FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6)

by Lawrence de Maria

  Ten minutes later, the men were rescued when the maitre d' told Scarne his table was ready. He and Regina said a quick goodbye to the other couple and followed the man to their table. Scarne was pleased to note that many people they passed turned their heads. He knew they weren’t looking at him.

  Marchi’s was the type of restaurant where you were basically told what to eat. Tonight, the chef was featuring a five-course meal featuring both fish, fowl and veal, and plenty of vegetables.

  “Ordinarily when I eat Italian,” Scarne said, “I order a good, bold chianti, especially if there will be a lot of red sauce and heavy meats. But, unless we want to drink wine by the glass and switch with every course, and hope for the best, I suggest we opt for a good Pinot Noir. It should complement everything they are liable to throw at us.”

  “I don’t know that much about wines,” Regina said. “I’ll leave it in your hands.”

  Scarne went over the wine list and chose a 2010 Fess Parker Ashley Pinot Noir from California.

  “I didn’t know Davy Crockett was Italian,” Regina commented.

  “I think he shot one of the meat courses.”

  “It’s veal.”

  “So much for American icons.”

  They were started off with a platter of cold antipasto arranged in a floral design. This was followed by the house lasagna with its “secret family sauce.” By the time they finished the third course, a crisp, deep-fried flounder surrounded by cold beets and string beans, Scarne and Regina Russell were fast friends who realized they were well on the way to becoming something else. They both agreed that they couldn’t eat another thing.

  Until the fourth course arrived, consisting of roasted chicken and moist, tender slices of roasted veal accompanied by a bowl of tossed salad and a platter of cooked fresh mushrooms.

  “Well, say what you will, Davy could shoot,” Scarne said, and ordered another bottle of the same wine.

  As they ate the delicious meal, they spoke of each other’s lives. Scarne told her about the loss of his parents in a wilderness plane crash in which he barely survived, and his subsequent Montana upbringing by his grandparents, mainly his grandfather, an ex-Sicilian U-Boat commander interned in the Western U.S. who came back to marry a part-Cheyenne American girl after the war.”

  “My God, what a story. How did you become a private detective?”

  “Private investigator. The cops frown on people using the word detective. Although I’ll use it if I think it will scare someone or open a door. Anyway, I was a detective once, here in New York, on the D.A.’s squad. Specialized in civic corruption. Was a bit too good at it and was politely asked to leave.”

  “They fired you.”

  “Well, that’s one way to put it.”

  Regina Russell took a sip of wine and laughed.

  “Shana, that’s my assistant, Googled you. She said you were fired by the Police Commissioner himself. She said that was another reason I should go out with you. She has a problem with authority.”

  “You needed Shana’s permission?”

  Regina blushed.

  “No, no. She did it without asking me. If you must know, if you didn’t call me when you did, I was going to call you. Oh, Jesus. I can’t believe I said that. It must be the wine.”

  Scarne laughed and put his hand on hers.

  “Does it matter?”

  ‘No, I guess not.”

  Their waiters came and started clearing and Scarne took his hand away.

  “You seem to have made up with the Commissioner,” Regina said. “In some of the stories about your cases, he says nice things about you.”

  “Dick is one of my biggest fans,” Scarne said, smiling. “Especially since he found out I can get things done that he can’t. Inside the force, I was a pain in the ass. Outside, I’m an asset.”

  The final course came, a bowl of seasonal fruits accompanied by d'Aosta, one of the oldest Italian cheeses, known for its denseness and delicate honey-and nut flavor.

  Then came the obvious questions about marriage or romantic attachments.

  “I’m between catastrophic relationships,” Scarne gibed.

  “I’m serious,” Regina said.

  “I’m sorry. I tend to be glib at moments like these.”

  “What kind of moment is it?”

  “The kind that does not call for smart-ass remarks. I am, in fact, not involved with anyone at the moment. I’ve never been married, although I came close, many years ago. Now, since I’m supposed to be the detective, er, investigator, what about you?”

  “I was married young,” Russell said. “High school sweetheart in Dayton. That’s where I’m from. It didn’t take. I was crushed. I thought high school sweethearts lasted forever, not three years.”

  “High school is high school. It bears no relation to reality.”

  “Tell me about it. Anyway, I graduated from Ohio State and joined the Peace Corps. I spent two years in South Africa. One of my roommates knew someone at Columbia and I was accepted in one of their graduate programs. I eventually got my Ph.D. in Political Science, and started teaching at Barnard.”

  “Aren’t you young to be a Dean?”

  “Somebody died.”

  “They must all be dead over at Barnard and Columbia if you are still unattached, Regina. You are a very beautiful woman.”

  She smiled at the compliment.

  “There are many nice men at both schools, Jake. But, I don’t know, they aren’t my type. I know it sounds crazy, but they are, how shall I put it, too academic. I like a man, or a woman for that matter, to know something about how the world actually works.”

  Scarne started looking around.

  “What are you doing?”

  “There must be a hidden camera.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Regina, that’s the most intelligent thing I’ve ever heard a college professor say to me.”

  They were still laughing when the waiter asked them if they wanted pastries and after-dinner drinks. They declined.

  “Why don’t we walk off some of this dinner?” Regina suggested.

  “Where to,” Scarne said, “Toronto?”

  They settled first on strolling to the East River, and then, because it was one of those perfect Manhattan evenings for it, meandered aimlessly through Kips Bay and parts of Gramercy Park before heading back in the general direction of Russell’s apartment. They talked and laughed. When Scarne admitted to liking opera, Regina said that was because of his Italian blood.

  “I guess the Cheyenne blood explains why I occasionally do a rain dance,” he said.

  Regina admitted she loved the Mets.

  “You must be a hemophiliac.”

  By the time they got to Second Avenue and passed McSwiggan's, a no-frills Irish pub offering billiards, darts and entertainment, Scarne and Regina were arm-in-arm.

  “We’d be fools not to,” Scarne said, opening the door to the pub. “I just hope they don’t remember me.”

  “Why?”

  “Went to a bachelor party that ended up here once,” he said. “Groom-to-be got into his cups and started throwing darts at the waiters because the drinks weren’t coming fast enough.”

  “My God, what happened?”

  “Well, let’s just say that it was fortunate that Bellevue Hospital's emergency room was so convenient. Luckily, no one was too damaged. On either side. Wedding went off without a hitch.”

  “The damn fool.”

  “You shouldn’t talk about the city’s Chief of Detectives that way.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “Well, he doesn’t play darts anymore. Come on, let’s see if we can get a game. What would you like to drink?”

  “When in Rome. I’ll have a beer.”

  She beat him two out of three games.

  ***

  It was a short walk from the pub to Regina Russell’s apartment building on East 28th Street. She said little on the way. When they reached the 12-story postwar buildin
g, she turned to Scarne.

  “This is awkward,” she said, nervously.

  Scarne prepared himself for the “I’d like to invite you up, but …” speech. He was vaguely disappointed, but after all, it was a first date.

  “My next few days are crazy,” she continued. “Exams, preparing for graduation, school stuff. Then, I’m heading home to see my folks in Ohio. After that, I’m taking two weeks to travel. Europe.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  She seemed flustered and her cheeks were red.

  “My point is, if we planned to see each other again, it might be a while. I haven’t been with a man in a long time. I want to have sex, but you might get hit by a bus, or shot by a miscreant on the job before I see you again. I don’t want to wait. Will you come up?”

  Scarne was so startled by the speech he laughed. Her cheeks got redder.

  “I’m sorry, Regina. Of course, I’ll come up. Who wouldn’t want to make love to you?”

  The doorman said, “Good evening, Dr. Russell,” as they entered the spacious lobby. The greeting was repeated by a concierge behind a desk off to the side. She acknowledged both men by their first names.

  In the elevator, Scarne took her hand.

  “I must be old-fashioned,” Russell said, pushing the button for the fourth floor, “but I wonder what they think? I’m new to the building. I’ve never brought a man here.”

  “I could shoot them when I leave,” Scarne offered. “No witnesses.”

  “I’m not sure the same two will be on duty tomorrow morning.”

  That’s promising, Scarne thought. She realized her faux pas and colored again, slightly.

  “The offer still stands, Regina. You are certainly worth a massacre.”

  “That damn second bottle of wine,” she said. “And those beers.”

  He squeezed her hand.

  “Miscreant. I love that. Only someone from an Ivy League school would use that word.”

  “The Seven Sisters,” she corrected, squeezing his hand back.

  ***

  She rolled on her side and looked at him.

  “Would you like something to eat?”

  “My God, woman, you are insatiable.”

  She punched him on the arm.

  “I meant for breakfast, you idiot.”

  “I know what you meant. And, yes, I’m famished.”

  She got up and padded naked over to a small bureau. Her buttocks were small and firm and Scarne smiled at a memory from a few hours earlier. She opened a drawer and threw on shorts and a t-shirt and headed to the kitchen. She stopped at the chair by a small writing desk where Scarne had draped his shoulder holster and gun. The remainder of his clothes, and hers, were spread on the floor in roughly a straight line that led to the bed. She didn’t bother to pick anything up and fingered the worn chamois holster. She turned back to Scarne.

  “You know, I’ve never slept with a man who carried a gun.”

  He sat up and put his arms behind his head.

  “It did not seem to bother you.”

  “No. I actually was turned on when you took it off. I found it highly erotic.”

  “Good Lord. Based on your response last night, I better leave my bazooka at home.”

  “I thought I saw your bazooka.”

  Scarne laughed.

  “I take that as a compliment.”

  “That’s how it was meant. Now, how do you want your eggs?”

  “Any way outside the shells is fine with me.”

  She walked out of the room and Scarne went to take a quick shower. As he washed himself, he winced slightly as the hot water hit some of the places Regina’s teeth and nails had scratched, and he could not help but reflect on the night he’d just spent. Their coupling had been awkward at first, as it often is for the first time. Sex is a natural function, and hard to do badly when both partners are eager, but there are new angles to learn and first-time lovers are rarely in synch, response-wise. But it had gone well, and by the second time around Regina had lost any maidenly inhibitions she may have harbored as an allegedly proper college professor, albeit one who had already been married. She had no compunction about asking Scarne to try a position she found more stimulating. Which from her wanton cries, she did.

  By the time he got to the kitchen, which smelled of coffee, bacon and biscuits, Russell was ladling scrambled eggs onto two plates at a dinette table.

  “Can you pour the coffee, Jake?”

  He took the carafe from the Krup coffeemaker on a counter and poured. They sat and ate, hardly speaking. The food was delicious. She had sprinkled fresh chives over the eggs. When they were on their second cup of coffee, Russell said, cautiously, “Will I be seeing you again?”

  “No,” he said.

  She looked momentarily startled.

  “I make it a habit never to take up with beautiful women who are spectacular in bed and can cook,” he continued. Then he laughed. “Of course, you will see me again. Assuming I don’t get hit by that bus or shot by a miscreant.”

  Scarne reached out and touched her hand.

  “I think you are wonderful. I liked you the moment I walked in your office. I’ve been thinking about you constantly.”

  She leaned over and they kissed. When they broke apart, she said, “I’m sorry that it was a tragedy that brought us together, but I’m glad we met.”

  “Life is often like that,” Scarne said.

  “Do you think you will ever find her?”

  “Yes.”

  He did not know why he said it, but for some reason he was sure.

  “Will it be dangerous?”

  “Probably not as dangerous as mucking around Barnard and Columbia, where I emerged without a scratch.” He smiled, rubbing his shoulder. “Well, almost without a scratch.”

  Regina Russell blushed spectacularly.

  CHAPTER 19 - AMBUSH

  Two Weeks Later

  Scarne was about to go out for lunch when his office phone buzzed.

  “Someone named Barry wants to speak to you,” Evelyn said.

  Scarne drew a blank.

  “What’s his last name?”

  “He wouldn’t give it to me.”

  “Take a message.”

  He was putting on his jacket when Evelyn buzzed him again.

  “He is very insistent. Said you called him about a man named Willet.”

  Now, Scarne remembered. Barry Hine. The name on the envelope among Willet’s stuff.

  “Put him through.”

  The Dallas case had gone cold. There was no trace of Willet. Maura had remained adamant about not involving the police. Scarne thought his chances of finding her daughter, dead or alive, were nil. He had been fielding ever-more antagonistic phone calls from Anastasia wanting progress updates. Scarne was forced to provide no-progress updates. Most calls did not end with a ‘goodbye’; the line just went dead.

  “You Scarne?”

  “Yes,”

  “Still looking for Mr. Willet?”

  It was a nasally voice.

  “You Barry?”

  “Yeah, sure. I just got your message.”

  “I called two weeks ago.”

  “I been away. No cell phone service.”

  That meant Antarctica or jail. Scarne didn’t think it was Antarctica.

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “Not exactly. But I may have some information. What’s your interest in Willet? You a cop?”

  “Private. I’ve been hired to find someone Willet may know.”

  “Your client got cash?”

  “I don’t normally work for free, Barry.”

  There was a pause.

  “Me neither, pal. This is gonna cost.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Scarne said, and put the hook in. “Client is loaded.”

  “A lot.”

  “I said that wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “At least a grand. You understand, pal?”

  “Barry, this is a very good c
onnection,” Scarne said wearily. “Where can we meet?”

  There was a longer pause.

  “Do you know where Crotona Park is, in the Bronx?”

  Scarne said he did.

  “There is an old bathhouse next to the pool. I’ll meet you there at midnight.”

  Scaren was amused.

  “Midnight? Won’t it be dark?”

  “Sure. That’s the point. We don’t want any busybodies around do we?”

  “No, I suppose not. I’m sure Crotona is crawling with busybodies during the day.”

  Barry Hine was not into irony.

  “Just go to the north end of the boathouse, pal. Make sure you have the grand with you. And come alone.”

  Scarne, who silently mouthed the “and come alone” as Barry Hine said it, said, “sure” aloud.

  The phone went dead. Scarne put his feet up on his desk and thought about the meeting.

  “Alone with cash in the dark,” Scarne said to the room. “Gee, Barry. Sounds peachy.”

  He called Dudley Mack.

  ***

  When Scarne finally left for lunch he asked Evelyn if he could bring something back for her. She gave him a perfunctory, “no, thank you.” He recalled that she had seemed distracted all morning.

  “Something wrong, Ev?”

  She looked up at him. Her voice was strained.

  “I went to the doctor’s yesterday.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Scarne felt a chill.

  “He found a lump in by breast. He told me it was probably nothing, but I have to go for a biopsy tomorrow.”

  There were many reasons Scarne was glad he wasn’t a woman, and this was one of them. He struggled for words.

  “I’m sorry, Ev. Why don’t you go home? Nothing is going on here.”

  “Thank you, Jake. But I’d rather worry here than at home. I need something to keep me busy.”

  “I understand. But I’m sure it will turn out all right.”

  She smiled.

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” she said. “Now go enjoy your lunch. And perhaps I wouldn’t say no to a crumpet if you happen to come across one.”

  “You got it.”

  ***

  Crotona Park, off Third Avenue in the Bronx, is considered the most dangerous park in New York City, based on its relatively small size and limited number of visitors. During the day, with a police presence and the activity at its popular Olympic-size pool, tennis courts and pond, the 12-acre recreation area is fairly safe. But when the sun goes down, the crimes go up. Crotona sees almost half of all the park crime in the Bronx. Just the week before, a young woman was raped in the park, which is the scene of one or two drug murders a year, and dozens of muggings. Scarne knew that Crotona was a thorn in Dick Condon’s side. He was always complaining about it. But he couldn’t police it around the clock; it was a big city, and it was assumed that anyone who ventured into an abandoned city park at night had a screw loose.