Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  ***

  “So, what do we know?”

  Evelyn Warr didn’t reply immediately. She was unwrapping sandwich bags and opening two frosty Sam Adams Octoberfest beer bottles. They were having a late working lunch at his desk. Scarne had spent the morning and early afternoon reading everything he could find on the Internet about the Pearsall murder and the proposed NASCAR track, and lining up appointments for the next day on Staten Island.

  He always let Evelyn pick the food, which ordinarily would be full of sprouts. But today she was in a celebratory mood and wanted to indulge him. Jake was more animated than he’d been in weeks. He had a real case, unlike the humdrum marital and insurance work he had been content with (he said) for the past few months. The office filled with the smell of pastrami from the Carnegie Delicatessen as Evelyn doled out some potato salad, spread the pickles and applied the mustard.

  Evelyn put a large piece of cheese cake to the side. Scarne’s eyes followed it like a Great Blue Heron stalking a frog in the Everglades. He knew he would only get a sliver. The rest of it, and half of Evelyn’s sandwich, would go to one of the homeless men she passed on her way home.

  “Well, for one thing, the killer is Polish.” she said finally. “Or at least is of Polish extraction. And might be named Gadomski.”

  She wrote something down on the yellow legal pad now balanced delicately on the knee of one of her delectable legs. She took a bite of her sandwich. How she could write, converse, drink beer and eat a dripping mile-high pastrami sandwich at the same time was a mystery to Scarne. She would emerge spotless. He stood a good chance of looking like a Rorschach test.

  “This would be a lot easier if our man was Czechoslovakian with a name that looks like a line on an optometrist’s eye chart,” Evelyn said. “But we’ll make do. He has pancreatic cancer, is presumably in his 60’s if he fought in Vietnam. He, or his family, went to St. Stanislaw Roman Catholic Church on Staten Island.” She looked up. “Was that really the church in Working Girl? Melanie Griffith was wonderful. So was the theme song, by Carly Simon, Let the River Run.” Evelyn was a movie buff. “The song won an Oscar, though it had precious little to do with the plot. And he is left handed.”

  Scarne stopped in mid bite, pastrami hanging off his lower lip.

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  “Just kidding. Wanted to see if you were paying attention. Wipe your mouth.”

  Scarne laughed. Evelyn Warr, sweet, smart, sexy and very British, was the kind of office manager (secretary or office assistant would never do) that any executive would kill for. Now she theatrically drew a line across the pad.

  “That’s what we know, above the line, so to speak in bridge parlance. Let’s see what we can infer below the line.” She looked at Scarne. “Your turn. I’m tired of doing all the work.”

  Scarne was halfway through his sandwich. He took a forkful of potato salad and a swig of beer.

  “I think he is still local. Probably not on Staten Island, or Dudley would have flushed him, but elsewhere in the tri-state area. If he was from way out of town, I doubt he would have come back to confess his sins, no matter how badly his conscience bothered him. He’s nearing the end, sought comfort at the church of his childhood. He told the priest that he had the best doctors in ‘the city.’ I think we can assume he means Manhattan. Find out what hospitals specialize in treating pancreatic cancer here. See if they are treating anyone named Gadomski. Meanwhile, I’ll run down that bakery on Staten Island. Maybe somebody in the old neighborhood remembers something.”

  “I wonder if hit men have medical insurance,” Evelyn mused.

  “He may be old enough for Social Security by now,” Scarne said. “And could be on Medicare.”

  “The mind boggles,” she said. “But, listen, Jake, I’m going to run into confidentiality problems with the hospitals.”

  “I know. Maybe you can just ask to speak to Mr. Gadomski, or inquire about his condition. Everyone has a concerned aunt. Use guile.”

  “You mean lie?”

  “You’re a Brit. Make believe you work for a London tabloid.”

  “What about the V.A. hospitals? The military is a veritable finishing school for professional assassins. You Yanks have been fighting one war or another for 60 years or so.”

  “We only picked up where you Brits left off,” Scarne retorted. “Still, let’s hold off on that for now. The V.A. system has gotten a lot better, but I don’t think it can compete with our top private hospitals in oncology. They probably refer the tough cases to the experts. While you are at it, compile a list of all the Gadomskis in the tri-state area. It can’t be that common a name.”

  “There are 45, with 23 in Manhattan alone,” Evelyn said, one step ahead of him, as usual. “I have them all listed on my computer. Only two on Staten Island, though. I presume you’ll start there.”

  “Yeah. That’s where I have my biggest clue.”

  “Which is?”

  “A jelly donut.”

  “Don’t despair, Jake. Sherlock Holmes didn’t even need a jelly donut to solve a case. Of course, he was British.”

  She began to cut a sliver from the slice of cheese cake.

  “Is that going on a microscope slide?’

  “You’re such a baby. I’ll take this one.”

  She then cut a piece for Scarne that, to his surprise, wasn’t transparent.

  CHAPTER 11 – THE REGISTER

  Scarne had never been to the Richmond Register’s spanking new publishing complex on Fingerborad Road in Arrochar. All aluminum and glass and sharp angles, it was a far cry from the newspaper’s original brink and mortar monstrosity in Rosebank, which now served as a T-shirt factory.

  When staying with the Mack clan during and after college, he had often accompanied Dudley to the old newspaper plant when his friend had to drop off a death notice or arrange advertising for his family’s funeral business. Occasionally, both boys would stop by the sports department to deliver the scores and highlights of the various community or parish basketball and baseball games. In the beginning, the highlights stressed how brilliantly Dudley Mack and Jake Scarne had performed. That annoyed not only their teammates, but also the opposition, which, in basketball, consisted of wiry, black doo-ragged toughs from the projects and, on the baseball diamond, frustrated Irish, Italian or Polish fireplugs. Hard fouls on the courts and a succession of bean balls soon convinced them to spread the glory around in print. (“I didn’t know any of those mooks could read,” Dudley had commented after a taste of chin music from an irate pitcher.)

  One thing hadn’t changed at the new building. There was still not enough parking. Scarne circled the lot twice before sliding his lovingly restored 1974 MGB into a “Handicap Parking” spot. He assumed the cops left the newspaper alone. Having seen men and women sprinting from their handicap-tagged cars to make tee times at golf courses, often carrying heavy bags, Scarne knew Handicap Parking was one of the nation’s great scams. For every legitimate handicapped person there was a robust family member who used the car on errands, or some political contributor who wheedled a sticker out of city hall.

  Despite his belief, Scarne felt momentarily guilty as he got out. It would be obvious to anyone that no one with even the slightest disability could climb out of a low-slung roadster. To make matters worse, he spotted a senior citizen with a walker being helped from his car by a teen-aged girl nearby. Scarne suppressed the temptation to fake a limp as he headed to the front door. He walked into the spacious lobby and up to a reception desk, which was piled high with that day’s edition. A woman who looked as if she held the prints for Guttenberg looked up from her crossword puzzle and smiled at him.

  “Can I help you, young man?”

  Her voice was firm, her diction clear. Scarne recognized her immediately, but didn’t believe it.

  “Mrs. Quinn?”

  “Yes, do I know you?”

  Madeline Quinn was an institution at the paper when Scarne had dropped off the ball scores and
funeral notices. She must have been in her late 60’s back then. Was it possible she still worked the reception desk at the paper?

  “I used to give you the death notices with Dudley Mack, Mrs. Quinn.” He would have never thought to call her Madeline. “I’m Jake Scarne.”

  “Well, of course you are, dear. Hard to forget a couple of reprobates like you two.”

  Scarne was oddly pleased that she remembered him, whatever the reason.

  “You’re a little thicker around the middle, perhaps, although not as thick as Mr. Mack. He still stops by, just to say hello. They mostly just email the notices now, of course. I told him to cut back on the corned beef. He tells me that when I kick the bucket he’s going to cremate me and flick his cigar ashes in my urn and tell everyone I’ve put on weight. Wonderful man. Can’t believe everything you read about him in the papers, can you? Although I guess I shouldn’t say that around this place. Give me a straightforward crook any day, rather than some of these political types.”

  Scarne smiled down at the little old lady, who was obviously long past the point where she had to watch what she said.

  “You look wonderful, Mrs. Quinn.” It was true. Her hair was all white, but there was plenty of it, and it was nicely coiffed. Her skin tone was good, and there were surprisingly few wrinkles for a woman who had to be past 80. “How have you been? I would have thought you’d have” … Scarne caught himself … “retired by now.”

  “And do what? Climb the Matterhorn? See the world? Been there, done that. They’re going to name a cruise ship after me. No, I’ve got to keep working. Going on 60 years here. Second longest employee at the paper, after Frank Bacci, down in printing. He started as a kid, maybe 15, running galleys back and forth. Now he’s the foreman. Doesn’t do much, everything is automated. I think they put a mirror under his nose every now and then, just to be sure. He’s aiming to get his 75-year pin, and I’m not betting against him.”

  She turned away for a minute to take a package from a UPS driver.

  “Where was I?” It was obvious she enjoyed Scarne’s visit. “Oh, yes. I’ve been here forever. Thought we’d be put out to pasture when the family sold out to the mucky-mucks, but old man Simons – he was a peach – had them write into the contract that we could stay on as long as we wanted. I don’t think the new owners thought we’d hang on like this, but they’ve been pretty decent about it. Both Frank and I got written up in People Magazine in an article about the nation’s longest-serving employees, something like that. It’s good public relations for the corporation, which could use some. They’ve even stopped with the buyout offers. But I’m rambling like an old lady. I guess you’re not here to put in some ball scores. Most people just call them in now. Place has gotten pretty hoity-toity. We don’t just let people wander in anymore like the old days. Too bad, really. So, who are you here to see?”

  “I have an appointment with Beldon Popp.”

  “Well, let me call up for you.” She picked up the phone and punched a button. “Peggy, dear, there is a Mr. Scarne to see Mr. Popp. Of course. I’ll send him right up. You’re a peach.” She hung up and pulled over a pad of visitor’s tags, tore off one and wrote Scarne’s name down, adding a little smiley face. She handed it to Scarne, who peeled off the back and started putting on his left lapel when she stopped him. “No, no. Put it on your right side. It makes it easier for people to read your name when they shake your hand. Remember that when you go to a convention. What are you up to now? Still friends with Mr. Mack?”

  “We keep in touch,” Scarne said. “I’m a private investigator. Looking into the death of Bob Pearsall’s daughter. I guess that must have been quite a shock to everyone around here.”

  Mrs. Quinn didn’t seem surprised, only interested. Tough to surprise people in their eighth decade, Scarne knew.

  “We were all broken up about it. Elizabeth was a darling girl, and everyone loved Bob. Man loses his wife and only child in such short order, well, I don’t have to tell you how sad that is. Is there new information?”

  “There might be.”

  Scarne didn’t offer anything else. His purpose in mentioning the reason for his visit was to get the word out. With Mrs. Quinn as a conduit, everyone at the paper, and the borough, would soon know of his inquiries.

  “Well, I wish you good luck. Just go through that door over there and take the elevator to Editorial, on the third floor. Tell the receptionist there that Mr. Popp is expecting you. More security here than at the Pentagon. His office is in the far corner. She’ll direct you.”

  Two minutes later Scarne was ushered into Beldon Popp’s corner office by his assistant, who directed him to a comfortable chair.

  “Mr. Popp will be right back. He had to run downstairs to the computer room for a minute. Can I get you anything?”

  Scarne declined and began to look around. It was his experience that you could tell a lot about a person by his or her office. Beldon Popp’s desk was surprisingly uncluttered for a newsman. Other than a phone, laptop computer, the de rigueur in/out trays and an odd paper clip or pen, it was barren. There was no lamp, but the panels of the recessed ceiling lighting provided plenty of illumination. Only half of them were on, probably because during the day sunlight would stream in from two directions.

  The ledges below the office windows, and a large bookcase on the opposite wall, were filled with awards, plaques and photos. Scarne counted 20 of the latter, all but one showing Beldon Popp with various people, obviously at a dinner or ceremony of some sort. Popp with the President. Popp with the Governor. The new one, not the indicted one. Popp with Senators. Popp with Martha Stewart and Barbara Walters. Popp with the Steinbrenners. Popp with Derek Jeter. Scarne was instantly envious.

  There was one photo that brought a smile to Scarne’s face. It showed Popp sitting between Donald Trump and Aristotle Arachne on some dais. Trump and Arachne looked as if they had swallowed worms. It was common knowledge that the two real estate moguls despised one another; their frozen smiles indicated that whoever arranged the seating was in for a very hard time. If Emma came through with an introduction, perhaps Arachne could help out with more than NASCAR. He might know some people on Staten Island. Scarne made a mental note to tease him about the photo.

  The plaques and awards were mostly from local civic or political groups: the Republican, Democratic and Conservative parties; the Catholic Youth Organization; The Protestant Pastors’ League; B’nai B’rith, the Chamber of Commerce; the Borough President’s Council on the Arts; the Boy and Girl Scouts; the Richmond County Bar Association; the Staten Island Police Association (Scarne was now more confident about not getting a ticket for his Handicap Parking violation); the Richmond Court Officers Association; the bar association and dozens of charitable and non-profit organizations.

  Scarne was reading some of the inscriptions when Beldon Popp came through the door. After a cursory introduction and handshake, Popp waved him to a chair.

  “Seems pretty quiet out there,” Scarne said, indicating the half-empty newsroom.

  “Yes. It’s a tough time to be a newspaper. We’ve had some cutbacks.”

  “I remember the old building. People were sitting on top of each other.”

  Popp laughed.

  “So, I heard. That was too small, and this is too big. Had they seen the Internet coming they probably would have never moved, or at least they would have built something smaller.”

  “And cheaper?”

  “You’re right about that. I’d rather pay reporters than a mortgage, but what are you going to do?”

  “Well, don’t feel too bad. The New York Times made the same mistake, only about a billion dollars bigger.”

  “Yeah, there’s that,” Popp said, smiling. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, as I explained over the phone, I’m looking into the murder of Elizabeth Pearsall. I thought you, or someone on your staff, might provide me with information.”

  “Can I see your credentials?”

  Sca
rne pulled out his wallet and opened it to his private investigator’s license. He handed it across. While Popp made a charade of studying it carefully, Scarne sized him up. The managing editor of the Register was of medium build and height, with an incipient belly that, probably as a result of all those award dinners, strained against his vest . He was a lot younger than Scarne expected, perhaps in his early 40’s, and had a full head of black hair, crew cut, flecked with grey at the sides. He was trying for a moustache, probably to offset his bushy eyebrows, large, sad eyes, and long nose.

  “Who hired you?” Popp said as he passed the wallet back.

  Scarne smiled enigmatically. Popp reached in a drawer and pulled out a pipe. He didn’t light it, but put it in his mouth as he tilted his chair back.

  “Do you have new information?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you share it with me?”

  “Only that I have reason to believe that the murder wasn’t random. The girl wasn’t the target. Her father was.”

  Popp stared at Scarne.

  “That’s preposterous. Why hurt the daughter? Why not just kill Bob?”

  “I’m working on the theory that killing a Pulitzer Prize winner, hell, killing any newsman, might get people wondering what he was working on. But a seemingly random tragedy that drives him into retirement is another thing.”

  “Who would be that sick?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out. By the way, where is the Pulitzer?” Scarne pointedly looked over at the other awards. “I’d have thought you would display it prominently.”

  Popp was offended.

  “It was displayed ‘prominently!’ Out there in the newsroom, where it was won. I sent it out to have it properly framed and to add a dedication to Bob. It will be hung in the main lobby. We’re going to have a little ceremony.”

  Scarne was properly chagrined. After an awkward moment, Popp said, “But who would want to hurt Bob? The nursing home people?”