Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  The detectives noted the glistening eyes, but were firm with the girl, trying to make sure she wasn’t just looking for attention. Her description of the “assailant” was pretty good, considering. White, not as tall as the old man but not short. Blonde hair sticking out under the red cap. High cheekbones. Thin mouth. Blue, mean, eyes. (The detective noted the color and discounted the characterization; you push somebody in front of a train, you are, per se, a mean S.O.B.). Dark blue jacket, pretty nice, but nothing special, dark sweat pants, couldn’t see his shoes. She could only guess at his build, what with the jacket and all. But he didn’t look particularly heavy. Oh yes, black gloves.

  “Definitely not a homeless guy, but no Beau Brummel, either,” she said.

  The cops looked at each other and smiled. This girl was a bit rough around the edges, but sharp as a tack. They eased up just before she was going to tell them to go fuck themselves if they didn’t believe her. They liked her. When they asked her to go down to the precinct and make a more formal statement “and maybe look at some pictures” she took a deep breath and frowned.

  “I’m going to miss all my classes,” she said, although she had just made up her mind to go home. She felt ill. The shock of what she had seen was finally seeping past the adrenaline. She took a deep breath.

  “Listen, honey, you don’t look too chipper,” the older of the two detective said gently. He reminded the girl of Lenny Briscoe. The show wasn’t the same without Jerry Orbach. “Officer Long can give you a ride to the precinct, and then maybe drop you off at home. He’ll even give you a note for school.”

  He hooked his thumb at the cute patrolman, who seemed eager to help.

  “No problem,” the girl said.

  CHAPTER 38 – BODY COUNT

  A preoccupied Alana Loeb spent much of the flight on the phone in the front cabin arguing with someone. Scarne occasionally caught her looking over at him. He had a couple of stiff bourbons with Merryman, who began to relax the further they got from Antigua. Both men thought the Dolphins needed a new quarterback. After a while they nodded off and slept most of the way to the States. Scarne was awakened by the slight bump of their touchdown at Miami International. The small jet taxied to the General Aviation area and pulled into the Ballantrae hangar. Merryman asked him if he wanted to go to a hospital. Though he felt like he had gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson in his prime, Scarne declined.

  “Are you sure? You look like a pile of shit.”

  “Thanks. Just get me a ride to my car, will you?”

  Alana came over.

  “Jake, I have to go to the office. There is a lot to straighten out.”

  I’ll bet, Scarne thought, with two dead men in three days. He looked pointedly at Merryman, who took the cue and left the plane.

  “Alana, we have to talk. When can I see you?”

  “Go back to your apartment and rest up. I’ll come to you tomorrow.”

  She kissed him. He started to protest. She put a finger to his lips.

  “I can’t talk here. Just wait, please. I need you. But I have to go.”

  When Scarne deplaned, Merryman was standing by a limo where a driver was holding a door open. Scarne told the driver to take him to the parking garage at the main terminal. He retrieved his car and was at Josh’s apartment 20 minutes later, and fast asleep five minutes after that.

  He dreamt he was in a large room, a boardroom of some sort, with plush carpeting and period furniture. It was dark. He walked toward the end of the room, where there was a light. As he got closer, he saw the bed, with a woman on it. She was clothed, though her feet were bare. At first he thought it was Alana, but the hair was darker. It took him forever to reach the bed. Emma Shields looked up at him, smiling. There were red striations on her neck. Had he done that? He started to say something, but was interrupted by someone pounding at a large red door behind the bed. He hadn’t noticed the door before. He woke. The dream receded but the pounding continued.

  “Mr. Scarne! Mr. Scarne!”

  He threw on his crumpled pants. He was almost at the front door of the apartment when he heard a key in the latch. He looked out the peephole and saw Mario, the concierge. Scarne opened the door.

  “Mr. Scarne, I am so sorry. I thought there might be something wrong. The night man said you came in and looked, well, injured. No one saw you come down this morning. And your secretary just called. Said it was urgent. She said you were not answering your cell phone. When you didn’t answer the door right away, I grew concerned. I have a pass key. Please forgive the intrusion.”

  He looked Scarne up and down and his eyes widened. Scarne was bare-chested, and his bandages were prominent. His hands and face were bruised.

  “Madre Dios! What happened to you?”

  “I took a full swing at a golf ball in a tile bathroom.”

  Mario looked confused.

  “Never mind. Let me grab a shirt. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  When he came back, he said, “Is there a phone I could use? My cell phone is smashed.”

  “Please use mine.” The concierge reached into his pocket and produced a cell phone. “Just drop it off in the lobby whenever you can.” He turned to leave, then slapped his hand against his forehead. “Idiota! I almost forgot. There were two police detectives here looking for you. Said they had tried your mobile phone and your office. Said you gave this address to them. I’m to call if you returned. I have the number downstairs. What do you want me to do?”

  For a moment Scarne drew a blank. Then he remembered the homicide cops at Alana’s house. They must think he was on the lam. He rubbed his eyes. Still half asleep, he was having trouble focusing.

  “You should sit down, Mr. Scarne. Have you eaten? Can I get you something from across the street? That little hotel has a wonderful café. Good Cuban coffee. I don’t think you feel much like cooking, no?”

  Scarne was famished. He instinctively reached in his pocket and brought out a wad of cash. He pressed it into Mario’s protesting hands.

  “Coffee, egg sandwich. Make it two, any kind of meat. Keep the change. Don’t argue. You’ve been very kind. Use your key. I’m going to jump in the shower. Call the detectives and tell them you saw me. Do it right away. That way you are covered. I have their cards. I’ll call myself in a few minutes.”

  After a painful shower, Scarne dressed gingerly. His stitches seemed to be holding. He went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of orange juice. He was refilling the glass when Mario came back. The smell of the food made Scarne dizzy. The concierge began opening the bag and Scarne took it from him.

  “Mario, you’re a lifesaver. I’m fine. You’ve been away from the front desk too long. I’ll take it from here. I’ll get the phone back to you soon as I can.”

  He ushered the still-commiserating man out the door and ate the sandwiches standing at the kitchen counter. The Cuban coffee came in a container but was accompanied by the thimble cups from which it was traditionally savored. Scarne ditched the cups and drank half the potent brew. It was incredibly sweet. He immediately began to feel much better. He picked up Mario’s cell phone and dialed his office. Evelyn answered immediately.

  “Jake, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for two days. I was about to call Dudley.”

  Evelyn was never flustered, but he could sense the tension in her voice.

  “My cell phone is broken. What’s the problem?”

  “Well, you didn’t call me about the funeral, so I took it upon myself to send flowers. I thought you’d probably come up for it, but when I didn’t hear from you, I became worried. Especially after a Miami Beach detective named Paulo called looking for you.”

  “Funeral? What funeral? Who died?”

  He hoped it wasn’t a friend.

  “Jake, it was in the papers and all over the telly. Didn’t you see it?”

  “For God sakes, Evelyn!”

  “Sheldon Shields fell under a subway train yesterday. The service is tomorrow. Jake, are you there?�
�

  “Fell under a train?”

  He knew he sounded ridiculous. He gulped the rest of the coffee. He could feel his heart racing. It might have been the coffee.

  “They’re saying it was a possible suicide. I feel terrible. I really liked him. Such a gentleman. Can you make the service?”

  She gave him the details and he told her to make travel arrangements. Then he dictated an expurgated version of the events in Antigua. When he was finished, he was greeted with silence. That was unlike Evelyn, who, during his occasional catastrophes, could usually be counted on for at least some droll English sarcasm.

  “Evelyn?”

  “I’m beyond speechless, Jake. Would you like me to list the bodies in alphabetical or chronological order?”

  That was more like it.

  “Just get me on a plane this afternoon.”

  “Shouldn’t you see a physician?”

  “I’m all right. This coffee will probably kill me before anything else.”

  “And what about the detective?”

  “I’ll take care of it. I know who it is. I think it’s related to the shooting at the pool. The local cops are probably wondering what I’m doing.”

  “They are not the only ones.”

  “I’ll need a new cell phone. Mine is toast. I’m using a friend’s.”

  “Just remember to bring your old phone with you when you come to the office. I’ll run it down to the dealer and have him switch out the SIM card so you’ll have all your contacts. And, Jake…”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d be careful of my friends.”

  ***

  Scarne wished he had thought to ask Mario to get cigarettes. Sheldon Shields! That made four deaths, all somehow involving Ballantrae. But two of the deaths, while obviously connected, seemed unrelated to those of Josh and Sheldon Shields. Scarne no longer had a client, but he knew he was in the case, or whatever it was, until the end. After all, he himself added to the body count and would possibly have to answer for it some day. Moreover, he had to find out if he’d done anything that precipitated Sheldon’s murder. For he was certain it was murder, no matter what the media said.

  And he was also certain that Victor Ballantrae was capable of murder. What he was lacking was any sort of proof. He could hardly tell the police that he was suspicious because Victor Ballantrae cheated at golf. But he certainly could report to Randolph and Emma Shields. He owed it to Sheldon to warn them about the kind of person they were dealing with. Randolph would now surely unleash his investigative cannons.

  But where did Alana fit in to all of this? He called her office.

  “I’m sorry, but Ms. Loeb is unavailable.”

  “Please find her. Tell her it’s Jake Scarne. I think she’ll take the call.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Scarne, but Ms. Loeb is traveling. She and Mr. Ballantrae flew out this morning. I’m not sure when they will be back.”

  Scarne had a sinking feeling.

  “Do you know where they went?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t divulge that information. I can try to reach her and let her know you called.”

  He had a thought.

  “Can you connect me to Jesús Garza or Christian Keitel?”

  “Certainly, but I think they are out of town, too.”

  “That’s fine. I need to speak to their assistant. They gave me an investment idea and I’d like to see if they sent out some follow-up material.”

  “Of course, please hold.”

  Even before she came back on, Scarne knew what she would say. And he knew the timing was right.

  “Mr. Garza and Mr. Keitel’s office. How may I help you?”

  “Hello. This is Jake Scarne. I know that Jesús and Christian are in New York, but they asked me to call if I had a question about a trust agreement they are preparing, and I do. How can I contact them?”

  “Actually, only Mr. Keitel was in New York, but he already left. Not that he’s here now. I believe he is flying to meet Mr. Garza somewhere. Do you want me to try and reach them?”

  “No, that OK. It isn’t that crucial. I presume they are with Mr. Ballantrae on his trip. They mentioned something about it.”

  “They did? I don’t think they knew they were going. It was quite sudden.”

  “I bet that happens a lot. Victor sure does get around, doesn’t he? So, Christian had to cut short his Manhattan trip. What a pity. How long was he there?” He hoped he wasn’t laying it on too thickly.

  “Oh, he was coming back anyway. He was only scheduled to be there Monday and Tuesday.”

  Plenty of time to push a helpless old man in front of a subway train.

  “Well, thanks for your help. Tell Chris and Jesús I said howdy. By the way, did they leave word when they’ll be back in town?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. Next thing on their schedule in Miami is the annual client party next Sunday.”

  ”Oh, yes. They told me I should stop by. I doubt if I can make it, but just in case, where is it again?”

  “The Forge in Miami Beach. Starts at 8 P.M. Have you been to the Forge? It’s wonderful and Mr. Ballantrae pulls out all the stops.”

  “Oh, Victor will be there?”

  “He never misses it. People come from all over. You should try and go.”

  “Well, you never know. I just might.”

  Scarne wasn’t looking forward to his next call, but knew it was unavoidable. Detective Frank Paulo got right to the point.

  “Where the hell you been, Scarne?”

  “I went to the islands for a couple of days. My cell was on the fritz. I just got your message. What’s up? You didn’t tell me not to leave town.”

  “This isn’t a movie. We don’t say things like that anymore. But everybody kind of disappeared all at once, and after a homicide we don’t like that.”

  “Who else?”

  “Well, the mistress of the house for one. And the two heroes on the boat, for two and three. You made four. Care to explain?”

  Scarne saw no harm in answering honestly. Somewhat.

  “I went to Antigua with Ms. Loeb.”

  “Business trip?”

  “Not entirely. But what you should know is that someone tried to kill her down there.” He gave Paulo a brief rundown. “Before you ask, yes, I think it’s tied to Goetz. But I don’t know how. Garza and Keitel weren’t with us. Keitel may have been in New York.” No harm in having Paulo check that out. That’s all I know.” Not true, but enough for the cop to digest.

  “Jesus. I thought we were investigating a simple homicide, not a massacre. You think they all skipped?”

  “No, they travel a lot. They’ll be back. I think Goetz and the Antigua thing came out of left field for them. Something is unraveling. You make any progress on the shooting?”

  “Found another olive.”

  “Come on. I’ve given you what I’ve got.” Or most of it. “Maybe we can help each other out. I’m not a suspect, am I?”

  “A few more bodies in this thing, and I’ll put you down as a serial killer.”

  Scarne was glad he hadn’t mentioned Sheldon Shields.

  “Antigua going down as self-defense? You know who the guy was?”

  “Yes to the first, and no.”

  “Well, I don’t like you for Goetz,” Paulo said, “and the other thing is off my reservation, though I’m gonna find out who he was. This is a colossal shit storm. You and I know Goetz wasn’t the target. Sounds like it was Loeb. I can tell you that you got the bullet right. Didn’t find the rifle. Probably at the bottom of the river. Tracked down the speedboat to a hotel dock, where it had been tied up illegally. Stolen earlier from a marina controlled by some wiseguys. Don’t know if that means anything. Garza and Keitel aren’t your typical Wall Street types. Nothing much on them. Their history is a black hole, but I’ve got them pegged for ex-military, maybe mercenary. We’re checking with the Feds now. Other than that, bupkus. What are you going to do now?”

  Scarne didn’t want to tell Pau
lo about the funeral. He had given him just enough to keep the pressure on Ballantrae and maybe off himself.

  “I’m going home to get some rest. This is out of my hands now.”

  “Sure,” the cop said, not believing a word. “And you’ll keep in touch, too.”

  “Of course. And you know how to find me.”

  “I’ll just follow the bodies.”

  CHAPTER 39 – CANDID CAMERA

  After arranging with Mario to ship his golf clubs and most of his clothes separately, Scarne managed to catch a late afternoon flight out of Lauderdale. His battered visage and bandaged hands earned him extra scans and pat-downs from T.S.A. personnel at the airport and nervous glances from his fellow passengers. By the time the plane landed at LaGuardia, he could feel wetness inside his shirt and knew some sutures had given way.

  Evelyn had already left, but he had his cab wait while he dropped his damaged cell phone off at his office; she could remove the SIM in the morning. His next stop was the emergency room at St. Vincent’s Hospital near his apartment in the Village, where he was re-patched, jabbed with more antibiotics, given some painkillers and told not to drink alcohol. Then he went to Knickerbocker’s for a couple of martinis and a steak. Before he left he ordered a third martini.

  “This one’s for you, Sheldon,” he said, draining the drink.

  Then he walked, unsteadily, to his apartment and slept. It wasn’t until the next morning that he realized that someone had been in his apartment. He stood for a long time at his chess set, reading the note explaining the brilliance of a move he hadn’t made, before he angrily swept the pieces off the board.