“What, no foreplay? Just wham, bam, thank you m’amm. Hold the KY jelly?” The old woman cackled and punched Scarne on the arm. “Just funnin’ with you. Now what do you need?”
Scarne couldn’t help but laugh.
“Sorry, my name is Jake Scarne and I’m a private investigator.” He pulled out his wallet and showed her his license, holding it close for her to see. “I’m trying to find out if two men involved in a case I’m working used one of your boats on a particular date.”
“Sonny, you don’t have to shove that in my face. Old Marge’s eyesight is probably better than yours. I can still spot a herring slick a mile away. What did these guys do that a New York private eye needs to know about their sailing habits? Drugs? Murder? Illegals? Or something really bad, like credit default swaps?”
Scarne was about to lie when she said, “Don’t matter. It’s privileged information. We have an exclusive clientele. They pay a lot of money to be able to use one of our boats whenever they want. It wouldn’t be good for business if we go around telling tales on them, now would it? And did you know that it’s against the law in Florida for a boat rental operation or boat club to reveal that kind of information to a third party without a subpoena? You got one of those?”
“No, I don’t.”
Scarne was debating how much cash it would take to get the woman to subvert the ridiculous law when she cackled.
“Well, that don’t matter either, cause I made that shit up about the Florida law. I’m making minimum wage here. You think I give a rat’s ass about boater privilege? Goddamn government knows when we take a crap. Nothin’s a secret anymore. What’s their names?”
Scarne could have kissed her (well, maybe, he thought).
“Jesús Garza and Christian Keitel.”
“Why didn’t you say so at the beginning? They’re famous around here. Sank one of our boats, for Crissakes. Gave us some cock and bull story about losing control. Way I heard it, they ran full tilt into a bridge. Probably all coked up. Thank God for the insurance.”
Scarne recalled Alana telling him that Garza and Keitel had an “accident” chasing the sniper at the pool.
“They give me the creeps, those two,” Marge said. “I don’t even want to know why you’re asking about them. Come across so smooth. But they can’t fool me. Pair of barracuda. Hold on a sec, honey buns.” Her hands flew across the computer’s keyboard and she worked the mouse like a teen-ager. “Here it is. Take a look-see.” She motioned Scarne behind the counter. “See, this is their account. It shows how many hours they’ve purchased, how many hours they’ve used, how many are left, blah, blah, blah. I hit this thingamajig and we get to the page showing past usage. Dates. Type of craft. Hours used on those dates. All sorts of stuff. What date you interested in?”
Scarne told her and she scrolled backwards. Garza and Keitel took out boats about twice a month. He asked about the (WR) notation next to the dates.
“Means weekend rate. It’s higher than during the week. Your boys only went out on weekends. Here we are. Hey look at that. I spoke too soon.”
The date she pointed to with a bony finger did not have a (WR) next to it. Scarne knew it was a Wednesday. It was the only weekday Garza and Keitel had ever taken out a boat. Even the time fit – 2 P.M. to 8 P.M.
She looked up at him and saw the smile.
“Well, Sherlock, you look like the cat that swallowed a canary. Something tells me you found a clue. Am I right?”
“It’s been so long I’m not sure.” But Scarne couldn’t quite keep the excitement out of his voice.
“This even tells you what kind of boat they took,” the woman said, getting into the moment. “See those initials – SL50 and HAT50 – that means…”
“…Sealine and Hatteras 50-footers.”
“Well, ain’t you the bright one. Regular Jeopardy candidate.”
Garza and Keitel had discussed those very boats with Scarne at the party when Goetz was killed. From the list on the computer, it seemed that those were their craft of choice. So, they’d managed to sink a Sealine. Not easy to do on a calm inland waterway. But they hadn’t taken such a large boat out on the date Scarne had given the woman. On that date, they had taken out a DSK24.
The woman had noticed as well.
“Wonder why they took a Dusky out that day? Another clue, Shamus?”
It might not hold up in court, Scarne thought, but on the day Josh Shields died, a day they never went boating, Garza and Keitel took a Dusky from a marina a half-hour away from where he was fishing. And where a witness said he noticed a Dusky or Grady White in the water a few feet away. Scarne couldn’t help himself. He gave the woman a kiss.
“My, aren’t we the bold one. Don’t even know my name and you give me a kiss. Now you’re gonna have to buy old Margie a dinner.” She saw the look on his face and laughed. “Don’t sweat it sweetie. You don’t have to be there.”
“Thanks, Marge,” he said, handing her $100.
“Come back anytime, big spender,” she said.
Lancelot didn’t bother looking up as he left.
***
Scarne had the cab drop him off at a small public park adjacent to a fire station on Collins Avenue a few blocks short of La Gorce. He walked through the park to the beach and headed north to the apartment building on sand hard-packed by joggers. When he got to the back entrance at La Gorce, he waved his electronic “key” at the pad on the outside fence, and was rewarded with the familiar buzz. The same held true for the metal door that led into the garage. He didn’t want to chance the lobby elevators and a run-in with Mario. So he took the “recreation deck” elevator to the seventh floor and exited by the pool. An employee was skimming the pool. The man waved to Scarne indifferently. He entered the building proper and took an elevator to Josh’s floor. He walked to the apartment and tried the key. The lock hadn’t been changed!
Scarne despised this kind of work, but he was good at it. The bathrooms would be the easiest place to start. They were mostly tile and there were few spots to hide anything. Scarne took off his blue sports jacket, khaki trousers, shoes and socks. This would be dirty business. He reached in his overnight bag and pulled on a pair of thin latex gloves and the tool kit, then headed to the small bathroom off the guest room. It contained a shower stall, toilet and cabinets above and below the sink.
He turned on the overhead light and then unscrewed the cover before the bulb became too hot. Nothing there. He put the light fixture back together and walked into the shower stall and unscrewed the shower head and tried to pry out the floor drain. It didn’t budge, and looked like it never had. The soap dish was empty, and solidly entrenched. He then checked in and around the toilet bowl. He lifted the cover from the reservoir and dismantled most of the inner workings, paying particular attention to the ball cock. Nothing. He tried to lift the toilet. It didn’t budge. He checked in, around and under the sink and cabinet. The drawers below the sink contained towels. He checked every one, and then took the drawers out. He looked behind and under them. The open space below the sink contained the usual things such places contained, including bottles of shampoos and liquid drain cleaner. The shampoos were see-through, so he let them be. But he carefully began pouring the drain cleaner into the sink. It was drain cleaner.
When he was finished, the drain was probably working better than it had in years. He moved on to the medicine cabinet, where, luckily, there were only a few bottles of pills and powders. He emptied every one. He squeezed the toothpaste. He didn’t know what he was looking for but felt certain that he would recognize anything out of place. The mirror looked, well, like a mirror and didn’t appear to have been tampered with. He checked the towel racks. They also looked undisturbed and firmly planted. He checked his watch. This one little bathroom had taken him almost 45 minutes! He shrugged.
Just outside the bathroom was a utility closet, with an over and under washer/dryer combination. That would be a bitch to search. He’d come back to that. He headed to the master
bathroom on the other side of the apartment. Following the same routine, he cleared it in just under an hour, even though it was three times the size of the first one. A lot of wasted space, he thought. Had both bathrooms been about the same sizes, the designer could have fit another small bedroom or den in the apartment. He was certain he missed nothing, even unscrewing the water jets in the Jacuzzi tub. Another waste, he thought. The huge tub was impractical, considering that the room’s walk-in shower could fit three people, and the building had a heated spa by the main pool.
He walked back to the guest bedroom. Josh Shields had only the best equipment, including Shimano reels and Loomis rods. Everything was meticulously maintained. There was no rust on any metal surfaces, including lures and hooks. Even a battered and ancient “Old Pal Pail” minnow bucket resting on a shelf was spotless. It now held only a variety of lead sinkers and cork bobbers. He guessed that the bucket was a cherished relic from childhood (Scarne had kept his own until it rusted through in college, where it had done yoeman’s service as a beer bucket). He wondered if Sheldon had given it to his son, and probably couldn’t bear to take it home. He checked the bucket, and every tackle box, rod, reel, lure and fishing vest.
He tore apart the bed and looked under the rug, in the drapes, rods and blinds. He looked behind pictures on the wall, in lamps and the smoke alarm. He unscrewed everything that could be unscrewed. Standing on a chair, he checked the ceiling fan. He would never trust a ceiling fan again, he thought bitterly. He opened all the air vents. On the way out, he checked the utility closet, pulling out the washer/dryer. He made a lot of noise, but it couldn’t be helped. By the time Scarne headed back to the master bedroom another two hours had passed and he was sweating and filthy. His fingers ached and he had skinned his knuckles painfully despite the gloves.
Scarne was hungry. He stripped off his gloves and went to the kitchen and found some Genoa salami, provolone cheese and olives in the refrigerator. As he cut into the salami he half hoped a computer disk might fall out. It didn’t. He wasn’t looking forward to going through the cabinets and all the food and appliances in the kitchen but there was nothing for it. He put on a pot of coffee. He swirled a knife through the coffee can. Nothing. Fortified by his snack and two cups of black coffee he put the gloves back on and headed to the back bedroom and its large walk-in closet. When he emerged he was confident that he hadn’t missed anything. The only thing of value, to him anyway, was an unopened pack of cigarettes, buried deep in a drawer. He found some matches in the kitchen and had a smoke with another cup of coffee.
Scarne had been in the apartment for more than six hours. He spent another hour in the living room, with all its electronics, bookshelves and bric-a-brac. He searched every book, vase, table and chair. He heard doors opening and closing in the hallway, and cooking smells began to waft into the apartment. He had a sickening feeling that he was on a wild goose chase.
He washed up as best he could, put on his clothes and headed down to the garage on the sixth floor. He had searched Josh’s car briefly during his previous trip. There aren’t many places to hide things in a car, unless you are a heroin dealer or Goldfinger, in which case you take off the side panels or the exhaust system, or perhaps rip up the leather and reupholster everything. And nobody who loves his sports car would do that to hide a disk or flash drive. Scarne spent an hour on the Mustang, checking the inside, engine compartment and trunk. Like the apartment, it was clean.
Scarne realized that the only thing he’d accomplished for a full day’s work was not being seen. Perhaps the opposite would be more productive. If Ballantrae knew Scarne was mucking about he might do something rash. He looked at his watch. Ballantrae was hosting a company party at the Forge within the hour. Scarne decided to crash it and see what happened.
He knew that calling the lack of a plan a plan was a sign of desperation, but there was little to lose at this point. And Alana would probably be there. He looked at Josh’s car. It probably now belonged to Randolph. Smiling at the thought, Scarne got in, turned on the ignition and drove out of the building.
An hour later he left the Delano showered, shaved and dressed for the lion’s den at the Forge, the Bersa resting comfortably on his hip.
CHAPTER 47 – SHELL GAME
It was still early. Miami’s famous nightlife had yet to kick in and Scarne found a parking spot across the street from the Forge. He suspected that he might not want to wait for a valet to get his car. A hostess directed him to the Ballantrae function. As he walked through a small courtyard he saw waiters cleaning tables and closing two service bars. Probably a cocktail hour before the dinner. He could hear Ballantrae’s voice through the door to a small salon just off the courtyard.
Scarne walked to the door. Ballantrae was standing at a table giving a speech. He had his free hand negligently touching Alana Loeb’s shoulder, who was sitting at the table with three other couples. There were perhaps 60 other people at the other tables in the room listening to Ballantrae, who was saying something about “our best year ever.” Scarne didn’t like the look of Ballantrae’s hand on Alana. It seemed intimate, or at least proprietary. He realized that in addition to everything else he felt, he was jealous.
Ballantrae kept talking even as his eyes followed Scarne, who casually walked over to another service bar and ordered a Jack Daniels. A few other men also turned their heads in his direction. They looked like men who stayed healthy because they noticed people like Scarne walking into a room. He felt the comforting weight of the Bersa on his hip. Among those who took an interest were Garza and Keitel, sitting alone at a small table opposite the bar. They looked at him impassively. After a moment, a small smile formed on Garza’s lips and he raised his drink. Scarne returned the gesture. When he turned back to look at Ballantrae, who was now talking some claptrap about “the new paradigm of our financial services model,” his eyes locked with Alana’s. There was warning in her eyes, and something else that told Scarne he needn’t be jealous.
Ballantrae finished his little speech with a flourish. There was a burst of laughter and overdone applause. As if on cue, waiters started descending on the tables. Alana got up and walked quickly over to Scarne. Ballantrae started shaking the hands of people who walked up to him.
“Jake, what are you doing? I didn’t know you were back.” She spoke calmly but there was tension in her body. “You should have called me. We have to talk. Why come here? This isn’t the place.” She lowered her voice. “I’m leaving the company. I have a few loose ends to tie up. Some things are out of control.”
“Like the video in Antigua?”
“Video? What video? I don’t understand.”
She didn’t know. He was sure of it. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Garza and Keitel closing in. He leaned toward her and whispered, “We’re about to have company. Someone taped us in bed in Antigua and has used the video against me. I half thought you were in on it.”
Her eyes widened, either in surprise or anger at his accusation.
“It’s nice to know you’re not. Even if there is a lot I think you’re guilty of. Now it seems someone is gunning for the both of us. Strange bedfellows, no?”
“Mr. Scarne, isn’t it?”
It was Garza, smiling his pearly whites.
“Speaking of strange bedfellows,” Scarne said.
Garza’s smile disappeared, then came back with just a little less wattage.
“Did you hear that, Christian, he disapproves of our lifestyle.”
Scarne had to laugh at the man’s boldness.
“Your lifestyle is your own business and it’s probably the only thing about you two that doesn’t bother me. Tell me, have you killed anyone today, Jesús? What about you, Christian?”
A strangled sound came from Alana.
“The night’s young,” Keitel said quietly as he leaned past Scarne to take a glass of wine off the bar. He gave it to his partner and then got one for himself as Victor Ballantrae came up to them.
“Jake,
how nice to see you,” Ballantrae said, extending his hand, which Scarne took. “How are you feeling?”
He was in the company of three hard-looking men. Scarne’s Bersa felt better by the moment. One of the men ordered straight vodka and leaned against the bar, staring curiously at Scarne. The other two didn’t order anything but stood to the side and scanned the room’s entrances. Scarne recognized the chiseled features of the vodka drinker from the F.B.I. photo: Andriy Boyko. He did look like a banker in his three-piece suit.
“I’m doing well, Victor. Thanks for asking.”
Ballantrae adopted a pose of thoughtful concern.
“I think what you did in Antigua was wonderful. It must have been rough. But you saved Alana’s life, and, for that, I will be eternally grateful. As we all are. You don’t look too much the worse for wear. Amazing, after going up against a robber like that. Crime on the island is getting out of hand. I’m going to have a word with the Prime Minister about it.”
Scarne smiled, but said nothing.
“But tell me, what brings you here? I’m glad you are, of course. I was going to ring you up. Where are you staying? We owe you something for what you did.”
“The Delano. I’m clearing up some things related to the Shields murders.”
“Murders? I know you think the death of young Shields was suspicious, but I was given to understand Sheldon Shields died in an accident. Or perhaps took his own life. A real tragedy. I sent a note to his brother. I liked the old gentleman. Does the family actually think they were both murdered?”
He said it in a way that made it clear he found the whole idea preposterous.
“In fact, no. They fired me. I’m currently unemployed, so I thought I’d kick over some rocks down here and see what crawls out.”
“Why don’t you just leave it all alone, Jake? The family apparently doesn’t put much credence in your theories. Frankly, neither do I. You’ve had a tough time. You need a rest. Take some time off and then come talk to me. I could always use a man with your talents. Isn’t that right, Alana?” He gave Scarne his best salesman smile. “I’m talking top dollar.”
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