Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  “The donuts are beneath you, Jake.”

  “They’re not for them. I need a sugar fix. And some orange juice.”

  “You poor baby. How about an intravenous line?”

  Seattle Homicide? What the hell was going on now? Scarne reeled into the kitchen. The bile in his stomach rose at the sight and smell of the open and almost empty bottle of bourbon on the counter. He quickly grabbed a blessed Coke in the fridge. He used the Coke to wash down a handful of vitamins as he headed to his bathroom. Throwing off his shorts and undershirt, he turned on the shower and let it run on his head and body even before it warmed up, trying as best he could to keep his dressings dry. The shock to his system started to clear up the cobwebs. In 15 minutes, after downing four Advil, he was out the door. He estimated he could stay a half hour ahead of the hangover’s inevitable return. On the cab ride to his office Scarne thought over his behavior the night before. It had been years since he let himself go like that.

  “We’re here, mister.”

  Scarne came out of his trance. He was feeling shaky. The hangover had closed the gap. Black coffee and an artery-clogging donut were now necessities. When he entered his waiting room, he was surprised to see it empty. He checked his watch. It was just 10:10. Evelyn walked out of the small conference room.

  “I put them in there. Sit at the head of the table. I left the blinds up. The light will be in their eyes.” She looked at him appraisingly. “And if they don’t lock you up, take the rest of the day off.”

  “I intend to. Thanks, you’re a pip.”

  He started toward the conference room, and Evelyn said, “Wait a minute.”

  She went to her desk, opened the top drawer and grabbed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She slipped them in the right side pocket of his jacket.

  “Just in case,” she said.

  He opened the door to the conference room. Bookshelves lined one wall. Centered on the other wall was a large wooden-framed Mercator map of the world, dated 1939. It had been his grandfather’s. In the corner of the room nearest the door was a small table, on which sat a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee box and a tray containing what looked to be two and a half donuts. Since Evelyn never bought less than a dozen, it was apparent that these lawmen had not been insulted by the gesture. One was just closing up a cell phone and brushing some white powder off his jacket. Another was reading the backs of books on one of the shelves. He turned to Scarne.

  “You must have all the Spenser novels. My wife loves the fact he’s so loyal to his girlfriend, what’s her name, Susan something?”

  He walked over to Scarne and extended his hand.

  “Special Agent Jack Casey, Federal Bureau of Investigation. The guy cleaning sugar off his pants is my partner, Tom Valledolmo. And that’s Noah Sealth, Seattle Homicide.”

  A large black man in brown pants and a tweed sports coat nodded to Scarne but made no effort to rise or shake hands.

  “Silverman,” Scarne said. “Her name is Susan Silverman.” He walked to the head of the table and shook the other Federal agent’s hand. “She has Spenser wrapped around her finger.”

  “That’s funny, coming from you,” Sealth said, chewing a cream donut.

  “What the hell does that mean,” Scarne said. “And what’s going on? Where’s the CIA and the Secret Service?”

  “With you, only a matter of time,” Sealth said.

  The two Federal officers put their cards on the pad at the head of the table. Sealth rather dismissively threw his in the general direction. Scarne didn’t even look at them. These guys were right out of central casting. Besides, Evelyn would have vetted them. He reached for his wallet. Casey waived him off.

  “Your secretary gave us your cards. She’s very good, by the way.”

  Scarne walked over to the coffee service. The only donuts left were plain dunkers. Damn! He drained a small bottle of orange juice and poured a coffee. Then he sat at the head of the table and looked at the black cop from Seattle.

  “You flew all the way in from the coast to eat the good donuts?”

  “I was starving. I caught the red eye and been in meetings since. All the F.B.I. had was granola and shit. You could tell these guys are deprived. They hit those sinkers like they were going to the chair.”

  Evelyn walked in holding a napkin with a jelly donut covered in sugar and half a caramel cream donut with sprinkles. She put them in front of him.

  “You don’t need the other half of the cream donut,” she said. “It is delicious, though.”

  He could have kissed her. She smiled at the other men and walked out.

  “She’s very, very good,” Casey amended.

  All were now seated. Sealth was eying the jelly donut, so Scarne took a quick bite, and then to be careful, took a nibble out of the cream one as well.

  “Well, I guess you want to know why we’re here, Mr. Scarne,” Casey said.

  Scarne nodded, and took a long sip of his coffee. It was hot and strong.

  “Does the name Carlo Brutti ring a bell with you?”

  The question came from Seattle. Scarne drew a blank on the name, although he didn’t like the sound of it. When a cop asks about a guy who sounds like a regular on the Sopranos, he’s probably not talking opera.

  “No. Should it?”

  “Well, we thought it might,” said Valledolmo, “since you strangled him in a bathtub in Antigua.”

  CHAPTER 42 – THE BLADE

  Scarne thought he took the news well, considering. Carlo Brutti was obviously someone he shouldn’t have killed. He hoped the sugar and caffeine would kick in soon. He had to start thinking clearly.

  Valledolmo put a briefcase on the table, opened it and slid a photo to Scarne. It showed a photo of burly man in an expensive suit walking down the stairs of what appeared to be a courthouse. He was smiling at a gaggle of reporters surrounding him. It was the man from the shower.

  “Does this refresh your memory?”

  “He didn’t look this happy the last time I saw him,” Scarne said, testily. “And I forgot to ask his name while he was slashing at me with his pig sticker.” He was tired of being everyone’s punching bag, even if he deserved it. “Now, before we go any further or I run out of donuts, whichever comes first, tell me what this is all about. If you know the man’s name, you know it was self defense and I was cleared by the local authorities.”

  Sealth sat up loudly and pointed a finger at Scarne.

  “Listen, dickwad, we’ll do the asking. In case you don’t realize it by now, you’re in deep shit. I don’t give a rat’s ass what a bunch of Caribbean craptown constables think happened. Local authorities, indeed. Those guys wouldn’t know a homicide from a hemorrhoid, and they’re bought and paid for anyway. Brutti was Seattle beef and I don’t need any New York hotshot P.I. who can’t keep his dick in his pants dripping all over my investigation. These two Feebies may be impressed by the fact you’re a pal of the police commissioner, but he ain’t my commissioner, so I don’t give a flying fuck.”

  Should have let him have that jelly donut, Scarne thought. A familiar hot flash began in his chest and spread toward his face. His blood roared in his ears. Could he slug an out-of-town cop? As he started to rise Casey jumped up.

  “Whoa, hold it, Mr. Scarne. Please sit down. We’re only here to gather information.” He smiled pleasantly. “We’re not trying to be confrontational.”

  Sealth’s scowl accented high cheekbones that hinted at a mix of races. American Indian?

  “I want to apologize for Detective Sealth,” Casey continued. “He’s had a couple of long days. Probably jet lagged. Anyway, Mr. Scarne …”

  That was as far as Scarne let him get.

  “Cut the crap, Casey. Aside from some minor jurisdictional problems – a guy from Seattle killed by a New Yorker in the Caribbean – you can’t do good cop, bad cop with three cops. What’s he here for?” Scarne pointed at Valledolmo. “To hold you guys apart when you come to blows?”

  Casey sighed.

 
“Hell, we’ll start over. I didn’t think it would work. You were on the job once and we know all about your reputation, good and bad. But I figured we’d take a shot. But listen, Jake … can I call you Jake?”

  “Sure.” He smiled at Sealth. “It’s a step up from dickwad.”

  Casey shook his head, and went on. “This is serious business. You may not have done anything wrong, but the Brutti family controls the Mafia in Seattle. Carlo was heir apparent and chief enforcer.”

  “Skip the horse-head-in-the-bed crap,” Scarne said. “I’ve had a rough week. It sounds like I saved you a lot of trouble. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is Victor Ballantrae. You may have saved him a lot of trouble and we’d like to know why?”

  The name had its desired effect. Scarne looked at the three men and considered his options. He had to balance the possibility of learning things that could save him weeks of legwork, and perhaps his life, against revealing the confidences of his client. Of course, the client relationship had been severed by a downtown local. Scarne was now his own client. An unpleasant thought, given his recent incompetence. But at least the checks would clear.

  “Look, fellas, I’d bet we’re on the same side of whatever this thing is. You didn’t come here to arrest me. I’ll play straight with you and not lawyer up if you give me some idea of what this is all about.”

  Casey looked at the other two men. Valledolmo shrugged and Sealth said, “Why not? He probably knows more than we do.”

  Casey got more coffee.

  “After the financial meltdown in 2008,” he said, “the Bureau set up a special unit here in New York to look into financial crimes.”

  “Too bad it didn’t do it before the shit hit the fan,” Sealth said.

  “Spilt milk. Anyway, Tom and I decided to take another look at some anonymous tips and rumors that the S.E.C. and other regulators had previously ignored. Victor Ballantrae popped up on the radar.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  Casey waved his hand dismissively.

  “I don’t want to go into details, but the usual crap: money laundering, insurance fraud, Ponzis, etc.”

  “I hear the West Coast mobs use his offshore bank to hide cash,” Scarne said, “including millions of dollars stolen from the government of the Ukraine in the 1990’s.”

  The three men stared at him.

  “See, I told you he knows shit,” Sealth said.

  “Where did you…?” Valledolmo blurted. “Oh, forget it. You’re not gonna tell us.”

  “In any event,” Casey said, resignedly, “we don’t have nearly enough hard evidence for wiretaps or bugs. And Ballantrae is a hard man to pin down. He travels around a lot on his own planes. But his base is in Miami so we asked our field office there to keep an eye on him. They put a semi-permanent tail on him and his close associates, some of whom have some pretty interesting jackets. When you showed up to play golf with him you became a person of interest, as they say. Figured it was a business deal of some sort.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Valledolmo said happily, “but the agents figured you for a hood.”

  “Some of my best friends are hoods.”

  “No surprise there,” Valledolmo said. “Anyway, Ballantrae does a lot of business on the course. Tough to be overheard. But we got some nice long- range video of the three of you. The S.O.B. cheated his ass off, you know. Hope you weren’t playing for a lot of money. Great shot on 18, though. Took real balls. What did you hit?”

  “A 2-iron.”

  “A 2-iron! What, you planning an insanity defense for the Brutti thing?”

  “If you guys are through,” Casey said, exasperated, “can I go on? When Ballantrae hopped on to a corporate jet after your match we put a loose tail on you. Picked you up the next day when you headed to Loeb’s house.”

  “Voila, your first dead body,” Sealth said.

  “There’s obviously a party going on,” Casey went on. “All sorts of shady characters. Too good a chance to pass up. Our Miami guys braced the caterer. After they asked him about his staff’s green cards, he was happy to give a waiter’s uniform to an agent, who waltzed in with an itty bitty camera. By day’s end he has photos of everybody. Very thorough. Some topless gals he photographed more than once.”

  “I don’t remember anyone taking photos at the party.”

  “You didn’t pick up our tail in Miami, Boca Raton and Antigua either. That’s what happens when your mind is on other things, my friend.”

  Scarne wasn’t prepared to argue that.

  “Our ‘waiter’ took his shots from inside the house. Just slipped up to the second floor, picked a room with a view of the pool area and fired away.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any shots of the murder? Your man must have thought he died and went to heaven to be on the scene.”

  “We wish. He was taking a leak when that happened. And before you ask, the only boat in the background in any photos is the cabin cruiser Garza and Keitel used to chase the speedboat. Oh, yeah. We know all about them. They were identified early on in our database. Lovely couple.”

  He turned to Valledolmo.

  “Tom, fill him in.”

  “Jesús Garza worked for Cuban intelligence. He specialized in infiltrating the expat community in Miami before he decided there was no future in that line of work, at least financially. He switched sides and gave up his network. Half the murders in Miami for a decade were political reprisals disguised as gang warfare or muggings. Some he did personally, to validate his bona fides and take care of any old mates who suspected him.”

  “Murder is murder. Why didn’t someone stop him and his friends?”

  It was Casey who answered. He looked unhappy.

  “I know. It sucks. But the feeling at the time was that they were doing God’s work. What can I say? Miami isn’t the United States. Anyway, Garza made a name for himself and went freelance. Somehow, he was recruited by Ballantrae. He brought Keitel on board later.”

  Scarne looked at Valledolmo.

  “What’s his story?”

  “Christian Keitel is former German military. Was in the KSK Special Power Commando, an elite unit trained for secret combat operations. It was active against Eastern European countries during the Cold War. Highly decorated. Apparently fearless. Came to this country about 10 years ago. Lots of Germans gravitate to Florida. It’s heaven to them. We figure he met Garza in one of the gay hot spots in South Beach.”

  “So, Garza and his boyfriend are Ballantrae’s muscle?”

  “More than that. They apparently have some operational responsibilities.”

  “How did you finger me? You get my name from the Miami cops?”

  “Hell, no,” Casey said. “From your wallet. Remember the waiter who brought out your shirt? That was our guy.” He was justified in bragging; the man had been good, playing the scared illegal to the hilt. “He didn’t wait around to collect anyone else’s name. Didn’t want to let the locals know we were interested in Ballantrae. You know how city cops can screw things up.” He glanced at the Seattle detective. “No offense, Noah.”

  “None taken,” Sealth said mildly. “But they might like photos of the crime scene.”

  “We checked the photos. Nothing in them that had anything to do with the murder. Mostly head shots taken before Goetz bought it. Homicide and CSI talked to everyone and took their own pix. We wouldn’t have added anything.”

  “Right,” Sealth said, with a tinge of disgust.

  Scarne asked, “How did your man leave without being interviewed?”

  “He changed clothes in the catering truck and flashed his credentials to the uniforms doing perimeter security,” Valledolmo said. “They thought he belonged. He just walked away.”

  “I didn’t know you from Adam,” Casey continued, “but my boss recognized the name. She had trouble believing it, until your photo came through. But, lo and behold, it’s the famous, or should I say, infamous, Jake Scarne, P.I. extraordinair
e.”

  “Lo and behold?”

  “He talks that way,” Valledolmo said. “I take it out of our reports.”

  “If I might continue,” Casey said. “Nothing piques our interest like an assassination in broad daylight while we’re passing out canapés, so we were able to free up some more assets to follow you and the delectable Ms. Loeb to Antigua. That was my boss’s idea. Not one of your bigger fans, I might add. She said that you could fuck up a wet dream. But she also said that you always seemed to be where the action was and probably wouldn’t do anything too illegal. So, we went with it. At first, we thought we drew a blank in Antigua. Our guy reported that you seemed to just having a good time with the lady.”

  Casey saw the reaction and held up a hand.

  “Hey, I’m not being judgmental. You’re over 21, even if the lady is bad news. Nobody is blaming you. I was pretty sure the whole thing was a waste of time from our angle. Our guy was actually getting antsy to go home.”

  “They have it cushy in Miami,” Valledolmo added, sourly.

  “But then you killed the guy in the tub,” Casey continued, “and it turned out to be Carlo ‘The Blade’ Brutti.”

  “The Blade,” Scarne thought. That explains the shower fight.

  “Body No. 2,” Sealth said. “You were averaging being at the scene of a homicide about once every 36 hours. Course, it helps when you kill somebody yourself. Speeds things up. You can see why we might want to talk to you.”

  They were having a fine time, Scarne realized. Wait until they hear about Sheldon Shields and his son. He tried to buy a little time to think. He got up for more coffee. Jesus! Princess Diana in the tunnel had fewer people following her. And he hadn’t had a clue.

  “Needless to say,” Casey went on. “Brutti’s killing opened up a whole can of other worms. Our Organized Crime guys got interested. They contacted our Seattle office who, as it turned out, had been asked for help in locating Brutti by local homicide cops. Enter Detective Sealth here. By the way, Noah tells me that Brutti was about 20 and zip in knife fights for his career until he ran into you. You are either very lucky or very good. I bet we’ll find some interesting stuff in your military records. Anyway, Noah knew Brutti and his pals pretty well. I’ll let him pick this up from here. Quite a story.”