“The basic problem we have is that Quimper wants us to be unnoticeable. Says he can’t ‘be himself’ with armed guards hovering around him. What he means is that he can’t run a line of bullshit on some literary groupie in a crowd.”
There was knock on the door jamb. Both men stood as a woman walked into Albracht’s office.
“You wanted to see me, Bill,” she said.
“Yes. Karen, this is Jake Scarne, the man I told you about. Jake, Karen Porcelli will be heading up our security for the Killerfest.”
Scarne and the woman shook hands. Her handshake was a bit too firm; she was overcompensating for being a woman in what is still a predominantly male business. A sharp-featured woman in her mid 30’s, more handsome than traditionally beautiful, she was dressed for business and wearing little makeup. If she wanted to be beautiful, Scarne assumed, she could easily arrange that, and, when the occasion arose, probably did. Her smile was sincere, but fleeting. She was used to sizing up people quickly, a necessity in protection work. She was, after all, former Secret Service.
Scarne let Albracht take the lead. He was her boss.
“Karen, Mr. Scarne is going to help out during the Killerfest. As I told you, Randolph Shields is adamant on that point. Scarne knows that we have the lead and came down here to make sure nobody trips over anyone else. I copied you on our report about him, so you know it’s not his first rodeo.”
Scarne wasn’t surprised that Safeguard had checked him out. These were careful people. But he never liked finding out someone had opened another file on him. He mentally shrugged. Google, Yahoo, Facebook and a score of marketing companies probably had more on him than than Ian Fleming’s SMERSH had on James Bond.
“Have you put together your team yet,” Scarne asked.
“No. I”ll probably draw a couple of agents from the group working at Quimper’s home in Greenwich and bring two with me from here. The Greenwich people will get him to the hotel and then we’ll all be there for the duration.”
“How long will he be at the conference?”
“He arrives Saturday and leaves the next day.”
“He’s staying in Manhattan overnight?”
That was news to Scarne, who had assumed Quimper would commute from Connecticut, probably by helicopter.
“Yes. Right at the Bascombe.” Karen Porcelli’s mouth turned down. “Quimper apparently assumes he will get lucky with one of his adoring fans. I understand he usually does. Actually, it works to our advantage. The less time he spends traveling back and forth the better. I hope he picks someone up right after his last appearance Saturday and spends all night with her.”
“You could always arrange for that to happen,” Scarne said.
“What do you mean,” Albracht said.
“He means we could hire a hooker to entertain Quimper. Don’t look so shocked, Bill. I already thought of that.”
“For a couple of thousand bucks,” Scarne said, “you could get a high-end call girl to play the part of a devoted fan. Have her read one of his books. That might cost you extra, though.”
“I’m not sure I could do that,” Porcelli said, smiling, “even to a hooker.”
“You two are serious, for Christ’s sake!”
“Don’t worry, I already ditched the idea,” Porcelli said. “If the word got out, and it probably would, that Quimper was sneaking call girls into his room, there would be hell to pay. He’d be on Oprah. Nobody would believe that he didn’t know about it.”
Very sharp lady, Scarne thought.
“What about room security,” he asked.
“He’s staying in a suite on the penthouse level. There are only two suites on that floor, and we’ll have the other one. Whenever he’s in his room, he should be secure enough. You need a special electronic key to access his floor and we will always have someone at the elevator. The real danger is when he’s socializing or giving a speech. I spoke to the Killerfest’s organizers and they pointed out that it’s traditional for attendees, writers and agents to hobnob at one of the hotel bars after all the meetings, book signings and seminars are over for the afternoon. This is the first year the conference is at the Bascombe, which has several bars and lounges. We’re going to see which one is the easiest to secure and, hopefully, arrange to have that one become the prime watering hole.”
“How are you going to do that,” Albracht asked.
“I haven’t figured that out yet,” Porcelli admitted. “We don’t want to make the security arrangements too obtrusive and scare away attendees.”
“I may be able to help with that,” Scarne said. “I can probably get Schuster House to provide each attendee a ticket for a free drink or two at whatever bar you choose for every night of the conference.”
“That’s not bad, Mr. Scarne,” Porcelli said.
“OK, great,” Albracht said, obviously relieved that Scarne and Porcelli seemed to hit it off. “We’re off to a good start. Karen, why don’t you take Jake back to your office and iron out some more details? I have that Saudi contract I’m working on.”
Porcelli led Scarne back to her small, windowless office on the opposite end of the floor. She waved him to a seat.
“OK,” he said. “Let’s have the speech.”
“What speech?”
“The one where you tell me who’s in charge and you don’t need some hot-dog private eye mucking up your assignment.”
She smiled.
“Would it do any good? I read your file. The hot dog part is dead on. Corpses seem to follow you around, and you have an over-sized opinion of yourself.”
“Aw, shucks. You saw my TV ad. The one with the cheerleaders.”
Karen Porcelli sighed.
“You remind me of my ex-husband. He was juvenile, too.”
“He also must have lousy eyesight.”
She smiled at the compliment.
“I also made a couple of calls, to some Fed and N.Y.P.D. friends in New York. The general consensus was that you can back up your play, and I could do a lot worse.”
“Well, enough foreplay,” Scarne said. “Did you find out anything about the Arhaut killing?”
“Only what we read in the paper.” She looked embarrassed. “Safeguard’s mission is protection. We’re not geared for much investigative work.”
He could tell that didn’t make her happy. It didn’t make him particularly happy, either. It meant more legwork.
“The Bascombe must have a huge staff,” he said.
“We’ll vet the staff. The N.Y.P.D. is helping out with that. And we’re going to profile like hell. And I don’t mean we’re looking for someone on a camel. Anyone looking Middle Eastern or out of place will be braced. The waiters for any event Quimper will attend will be hand-picked, as will bartenders and the like.”
“How many attendees will there be?”
“It’s a sell-out. Probably 700, plus another 100 or so agents, name authors, PR people, sponsors and speakers.”
“Daunting.What about a bomb?”
Karen Porcelli shrugged.
“We’ll do what we can. So will the hotel security people. Check packages. Look for nervous types. But there’s only so much we can do. Many of the attendees will be women, with large bags. Then there’s the so-called ‘goodie bags’ and promotional material. Slipping in a bomb or wearing one around the waist would be no problem for a nutcase. But that goes for any large gathering. It’s the world we live in. The Arhaut hit was low-tech. A fucking skewer. Up close and personal. We think any attack will be dramatic, designed to make sure everyone knows Quimper was the target.”
They exchanged cell phone numbers and agreed to meet when Quimper first got to the Bascombe, so Scarne could familiarize himself with the Safeguard team.
CHAPTER 9 – MAIN LINE
After leaving Falls Church, Scarne headed toward Philadelphia. If there was a real threat to Quimper’s life, he wanted to draw his own conclusions about the murder of Ralph Arhaut. Stopping only for a quick sandwich in a service p
laza on I-95, he arrived at the Haverford Township Police Department on Lancaster Pike just after 4 PM. Ten minutes later he was escorted to the office of the commanding officer of the Detective Division. His name was Lieutenant Bryer Burgess. Scarne had done some homework. The Haverford P.D. wasn’t a shit-kicking operation. The department employed almost a hundred officers. The Detective Division alone had nine investigators.
Burgess handed back Scarne’s I.D. He was a thin man, in shirtsleeves and tie, and wore wire-rimmed glasses.
“Sit. You’re the guy who called earlier about the Arhaut killing.”
“Yes.”
“What did you do before you went private?”
“I was a cop, investigator in the Manhattan D.A.’s office.”
“Why did you quit?”
Scarne was used to this type of grilling from cops, most of whom weren’t crazy about nosy private eyes. Fortunately, the truth about his leaving the force always seemed to endear him to his interrogators.
“A city councilman paid off some political favors by screwing up a case I made against some drug dealers. I held him by his heels from the balcony at City Hall. I was asked to resign. I thought that was unfair. I didn’t drop him.”
“What happened to the councilman?”
“He’s President of the City Council now.”
Burgess smiled.
“You would be a natural in Philadelphia. How’s the pay in the private sector?”
They always asked that.
“Varies. This case is on the high side.”
“What’s the case?”
“I’ve been hired to help protect another author who has been threatened, presumably by the same people.”
“Tell me about it.”
Scarne did.
“Sebastian Quimper. It must be a good payday. I tried reading his books. They suck.”
“It’s nice to speak to a man with taste,” Scarne said.
“Ever read John O’Hara.”
“Sure. Appointment in Samarra, Ten North Frederick.”
“Now, there’s a man who could write. What do you want to know?”
“Anything that wasn’t in the papers. Leads? Suspicions? Guesses?”
Burgess tilted his chair back and put his hands behind his head.
“No one knew the waiter. He apparently just walked in before the luncheon wearing the same outfit the rest of the help wore. Could have gotten the clothes from a uniform supply company. We checked with local suppliers but no one could remember a man fitting his description. But there are dozens of such stores in the Philadelphia area. Probably paid cash, anyway, unless he was a complete idiot. Only one other waiter even asked who he was and he said he was just hired. After he killed Arhaut, he ran out of the club and hopped into a black van. A woman was driving. Redhead. No one got a clear look at her. No one got a plate. No markings on the van. A similar van was found burning in a wooded area about five miles from the club. There was a body inside, burned to a crisp. We can’t be sure it was the same van, but what are the odds it wasn’t? Two killings involving a van five miles and fifteen minutes apart? Got to be connected. From the V.I.N., we know the torched van was stolen in Baltimore the day before the murder. The plates were switched. Turned out they were from a vehicle in the long-term lot at Philadelphia International. We don’t know when they were lifted.”
Even given the probability that murders in and around Haverford weren’t that common, Scarne was impressed with the lieutenant’s grasp of the facts in the Arhaut investigation.
“No I.D. on the body in the van?”
“Forensic team could barely tell it was a man. The inside of the van was melted. They knew it wasn’t just the gas tank. At first they thought it was thermite, but tests run by the State Trooper lab in Harrisburg revealed it was phosphorous, probably a grenade. They think he was trying to destroy evidence and got careless.”
Scarne could tell by the cop’s expression that he was skeptical of that explanation.
“What do you think?”
“There wasn’t much left of the guy, but there is always some fiber residue on a burned body. This guy was naked when he went up. I don’t know why he wasn’t wearing clothes, but it makes no sense for a naked man to be handling a grenade. I think he was maybe changing his clothes when someone threw in the phosphorous. Or maybe he was expecting some job-well-done nookie. If that was the case, he sure got the well-done part.”
“The woman? Eliminating a witness?”
“That’s my guess. We found another set of tire tracks near the van. I figure he was just a soldier, expendable. She killed him and drove away. Nobody knows who the guy is and all we have on her is a quick glimpse in a parking lot and a statement from the soccer mom who reported the burning van. She said she passed a car going in the opposite direction near the fire scene. It was driven by a pretty blond woman who seemed to be in a hurry. The mom only remembered because they almost collided.
“Blond?”
“There were minute traces of a red wig hairs in the dead man’s crotch.”
Scarne tried to imagine the scene.
“He was waiting for some post-assassination sex,” he said. “She throws in the wig, then grenade.”
“Or the other way around,” the detective said. “Didn’t really matter. It was a blow job he didn’t expect.”
“I don’t suppose the soccer mom remembered the make of the car.”
“Wasn’t even sure of the color. Wouldn’t matter. If it was involved, it’s probably in the same long-term parking lot the plates came from.”
“But the mom said the woman was attractive?”
“Yeah. Women notice those things. Said they had to slow at the turn and she got a good look. The woman had short blond hair done up in the latest fashionable style, which is why it made an impression on her. Something called a ‘Karlie’.” Burgess spelled it out. “Named after some famous model.”
Scarne looked at him. Burgess laughed.
“Hey. I asked my daughter about it. Last time I do that. She went out and got one. Cost me 200 bucks.” He pulled out an iPhone. “Here’s what it looks like. My daughter is dark haired, though.”
Scarne looked at the picture on the phone.
“Nice-looking kid. How old would you say the blond woman is?”
“Hard to say. The hairdo makes women look younger, I think. But the soccer mom figured mid-to-late 30’s.”
Scarne thought about it all.
“So, what do we have? A stolen van, stolen plates, unidentified body, woman getaway driver who probably wore a wig, and a blond in a car near the scene of the burning van who might have absolutely nothing to do with any of this.”
“They could probably solve this on TV,” Burgess said. “Might be a two-parter, though.”
“What about your chances, Lieutenant?”
“This has every indication of becoming a cold case. Unless, of course, there is another murder and somebody screws up.”
“I’m not rooting for that.”
“No, I guess not.”
“Does this look like terrorists to you? Killing their own assassin.”
“No. More like a pro. If the terrorists had a man to lose, they could have used a suicide vest or something.”
“Not if they wanted to make a specific point. Send a specific message.”
“What are you getting at, Scarne?”
“Maybe the terrorists hired a pro. Or, like you said, it’s not terrorists.”
“You’re not exactly narrowing the suspect pool.”
“Never my strong point.”
CHAPTER 10 – NOAH
Scarne got up early the next morning feeling cranky and creaky. He hadn’t slept well. He loved driving and didn’t regret his visits of the previous day, but sitting in a car for hours on end had stiffened him up. He felt annoying twinges and actually heard faint but noticeable crackling sounds from one of his knees when he slid out of bed. A sign of age? Or was it just that some of the wounds his body had
accumulated over the years were rebelling.
He padded into the bathroom and stood naked in front of the mirror. Several scars aside, he was still a young man, with a full head of hair and a flat stomach. Not a washboard to be sure, but he could do a hundred sit ups when he wanted. But Scarne didn’t want to, right then. He had to loosen up first. He decided to walk to his office. He packed a small gym bag and after exchanging local gossip and pleasantries with the concierge and doorman of his apartment building on 8th Street headed uptown just as the sun came up. He would shower in the new health club that had opened in the basement of his office building at Rockefeller Center.
It was cool out and the walk, just under three miles, was pleasant. By the time Scarne reached the gym, he had loosened up. He then spent a vigorous hour on the Universal machines and, just to spite his earlier creaky self, ripped off a hundred sit ups. Then he showered and dressed, and went to a small coffee shop in the lobby. The picture of the granola and yogurt parfait on the glossy plastic menu looked tempting.
“What can I get you,” the waitress asked.
“Orange juice, fried egg sandwich on a hard roll and coffee, two creams,” Scarne said. “Why waste a hundred sit ups.”
“You’d be crazy to,” she replied.
Scarne walked into his office at 9 A.M. sharp.
“My, aren’t we chipper this morning,” Evelyn said. Only then did he realize he was whistling. “But really, Jake, “The Marine Corps Hymn?”
Scarne laughed and went into his office. He stood by his window looking down at the famous ice rink 20 stories below. There were, of course, no skaters at this time of year. The rink was covered with umbrellas, under which tables were set up for outdoor dining. His office phone buzzed. It was Evelyn.
“Noah Sealth called while you were away. He’s in town. Wants to know when you’re free for dinner. Left his cell number.”
Scarne smiled. Sealth was a Seattle homicide cop that he’d met when investigating the murder of Joshua Shields, Emma’s favorite cousin and the son of Sheldon Shields, Randolph’s brother. They’d crossed swords at first but eventually found common ground and a friendship. Sealth was helpful in keeping Scarne out of the hands of both Federal and Florida state prosecutors when the dust, and bodies, had settled in the Ballantrae case.
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