Scarne was thoroughly sick of reading about Ballantrae. And he was hungry. Fonthill had eaten most of his lunch. He closed the site and made himself a couple of sandwiches. He grabbed a beer, went back to his laptop and opened his emails. He was mildly surprised to see that Paulo and Curley had already forwarded a copy of their investigation.
The report appeared to be a thorough job (a certainty once they found out who the victim’s family was) but there wasn’t much in it that he didn’t already know. Beach crowds change, so the two detectives had a tough time finding someone who remembered seeing Shields that specific day.
A local character who patrolled the beach every day with a metal detector saw Josh before he left for the night. The prospector, who was not a suspect (he was 73), remembered him because he was always in virtually the same spot, at about the same time, every Wednesday. There was no one else around except two men in a small boat anchored just offshore. It was getting dark and the boat was bouncing up and down so he couldn’t give a good description of the men, other than to say one was taller than the other and had blond hair. The boat was either a Dusky or a Grady White. He couldn’t be sure.
Scarne was about to put the report aside when he thought of something. He reread the part about the men in the small boat bouncing around and recalled one of the detectives telling him there were small craft warnings out that day. The prospector didn’t mention any other boat, so it was probably the only one there. Why would a small boat be so close to the beach in such rough water? He recalled Fonthill postulating how a boat and a partner would have made it easier for a killer.
It wasn’t much to go on, and Scarne also didn’t like the part about Josh’s rigid routine. But he still had trouble envisioning a murder.
CHAPTER 20 – ‘HE WAS LUNCH’
In Seattle, Noah Sealth was having no such problem. He didn’t think that Taras Rudnyk, now splayed naked across a desk in the warehouse office, had accidentally cut himself open from forehead to ankles. He counted at least 14 major knife wounds and at least twice that number of minor slices. Sealth would have to wait for the M.E. report but he was pretty sure that most of the stabs had been torture related. The facial and genital mutilation would have been particularly effective. He assumed the dead man eventually talked.
“I would have,” he said aloud.
The smell of blood and what had been in the man’s bowels and bladder even overwhelmed the odor of fish in the building. The forensic team was snapping pictures, placing yellow markers and swabbing away, so Sealth left to get a breath of air. When he got outside he walked over to a group of men being warily guarded by uniformed cops. One of the men was Andriy Boyko.
“Who found him?”
Nobody said anything until Boyko nodded. Then one of the others said, “I did.” He looked at his chief who nodded again. “I came here to look for him.”
“Why?”
“I sent him,” Boyko said. “He wasn’t answering his cell phone. That wasn’t like him.” Boyko smiled. “Although he apparently had a good reason.”
About the only reason Boyko would accept from Rudnyk, Sealth thought. The dead man was one of the Ukrainian mob chief’s closest lieutenants and would never be out of touch long.
“Why did you think he was here?”
“I didn’t think anything. It was one of many places we looked.”
“How long were you looking?”
“Since noon. He did not show up for lunch.”
Sealth knew Boyko and his chief henchmen made a habit of lunching together, usually at a busy restaurant where it would be difficult to be overheard. Unlike the Mafia, which was partial to their “social clubs,” the Uke mob liked to move their strategy meetings around. The random selection of restaurants, chosen at the last minute, made it almost impossible for local police or Feds to eavesdrop electronically. It also thwarted potential assassins.
“From the looks of it,” Sealth said, “he was lunch. Why was he here?”
“I don’t know, Detective. But since you can’t possibly believe I would slaughter one of my men in my own warehouse and then call the police, perhaps we can go now.”
More police vehicles were pulling up, as well as the morgue wagon.
“Your men can leave after they give their names and addresses to these officers. I’d like to talk to you for a minute. Let’s take a stroll.”
The two men walked over to a bulkhead. They stood facing the busy harbor. A seagull standing on a piling swiveled its head toward them briefly and then went back to looking out over the water.
“No rain for two days,” Boyko said.
In Seattle, that passed for news.
“I’m worried about my lawn,” Sealth said. “Any idea who did this?”
“Please, Detective. I saw the body. We both know. I heard about the autopsy. It’s already a legend. Were you there?”
“Yeah. Brutti went berserk, and I can’t blame him.”
“So, he thinks I killed his sister and came looking for me.”
“She was found in one of your warehouses under your fish. Your buildings have become very unhealthy all of a sudden.”
“We don’t target families.” Sealth turned to stare at him. Boyko smiled. “As a general rule. And even if I had killed her, there are better places to dispose of a body.” He gestured toward the Pacific Ocean. “So, I’ve heard.”
“Look, Andriy, we both know it was a setup. The question is, ‘What are you going to do now?’ My chief is worried about a mob war. I already have two murders to solve. I don’t need any more.”
“You believe I should do nothing? Let the police handle it? That will really endear me to my men.”
“My partner is out looking for Carlo. So is his family. All I’m saying is that the man is unhinged. He acted on his own. If you saw what he did at the morgue you’d have lost it too. Perhaps your men will understand that if you explain it to them.”
Boyko took out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Sealth, who took it. He’d been dying for one ever since Maria Brutti’s autopsy. They stood smoking for a while. The seagull apparently disapproved and flew away.
“Perhaps. Whoever killed the woman and planted her body in my warehouse did not count on the hagfish.”
“Hagfish?”
“That’s what came out of her, Detective. I was given a clear description. They are parasites. Occasionally get dredged up with bottom fish, like halibut. We try to separate them out but some slip through. It must have been in the same container as her body.”
“Brutti believes it was torture.”
“They do not feed on living creatures. She was dead when it entered her.”
“I’m sure Carlo will be happy to hear that. If he doesn’t already know. He spent a lot of quality time with your friend in there before he finally finished him off. I’d guess he got more than name, rank and serial number. He probably knows a lot of things now.”
“Then he knows I had nothing to do with his sister’s murder. So I do not think I have anything to fear from him anymore.”
Good point, Sealth admitted.
“Any idea who might?”
The seagull returned to its perch. At least Sealth thought it was the same seagull. They all looked alike to him.
“Can I go now, Detective? I have a business to run.”
“One more thing, Andriy. You don’t seem to be particularly broken up by the mutilation and murder of one of your closest associates.”
Boyko shrugged.
“He would be alive if he had been where he was supposed to be.”
Sealth didn’t buy it. There was something else going on. He suspected that Boyko didn’t know why Rudnyk was in the warehouse office. The Ukrainian turned to leave.
“Boyko!”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Let me have another cigarette.”
Boyko laughed and threw him the pack.
CHAPTER 21 – NO EXAGGERATION
Scarne woke early the next morning, stiff
from the previous day’s workout and from falling asleep on the couch reading more newsletters. He changed into shorts and a sweatshirt and headed to the beach, where he began jogging north near the waterline to take advantage of the harder sand. After a half hour the stiffness abated and he cut through a public park and began walking back along Collins Avenue. He resisted the smells emanating from the many restaurants along the way as long as he could and then popped into a small Cuban coffee shop for a delicious breakfast of tostada, ham croquetas and a café con leche. When he got back to the apartment, his cell phone was beeping. There was a message from Don Tierney: “Call me.”
“How bad is it?” he asked the lawyer when he got him on the phone.
“Did you really kidnap the Lindberg baby?”
It seemed that the state licensing board was pulling every case Scarne ever worked and was reexamining every piece of regulatory paperwork he ever filed. Randolph had probably called Councilman Gruber after the incident on the yacht.
“Can you stall them?”
“Sure. And I can probably take the death penalty off the table. But not forever. You have pissed off a very powerful man. You know what they say about picking a fight with someone who buys printing ink by the barrel. Can you tell me what this is all about?”
Scarne did.
“I take it back about the death penalty.”
***
Ballantrae’s Miami headquarters was in a high-rise on the northern end of Brickell Avenue just short of downtown. It was set among a score of modern buildings that were redefining Miami as a center of international commerce and finance. Even among all the glass, aluminum and angular architecture the office tower stood out, with what appeared to be a large rectangular hole in its middle about a third of the way up its 40 stories. The gap was three floors high and wide enough for a helicopter to fly through. Circular red stairways inside the gap led to floors above, and Scarne could see large palm trees swaying inside the structure, perhaps an interior courtyard. He assumed that people at the same level in buildings across the street could see right through to the bay. The visual effect would be unique. But not a place to be caught in a hurricane, which would turn the void into a wind tunnel.
After parking his car in a nearby lot, Scarne walked back to the building, where workmen were placing a large bronze plaque over a name chiseled in the side of the building. The old name was “Biscayne Bank & Trust.” The name on the plaque was “Ballantrae International.” He walked into the lobby.
“Can I help you?”
The girl behind the reception desk was another Cuban stunner. He was beginning to think Miami was just a huge set for a Stepford Secretary movie.
“I would like to see Mr. Ballantrae.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Scarne sized up the look he got. Charm was out. He decided on bluster.
“I’m investigating a possible homicide,” he said, opening his wallet and flashing his investigator’s license, which he hoped the kid would be too flustered to scan closely. It worked. She hardly glanced at his “credentials” before the wallet snapped shut. Eyes widened, she stammered something unintelligible, dialed an extension and began speaking rapidly in Spanish. There was a moment’s silence. Then the girl straightened her back. She looked confused, then chagrined. Scarne guessed that someone else had come on the line and was reading her the riot act. She turned to him, hand over the receiver.
“I’m sorry sir. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. It’s Scarne.” He pointedly looked at his watch.
“Detective Scarne,” she said into the phone.
She listened for a moment, then put the phone down gingerly. She tried a brave smile, which came up a few watts short.
“If you will take the elevator up to the 18th floor, Miss Loeb will meet you.”
***
When the elevator opened, Scarne just stood there. Sheldon and Emma Shields had not exaggerated Alana Loeb’s beauty. Then the door started to close and she put out her hand to break the electronic eye.
“This is the right floor, Mr. Scarne,” she said, “unless you are looking for ladies lingerie or home furnishings.” Not “Detective” Scarne.
Scarne stepped out and took her hand. It was warm to his touch, and dry.
“I’m Alana Loeb, and you are not a police officer. Why the subterfuge? Isn’t it illegal to impersonate a real law officer?”
She smiled sadly. It was a look he recalled from grammar school when his excuse for not doing his homework fell on a nun’s practiced ears.
“I didn’t have an appointment. Just happened to be in the neighborhood and took a shot. I never said I was a cop. What the hell? Got me this far, so I guess it was worth it. Why it got me this far is the question.”
“The word ‘homicide’ tends to open doors. Even then, when I realized who you were, I almost told that silly girl to send you away.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“What the hell?” Her smile was radiant. “Took a shot.”
“I’m glad you did. I would have had to try my ‘building inspector’ routine on her. And that’s usually beneath me.”
“How does that one work?”
She gestured for him to walk with her down the hall.
“I would have said that there is a big hole in the building and it’s unsafe. You do have several floors missing. I hope you didn’t overpay.”
Alana Loeb laughed. It was a good laugh, deep and throaty.
“It would have worked with that one. She’s won’t be there long.”
“Listen, I didn’t want to get the kid in trouble.”
“Don’t worry. We won’t fire her. She was hired as an office assistant. We had to plug her in down there until we recruit more people. Soon as we do, she’ll come back upstairs. Besides, I was young and dumb once, too.”
“I doubt that.”
They came to the end of the hallway and Scarne heard hammering.
“My office is that way.” She pointed down a corridor where workmen were laying carpet. “We’ll be better off in one of the smaller conference rooms. Watch your step. We’re still doing a lot of work.”
He followed her. Electricians and painters seemed to be everywhere. If the conference room was meant to impress, it succeeded admirably, with plush carpeting, heavy, dark wood furniture, deep-backed chair and a wonderful vista of Biscayne Bay.
“Nice view.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” She waved him over to a large leather L-shaped couch in the middle of the room. She sat down on the shorter part of the “L” and crossed her wonderful legs and turned to face him when he sat at the other end. Scarne, concentrating on the beautiful woman sitting near him, didn’t notice the small red light blink on in the “security camera” recessed in a bookcase on the opposite wall.
Alana Loeb was not a classic beauty, not that any man – or woman – noticed. Like many women with a commanding presence, she gave the impression of being taller than she was. She was thin without being scrawny and even her conservatively-cut business suit could not hide her figure. Blonde hair was cut short and framed her face. It looked natural and Scarne had a thought that would have been common to any heterosexual male on the planet: he wanted an opportunity to find out. Her skin tone spoke to a life comfortable with the outdoors. She wore little makeup and obviously didn’t feel the need to camouflage the few small freckles that framed her nose and made her look younger than the woman in her mid-to-late 30’s that Scarne assumed her to be. She had a full mouth. But it was her grey eyes that made her face. Widely set and almond shape, they had a slightly oriental cast. She had a habit of ducking her head and looking up at an angle when she spoke.
“Can I get you anything,” she said, motioning to a phone on the small table in front of them. She did everything slowly, without wasted movement. “The lunch room is still a work in progress, but we have a coffee machine. Miami runs on coffee. It was the first thing we
brought into the building.”
Her voice had a pleasing, dulcet timber, with almost perfect English diction. There was the vaguest trace of an accent but Scarne had no clue what it was. She spoke softly but he had no trouble hearing her. Nor did the microphones that she knew were hidden strategically throughout the room. Every word of their conversation would be recorded.
***
“Coffee would be nice,” Scarne said.
The volume was too low. In his office Victor Ballantrae adjusted the sound on the display. Alana had positioned Scarne perfectly on the couch and Ballantrae felt a twinge of jealousy as he caught him looking at her legs. Too bad this wasn’t the movies. I could just push a button and the nosy private eye would be electrocuted where he sat and his corpse would slide down a chute, leaving behind a puff of smoke and charred upholstery.
Ballantrae smiled grimly. Given Alana Loeb’s capabilities the poor bastard might be better off in the long run.
CHAPTER 22 – VICTOR BALLANTRAE
Victor Ballantrae was a big man, broad across the shoulders. Well-tailored suits hid a midsection growing paunchier as he got richer. An Aboriginal grandmother accounted for some darkness of complexion; a passion for golf, the rest. His thick reddish brown hair tended to curliness. A trim beard framed a roguish face dominated by a prominent nose laced with early signs of rosacea. A not unpleasant visage given a piratical cast by the misshapen corner of his right eye, the result of a bar fight in which a sheepherder used a bottle of Fosters before Ballantrae beat him to within an inch of his life. He refused plastic surgery and his eyelid drooped when he was stressed.
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