herrera.

  “Do you think you can call and tell him it might be in his best interest to speak with me?”

  “Is it?”

  “I’ll be objective. Which is probably more than he can hope for now.”

  “O.K. But I’m not sure what kind of reception you will get. He’s bitter and depressed. Last time I saw him, he spoke to me in monosyllables.”

  “When was that?”

  “Months ago.” There was a pause. “I know that sounds uncaring, but we have too many people we are trying to keep out of jail to spend much time on those already there.”

  A woman walked into the conference room and placed a file on the desk in front of him. She asked him if he wanted any coffee and he declined. She told him where to return the file and left, closing the door behind her.

  After reading the file, Scarne was convinced that whether Herrera was guilty or not, he’d made the right decision taking a plea. Unless Manny’s mother was on the jury, a conviction was a certainty. The file was not very thick, which reflected not only the fact that there was no trial but also the preponderance of damning and uncontested evidence. Herrera’s alibi was ludicrous. He could produce no witnesses. The only person who might have backed up his story was dead.

  Most of the material Scarne reviewed dealt with Herrera’s arrest, the subsequent police investigation, the medical examiner’s findings, forensic results, psychiatric evaluation, various pre-trial motions that were soon made moot by the plea negotiations, probation reports and the like. As Scarne expected, the prosecutor’s office had been careful to do everything by the book. He had seen hundreds of autopsy and forensic reports, and the ones stemming from Alva Delgado’s death seemed thorough. He could find nothing even remotely suspicious in the findings. Herrera had been a prosecutor’s wet dream.

  Scarne jotted down the names of the police officers involved in Herrera’s arrest, Fitch Horner and Herberto Robles, and left Fort Myers.

  ***

  The Collier University campus was huge, and, from the amount of construction underway, obviously a work in progress. Scarne didn’t want to deal with the university administration if he didn’t have to, so he asked a passing student where might find Ford Landon and Marcus Weatherly.

  “They live in the jock dorm,” the kid said. “Turvey Hall. North end of the quad.”

  Scarne followed the boy’s directions to Turvey. He found the dorm’s rec room, where a dozen or so outsized kids were playing pool and various video games. Feeling like a Hobbit among giants, he approached a black kid who was slouched in a beat-up faux leather couch reading People Magazine. The boy’s feet dangled far off the end of the couch. He looked up at Scarne and smiled.

  “I don’t need another credit card,” he said.

  “Excuse me.”

  “You from Visa or Mastercard, right?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Cause they got guys cruisin’ the quad offerin’ all kinds of cards to students. Tryin’ to sign them up before summer break. I already got three. Good rates, too. No interest for two months.”

  “Then what?”

  “I dunno, maybe 29% or somethin’ after that.”

  “It wasn’t that long ago people used to go to jail offering that kind of interest, son.”

  The kid shrugged.

  “When I get to the N.B.A., I think I can afford it.”

  “You play basketball for Collier?”

  “No, man. I’m studyin’ nuclear physics.” He got a kick out of the line and laughed. “Course I’m playin’ ball. Just kiddin’ with you man. If you ain’t pitchin’ cards, what you need?”

  Scarne liked the kid. He hoped he made it to the pros.

  “I’m looking for Marcus Weatherly and Ford Landon.”

  “The peas in the pod? You from the NFL?”

  “Something like that. Do you know them?”

  “Sure. Everybody here does. I’m pretty tight with Marcus. Cool dude. Ford’s OK, for a white guy. I doubt they in the dorm. It’s exam week. Probably over the library, studying.”

  From his tone, Scarne knew the kid thought anyone in his dorm who cracked a real book was crazy.

  “They’re good students, right?”

  “Yeah. I guess. They certainly different.”

  “Which way is the library?”

  “I heard it’s over there somewhere.” He pointed out a window and laughed. “Hey, I’m just shittin’ you. I know where it is. It’s just past the dining hall. That’s probably why they put it there. So us jocks could find it. You should grab some barbecue while you’re over that way. We got the best college food in the country here. At least the best I’ve seen, and this is my fourth college.”

  “You a grad student?”

  “Shit, no. Gonna be a junior next year.”

  Scarne got directions from the kid and 10 minutes later found the Touchdown Twins sitting opposite each other at a table in an isolated section of the library, which also looked brand new. They didn’t seem to be garnering any special attention. It would certainly be a lot different on game days.

  Scarne had, of course, seen both players on television and on magazine covers. He was a bit surprised at how relatively normal they looked in comparison to some of the side of beef he’d seen in the jock dorm.

  Not that they were small. Both were well over six feet tall
and had the sinewy look of finely-tuned athletes. Scarne wouldn’t even venture a guess at their individual body-mass index. It probably registered as a cheetah.

  Ford Landon wore his blond-white hair long and shaggy, and constantly brushed it back from his eyes as he read. He was poster-boy handsome. Marcus Weatherly, was more bronze than black, and his hair was cut short, almost a buzz. High cheekbones and prominent eyebrows gave an almost Asian cast to his face.

  Scarne sat down next to Landon.

  “You boys have a moment?”

  Weatherly didn’t look up, but Landon turned to face him. He had the coldest blue eyes Scarne had ever seen.

  “We’re studying,” he said.

  He went back to his book.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Scarne said. “I thought you might be working on your alibis.”

  He didn’t know why he said it. In fact, when he walked into the library he wasn’t sure what he was going to ask the two boys. He knew he was way out of line. But it got a reaction.

  “What the fuck you talking about, white bread?”

  Weatherly, his head no longer buried in a book, had joined the conversation. His coal-black eyes bored into Scarne.

  “Ford, does he call you white bread, too?”

  Landon just stared at him.

  “Whole wheat? Melba toast? My little baguette? Gluten-free? Come on. He must call you something from the bakery aisle.”

  “You’re crazy, man,” Landon said.

  “You aren’t the first person to notice,” Scarne said. “But I am also a private detective and I’d like to ask you some questions about Alva Delgado.”

  “Who the fuck is that?”

  “Cocktail waitress who was at a party you were at in Port Royal a year ago April. She died.”

  “We don’t know anything about that,” Weatherly said, standing up. “I have to hit the head.”

  After he walked away, Scarne turned back to Landon.

  “You never heard of Alva Delgado?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “It’s been alleged you were at the same party she was.”

  “So. I go to a lot of parties.”

  “This one was at Anthony Desiderio’s place.”

  Landon hesitated before answering and glanced toward the front of the library.

  “We’ve been to Tony’s parties,” he finally said. “He knows how to throw a bash. And he’s a big booster of the football program. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  “So you might have been at a party with the murdered girl?”

  “You didn’t say she was murdered!”

  “I am now. Are you sure you didn’t meet her?”

  Scarne reached in his pocket and pulled out the photo of Alva Delgado that Evelyn had retrieved from the Internet from local news stories about her murder. It appeared to be a stock photo, probably from her employment file at the casino. Landon stared a long moment at the picture of the dark beauty. Scarne couldn’t read anything in his face.

  “Too bad,” Landon finally said. “Good looking broad. But I don’t recognize her. I see a lot of girls.” He looked past Scarne. “And you’re leaving.”

  Scarne turned to see two Collier University campus security guards approaching, with Marcus Weatherly, who had apparently not gone to the bathroom.

  “Please come with us, sir,” the biggest of the two guards said.

  He was a young black guy, and looked like he could handle himself. His partner was white, middle-aged, overweight and nervous. Several students got up from nearby tables and gathered around.

  “Do I have a library book overdue?”

  “Let’s go, bub.”

  Scarne knew there was no point in debating the matter. He looked at Weatherly and Landon.

  “Good luck on your exams.”

  Once outside the library, the black cop said, “Coach Cusp wants to see you.”

  Scarne actually wanted to talk to Virgil Cusp, the football coach. But he didn’t like being pushed around, so he just stood there staring at both cops. The older guy’s hands started shaking and Scarne felt badly. They were only doing their jobs.

  Finally the black cop said, “Please.”

  “Sure,” Scarne said. “Sorry, I was being an ass. Lead the way.”

  ***

  “Who the fuck do you think you are? How dare you harass my players? What the hell do you think you are doing? I should kick the shit out of you, you miserable son-of-a-bitch.”

  Virgil Cusp, who had been shouting, paused to catch his breath. Scarne, who was standing in the coach’s office in the universities brand new athletic facility, held up his hand.

  “Let’s take them in order, Virg. My name is Jake Scarne. Unless I’m mistaken, Weatherly and Landon aren’t playing for you anymore, and I wasn’t harassing them, I was asking them questions, which is my job as a detective. If you try to kick the shit out of me I’ll break every bone in your body, lengthwise. Did I miss anything?”

  Cusp stood there, open-mouthed. He was a big man and like most football coaches probably played the game in his day. But he’d been around tough men long enough to know when he heard a threat from someone who could back it up. Scarne sat down in an office chair and smiled benevolently. Cusp stood there a moment, unsure, and then sat down heavily in his own chair.

  “What did you want to know from them?”

  “I’m looking into the death of a young woman named Alva Delgado. She died last year after attending a party thrown by a man named Anthony Desiderio in Port Royal.” Cusp’s eyebrows went up at the mention of Desiderio. “It has been alleged that Weatherly and Landon were at that party and met the girl. Desiderio says the boys may have been at the party, but he doesn’t remember them meeting the girl. He remembers Alva because he put her in a car to go home before she died, apparently from injuries sustained when she was raped and beaten at the party. Landon says it’s possible that he and Weatherly were at Desiderio’s the same night but doesn’t remember seeing the girl when I showed him her photo. I think they did see her and maybe even spoke to her. That in itself doesn’t prove anything. Maybe she didn’t make much of an impression on Landon. He said he sees lots of girls. He’s a superstar, so that’s not unlikely. I never got to show Weatherly the photo because he called the rent-a-cops on me. And here I am.”

  A young kid stuck his head in the office door.

  “Coach. Sorry to bother you. But the guys from the audio-visual department are here about the graduation video.”

  “Put them in Sam’s office. He’s got all the game clips. Tell him to keep them busy until I get there.”

  “You got it, coach.”

  Cusp turned back to Scarne.

  “Let me get this straight. You’re trying to solve a year-old murder and you think my boys, two of the most-famous athletes in the country, had something to do with it just because they were at a party with her and probably a hundred other people? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  “Sure, when you put it like that, Virgil. But it’s even worse than that. The victim’s boyfriend has already pleaded guilty of killing her and is in state prison as we speak.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing? Why stir up trouble for Weatherly and Landon? If you had any proof they were involved in the girl’s death, anything solid, you wouldn’t be nosing around here. All you have is coincidence and innuendo. They have a great future ahead of them. What have they ever done to you to deserve this?”

  Cusp didn’t even seem mad any more, just perplexed. And, Scarne knew, the man had a right to be.

  “Look, coach. You’re right. So far, I’ve got nothing solid. I won’t tell you who I’m working for, but they have an open mind and are not interested in either coincidence or innuendo. If I don’t come up with something, little harm is done. I’ve tried to be discreet, but that only goes so far. I knew at some point I’d have to cross the line. I’m not happy about it.”

  “It’s that reporter, right? The freelancer who was bothering Landon and We
atherly at practice. She started all this. I’ll tell you what I told her. Those boys are the best thing that happened to Florida football and anyone who tries to tear them down is doing a disservice to this country.”

  Cusp stood up.

  “And I think we’re through here.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything else to say, so Scarne left.

  He half thought Cusp had a point.

  CHAPTER 6 - COPS

  Dining choices on the road to Calusakee were limited, so when Scarne saw a sign for a Rib City he stopped. He’d read somewhere that the chain was family-owned, tried to maintain food standards and treated their workers right. An ice tea, barbecued pork sandwich and friendly waitress later, he was back on the road, happy in his choice.

  Caluskaee might be an “unincorporated area and a census-designated place”, but it had its own police force, headed by Chief Duane Kummerspeck. Scarne pulled up to the modern two-story Calusakee Police Department building just after 2 PM. It was the only official-looking building in the downtown area and it stood out among its rundown neighbors. There were three brand-new, blue-and-white Ford Police Interceptor sedans parked out front in designated slots. The inside of the station matched its outside ambiance. Track lighting, acoustic walls, flat-screen TV’s, laptops on every desk. Everything sparkled.

  Scarne wasn’t surprised. The whole operation smelled of casino money. The people who ran the gaming operations would want to stay on the good side of local law enforcement. The Calusakee cops probably got new cars every year. He wondered what else they got.

  Scarne walked up to a reception desk manned by a young Hispanic cop. Scarne could see a few people behind him working at desks in various cubicles in the squad room.