PEDESTAL (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 5)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I’d like to talk to your chief.”

  “Chief Kummerspeck is out to lunch. May I ask what your business with him is?”

  Scarne took out his license and showed it to the cop.

  “I’m working a case. Just need some background. When do you think he’ll be back?”

  The cop gave Scarne a thin smile.

  “Hard to say.”

  It was obvious that the chief probably took long lunches.

  “I guess I’ll wait,” Scarne said and started walking to a bench just inside the front door.

  “Suit yourself.”

  About 15 minutes after he sat down the young cop walked over.

  “Your license said New York.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Were you on the job?”

  “N.Y.P.D.”

  “Twenty and out?”

  “More like 10 and told to take a hike.”

  “Why?”

  “City Councilman screwed up a drug case I was working and I, ah, lost my temper.”

  “What did you do?”

  Scarne told the young cop how he held the councilman by his heels from the balcony at City Hall. It was a story that all cops liked and always won him some points.

  “Hard on the pension,” the young cop said, laughing.

  “But good for the soul.”

  “Listen, I’m gonna get a cup of coffee in the break room. Want one?”

  Scarne knew all about squad-room coffee, but he suspected the machine in this station was also casino-gifted. Probably made a hell of a Latte Macchiato.

  “Sure, black, if you don’t mind,”

  When the cop brought the coffee, he winked at Scarne.

  “Tread lightly. Chief doesn’t like private cops.”

  A woman came from somewhere back in the station.

  “Herbie, I skipped lunch. I’m going to get a yogurt. You want anything?”

  “No thanks, Fran. I’m fine.”

  She walked out and Scarne turned to the cop.

  “Herbie?”

  The Hispanic officer laughed

  “My name’s Herberto.”

  “Herberto Robles?”

  “Yeah. That’s right. How did you know?”

  “You were one of the arresting officers in the Alva Delgado murder. That’s the case I’m working. I’d like to talk to you.”

  The cop’s demeanor became less friendly.

  “You’ll have to talk to the chief about that. Enjoy the coffee.”

  He went back to his desk. Scarne sipped the coffee. It was hot. And excellent.

  And probably the last cup he’d get in this station house.

  ***

  Just before 3 P.M. a fat officer wearing a gold cap and a lot of gold braid walked through the front door. He had a pearl-handled revolver on his right hip in a holster that matched the cap and braid. Since the rest of his uniform seemed to be the standard blue the desk cop wore, Scarne assumed the man was either trying out a Halloween costume, or was Kummerspeck, the chief of police. The cop glanced at Scarne and then walked over to Officer Robles. They conversed. He walked back to Scarne.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Kummerspeck was not hard-fat. He was soft. His stomach strained against his belt and folds of skin rolled over his collar. His brown hair was cut military style and his prominent nose had tell-tale red spider veins.

  Scarne stood. He could smell booze on Kummerspeck’s breath. He decided not to tell him that his outfit clashed.

  “Yes, Chief,” he said respectfully. “I’m working the Delgado case.”

  “With that nosy reporter?” Before Scarne could say anything, Kummerspeck turned toward the front desk. “Herbie, what was the name of that bitch who came around here asking questions about Delgado?”

  Robles face reddened.

  “Mulloy. Her name is Cassie Mulloy.”

  Scarne picked up an undercurrent in the young cop’s voice. Kummerspeck did not seem to notice.

  “Yeah. That’s it.” He turned back to Scarne. “You in it with her?”

  “Never met the woman,” Scarne said.

  “Then who are you working for?”

  “Sorry. That’s confidential.”

  The Chief’s eyes narrowed. Scarne wasn’t sure if the man was getting angry or, being drunk, was just trying to think of something to say and not sound stupid. He decided to help out.

  “I’m not here to cause any trouble, Chief. I’d like to talk to the arresting officers in the case. I already spoke with Ray Loquitor in Fort Myers. He was very helpful.”

  Despite the inconvenience of driving back and forth, Scarne had approached the state prosecutor before the local police, assuming that a little name-dropping would work wonders. Kummerspeck leaned forward, angry and stupid. He tried to act intimidating, which was hard since his belly bumped into Scarne.

  “Loquitor is the pantywaist who cut a deal with the tomato picker who killed the girl,” Kummerspeck said. “Fucker should have got the needle. Now, buzz off, pal. I don’t like private cops. I’m busy. I got work to do.”

  So much for name-dropping, Scarne thought. He made a show of looking at his watch.

  “Yeah. You don’t want to miss happy hour.”

  “You bein’ wise with me?”

  “Wouldn’t be hard, Chief.”

  “I could run you in, buster.”

  “In case you’ve missed it, Cumberbund, I’m already in your station. And what would be the charge? Being smarter than you? You’d have to arrest the whole town, including the dogs.”

  Scarne thought he heard a muffled laugh from the front desk.

  “You son of a bitch. The name is Kummerspeck and I’m gonna … ”

  Robles suddenly came up to them.

  “Easy, chief. I got this.”

  He grabbed Scarne by the arm and hustled him toward the door. Scarne could see other people, cops and civilians, standing at their desks looking at the scene.

  Scarne didn’t like being handled and stiffened.

  “Just come along,” Robles whispered. “We’ll talk outside.”

  Scarne reluctantly let himself be led away.

  “Are you fucking nuts?” Robles said when they were out on the sidewalk. “The Chief is loaded. We can hardly control him when he’s sober.”

  “Why do they put up with him in this town? He’s right out of central casting.”

  Robles looked like he wanted to say something but then shut down. He was obviously torn between his embarrassment at his chief’s behavior and departmental loyalty.

  “Look,” Scarne said. “Forget about Kummerspeck. It’s you and your partner, Horner, I want to talk to.”

  “I don’t have anything to say to you. And Horner doesn’t work here anymore. Moved away.”

  “Where is he?”

  Robles shook his head and smiled.

  “That’s confidential.”

  ***

  Two hours later, Scarne was sitting in a booth by a window in Doc Turner’s Rum Bar and Grill on Sanibel Island.

  Fitch Horner had been ridiculously easy to locate. Scarne had momentarily debated using the Internet to plumb a law enforcement database to which he had illegal access or perhaps calling his contacts in the N.Y.P.D. or the Government. Instead, while sitting in his car, he called the police station he’d just been thrown out of. A woman answered the phone.

  “Calusakee Police Department. Can I help you?”

  “Yes, this is Otis Redding with the Dock of the Bay Life Insurance Company. May I speak with Officer Fitch Horner?”

  “Officer Horner has left the department.”

  “Really? He sent us a request for a quote on a life insurance policy. We offer a special rate for law enforcement officers, you know. I tried his home phone but it seems to be disconnected.”

  “That’s because he no longer lives here. Did you try his cell?”

  “Don’t have it. Can you give it to me?”


  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh, well, that’s that,” Scarne said, trying to sound disinterested. “He’s probably forgotten about the request. Just landed on my desk. You know how it is.”

  “You might try the Sanibel Police Department. That’s where he went.”

  “Well, thank you. I might just do that.”

  “Mr. Redding?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that special rate apply to civilian employees of the police?”

  “No, darlin’. I’m sorry.”

  Scarne smiled at the memory of the conversation. If he ever gave up investigations, he told himself, he might make a hell of an insurance agent. He’d called the Sanibel Police Department and asked to have Horner, who was off duty, call him back. Scarne was halfway to Sanibel Island when the cop did. They agreed to meet at Doc Turner’s.

  Scarne had skipped lunch and was hungry. He ordered lemonade and a plate of “Doc Turner’s Famous Fish Fingers”. He was enjoying them but made the mistake of asking the bartender what kind of fish went into the dish.

  “It’s basa,” he said. “From China.”

  “You mean it’s catfish,” Scarne said, disbelievingly.

  “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “Some people call it swai, but it’s the same thing.”

  “Didn’t you like it? We never get any complaints.”

  “It’s delicious,” Scarne said. “And I have nothing against eating catfish. But I’ll be damned if I know why a restaurant that advertises how fresh its seafood is serves something from 8,000 miles away. That is the Gulf of Mexico out there, isn’t it?”

  He pointed across the parking lot to the water.

  “Last time I looked.”

  “And it’s full of grouper, mahi mahi, snapper, cobia, pompano and other local fish, isn’t it?”

  “Yup.”

  “So why don’t you tell people on the menu that you are serving catfish that probably caught a flight from Hong Kong?”

  “I don’t know. I only work here. I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with it. Probably was frozen.”

  Scarne didn’t know what to say to that. He pushed his lemonade away.

  “Bring me a rum punch.”

  “Right away.”

  Scarne looked out the window, sipping his drink. A pickup truck flying a small Confederate flag pulled into a slot in the parking lot right in front of the window. There was a bumper sticker that said “Don’t Tread on Me”. A uniformed police officer got out and walked into the restaurant. Scarne hoped it wasn’t Horner. After Chief Kummerspeck, he’d had enough of small-town police rednecks for one day. The cop scanned the restaurant and spotted Scarne. He walked over.

  “You Scarne?”

  “Yeah. How did you know it was me?”

  “You see anyone else here sitting alone with a piece under his jacket?”

  Whatever Horner was, he wasn’t unobservant. He sat down across from Scarne.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me if the gun is licensed?”

  Horner smiled.

  “This is Florida. The fucking pelicans carry guns. You said you wanted to talk about the Delgado murder? I don’t have much time. I go on duty soon.”

  “You want something to drink?”

  “A Dr. Pepper would be nice.”

  Scarne signaled the waiter who came over.

  “How’s it hanging, Fitch?”

  “Good, Bobby. A Dr. Pepper, please.”

  “You ever find out who put the fish in that rich guy’s pool?”

  “Bald eagle dropped it flying by.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “I shit you not.” The waiter walked away and Horner looked at Scarne. “Big freakin’ bass. Guy goes out for a morning dip and there’s a five-pound smallmouth flopping around belly-up, on its last legs, or fins, I guess. Homeowner blamed his neighbor, with whom he has a property dispute. I had to show him the talon marks.”

  Scarne waited until the soda came, then he said, “What can you tell me?”

  “You speak to Kummerspeck?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Asshole.”

  Scarne looked at him.

  “Not you, pal, him,” Horner said. “He’s the reason I bailed. I assume he told you to get lost.”

  “More or less.”

  “Which is why you looked me up. Herbie tell you how to find me?”

  “No. He told me to get lost, too. But he was much nicer about it.”

  “Herbie’s a good guy. He hates Fatso as much as I do.”

  “Why did he stay?”

  “He needs the job. He’s in love. Wants to get married. His girl can’t leave the area yet. Her job, or something. You know how it is. I told him how great it is over here. Already put in a word for him with my chief. He’ll come over soon. I’m surprised he didn’t talk to you.”

  “Why will you?”

  Horner shrugged.

  “Case was open and shut. The Herrera guy did it. I’m not sure he meant to kill her. Probably a crime of passion. Hispanics can be hot-blooded, you know. Kummerspeck wanted the poor schmuck to get the needle. Herbie and me thought the guy showed real remorse. He blubbered like a baby when he saw she was dead. He just kept repeating her name, over and over. I think I can tell the real scumbags from the schmucks. Manny Herrera was just a schmuck. Guilty, but a schmuck.”

  “No doubt about his guilt?”

  Horner took a swig of his Dr. Pepper.

  “Dead body, her blood and other stuff all over him, no alibi and he was her ex-boyfriend. I wish they were all that easy. Still, I kinda felt sorry for him. He was a stand-up schmuck.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know his lawyer wanted to make a big deal over the way he looked when we brought him in. I may have roughed him up a bit when I restrained him. Not my fault, mind you. He tried to run to the girl when Herbie said she looked dead and I tripped him. His hands were cuffed so he landed hard and his face got mashed a little. But he said he didn’t hold that against me. Said he didn’t care. Wasn’t important with his girl dead.”

  “Did he mention anything about some boys at a party?”

  “On a boat?”

  Scarne nodded

  “Yeah, he did. Blubbered something about how they did it.”

  “Did you guys check it out?”

  “Wasn’t our job. Told Kummerspeck and that’s the last we heard of it.”

  “Do you know if he investigated?”

  “Fatso couldn’t investigate his own dick. Not that I think he could find it. He might have told the prosecutor’s office. Tell me something, Scarne. You trying to get Herrera off?”

  “Not my job. How come you didn’t ask me who I’m working for?”

  “Don’t care. And while I think Manny deserves time, I wouldn’t mind if he didn’t do the whole stretch. Like I said, I think it was a crime of the heart. He’s no hard case. He loved that girl.”

  “I have to say, I’m surprised you are so sympathetic.”

  Fitch Horner finished his soda and stood.

  “I’ll admit at first I wasn’t crazy about the migrants, or Hispanics. My family is old Florida. But Herbie was the best partner I ever had and he taught me some things. It was that prick Kummerspeck who drove me away, not the poor slobs pickin’ tomatoes. Thanks for the Dr. Pepper. Adios.”

  Scarne watched Horner drive away.

  “You can’t judge a man by his pickup truck,” he said to himself.

  CHAPTER 7 - SPRING PRACTICE

  The next morning, Scarne headed across the state to visit Manny Herrera, who was incarcerated at Martin Correctional Institution in Indiantown. The three-hour drive from Bonita Springs took him through Port LaBelle, Clewiston, Belle Glade and Pahokee along the southern edge of Lake Okeechobee. It was a route flanked by massive sugar cane fields and dotted by abandoned roadside fruit stands, trailer parks, sagging billboards and rusting cars. The smaller towns were even more depressing, with fast-food restaurants, used ca
r lots and payday loan shops seemingly the major non-sugar-related industries.

  Scarne stopped for a burger at a McDonald’s and was not surprised to find out that, as had been the case in Calusakee, migrant workers made up a large part of the local population. The poverty he encountered was so depressing it was almost a relief to reach the prison.

  After passing through three layers of security at Martin Correctional, Scarne was taken to a small room in the main administrative building and told to wait. The room had a small table with a chair on each side. The table and chairs were metal and bolted to the floor. A metal ring protruded from the middle of the table, presumably to restrain any prisoner deemed worthy of such precautions. A few minutes later a guard escorted Manuel Herrera into the room. He was wearing an orange prison jumpsuit but he was not manacled and was obviously not considered to be a threat.

  “Captain says you can have all the time you need,” the guard said, “but he’ll miss lunch in about an hour.”

  “Big deal,” Herrera said, and sat across from Scarne.

  “Thanks,” Scarne said. “I don’t think this will take that long.”

  “I’ll be right outside.”

  The guard closed the door behind him. Scarne had not expected such a private meeting. If he got the chance, he’d have to thank Ray Loquitor.

  Herrera looked like he shouldn’t skip any meals. He was razor thin. Scarne had seen his photos in the file and estimated that he’d lost at least 20 pounds.

  “My lawyer said you are investigating Alva’s murder.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s confidential, but do you have any problem telling me your side of the story?”

  Herrera shrugged.

  “What good will it do?”

  “What harm will it do? You’re already in jail, Manny.”

  “What’s your name?”

  Scarne told him.

  “Then I guess since we’re on a first-name basis I can call you Jake?”

  It was a rebuke and Scarne knew he deserved it. A con has little left but his pride.

  “Sorry. How would you like me to address you?”

  “Manny is fine, Jake.”

  “Did you kill Alva?”

  “No. I loved her.”

  “Men can kill women they love.”

  “Yeah. You know anyone who did.”