The executive editor looked at his boss, who shrugged.
“Your call, Dean.”
“I guess that will be have to do,” Baquet said.
He looked at Scarne.
“Everyone says you are the best.”
Scarne smiled.
“Then this is a perfect time to talk money.”
***
“I like this joint,” Huber said. “Reminds me of Gough’s, the bar across the street from our old building. Could hardly see your drink through the cigarette smoke, but it was a real newspaper gin mill. You were able to kill a few hours between editions in the hot-type days. Now with everything done on a computer, there’s hardly any time to relax, shoot the shit, meet real people.”
They were sitting in a booth drinking beer out of a pitcher in dingy bar a few blocks from the Times building. Scarne was surprised a tavern like it survived in the neighborhood, which had undergone a cultural renaissance. He didn’t long for a return to the seedy strips of sex clubs, Chinese restaurants and electronic-store tourist traps, but some of the new bistros seemed like alien presences. This place smelled of corned beef. Scarne couldn’t believe it made him hungry only a half-hour removed from lunch. But corned beef was corned beef.
“I know,” Scarne said, “now you drink martinis in an executive dining room, then go out for some beers, and probably take the rest of the day off. I see a union grievance in the offing.”
Huber laughed.
“Yeah, well, there’s that. But it’s not the same. They never should have dumped the old Times Building. It was iconic. Not like that 52-story monstrosity we have now. It cost a billion bucks. Great move after selling the old place for $175 million, which some real estate sharpies promptly resold for half a billion.”
Scarne had heard the same story a dozen times from Huber, who had actually criticized the transactions in print, in his own paper!
“As long as my retainer check clears, I really don’t care how they waste their dough,” Scarne said.
“Yeah. Jesus. I almost had a canary when you told them your rates and asked for that retainer. They’re counting pencils in the newsroom but they didn’t blink a fuckin’ eye. They’re taking this thing seriously.”
“What’s your gut feeling about my assignment, Bob?”
“You mean our assignment, pal. Because if you find something out, I’ll be all over the story like a hawk on a pigeon. But to answer your question, I’m a little bothered that a stringer apparently did more legwork than the local cops. My intestines say there is something there.”
“That’s because you’re a bloodsucking muckraker at heart. For my part, I hope none of this is true and I can scotch the story.”
“Why?”
“Because everything I read about Weatherly and Landon is positive. They are All-American poster boys for what parents want their kids to be. We’ve brought down enough heroes in this country.”
“But if it is true?”
Scarne poured them both a beer.
“Then I’ll hang them by their jock straps.”
CHAPTER 3 - BULLETS AND DONUTS
Like most men in his line of work, Jake Scarne did not like being beholding to anyone. Favors asked are favors owed, and often lead to compromises and accommodations. But Scarne was not a loner, walking the dark streets of inequity like some fictional private eyes who apparently only needed their fists and a gun to solve crimes or right wrongs. Scarne’s fists (and guns) often came in very handy, but so did some occupational shortcuts developed over the years. If his experience in the Marine Corps and the N.Y.P.D. had taught him anything, it was that many people knew things he didn’t. And not knowing something could get him killed. Moreover, his responsibility to his clients was paramount. That mantra occasionally resulted in law bending — even law breaking — but more often involved pulling strings on both sides of the law.
With a few close friends he had reached a point where they no longer kept count of favors owed. That included Dudley Mack, the Irish-American power broker considered by many to be a gangster (with good reason, Scarne knew) and, of course, Noah Sealth. And Scarne and Huber at the Times had done so many quid-pro-quos that neither expected to turn the other’s request down at this point.
On another level was Richard Condon, New York City’s tough-as-nails Police Commissioner. Dick Condon had once been instrumental in having Scarne fired from the N.Y.P.D. (Also with good reason, Scarne admitted. Dangling a councilman, however corrupt, by the heels from the balcony at City Hall was a poor career move for Scarne — especially when said danglee eventually become President of the City Council.) But for some reason Condon had a soft spot for Scarne. For one thing, as he’d told Scarne on more than one occasion, the world would have been a better place had he dropped the councilman from the balcony. For another, while he deplored some of Scarne’s methods, he often approved of his results, which had helped the N.Y.P.D. prevent a few catastrophes. So, Scarne knew that while it wasn’t a given, he was never reluctant to ask Condon to use his influence when it came to dealing with other jurisdictions.
Which is why he called Condon’s office at One Police Plaza Tuesday morning just before 8 A.M. He wasn’t concerned that it was too early.
“The Commissioner just left for the range, Mr. Scarne,” one of his assistants said.
Typical Condon, Scarne mused.
“When does he sleep?”
“When do I sleep?”
Scarne knew that the range the man referred to wasn’t the 54-acre Police Training Facility at Rodman’s Neck in the Bronx. Condon had built a secret N.Y.P.D. firing range in the basement of a former Borders bookstore on 21st Street and Sixth Avenue in the Flatiron District of Manhattan. Scarne was the only private investigator with privileges at the state-of-the-art facility, where he often not only honed his shooting eye but also engaged in friendly matches with cops and other favored law-enforcement types from the FBI, DEA, Secret Service and another Federal agency whose agents never named their organization, which, of course, immediately identified them as CIA The matches, while friendly, almost always involved wagering, and Scarne was well ahead.
He did not feel obliged to tell his opponents that he had once been a runner-up for the Secretary of the Navy Trophy as a member of the Marine Corps Shooting Team and been awarded a Distinguished Pistol Shot ribbon at the U.S. Rifle National and Pistol National Championships. But he suspected that some of the intelligence types had found out after they had paid off their bets to him with counterfeit bills.
Scarne, who was leaning on the rail of the terrace of his eighth-floor apartment at 2 Fifth Avenue just above Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village, closed his phone. Below him on the street traffic, both pedestrian and vehicular, was beginning to pick up. Scarne went into his apartment, a one-bedroom unit that, typical of those found in older buildings, measured out at a spacious 1,600 square feet. He dumped his half-finished third cup of coffee in the sink. A half-hour later, shaved and showered, he headed over to the gun range, an easy 15-minute walk.
***
Scarne loved the smell of a pistol range, a combination of cleaning solvent and cordite. The noise was bearable. Only a few booths had shooters. The facility wasn’t very large, with only a dozen stations. In the confined space when fully occupied it sounded like Iwo Jima.
Scarne gave a wave to a woman just taking off her ear protectors and policing her brass. She smiled.
“Hey, Jake. Up for a little match?”
“Not today, Annie. Just here to talk to someone.”
As he walked down the aisle he heard her clucking like a chicken. He laughed. An FBI agent, she was one of the few people to whom he’d lost a match.
Condon was in the last booth. His detective/driver, a cop named O’Mara, was sitting on a chair reading the New York Post. He looked up as Scarne approached.
“How’s it hanging, Jake?”
“Barely, Tom. How have you been?”
“Not bad. Wife is due any day now.�
��
“That makes four, right?”
“Five.”
“Good for you.”
“When are you gonna settle down. You must be close. I haven’t seen you on Page Six lately.”
Condon, who had been banging away with what sounded like a .38, stopped firing. Scarne could hear the whine of the target being retrieved. The Commissioner walked out of the booth holding the paper target in one hand and his gun in the other. He spotted Scarne.
“Well, if it isn’t Wyatt Earp.”
Scarne had taken a few dollars off Condon on the range.
“Let me see that,” Scarne said, pointing to the revolver in Condon’s other hand.
He handed it over, cylinder empty and open.
“I thought the department had switched to Glocks and other nines,” Scarne teased, weighing the venerable .38 Colt Police Special in his palm. It was a handsome, if well-worn, piece, with a four-inch barrel, blue finish and a wood-grained handle. “Or have you put the side of a barn on your most-wanted list.”
“Put that in your pipe and smoke it,” Condon said, showing the target to both men. It had bullet holes neatly punched through the head of a man’s silhouette.
“I’d be more impressed if I didn’t suspect that you were aiming at his heart,” Scarne said, handing the revolver back to Condon..
O’Mara laughed, drawing a look from his boss, who took his marksmanship seriously.
“Here, hotshot,” Condon said to his driver. “Let’s see how you do.” He gave the gun to the chagrined detective. “Me and Earp, here, are going to get a cup of coffee. Make sure you bring me your target.”
Condon started walking away and Scarne turned to the cop.
“I wouldn’t group your shots too close together if I were you,” he whispered.
“Don’t worry. I’m thinking of putting a couple in the ceiling.”
There was a small canteen just inside the front entrance of the range. All the room contained was a metal table, some chairs, a counter on which sat two electric coffee urns, one for decaf, and, of course, boxes of donuts, from Dunkin’ Donuts and Krispy Kreme. A goldfish bowl half full of paper currency sat between the coffee urns and the donuts. A small sign above it said: HONOR SYSTEM (But You Never Know Who Is Watching!)
“A lot of money in here for some coffee and donuts,” Scarne said, throwing in a five-dollar bill, “considering that I know everything is donated.”
He and Condon poured themselves coffee and took a donut.
“Everyone knows the money goes to the Police Athletic League,” Condon said.
“Ever find any counterfeit bills in the jar?”
“No. Why?”
“Just wondering,” Scarne said, recalling that he sometimes threw his winnings from shooting matches into the bowl. “I can’t believe you are eating a cream-filled donut with chocolate sprinkles, Dick.”
“I’ve always believed that a leader has to get down in the trenches and rough it with his troops,” Condon said, smiling with a mouth full of donut. “Builds morale.”
“Not to mention your waistline.”
“What are you talking about?” Condon smacked his stomach. “I haven’t put on a pound in ten years.”
It was true. Condon, a short, trim man with sandy red hair cut military-style, was as trim as Scarne had ever seen him, thanks, he knew, to a fanatic exercise regimen.
“So, Jake, I know you didn’t come all this way to bust my balls. You usually do it over the phone. What do you need this time?”
Scarne laughed.
“I did call you. But when I found out you were here I couldn’t pass up the chance to see you in person.”
“And, of course, there are the donuts.”
“Of course. But I’m headed down to Florida to look into something. There are some local cops and prosecutors that might not appreciate me nosing around. But the matter is delicate and the fewer waves I make the better. If you know anyone where I’m headed I thought you might put a good word in for me.”
“Since when are you worried about making waves?”
“These may be tsunami-sized.”
“Is this something I want to know about?”
Scarne knew Condon wouldn’t want to be kept in the dark about anything effecting New York City.
“No. This is out-of-town stuff.”
“Where in the Sunshine State?”
“Naples, Fort Myers, Calusakee.”
“Where the hell is Calusakee?”
“I have only a vague idea myself. Somewhere near the other two. But they are all in Florida’s 20th Judicial Circuit, if that helps.”
“Well, I’m glad it’s the West Coast. If I recall, the last time you dropped my name in Florida you damn near depopulated the East Coast. Well, I know some folks down there. Get me the names of people you plan on annoying and I’ll make some calls.”
***
Scarne spent the rest of the day in his office, explaining his new case and making travel plans with Evelyn. He also filled in Noah Sealth in on some cases that he would have to monitor in his absence.
“I don’t think I’ll be more than a week,” Scarne said. “There’s nothing urgent. How are the wedding plans coming along?”
“Good, I suppose. It’s not like I have much of a say in them. I’m just trying to stay out of the way. You finalize the golf?”
Scarne planned to stay on a couple of days after the wedding to play some of the famous courses in and around Killarney, the site of Noah’s wedding.
“All set. Ballybunion, Old Head and Tralee.”
“That means absolutely nothing to me.”
“Me neither. Except that everyone I talk to says I’m an idiot not to play them if I’m over there.”
“Are you taking your clubs?”
“No. The Irish have it down to a science. I can rent a set of brand new clubs for a couple of hundred bucks and have them waiting for me when I land.”
Evelyn Warr, who had been in the outer office at her desk, came into the room and sat.
“You’re all set, gov. You fly JetBlue out of JFK at 8 A.M.”
“Gov? You’ve been watching those damn BBC police shows on Netflix, haven’t you?” Scarne turned to Sealth, who looked confused. “All the bosses in England are apparently called ‘gov’.”
Evelyn, who was in fact English and still bore a passing resemblance to the actress, Kate Winslet, laughed. She had been with Scare for almost a decade, first as a secretary and now as the office’s indispensable office administrator and mother hen. She was wearing a light blue skirt and white shirt. A simple silver locket hung from her elegant neck. Inside the locket, Scarne knew, was a small photo of her dead fiancé, killed in the attack on the World Trade Center, an attack that would probably have killed her as well hadn’t she been on holiday in Devonshire on 9/11, instead of the 90th floor of Tower 1.
Evelyn had a series of lovers in the years since, which didn’t include Scarne, since early on they both decided that, despite some healthy physical tension, they needed more from each other than sex. He often wondered if she would ever ditch the locket, and its memories. It might take a wedding ring, but Scarne was beginning to wonder if she would ever marry. Evelyn’s thick brown hair, which once flowed down past her shoulders, was considerably shorter now, since, as she’d told Scarne, it was high time she “acted my age”. Scarne still found her normally cultured English inflection, and use of words like “crumpets” for any pastry and “lifts” and “tubes” for elevators and subways, charming. So did his clients.
But she was much more than a pretty face with a nice accent. She was one of the best researchers he’d come across.
“Evelyn, work your Internet magic and find out who in authority involved in the Alva Delgado murder I have to speak to in Florida’s 20th Judicial Circuit. I want to get a list over to Dick Condon. He’s going to make some calls down there. Hopefully it will prevent me from getting shot on sight. And see if you can dig up a photo of Delgado. Recent, but
before she was killed.”
“Right, gov.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
CHAPTER 4 - BEST DEFENSE
The JetBlue A320 passed over Tampa at 12,000 feet on its final decent into Fort Myers. Scarne looked down at Clearwater Bay and tried to see if he could spot the sprawling VA hospital where he’d tracked down Whitey Banaszak, a terminally ill hit man whose confession to a priest helped unravel a vast international criminal conspiracy. Banaszak was long dead, murdered in his hospice bed right under Scarne’s nose.
Scarne smiled. For reasons known to only a few people, he had fond memories of Banaszak’s assassin, despite the man’s impressive body count and his later attempt to kill Scarne. The man had won his grudging respect, which, he knew, was reciprocated. Men like “the Vulcan,” as the assassin was known among his peers, lived by a certain code, not easily understandable in the regular world. But, for better or worse, Scarne understood it too. He wondered if their paths would ever cross again.
The Airbus banked out into the Gulf, beginning its long arcing descent toward Fort Myers. Scarne’s smile disappeared and his face hardened as his thoughts drifted to another Florida case, the one that Dick Condon had mentioned. There were no fond memories of that debacle, which ended in a blood-stained cove in the Keys amid human screams that frightened and silenced even the nighttime creatures of the mangrove forest. Briefly, a face floated into his mind. A beautiful, amoral, doomed face. The nightmares were fewer and farther apart now, but still painful. Would he ever forget her?
The flight attendants made their last pass down the aisle, collecting trash and reminding passengers about seat belts, seat backs and tray tables. The Airbus had begun its languorous left turn and rapidly lost altitude on its final approach into the airport. Scarne looked down at a lush panoply of beaches, hotels, golf courses, inlets, shrub forests and swamps. It was spring. The land was green and the water so clear and blue he thought he spotted schools of fish, but it might only have been light reflecting in the shallows.
There was a familiar thump. The Airbus wasn’t as quiet as a Boeing; the Europeans sacrificed some amenities, such as excessive soundproofing, to make their planes lighter and more fuel efficient. Scarne didn’t mind. He liked knowing that the pilots remembered to put the landing gear down. He recalled his many flights in the military, on aircraft with virtually no soundproofing. During level flight the engine noise was bad enough, but when the flaps and landing gear were deployed it sounded like the plane hit a mountain.
PEDESTAL (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 5) Page 4
