Scarne kept the Bersa oiled and in good working order, occasionally taking it to the range. He knew Boyko was still in good working order as well. Noah Sealth kept track of his old Seattle nemesis. The Ukrainian, he told Scarne, had consolidated his power, taking over many of the rackets previously run by a weakened Brutti crime family.
“You did Andriy a big favor when you aced Carlo Brutti,” Sealth said.
It was unlikely Scarne would ever forget the memory that Boyko alluded to in the note, but Scarne knew he could use the Bersa without compunction. It was truly only a piece of metal. He put it back in its case, along with two boxes of Cor-Bon 90-grain hollow point bullets. He pulled a rarely used attaché case from a desk drawer and put the gun case in it. Then he left to meet Nigel Blue.
***
Scarne’s apartment near Washington Square in Greenwich Village was only a few blocks from the Shields headquarters building at Fifth Avenue and 12th Street, so he dropped off the attaché case first before walking over to the stately nine-story stone-and-brick building. Blue’s office was on the third floor. Scarne passed the empty office of Emma Shields, his sometime lover, who was still in Europe running the company’s operations there. Just as well, he thought. She’d probably have a lot to say about his forthcoming trip down memory lane.
“Your name is Jake Stone,” Blue said when Scarne walked into his office. “And your picture doesn’t do you justice.”
“What picture.”
“The one on your Facebook page.”
“I don’t have Facebook page.”
“But Jake Stone does. Take a look.”
Blue, a trim black man with an easy smile, pointed to his laptop.
Scarne walked behind Blue’s desk and looked at the screen. There was indeed a “Jake Stone” Facebook page with a blurry photo of a much-younger Scarne.
“Where did you get that photo?”
“Please. We’re a media giant. Want to see the one where you’re naked on a bear skin rug?”
“It wasn’t a rug,” Scarne deadpanned.
Blue laughed.
“We figured you’d want to keep your first name, so you’d react to it naturally. Nothing blows a cover like looking behind you when somebody calls your name. And your new last name starts with the same letter, in case you are wearing monogrammed cuff links or something.”
“You’ve been reading too many spy novels.”
Blue started scrolling through the Facebook page.
“We gave you a phony background. You’re a freelance writer specializing in biographies of powerful financial people. Even made up some projects you’ve done for us. Added some of your favorite books and movies.”
Scarne peered at the screen.
“For Christ’s sake, Nigel, The Sound of Music?”
“OK. I was having some fun. “I’ll have them change it to Casablanca instead. Everyone puts that on their Facebook page. The point is, this should pass muster with anyone checking up on your credentials. We decided against giving you a Twitter account.”
“Thank God. What’s the drill if anyone calls the magazine?”
“They’ve been told to say you are on assignment. If anyone is persistent, the call will be routed to me.” Blue smiled. “Want to tell me who that might be?”
“Probably someone from the BVM Corporation. I want to sniff around the company so I’m going to tell them I’m doing a biography on the former CEO, Bryan Vallance. That should give me plenty of access, especially if you back me up.”
“Why Vallance?”
Scarne was ready with the lie.
“No particular reason. Except given what happened to him I can stress the human-interest angle. Tragic death, that kind of thing.”
Blue gave him an appraising look. Randolph Shields, the head of the Shields empire, didn’t employ fools.
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why you are sniffing around BVM?”
“Sorry.”
“I bet Emma could get it out of you.”
‘Which is why I’m glad she’s in Europe. I’d appreciate it if you would keep this to yourself, Nige. It’s delicate.”
“Sure.”
Scarne knew Blue would probably tell Randolph at some point. It didn’t bother him. He’d also tell his boss that Scarne wanted it kept quiet. The old bastard wouldn’t spill the beans.
“Do you think you can pull off the author bit?”
“I’ll just act like an asshole who knows it all.”
“So, no disguise.”
Scarne laughed and got up to leave.
“Thanks, Nige,” he said. “I owe you one.”
“Yes, you do.”
On the way out the door, Scarne turned and pulled down the brim of an imaginary hat.
“Here’s looking at you, kid.”
CHAPTER 10 - GIMLET EYES
Scarne’s flight landed at Chicago’s O’Hare airport at 11:15 AM and it was almost noon before his cab pulled up in front of the gleaming high-rise apartment building on Michigan Avenue. In the massive lobby a concierge and a security officer were sitting at a semicircular desk behind which was a bank of closed-circuit TV sets. They were expecting him. After leaving his luggage with the concierge, Scarne followed the security man to an elevator.
“I’ll call the penthouse, sir,” the man said, using a special key card that allowed access to the 34th floor where Kate lived, “and let them know you are on the way up.”
A young Hispanic woman wearing a maid’s uniform greeted Scarne when the elevator door finally opened.
“Mr. Scarne? Mrs. Vallance is at the pool. I’ll bring you through.”
They walked down a short corridor past a large kitchen and a wine cellar and then turned into an expansive living area with a cypress ceiling and teakwood-planked flooring. Bookcases lined one wall, while the other was dominated by a floor-to-ceiling, stainless-steel fireplace framed by smoked glass. There was a large photo of a distinguished-looking white-haired man on the mantel. Vallance. At the rear were sliders that opened to a terrace. Scarne could see someone swimming in a large lap pool. Lake Michigan, looking like the inland ocean it was, shimmered in the distance. He walked onto the terrace and watched the woman who might once have been his wife glide effortlessly through the water. Kate had always been a strong swimmer. He suddenly recalled the nights on a secluded beach in Cape Cod when they’d shed their clothes and swam out until they were nearly exhausted before heading back to shore. Only to find out that their exhaustion didn’t preclude a bout of energetic lovemaking on a blanket behind one of the dunes. He could still recall following her from the water, her tight buttocks glistening in the moonlight, swaying an invitation that no man still on the right side of the daisies could resist.
Scarne felt the old surge of desire and, uncharitably, half-hoped that the passing years had somewhat reduced Kate’s allure. His throat felt dry.
She stopped at the far end of the pool and came out of the water with a graceful surge. There was a blue towel on a chaise and she picked it up with one hand and scrunched her hair at her neck with the other to wring the water from it. Her hair was much shorter than Scarne remembered.
“I’ll be right with you, Jake,” she said, still with her back to him.
So, she had known he was there. There was a time, he knew, that Kate Ellenson would have run right to him. He’d have to remember that she was Mrs. Kate Vallance, a widow. Who was paying him $100,000.
Kate turned and walked toward him, past a small table that had been set for lunch. She dropped the towel negligently on another chaise and picked up a barrette to tie her hair back. Scarne had wondered if she was as beautiful as he’d remembered. She wasn’t. She was much more beautiful. Her long tanned legs were as taut and shapely, made even more attractive by the high-cut, yellow, one-piece bathing suit she wore. The bottom “V” of the suit seemed almost to reach the top “V” and he could see the outlines of her small but still-firm breasts and their semi-erect nipples showing through the cloth. Making a
conscious effort to slam the memories of what that body looked like without a bathing suit back into the recess of his mind, Scarne concentrated on her still-arresting face.
Kate put out her hand and for a moment Scarne thought she wanted him to shake it. But then it continued on up to his face and she stroked his cheek.
“Darling Jake. How lovely to see you.” Then she leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips. There was warmth, if not heat. “How truly lovely.”
“How are you, Kate?”
She stepped back.
“Better. Now that you are here. I have so much to tell you. Let me go change. It’s a wonderful day. I thought we could lunch out here. Isn’t the view spectacular? I love Chicago.”
“It certainly is nice.”
The higher one was in a city, the better it looked, Scarne thought. From a penthouse, you were far removed from the murderous gang killings in Chicago’s poorer neighborhoods. Probably couldn’t even hear the shots up here.
“I just had to get out of Boone City,” Kate said. “The smell of soybeans was beginning to sicken me. And I don’t care if I ever see another tub of margarine.” She started to walk away. “I’ll have Aurelia bring out some gimlets. That was our cocktail wasn’t it? Fix us a drink, won’t you? I won’t be a moment.”
Kate strode inside with long, athletic strides, looking as good from the rear as she had from the front. Scarne took a deep breath and walked over to the table and sat down next to a stainless-steel wine bucket on a stand. The wine bucket and the linen towel draping the bottle it contained were both monogrammed with the letter “V.” Looking through the glass-and-bronze railing he could see sailboats tacking on Lake Michigan. A jumbo jet arched over the Sears Tower, which Scarne’s cab driver had reminded him earlier was now called the Willis Tower after its largest occupant.
“But most people still call it the Sears Tower,” the man said. “I don’t know why they have to keep renaming things. Pain in the ass.”
Aurelia came out with a silver pitcher gleaming with frost. She placed it and a small red ice bucket on the table, along with a plate framed by lime wedges. In the center of the plate was a carafe of greenish-yellow liquid.
“It’s Rose’s Lime Juice,” the maid said.
Kate remembered.
“Mrs. Vallance says you are particular about your drinks. Like to adjust them yourself. Especially gimlets. Said you had a gimlet eye.”
The maid said it with the resignation of a domestic servant used to guests who were particular about things.
“Thank you, Aurelia.”
Scarne smiled at the memory. It had been a joke between Kate and himself. Few people knew that the phrase “gimlet eye” had nothing to do with the drink. A gimlet was also a small tool with a screw point used for boring holes. In the Marine Corps, officers and noncoms whose angry stares bore through you when you screwed up were said to be “gimlet-eyed.” Scarne had told Kate about one time he’d been the target of just such a brow-beating and she was so delighted she insisted on ordering the cocktail variety of the gimlet, which became “their” drink. And, when they argued, she often called him a “gimlet-eyed bastard.”
Now, Scarne poured a gimlet from the pitcher into a stemmed glass and tasted it. Close, but no cigar. He added a few drops of the Rose’s and squeezed in a lime wedge. A taste, another drop, and he was satisfied. Kate had always teased him about the routine. He made no apologies. There was nothing worse than a badly made vodka gimlet. And few things better than a perfect one. He was still looking for the perfect one, but this one came damn close, he decided.
She came out onto the terrace while he was making her drink, on the rocks, as she preferred. She was now wearing red shorts and a short-sleeve white blouse. Her feet were still bare.
“I don’t have to tell you that you are still beautiful,” he said, handing her the glass.
She smiled and took a long pull.
“Like old times, right, Jake?”
Scarne leaned forward.
“Kate, I’m sorry about your husband.” He paused. “And the baby.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes glistened for a second. “Bryan was a good man. He would have made a wonderful father.”
Then she smiled.
“I’m not so sure I would have made a wonderful mother. I’m not all that different from the selfish bitch who ran off on you.” She finished her drink and held her glass out. “Have you ever forgiven me?”
Scarne took the glass, added more ice, and made her another gimlet.
“No.”
Kate laughed harshly, taking her drink.
“The same old Jake.”
“I never could lie to you,” he said.
“But you came anyway,” she said. “Was it the money? No. Of course not. I knew you would come. That’s why I went through Winston and told him to contact Don Tierney. I knew you would come to help no matter what, but I had to make a clumsy effort to pay you. I just couldn’t bring myself to call you directly after what I did to you. How is Don, by the way. I always liked him.”
“He’s fine.”
“And Dudley? I thought about going to him first, as an intermediary. But he never really approved of me.”
“He introduced us, Kate.”
“And told my girlfriends later it would have been better had he just shot you.”
Scarne smiled. That would be Dudley.
Aurelia walked up to the table and began serving lunch. Cold lobster salad and a side of asparagus spears with a Hollandaise sauce. The maid removed a bottle of Cakebread Cellars chardonnay from the wine bucket and poured each a glass. It had been “their” wine.
“Aurelia, this is fine for now,” Kate said. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”
The maid left, closing the terrace sliders. They began to eat. Kate made more small talk, asking after old friends, recalling some pleasant memories. Scarne made appropriate comments as he studied her closely. He noticed a few lines around her mouth and eyes. Age, perhaps. But there seemed to be a tenseness about her that could also have explained them. Her face gradually softened under the influence of the gimlets and wine.
“I think I will get slightly drunk today,” Kate said, sipping her second glass of chardonnay. “I hope you don’t mind. I feel like I can relax, for the first time in a long while.”
“Kate,” Scarne said gently, “perhaps you can tell me why you think there is more to your husband’s murder than the authorities believe.”
She looked at him carefully, as if remembering what had been between them.
“Yes. Of course. I almost forgot. That’s what you are. That’s what you do. I will tell you. But first let me tell you about Bryan and me. It’s important. You have to know him for this to make any sense. You may not want to hear it, but I have to tell you. Do you understand?”
“I’m interested in anything you want to say, Kate. Take your time.”
CHAPTER 11 - LIKE AT FIRST SIGHT
“I met Bryan at a technology conference in Silicon Valley. I was working for a small public relations firm in San Francisco that had some clients at the conference. He was a speaker on one of the panels. When I read his bio in the program, I thought he must have taken the wrong plane or something. I mean, what was the middle-aged head of a Midwest agriculture company doing hanging around with a bunch of long-haired, scruffy nerds half his age, let alone speaking to them? I was curious, so I went to hear him. Turns out it was one of the most well-attended panels of the conference. Standing room only. He was terrific. He explained how BVM was already on the cutting edge of biotechnology and was investing heavily in the latest computers and software to insure that it stayed ahead of the competition. I could tell that some of the things he talked about — gene splicing, cloning, vaccines, biopharmaceutical engineering on the molecular level — was catnip to the scientists and engineers he addressed. He said he wanted to merge the knowledge from Silicon Valley with what BVM was accomplishing in Boone City. I didn’t understand a hell of a lot of
what he said. I do now, of course. But back then all I knew was that he might need a good PR firm to get his word out. To spin his company to Wall Street as a tech powerhouse. That was all the money managers seemed to be interested in. I approached him after the speech. We had a cup of coffee and I pitched him. He was friendly and polite, but noncommittal. He said he’d think about it. It wasn’t quite a brush off, but I really didn’t expect to hear from him.”
Kate shifted in her seat and put her feet under her.
“God, I need a cigarette,” she said.
She picked up her cell phone and dialed a number.
“Aurielia, will you be a dear and bring us out the coffee. And my cigarettes. Yes, I know. They are no good for me. I will try to be good.”
Kate looked at Scarne.
“She watches me like a hawk.”
They waited while the maid set out the coffee and cleared the lunch plates. She reached into her apron and gave Kate a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and an ashtray, shaking her head in disapproval. When she walked away, Scarne said, “gimlet eye.”
Kate laughed and offered him the pack. He shook his head but lit her cigarette. She took a long draw and breathed the smoke out in a long satisfied stream.
“Still, on the off chance he would call,” she continued, “I did some research on him, and on BVM. The more I found out about the company, the more I believed I could help it. As for Bryan, he wasn’t your typical third or fourth-generation layabout collecting a fat paycheck. He was well-educated and really had transformed BVM. I was rather surprised he had the time to build his reputation as a ladies’ man.”
Kate shook her head.
“Surprised, and a bit annoyed. He never even made a pass at me. I mean, a damn cup of coffee? I began to wonder if I should take a Pilates class or something. What are you smiling about? I’m not a cup-of-coffee, or even first-date, screw, but I would have liked him to at least make an effort. And if you don’t think sex is part of every woman’s professional arsenal, you’re living in the wrong century.”
“More wine,” Scarne said, his face showing amusement. “Perhaps some coffee?”
THE VIRON CONSPIRACY (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS #4) Page 7