Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  ***

  Scarne almost never drove in Manhattan; keeping an automobile there was an extravagance. The airports were easily accessible by limousine, taxi or train. As for road trips outside the city, renting was infinitely less expensive than the cost of ownership. But he loved cars and felt naked without one of his own at his beck and call. Fortunately, the garage rates in Greenwich Village were among the most reasonable in the city.

  The underground lot Scarne used was adjacent to his building at 2 Fifth Avenue. He paid a $100 premium over the regular $400 monthly flat “courtesy” rate the garage offered to his building’s residents. That got him a sheltered spot on the ground floor next to the cashier’s booth, where it was unlikely to be dinged. He also made sure to meet all the attendants and learn their names. His $10 tips on the infrequent days he used the car, plus various gifts (bagels, cookies, cakes, wine), insured that he was treated like family.

  The object of all this affection was a perfectly restored and lovingly maintained 1974 MGB Roadster, painted in classic British Racing Green. The two-seater convertible zipped in and out of traffic and was easy to park. And when liberated from congested city roadways, it was an invigorating ride.

  When Scarne walked into the garage’s 8th Street entrance, the attendant on duty immediately took a set of keys from a drawer. He flipped them to Scarne and began pulling the tarp off the gleaming MGB. It would be folded neatly and stored in a special bin in the cashier shack.

  “How’s the family, Emmanuel?”

  Scarne never called the attendant “Manny,” as some customers did. He knew how proud the man was of his Haitian lineage.

  “They fine, Jake. We were very blessed.”

  Among Haitians, losing only two second cousins in an earthquake was considered providential.

  Scarne smiled and handed him $10.

  “You need another letter or anything, let me know.”

  Scarne had pulled some strings to help get some of the parking attendant’s family out of Haiti.

  “I ’preciate it. I’d like to get my sister out now. It’s lookin’ good.”

  Emmanuel Moliere watched Scarne pull out into traffic. He could hear the muted, but throaty, rumble of the MGB’s engine long after it was out of sight. Jake sure loves that car. Good man. Always polite and interested. Even when recouperatin’ from something bad. Moliere had seen his share of wounds, from bullets to machetes. Looks like Jake just went through another grinder. Dish it out, too, I bet. He got that look in his eyes.

  ***

  St. John the Divine, in Fairfield, Connecticut, serves one of the richest congregations in the nation. The service for Sheldon Shields was set for 11 A.M. Cremation would follow. Parking near the church was nonexistent, so Scarne flashed his P.I. license to a town cop directing traffic and said he was on the family’s security payroll. He was directed to a handicapped spot in the lot right next to the church. Given his bruises, he didn’t think the consideration was completely undeserved.

  As he expected, the church was filled. He was standing in the back when Emma Shields came in with the family. When she spotted him, a look of disbelief, then consternation, crossed her face. It wasn’t the reaction he expected, but maybe he’d surprised her. The service itself was simple and moving. Emma and her father gave elegant eulogies that brought out the humanity of Sheldon. Scarne was surprised at the emotion shown by Randolph as he remembered his brother and their early years together. Emma held up well, until she noted that Sheldon, his wife and son – “the entire family” – were all gone within a few months of each other.

  “Uncle Sheldon is now with Aunt Adele and their beloved Josh,” she said, her voice faltering briefly.

  That kind of loss, Scarne knew, could not be completely mitigated by anything he accomplished. But it would be something.

  A choir sang “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” undoubtedly in honor of Sheldon’s fascination with the Civil War. Finally, a piper played “Amazing Grace” and then everyone filed out. Randolph Shields and the rest of the family congregated at the foot of the stairs outside the church talking to well wishers as the limousines pulled up. Scarne started to walk over to offer his condolences when Nigel Blue intercepted him.

  “Mr. Shields would like to see you at the house. Follow the cars going back for the repast.”

  It was less an invitation than an order.

  ***

  The Shields family compound was located in Southport, a tony Connecticut community on Long Island Sound that is part of Fairfield, which itself is 20 miles east of Greenwich. After entering the estate grounds, Scarne drove up a long tree-canopied road toward a huge gabled mansion that could only have been Randolph’s. The access road itself was flanked by acres of fields, on some of which white-coated valets were parking cars. After dropping off his roadster with a valet who miraculously knew how to drive stick, he walked through a foyer to a large dining room, where a groaning board heaped with food was beginning to attract the attention of the growing crowd. A bar set up in the corner was doing a brisk business. Scarne had just started nursing his wounds with a stiff bourbon when Nigel Blue spotted him.

  “Mr. Shields wants you in the library.”

  They walked toward the back of the house and stopped in the hallway outside a small den. Blue handed Scarne a DVD disk.

  “You’re to watch this.” He pointed to a small entertainment center in the den. “Then go through there.” With a hook of his thumb he indicated the double doors opposite the den behind them.

  Blue left. What the hell! But Scarne did as instructed. The TV was already on and he inserted the disk. Video images appeared on the screen. They weren’t of the best quality but were clear enough so that the hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he got a sick feeling in his stomach. The first 10 minutes of the disk showed a couple making love. It was shot from above, at a slight angle. The action had been spliced, as there were quick cuts to various positions and activities. There was a strange, constant flickering throughout, as if a camera shutter was rapidly opening and closing.

  Scarne felt sweat running down his back. Only moonlight and ambient light streaming over the bed made the activity visible. But the light and the shadows – and especially the damnable flickering – had the effect of making the couplings highly charged and erotic. It was, Scarne thought wildly, like watching an old black-and-white stag film or a peep-show at a carnival. Could the pair of lovers be identified? There were blessedly no sounds. But Scarne’s hopes were soon shattered by the last few minutes of the video, shot in the morning as dawn began bathing the room.

  Tangled in the sheets in post-coital exhaustion were he and Alana. And the flickering continued. What kind of camera produced that effect? Then Scarne remembered the fan over the bed. That’s where the bastards had placed their camera. The flickering was nothing more than the fan’s blades lazily cooling the lovers. But who would do something like this? Scarne’s mind raced. The room had been a last-minute change. Or had it? And what was the connection with the man who tried to kill Alana in the shower? Scarne felt his rage building. He had been played the fool. Then he forced himself to calm down. His humiliation was not over. He ejected the disk and put it in his jacket pocket. He then walked out to face the music.

  CHAPTER 40 – CELL CLONE

  There was a fire blazing in a stand-up hearth in the library. Randolph Shields was standing with his back to a large desk, looking out a bay window towards the fields beyond. A rich man’s view. Scarne could see horses doing horsey things. The word gamboling popped unbidden into his head. Shields turned when he heard Scarne enter. He was holding a manila envelope.

  “Emma, I wonder if you would let us have a few moments alone?”

  She was sitting in a high backed chair.

  “I’d rather stay.”

  “I don’t want you to hear this, Emma.”

  “Dad, I’m as much a part of this as you are. I saw the disk, after all.”

  Jesus, Scarne thought.

  �
��Suit yourself. You’re a big girl.”

  Shields walked over to his desk. He did not sit down and he didn’t offer Scarne a seat. Emma crossed her legs and put her hands in her lap. Scarne made a concerted effort to not look at those legs. It was, he reflected, hardly the time. Instead, he looked at her face and read disappointment and pity in her eyes. He would have preferred anger. Randolph provided the anger, tossing the envelope on the desk toward Scarne.

  “Open it.”

  It was addressed to Sheldon Shields. In it were glossy photos and a single sheet of note paper. The photos were stills taken from the disk, carefully chosen to minimize interference from the fan. The note was neatly typed:

  “Dear Mr. Shields:

  Do not trust Jake Scarne. You have placed a great deal of faith in him. As you can readily see, that faith was misplaced.

  A Friend”

  “I don’t suppose you know who sent this to your brother.”

  “I don’t think it matters. It was found on the tracks near Sheldon’s body. My brother sent you off on a wild goose chase. You saw a big payday, complete with a vacation in the sun. You’re the kind who takes advantage of other people. Sheldon trusted you. When he saw the disk and the photos it robbed him of his last hope. He was very fragile emotionally. He never got over the death of Josh and his wife. This betrayal must have devastated him. He killed himself. I hope you had a great time with your little strumpet.”

  Strumpet? What was this, a Dickens novel? But Scarne held his tongue. Emma had remained silent during the tirade, but now she spoke.

  “Dad, we’re not sure it was a suicide. It could have been an accident. And one detective said they were looking into the possibility Uncle Sheldon was pushed. What Mr. Scarne did was despicable but until we’re sure what happened we should leave the hyperbole out of this.”

  It was a rational statement, by a woman not afraid of her famous father. But the only word that stuck with Scarne was “despicable.” He would have preferred 50 lashes. Randolph Shields shook his head dismissively. Before he could spout more Victorian dialogue, Scarne cut him off.

  “Mr. Shields, your daughter is right. I am despicable.” They both stared at him. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I think your brother was murdered, as was his son before him. There are too many dead bodies turning up in this case to think otherwise. Four, at last count, including your brother. Yes, it’s possible he thought I had been stringing him along and he killed himself. But it’s just as likely that the people who sent him the photos wanted you to think that. I won’t be able to sleep until I find out how he died.”

  “It doesn’t look like you get much sleep anyway,” Shields said.

  A cheap shot. As badly as he felt, Scarne didn’t need any moral lectures from “Randy” Shields, whose own sexual exploits were legion. But he let it go.

  “Who else died?” It was Emma.

  Scarne told them everything. He saw the incredulity on their faces. When he finished, Shields spoke.

  “Victor Ballantrae is a tough, shrewd businessman, with more money than God. You expect me to believe that he is a killer. The only one he might reasonably want to kill is you, and I’m not sure I’d blame him. You diddled his chief of staff, who is probably his mistress, and did your best to damage his reputation. And for all that, he’s not holding it against me. He was one of the first of my friends to offer his condolences after Sheldon’s death. He reiterated his support for my company. He knew my brother was mentally unbalanced. You must think I am! You actually think that by spinning this fantastic yarn you can get me to continue funding your so-called investigation?”

  “How do you explain the murder at the pool and the man I killed in Antigua?”

  “Probably a jealous boyfriend,” Randolph said. “Now, get the hell…”

  “Dad, just a second,” Emma interjected. “Do you have any proof of anything, Mr. Scarne?”

  “Not yet.”

  “There is no ‘yet,’ Scarne,” Randolph shouted. “You’re fired. I don’t want you anywhere near my family. You’ve done enough harm to us. And I intend to take this matter up with the proper authorities. I’m going to get your license, if you even have one. And I’m going to recoup every cent of the money my brother paid you. I’m sure he never expected you to buy the most expensive piece of ass in Miami with it. Now get out! Your appearance at Sheldon’s funeral was an abomination.”

  Scarne could have pointed out that Randolph wasn’t his client, so he couldn’t fire him. What was the point? He couldn’t look at Emma. So he turned and walked out.

  ***

  Scarne got back to Manhattan at 4 P.M. He waved Evelyn into his office.

  “Things may get rough around here for a while. Randolph Shields may try to shut us down. And I may have given him enough ammunition to do it. Get Don Tierney on the phone for me.”

  Evelyn had a strange look on her face.

  “Jake, there’s a problem with your cell phone.”

  “I know that. I told you to get me a new one. Use the land line, for God’s sake. What’s the matter with you?” It was the first time he’d ever raised his voice to her in anger. He immediately apologized. “Sorry. It’s been a rough couple of days.”

  “You don’t understand, Jake.” She held out her hand and opened it. In her palm was a tiny wafer. “The phone tech found this in your old phone when he switched your S.I.M. card. He said it was very sophisticated. State of the art, he called it. He also said you probably know what it is.”

  Scarne did. He picked the miniature transceiver bug out of her palm. His cell phone had been cloned. Someone had been listening in to all of his calls. But for how long? He’d only bought the phone recently and the last time the tech had switched S.I.M. cards nothing was amiss. Since then it was never out of his sight or not on his person. Then he remembered the locker attendant at Pelican Trace who told Scarne that the club didn’t allow cell phones on the course. He’d left it in his locker. Except there was no club rule. They’d been one step ahead of him. Bugging his phone, burgling his apartment.

  “What are you thinking, Jake?”

  He looked at Evelyn. He hadn’t used the phone much, except to make appointments in Miami, and most of those preceded the golf match. But he did call Evelyn and dictate a memo on his progress. And in that call he mentioned that he had not yet reported to Sheldon Shields. Had someone decided to cut off the investigation at the head? Killing Scarne would have raised too many questions. Sheldon, and probably even Randolph, wouldn’t have let that go. But killing Sheldon and disgracing Scarne solved everything. It was a brilliant gambit. And it looked like a winning one.

  “Jake?”

  “Evelyn, I need some time to think. Don’t call Don just yet. Where is my new phone?”

  “Right there.” She pointed to a small brown package. “On top of the gift that Sheldon Shields dropped off.” She gave him a concerned look and walked out, closing the door quietly.

  I haven’t exactly covered myself in glory on this one, Scarne thought as he idly pulled the package over. I never took the case seriously from the beginning. Basically went through the motions. Perhaps that was a bit harsh, but he didn’t feel like cutting himself any breaks when it was possible he’d gotten his client killed and destroyed his own livelihood.

  He opened the cell phone and checked its contact list. Everything seemed to be working. He began to unwrap the package.

  What about Alana? Did she know about the video? That seemed unlikely. After all, it was he who insisted they take the cottage when she was arguing with the hotel manager. And he was convinced that their lovemaking was genuine. Of course, he had saved her life in Miami, and she expressed her gratitude physically. But the things she said in bed, the reactions to his touch, the murmurs, the tears, the pure happiness, seemed to be as surprising to her as they were to him. And, now, after saving her again from the man in the shower, he was sure she loved him.

  Inside the package was a book, swathed in hunter-green tissue pa
per. There was a note in a small Crane envelope:

  “Dear Jake,

  Thought you might like a copy of Pullen’s “Twentieth Maine.” It’s a first edition. I had two. I kept the one I gave to Josh. I wanted you to have mine.

  Best,

  Sheldon”

  Scarne stared dully at the book and felt sick to his stomach. What must that bereft old man thought of him? But he still couldn’t believe that Sheldon Shields killed himself, even if he viewed the video. Still, deep in his gut, he knew that whatever happened on that subway platform was his fault.

  He had to prove it was murder. He owed that to Sheldon. But what if Alana Loeb had a hand in that murder? And Josh’s?

  The woman he now also loved.

  CHAPTER 41 – DONUTS TO THE RESCUE

  The phone startled Scarne. The clock radio said 9:24. He sat up quickly in bed. That was a mistake. The searing pain behind his eyes, parched throat and stomach biliousness of the hangover almost made him forget his cuts and bruises. Sweating and with heart racing from alcohol dehydration and nicotine, he took the phone to the window and opened the blinds. Another mistake.

  “Mother of God,” he said, momentarily stunned by the glare.

  “No, it’s only Evelyn. Tough night, have we?”

  “I didn’t get the license plate of the truck that hit me.”

  “I think you’d better get in here. We’ve got visitors.”

  “Get rid of them.”

  “They all have badges.”

  “I told you Randolph Shields would play rough.”

  “I don’t think he’s behind this. Two of them are F.B.I. and the third is a Seattle police detective.”

  “Seattle? Jesus, I wasn’t that drunk last night.”

  “Perhaps you should put your wit on hold for a while. It’s Seattle Homicide. I told them all you were running late.”

  “I can be there by 10:15. Order up lots of coffee and donuts.”