***
Now dressed for the rest of the day in a blue sports coat, tan pants, light blue shirt and a red-stripe tie, Scarne walked into the break room. He went over to the counter where the coffee and boxes of donuts were. He fixed himself a coffee and grabbed a cinnamon cruller, then sat at a small gunmetal-colored table across from Condon, who was reading The New York Times as he ate. Next to the Commissioner was a brown paper bag.
“Stereotypes aside, Dick” Scarne said as he bit into his cruller, “how do you have the balls to serve donuts in a gym devoted to keeping cops in top shape?” He pointed at the bag. “And I can’t believe you are taking a couple for the road.”
Condon looked up.
“They’re for Tommy.”
Thomas O’Mara was Condon’s detective-driver, now waiting for his boss in front of the building. O’Mara rarely left Condon’s side when on the road, but Condon said that if anyone wanted to make a run at him inside the Police Academy, with hundreds of cops milling about, they were welcome to try.
“And to answer your question, it’s not worth staying in shape if you can’t eat a goddamn donut once in a while.”
With that, Condon walked over to the counter for another donut, maple-frosted donut with sprinkles. He was dressed for the rest of his day, in a three-piece blue suit, white button-down shirt and a red tie with little blue-and-gold “V’s” on it. Scarne knew the letters stood not for Victory, but for Villanova, Condon’s alma mater. He sat back down and turned a page in The Times.
Scarne shook his head.
“Maple I can understand,” he said, “but sprinkles?”
Condon laughed. A small, trim man with the build of a welterweight and a graying crew cut, he did not look his 60 years. Scarne knew the Commissioner worked out or ran every day but Sunday. Twice a week he went to the Fitness Training Center at the gleaming new $1 billion Academy in College Point, Queens. Scarne often joined him for the martial arts classes. As far as he knew, he was the only private investigator in New York City given access to some of the Department’s premier facilities, which in addition to the F.T.C. included a secret gun range in the basement of an old Borders bookstore on 21st Street and Sixth Avenue in the Flatiron District of Manhattan.
“Listen to this, Jake. There’s an article here about Ebola. They’ve been testing thousands of common drugs to see if any work against the virus. And one that shows promise is Zoloft.”
“The anti-depression drug?”
“Yeah. It also is used for anxiety disorders and panic attacks. Our shrinks sometimes prescribe sertraline, generic Zoloft, for cops after a shooting incident.”
“Well, if I got Ebola, I’d sure as hell be both depressed and anxious. How effective is it?”
Condon read for a moment.
“Only tried it on mice they infected with Ebola. In the control group all the mice died. But 7 out of 10 infected mice given the drug survived. Fascinating.”
“Pretty good. That’s a lot of happy mice. Of course, when they take them off Zoloft, they’ll have to see how many of the mice kill themselves.”
Condon looked at Scarne.
“I think maybe you should see one of our shrinks.”
A couple of academy trainees entered the room. They headed toward the donut boxes but froze when they saw their Commissioner.
“Hello, boys,” Condon said genially. “On a break?”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison, snapping to attention.
They glanced at Scarne, trying to place him. If he was with the Commissioner, he was presumably someone important.
“Plenty of yogurt and fruit in the fridge,” Condon said. “Gatorade, too. Got to replenish those electrolytes, you know.”
The trainees went to the refrigerator, feigned enthusiasm at what they found, pulled out some healthful snacks and then quickly left.
“Those poor bastards snuck in here to grab some donuts,” Scarne said, “figuring no one would be around and wham, they run into the Police Commissioner. The both looked like they saw Bigfoot. That was was cruel, even for you.”
“Enjoyable, though. And now there are more donuts for us.”
***
Scarne reached his office at Rockefeller Center by 9 AM. Evelyn Warr, his efficient and doting manager, smiled as he walked in. Not for the first time Scarne wondered why he bothered with other women when one of the most lovely and caring he’d ever met greeted him every working day. Of course, he knew the answer. He’d made a determined run at her early in their association, when she was between lovers, and she had politely, but firmly, fended him off. The sexual tension between them was strong, but so was the realization that it was better left unsatisfied. The man Evelyn had planned to marry was killed on 9/11, and while she had affairs since, it was obvious that her heart was still buried at Ground Zero. Scarne did not want to compete with that memory, and Evelyn knew enough about her boss to know that he, too, was damaged goods.
Noah Sealth, the former Seattle homicide cop who was now a partner in the agency, was sitting on the edge of his desk with an amused look on his dark face.
“You have visitors, Jake,” Evelyn said in her lingering British accent, which made Scarne’s investigative business sound more classy than it probably was. “I put them in the conference room and set out some coffee and crumpets.”
To Evelyn, a breakfast pastry, whether donut or Danish, was a crumpet.
“Who are they?”
“Maura Dallas and her bodyguard,” Sealth said.
Scarne drew a blank on the woman’s name, until “bodyguard” registered.
“What’s she doing in New York? She’s West Coast mob.”
“Wouldn’t tell us,” Noah said. “Wanted to wait for you.”
“You want to sit in?”
“Wouldn’t miss this for the world. I’d like to sell tickets.”
Both men walked to the conference room and opened the door. A woman was standing by a window, looking down at the city. She turned.
Maura Dallas was sipping from an 1895 Limoges tea cup that was part of a service Evelyn reserved for important guests. Her left pinkie was delicately extended. The saucer that went with the cup was sitting at the head of the English mahogany library table, also an antique, which Evelyn had only recently discovered on eBay. The conference room’s original and much smaller table, which like many things in the office suite once belonged to Scarne’s grandfather, now sat in Sealth’s office. All the new furniture and such nick-knacks as the Limoges set, not to mention the office renovation that carved out his partner’s office, had cost Scarne a pretty penny. But thanks to a series of high-profile and lucrative cases, business was good. And with one of the nation’s wealthiest women sipping coffee in his conference room, it looked like it might get even better.
The man with Maura Dallas was not drinking coffee. He stood leaning against the bookshelves that lined one wall and was watching the door, which Sealth closed behind him. The big black investigator then took up a position opposite from the bodyguard and stood in front of a large wooden-framed Mercator map of the world, dated 1939. The two men started at each other. For his part, Scarne walked over to Maura Dallas and extended his hand.
“I’m Jake Scarne, Ms. Dallas. I understand you wanted to see me.”
Her hand was warm and firm.
“I apologize for dropping in unannounced,” she said. She smiled thinly. “I find that, for obvious reasons, it is often best.”
Scarne had seen many of her photos in the media, none of which had done her justice. In person, she was very beautiful. He knew she was in her mid-to-late 40’s, but the tiny age lines around her mouth and eyes did not detract from that beauty. Her dark hair flowed to her shoulders. She had high cheekbones and a rather wide, sensuous mouth and a strong chin. Her eyes were brown, with a greenish tint. But he saw something else in her face. A tenseness.
“Please sit,” he said, as he went the pot that was on a small table in the corner of the room. “Can I refresh your coffee?
”
“No, thank you.”
Scarne held up the pot and looked first at Sealth and then the other man, who both shook their heads. He poured coffee into a ceramic mug, which had a New York Yankees logo on its side. There was another mug with a Seattle Mariners logo on the table. Evelyn Warr knew that neither Scarne nor Seath would be caught dead drinking coffee from a Limoges cup. The plate of “crumpets” next to the coffee pot lay untouched. Scarne sighed and left it that way. He poured cream into his coffee, added sugar, and sat at the table. Maura Dallas was in the seat he normally took, at the head, but he wasn’t about to tell her to move. Her bodyguard might shoot him.
“Now, Ms. Dallas, what brings you to New York.”
She looked past him to Noah Sealth.
“I would prefer to speak to you in private, Mr. Scarne.”
Scarne cocked his head at the bodyguard.
“What about him?’
“Vincent can stay. We have no secrets.”
“Same with Noah and myself. He has a lot of experience on the West Coast, probably with your family. Isn’t that right, Noah?”
“Seattle homicide,” Sealth said. “I know Vinnie.”
“I thought there was something between you two,” Maura Dallas said. She looked at Scarne. “I don’t have a choice?”
“Regretfully, no.”
“I usually get what I want.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“But not this time?”
Scarne just smiled and took a sip of his coffee. It was very good. There was a coffee machine in Scarne’s office given to him by an old client. It looked like the Mars Rover. Scarne’s first attempts had yielded something that could have been spread on toast. But Evelyn had mastered the contraption to the point where people in other offices on Scarne’s floor made excuses to stop by for a cup of her java.
Dallas looked at the two men who were standing.
“Why the hell don’t the both of you sit down. You are making me nervous.”
They sat opposite each other.
“It’s been a while, Vinnie,” Seath said.
“Yeah,” Anastasia said, “I heard you put in your papers. Didn’t know you came East.”
“Well, now that we’re done with old home week, Ms. Dallas,” Scarne said, “perhaps you can tell me what you wanted to see me about.”
Maura Dallas took in some air.
“I want you to find my daughter.”
“Your daughter?”
“Yes. She’s been kidnapped.”
CHAPTER
5 – NO COPS
Scarne looked at Sealth, who shrugged. He turned back to Maura Dallas.
“When did this happen?”
“Three weeks ago today.”
Scarne was stunned.
“Three weeks? I haven’t seen anything about it.”
Again he looked at Sealth.
“Noah?”
“News to me, Jake.”
“No one outside my immediate circle, and now you, knows anything about it,” Dallas said. “I was contacted by the kidnapper directly, with a video sent to my iPhone. In it, my daughter is sitting in a chair. She speaks, apparently reading from something held off camera. She says he will kill her if I go to the police.”
“Kidnappers always threaten that,” Sealth said. “I think there must be a playbook somewhere. But it is never smart to leave the police out of it. And certainly not for three goddamn weeks!”
“It is not in our nature to involve the police in our affairs,” Maura Dallas said. “We prefer to handle our own problems.”
“I have to ask, Ms. Dallas,” Scarne said. “How do you know your daughter is still alive?”
If the question bothered her, she didn’t show it.
“The first video came the day after Alana did not show up in San Francisco for her Easter vacation. I was told to await further instructions. Two days later I got another one. She is in the same chair and repeats basically the same thing.”
Scarne took a deep breath.
“How do you know you are not just watching the same video, made earlier?”
The implication was clear.
“In the second video, Alana is sitting next to a large television,” Maura Dallas said. “It is tuned to a national morning show, where the host announces the date before beginning with the news. It is always 7 AM, but the date changes. Alana speaks in a monotone, but each statement is slightly different in inflection. She is wearing what looks to be pajamas, but in one video they are a different color. In the first one she looked tired and there might have been a small bruise on her mouth.” Her voice grew tense. “But I can’t be sure. The videos are not the best quality and the light is dim. But her color is better and she looks groomed. Her hair is combed and there is no bruising.”
“The quality varies because we’re almost certain that the videos are recorded and sent on different smart phones,” Anastasia interjected. “The first one was obviously Alana’s, because her name was attached to the call. Couldn’t track it because it was immediately turned off. Probably destroyed. The other calls with the videos probably came from burners because we couldn’t trace them. Also probably destroyed after each use.”
“The 7 AM is Eastern time?”
“Yes.”
“And the show is live?”
“Yes.”
Scarne looked back to Maura Dallas.
“Is that why you came to us? You believe your daughter is being held somewhere in the East?”
“That’s one of the reasons,” she said.
“The Eastern time zone takes in, what, 19 or 20 states and part of Canada,” Sealth pointed out. “She could be anywhere.”
“The girl was going to school here in New York City,” Anastasia said. “Barnard College. The first video came so quickly it is logical to think that she is still in the New York area. The kidnapper pans the camera around the room to show where she is being held. There is nothing that would distinguish the room or make it identifiable. A metal-framed bed, a chest of drawers, the TV on a stand. Bare floor. No windows. Light comes from lamps. I doubt that he has moved her to another location with exactly the same furniture and all the rest.”
“How was she taken?”
“We don’t know,” Dallas said.
“Are you sure when she was kidnapped? Might she have been taken earlier?’
“She texted me just before she left her apartment in the city to tell me her flight was scheduled to leave on time,” Anastasia said. “I was going to pick her up at the airport. She never showed. I thought she might have missed the flight, so I texted, then called her. Her phone was off. I checked with the airline. She never boarded her original flight at JFK. She was not booked on a later flight. I thought she might have been in an accident on the way to JFK. I had some people we know in the East look into that. Reliable people. That kind of thing takes time, but they said that at first glance there was nothing major reported. I called her building. The guy at the front desk had just come on duty, so he wouldn’t have seen her leave. I got him to check her room. He sent up a security guy. No one was there. He said the place was basically deserted for Spring Break. I told him to check with the guy on duty before he came in. Said he wasn’t sure how to reach him. I promised him a hundred bucks for the effort. Called me back and said the guy thought he might have seen her leave with luggage around 3 PM, but couldn’t be sure. Kids were leaving all day in droves.”
“How was she getting to the airport?”
“I assumed car service or a cab. First thing we checked. No one picked her up.”
“What about Uber?”
“Drew a blank on them, too.”
“Could have been a gypsy. Or she caught a ride with a friend.”
Scarne got up to pour himself more coffee. He added some cream and sugar and then refilled his cup. He took a sip. It wasn’t right. He added more coffee. Still wasn’t right. He sighed and sat down.
“You should always put the coffee in first,�
�� Anastasia said. “Otherwise it don’t taste as good.”
Scarne nodded to him.
“In my experience, kidnappers fall into two main categories,” Sealth said. “The perverts and the professionals. This may be hard to hear, but if your daughter was taken by a Ted Bundy, there isn’t much hope. I’m being blunt because I think you can take it, Ms. Dallas. You have to hope that whoever took her is in it for the money.”
“I was told to await further developments. That would seem to imply a ransom demand.”
“Which should have come in the second video,” Sealth said. “I don’t like the way this is going. It’s as if he is torturing you.”
“So, it could be a pervert,” Anastasia said.
“I just don’t know. But pervert or pro, you stood a better chance going to the cops right away.”
“You said that,” Maura Dallas snapped. “I don’t need to hear it again.”
“All right,” Scarne said. “Let’s move on. We’ll assume that you will get a ransom demand. That means that whoever took Alana knows you have the resources to pay it. How many people know you are her mother? Or, rather, what you do.”
“Outside the family and certain business acquaintances, very few. Certainly no one at Barnard. That’s why I sent Alana to the East Coast. She is brilliant and could have gone to any Ivy. I wanted to give her some room. In Alana’s case, that room meant 3,000 miles from San Francisco and my associates. She comes home holidays and the like.”
“Are you close to your daughter?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Perhaps she was not discreet.”
Maura Dallas hesitated.
“No. We’re not particularly close. She is a headstrong girl.”
“Well, that’s honest, at least.”
“Alana has no illusions about me. She would not have bragged about being my daughter.”
“She disapproves of what you do.”
“Quite the opposite. I think she is fascinated by it. I had hopes that she would follow me in the business. But she and I are like oil and water. I’m sure she resents how little time I’ve spent with her. I am not the best mother in the world.”
FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6) Page 4
