Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  “OK. You’re the expert. But you’d better be right, Roddenberry.”

  It was the name Sobok was using. The man missed the Star Trek humor. As for the implied threat, Sobok merely nodded. But he mentally filed it away.

  “Was Bimm’s information helpful?”

  “Quite. Not many people knew where Lacuna was so vulnerable. It made my job that much easier. Although I found the man distasteful. I can’t believe he is a physician.”

  “How did you get Lacuna .…?

  Sobok held up his hand. “It would be better if you only knew what you read in the papers.” He smiled. “But, of course, they will exaggerate.”

  The Rolls Royce was back in front of the hotel. The driver came around to open his door.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Sobok said as he got out.

  Cong Bao closed it behind him, and said, “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like .…”

  “I get that a lot,” Sobok said, smiling.

  “Some people think I resemble Sulu.”

  “Don’t see it. Sorry.”

  CHAPTER 21 – WORKING GIRL

  “I’m sorry you spent so much time looking for the wrong guy,” Scarne said. He and Evelyn were sitting in his office the day after he saw Dr. Gadomski. “The name now is Banaszak. Wit Banaszak.”

  “You sound pretty sure he’s the one.”

  “Too many coincidences. Right age. Lived in the parish. Father was a baker, at least some of the time, who died early, as did his wife. Son left Staten Island 40 years ago. Army Ranger in Vietnam. Old friends lost contact. Possibly alienated. If I was going to build a contract killer, all the pieces fit.”

  “And you got this from a jelly donut, Jake. Even Sherlock would be proud.”

  “Let’s find out if he’s dying from cancer.”

  “Well, I already called up the major cancer centers in the city and inquired after anyone named Gadomski. I used that concerned relative ruse you suggested. No one by that name is being treated. I was feeling bad about that until I realized how uncharitable I was. Who wants to rejoice that someone is battling such a terrible disease. And now that I know the Gadomskis are innocent, I really feel like a crepe hanger. But I’ll start all over again, in Manhattan. I can be Banaszak’s relative just as well. And having a first name is very helpful.”

  “How long will it take.”

  “There are 300 new cases of pancreatic cancer every year in Manhattan alone,” Evelyn said, looking at a piece of paper. “But about 60 percent wind up at Sloane-Kettering. I’ll start there and then move outward. I’ll also check the Internet White Pages for his name. I’ll have something within the hour, I should think.”

  While she went to work, Scarne called Dudley Mack and filled him in.

  “It’s him,” Dudley said simply.

  “Don’t get your hopes up. He might be dead. Then we have a problem.”

  “What about Bimm?”

  “We have no proof other than the fact Pearsall didn’t like him and he might be involved in some shady real estate deals, which might not be shady at all.”

  “Bimm is a crooked fat scumbag pervert.”

  “Don’t mince words, Deadly. Tell me what you really think of him.”

  “He’s been behind every bent real estate play on Staten Island the last 20 years. He’s a lawyer’s wet dream, too. After he fucks you on real estate, he sues you because he never thinks he’s corn holed you enough. Can’t be trusted, never keeps his word and is a closet pedophile. Those are his good points.”

  “He ever screw you?”

  “He’s still breathing, isn’t he? I met him once at a charity thing. He’s big on those, though I hear the charities never see as much as he pledges. It was like shaking hands with a placenta.”

  “Doesn’t make him a killer, Duds. I have to connect him to Banaszak, if it is Banaszak.”

  “It’s Banaszak, Cochise. And if you make the connection you’ll make my day.”

  Scarne had barely hung up when Evelyn walked in looking triumphant.

  “Got him!”

  “It’s only been five minutes.”

  “We were lucky. I started in Manhattan, where there is only one W. Banaszak listed, at 221 West 84th Street. Then I called Sloane and asked for the Oncology Department. I told them I was Wit Banaszak’s sister and was outraged they were still sending dunning notices to him. Didn’t they know my brother was a very sick man with pancreatic cancer? Certainly, they said. I actually spoke to a nurse who knew him. She said she thought he didn’t have any living relatives. I told her I had just come over from Poland to tend him.”

  “And she believed you?”

  “I was using my Meryl Street Sophie’s Choice accent,” she said, shifting into the accent.

  “Jesus Christ,” Scarne said in admiration. “You are dangerous.”

  “Anyway, she switched me to billing, where they were even more forthcoming, since they thought there might be money involved. Turns out there is a few thousand outstanding but they hadn’t sent out any notices. Must have been the insurer, or another physician. But they asked me to confirm the address. I guess they thought they might really have to dun Banaszak. I was happy to comply.”

  ***

  This is the way it happens sometime, Scarne reflected, when things start falling into place. Yesterday, the search was seemingly hopeless. Now he stood outside a four-story walkup on 81st Street just off Columbus Avenue. Why would a hired killer live in a nondescript building on the upper West Side without a doorman for security? Well, why not? In Manhattan nondescript didn’t mean cheap, and contract killers are probably only in danger from their peers, who wouldn’t be deterred by a doorman in any event.

  The directory on the foyer wall listed W. Banaszak in 4G. Scarne wondered how a terminally ill man would handle four flights. It couldn’t be easy. He pushed the buzzer. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Man’s not home. Might be dead, upstairs or elsewhere. As Scarne was thinking and leaning on the buzzer, a young woman came in and started to put her key in the inside door. She was very pretty, dressed to the nines, carrying a Michael Kors handbag and smelling of expensive perfume. He stopped pushing the buzzer and got in line behind her. The girl removed her key from the lock and turned to look at Scarne. He gave her his most reassuring smile. Close up, she wasn’t as young as he first assumed. Early 30’s, he guessed. Honey blonde hair, which looked natural, nice freckles. Tight body, with curves. Corn-fed Midwestern type. She wasn’t going to open the door and let a stranger in.

  “You a cop?”

  “I’m private. You have good instincts. A working girl?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Well, since you didn’t belt me, I guess you are. No offense, anyway.”

  “None taken. Let me see your creds. I saw you pushing Whitey’s buzzer. What do you want with him?”

  He flipped open his wallet. She studied it and he decided not to lie about visiting a sick friend. A sharp hooker is hard to fool.

  “I’m working a murder case. A 16-year-old girl. Banaszak may or may not be involved.”

  “Was she a hooker?”

  “No, just a high school kid. Does it matter?”

  “I guess not. Can’t imagine Whitey being involved. He’s a nice guy. His real name is Wit. He told me it means ‘life’ in Polish.” Scarne thought that was borderline hilarious. “Kind of looks out for me. Helped me out when I needed it. Obstreperous customers, you know.”

  “Obstreperous?” Scarne grinned.

  He couldn’t help it. He liked her. She grinned back.

  “I always liked that word. Don’t ask me to spell it. I don’t do much entertaining in my own building, but I don’t worry if Whitey’s around. He used to travel a lot though, and, of course, he’s been real sick the last few months.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  “Fact that he’s good with the ‘obstreperers’ might indicate he’s not a Bible salesman.”

&
nbsp; “Good point.”

  Just then an elderly woman pushing a combination walker and shopping cart entered the foyer, which suddenly became very crowded. She barely glanced at the other two as she opened the inside door with a key and then looked pointedly at Scarne.

  “Would you mind?” It was not a question.

  He obligingly pushed the door open and then let it slam behind her. There was no ‘thank you’ from the woman, whose backward glance through the glass-paned door was disapproving. She obviously thought Scarne was a john.

  “Why didn’t you just follow the old biddy in,” the girl said, sticking her tongue out at woman’s back. “That was your chance.”

  “You’re my chance. We both know that I’ll eventually get in, so why don’t you come up with me while I break into Banaszak’s apartment. I might be able to tell you if he’s a hired killer. Always good to know. And if he’s not, you can keep an eye on me. I’d want a friend watching my place while it’s burgled.”

  She studied him. And then playfully punched him on the shoulder.

  “You are something else. Remind me of my crazy brother. Come on up. I’ve got the keys to Whitey’s apartment. He asks me to water his plants when he’s away.”

  “When was the last time he asked?”

  “About a week ago. But it’s understood that if I don’t hear from him in a week, I can go in and check the flora. We both work odd hours, and can’t always connect, you know. So I’m due to look in anyway.”

  Odd hours indeed, Scarne thought. A hooker and a hit man.

  The girl’s apartment was on the same floor but down the hall from Banaszak. Scarne waited outside her door while she went in to get the keys. They walked together to 4G and she put a key in the door’s lock. Scarne grabbed her arm.

  “Wait a moment. It’s been a week since you saw Whitey?”

  “Yeah, so what?” She looked confused. “Why? It’s not unusual. I told you he travels a lot.”

  “Well, think about it. He’s very sick. Terminal. Maybe he didn’t go anywhere. Let me go in first.”

  She thought that over.

  “Oh, shit. Yeah, be my guest.” She handed him the key. “Here, you go.”

  Scarne walked in just ahead of the girl. Both cautiously sniffed the air. They looked at each other and smiled. A bit stuffy, but that was all.

  “The plants are gone.”

  She pointed to a windowsill. Scarne could make out faded circles where the pots had rested. Inside one circle was a thick envelope, taped up. It was addressed to ‘Daisy.’ He picked it up. ‘Who’s ‘Daisy’?”

  “Me,” she said, grabbing the envelope. She expertly slit it open with a finger and pulled out a sheaf of fresh $100 bills. She did a quick, practiced riff. “Jesus, must be three or four grand here.”

  “There’s a note.”

  She stuffed the bills in her pocketbook and unfolded the note. After reading it she handed it to Scarne. He read:

  “Dear Daisy,

  You know I’ve been sick. I’m going into the hospital, and I’m not coming back to the apartment. Ever. Sounds dramatic, I know. But that’s the way things are. The landlord has a security deposit, so you can go in the place until the end of the month. Anything you want, take or sell. Then tell the landlord. He’ll rent the place in a minute. It’s a little bigger than yours, so maybe you can be first in line. I know you hated those damn plants, so I ditched them. They were getting ratty anyway. Neither of us had a green thumb, so don’t sweat it. The money is for all you’ve done and because I don’t know anyone else. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. You’re a good kid.

  Whitey”

  Scarne looked up from the note.

  “No green thumb? I thought someone from Oklahoma would be an expert at horticulture.”

  “Close. I’m from Kansas. And if horticulture is supposed to be a pun, it ain’t bad.”

  Scarne laughed as he began to look around. The apartment had obviously been set in order. The plants probably weren’t the only thing ditched, he assumed. Banaszak, in addition to being neat, was not the kind to leave guns, silencers, stilettos, explosives or garrotes lying around. No cloth or leather bound ledgers with neatly written references to past jobs: ‘Vinnie Boombatz, August 8, 2005, double tap to the head, Brooklyn, $25,000, Gardunia family account.’ No cork board with before and after photos of victims.

  On a table in the corner was a 32-inch flat screen color television hooked up to DVD player. Next to it was a tall wooden tower containing dozens of CD’s and DVD’s. Banaszak was apparently fond of movie musicals. South Pacific, The Music Man, West Side Story, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.

  Seven Brides for Seven Brothers? Also on the table was a framed photo of a squad of soldiers, warrior-posed in camouflage fatigues and bandanas, heavily armed, looking as if they just returned from a mission. Jungle dirty. Tired smiles. Four in the back row standing with weapons across their shoulders. Three kneeling in front, one of whom was Banaszak, looking a lot older than in the photo in Gadomski’s office. Not quite the thousand yard stare, but working on it. All the men has moustaches and sideburns. That meant the photo was taken late in the Vietnam War. Officers were increasingly looking the other way as opposition to the interminable war mounted and fragging incidences increased. Although, Scarne knew, throat slitters like this bunch were probably given plenty of slack anyway. He picked the picture up and walked over to Daisy, who was in the small galley kitchen looking at the refrigerator door.

  “Did you ever see so many door magnets,” she said. “I used to tease him about them. Told him they were going to sterilize him like an X-ray machine.”

  Indeed, the door was covered with souvenir magnets: Disney World, the Smithsonian, the Alamo, Busch Gardens, Graceland, Six Flags, Cape Cod, Gettysburg, a score of Vegas and Atlantic City Casinos.

  “Looks like he’s been in every state in the union,” Scarne said, wondering if Banaszak’s travel was for pleasure or work, or both. There was an old grocery list under a magnet. It didn’t say arsenic, strychnine, cyanide or fugu poison. It said eggs, bacon, milk, lettuce and tuna fish.

  Daisy took the photo from his hand.

  “He has a lot less hair now, of course,” she said. “Because of the chemo, although it was starting to come back. I guess they stopped it. Wasn’t doing much good. And it was white before he got sick. I used to tease him that it fit his nickname anyway. He said it started changing right after he got back from the war. Blamed Agent Orange or something. I think it was the stress. Saw it in some firemen after 9/11.”

  Daisy handed the photo back to Scarne.

  “He was real proud of his men. He was a sergeant or something. Said he and his buddies were loops, whatever that is.”

  “You mean ‘lurps’?”

  “Yeah, that was it. What’s it mean.”

  “It’s an acronym for Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols, LRRPs, pronounced ‘lurps.’ Guys who would go behind enemy lines for weeks at a time, live off the land, track the enemy’s movements.”

  And ambush and assassinate when necessary, Scarne thought to himself. Tough, resourceful men. Good contract killer material.

  Daisy opened the freezer and pulled out a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon.

  “Ever had this ice cold, straight up? Whitey used to give me a nightcap every now and then. It’s early, but I’m just off work. Kind of wound up. She opened a cabinet and pulled out rocks glasses. “How about it?”

  “Sure. What’s your last name, by the way? I’m Jake Scarne.”

  “Same as on your license. How nice.” She poured two strong tots of bourbon, which flowed viscously into the glasses. They clinked glasses. “I’m Daisy Buchanan.” She noticed the look on his face. “Hey. It’s my real name. Or rather the last name is. The ‘Daisy’ is a nickname. I was born Dorothy in Gatsby, Kansas. You can figure out the rest. I still haven’t read the book. Is it any good?

  “You’d like it,” Scarne said, laughing. He took a sip of the almost-frozen bourbon.
It was delicious. Almost like a cordial, but with a kick. “Listen, I’m going to check out the bedroom.”

  “Don’t make a mess. I’m going to rest my tootsies and sip this.” She walked into the living room, kicked off her shoes, sat in a swivel chair at a large roll top desk and idly started looking at some scattered papers. Scarne was saving the desk for last, although he knew it was probably a waste of time.

  There was nothing incriminating in bedroom; no sniper rifle broken down in an attaché case under the bed. Scarne had just finished looking through a closet and a chest of drawers when Daisy appeared in the doorway. She leaned against the wall, crossing her long legs, holding her drink in one hand and a newspaper clipping in the other.

  “That murdered girl live on Staten Island?”

  He walked over to her and took the clipping.

  “It was in the roll top desk,” she explained.

  The article, obviously a follow-up to previous story, had appeared in the New York Post, on Page 3, under the headline: ‘Police Say Slain S.I. Schoolgirl Was Raped.’ Scarne began reading:

  “The 16-year-old St. Peter’s Girls High honor student found brutally murdered last week in a sedate Randall Manor neighborhood on Staten Island was also raped.

  According to police Elizabeth Pearsall was sexually assaulted and then manually strangled shortly after walking home from school. Her body was discovered by the family cleaning lady, who arrived apparently moments after the killing. Police theorized that the victim walked in on a burglary in progress. They noted that various household items, including jewelry and silverware, were piled up in pillow cases near a side door.

  “The burglar, or burglars, may have panicked and left the valuables behind,” said Daniel O’Connor, the Staten Island District Attorney.

  The crime shocked the close-knit neighborhood, and garnered significant media attention because the murdered girl was the daughter of Robert Pearsall, the city editor of the Richmond Register, Staten Island’s community newspaper. Pearsall, who won a Pulitzer Prize for his investigation into nursing home abuses on Staten Island and across the nation, lost his wife two years ago and was devastated by the murder of his only child. He reportedly collapsed at the newspaper when he got the news.