PEDESTAL (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 5)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Vacation?”

  Scarne turned to the man sitting next to him.

  “Excuse me.”

  “I said, are you here on vacation?”

  Scarne had barely exchanged a word with his seatmate, an older man who had fallen asleep soon after takeoff from JFK. But it had been his experience that people liked to talk during a landing. It probably took their mind off what everyone knew was the most dangerous part of any flight.

  “Yes,” Scarne replied.

  “Great time of year. Me, I’m visiting my daughter. Got four grandmonsters. That’s what I call them. Great kids, really, but my back will be in traction by the time I get home. They’ll be the death of me yet.”

  Scarne made polite conversation with the old gentleman right through the computer-aided touchdown, which was very smooth.

  But he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be the death of anyone on this case. His track record in Florida wasn’t very good. That was why he took comfort from the 9MM Hechler-Koch automatic under his left arm.

  Scarne had only recently started carrying a weapon at all times when on a case, and now often did so when not. Dudley Mack had chided Scarne constantly about his going around unarmed. He pointed out that trouble seemed to follow Scarne around “like a hound that smells a bitch in heat”. Not to mention, Mack had also colorfully pointed out, Scarne had been accumulating enemies from past assignments like “a dog with fleas”. Mack was a dog lover; he often peppered his conversations with canine analogies.

  But Scarne had taken the advice to heart and had even worked out a way to carry a gun on his travels domestically without the aggravation of checking his weapon through the TSA screening process. All it took was a call to Anne Rasmussen, an agent with the Defense Clandestine Service, a new department set up by the Pentagon to monitor foreign threats. Scarne had saved her life when they had teamed up during Scarne’s investigation of the murder of Bryan Vallance. Rasmussen had been tracking some former Communist spies and scientists using Vallance’s company to develop biological agents to create international havoc and attack the United States. She, and her colleagues at the D.C.S., had made it clear to Scarne that he now had some chips in the game with them.

  So, he cashed one in and was now an unpaid consultant with the D.C.S., with the appropriate credentials to carry a weapon on his person when on an airline flight.

  Rasmussen had hinted that her bosses were impressed with Scarne for his actions during the Vallance incident and some of his other high-profile cases, and with his war record in the Marines. She told him not to be surprised if at some future date her agency tried to recruit him.

  “In the meantime,” she said, “I’m glad you want to carry a gun. We’ve all read your file. You’ve pissed off a lot of people on several continents.”

  “I hear that a lot,” Scarne replied.

  “When are you coming to Washington?”

  Given the intimate nature of the act he performed in saving her life, an act that put his own life in grave danger, Scarne knew Rasmussen was interested in recruiting him for something other than Government work.

  “Ah, they never forget,” he said.

  She laughed, but he would bet she was blushing.

  “Soon, Anne. I promise.”

  Carrying a weapon on a plane still presented some problems, of course. Given the international terrorism climate, the sight of a weapon could freak out other passengers. Which is why Scarne wore an old “Miami Vice” shoulder rig under his jacket to accommodate his Hechler-Koch. The gun was held flush under his armpit and a pouch for extra magazines also fit snugly under his other arm. Besides, it was the most comfortable holster for flying. Unless he flew first-class, which he rarely did on short flights, Scarne discovered that airline seats were too narrow for a belt holster unless one was anorexic.

  Scarne wasn’t really worried about running into an old adversary. The simple truth was that in the past when he thought he didn’t need a weapon, he usually found out he did.

  ***

  Scarne drove his rental car to Bonita Springs, a resort area on the Gulf that allowed easy access to Naples, Coastal City and Calusakee. He’d taken a room at the Hyatt Regency Coconut Point Resort & Spa on Estero Bay. After dropping off his luggage, he called Jamilia Turay, the attorney who represented Manuel Herrera at his trial. She had been expecting his call and agreed to meet him for lunch in the Okeechobee Grill at the Calusakee Casino.

  “Just ask for me at the hostess station,” she said. “They know me there.”

  Finding the casino was a lot easier than finding the Okeechobee Grill inside the cavernous building. Casinos are built like labyrinths so people can't find their way out. Scarne finally asked a cocktail waitress and was directed to a small restaurant tucked behind an area devoted to video poker. Jamilia Turay was sitting in a booth at the very back. She was a light-skinned black woman with dark blond hair and eyes that hinted of some oriental blood. Scarne introduced himself. Her handshake was firm and businesslike. He sat across from her.

  “Can I see your identification,” she asked. He passed it over. She glanced at it and handed it back. “Why is a New York private investigator interested in what happened to Manuel Herrera?”

  “I represent people who have an interest in finding out if he killed Alva Delgado”

  “Who are they?”

  Scarne was ready for that one.

  “And I suppose if I ask you to tell me something Herrera told you in confidence you will happily spill your guts.”

  Turay smiled, revealing a small gap between her bottom front teeth.

  “Touché. But as it stands, I’ll tell you everything Manny told me in confidence, since it all came out at the trial. He said he was innocent. And you don’t have to tell me who you represent. If I had to guess, I’d say their interest was sparked by a certain freelance journalist who has been asking a lot of embarrassing questions.”

  If he hadn’t already suspected it, Scarne knew that Jamilia Turay was a very sharp cookie. He began to wonder about the assumption that Manny Herrera had not been well represented.

  A waitress appeared and they both ordered burgers and iced teas. When she left the lawyer said, “What do you know about the case, Mr. Scarne?”

  He told her.

  She smiled.

  “What do you need me for?”

  “I just want to hear it from your side.”

  “OK. Fair enough. Herrera claimed he was home watching television when Alva called him in a panic. Said he rushed right out and found her by the side of the road. Saw that she was injured and was taking her to a hospital when the cops stopped him. When they saw she was already dead, they cuffed him and called for backup.”

  “Did they Mirandize him?”

  “No. But they hadn’t arrested him yet. That came later and everyone says they went by the book. I don’t doubt he was read his rights. No reason not to, with how it looked. Why screw up an open-and-shut case on a technicality. Besides, he never said anything incriminating. He’s always maintained his innocence.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  Turay paused.

  “I wanted to, just because it would have been nice for a change to defend someone who didn’t do it. But Manny’s story was a joke. His only alibi was Richard Castle.”

  The name sounded familiar to Scarne.

  “Richard Castle?”

  Turay laughed.

  “You know, the TV show? Castle? He’s a writer involved with the woman homicide cop. They solve murders together?”

  Scarne got it. He occasionally watched the show.

  “Her name is Nikki Heat,” he said.

  “The girl cop’s name is Beckett,” Turay said. “Nikki Heat is the name of the fictional character in his books. Anyway, Manny says he was watching Castle when he got the call from Alva. Described a scene in the show, something about a body hanging from a ceiling. The local cops said, so what? Call meant nothing. TV show meant nothing. He still could have gone out and m
et the girl and roughed her up.”

  “Still, it helps his story,” Scarne said. “He didn’t have to say anything about watching TV.”

  “I argued that very point. Cops laughed and showed me the day’s TV listings. Herrera was right about the body and the ceiling. Twice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The same show ran twice that day. Once in the morning and then late that night.”

  “Oops.”

  “Yeah. Oops.”

  Their food came. Scarne’s burger was overdone but he decided not to send it back. He wasn’t that hungry anyway. He regretted his decision when he tried a French fry. It was cold.

  “So, you think he’s guilty.”

  “I didn’t say that. I don’t know if he is or not. All I know is that if he went to trial on a murder charge he would have been convicted and gotten life, if not the needle or the chair.” Turay grimaced. “You have a choice on how you want to die here in Florida.”

  “So you told him to take a plea.”

  “I told him what his options were. Basically, slim and none, and slim was about to leave town. But it was his decision. I was perfectly willing to go to trial, even though it would have been a waste of time. Can’t you just hear my closing argument? “Even though my client was found drunk with his ex-girlfriend’s body in his car covered in her blood, I hope you won’t jump to any conclusions.” The lawyer emitted a harsh laugh. “Compelling, isn’t it?”

  “You have much trial experience? In murder cases?”

  Turay didn’t take offense.

  “I know what some people think: Herrera got the best defense he could afford, which wasn’t much. Can’t really blame them. I work for the C.C.W., the Coalition of Calusakee Workers. Most of what I do involves labor relations and immigration problems. But given the demographic we serve there is also a fair amount of criminal litigation. Most of the migrants are hard-working family people, very religious. But they are poor and not immune to drugs and alcohol-related problems. And there are always bad apples and others within the community who prey on them. A lot of disputes are settled with guns or knives, so me and the other lawyers in the C.C.W. spend a good amount of time in criminal court. Granted, not too many cases go to trial. Probably 90 percent get pleaded out. But we don’t waltz our clients into jail. It’s just that our time and resources are limited.”

  “How far did you go checking out Herrera’s story about the party he said Alva went to?”

  Turay had finished the burger and was picking at her French fries.

  “Damn things are cold,” she said. “And this iced tea isn’t doing it for me.” She looked at Scarne. “You’re buying lunch, right?”

  “Sure. What do you want?”

  He waved the waitress over.

  “Jack and Diet Coke,” the lawyer said, “with a lemon.”

  Scarne stuck to his ice tea.

  “I checked out Manny’s story as far as I could,” Turay said. “On my own. Alva’s girlfriends confirmed that she stayed at the party after they left.”

  “At Anthony Desiderio’s house.”

  If the lawyer was surprised that Scarne knew the name, she didn’t show it.

  “Yes.”

  “Did they mention who she was with?”

  “No one in particular.”

  Scarne didn’t know how much Turay knew of Cassie Mulloy’s proposed story, so he wasn’t willing to drop Landon and Weatherly’s names.

  “Did they say anything about her getting on the yacht docked at the party?”

  “What yacht?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Did you speak with Desiderio?”

  “Yes. He said he invited Alva to the party. Knew her from the casino. Hardly spoke to her until he put her in a car to get home. Said he was very angry at the guy who dropped her off by the side of the road.”

  “Did you speak to that driver?”

  “No. Desiderio fired him before I got around to him. But the cops interviewed him. The D.A. showed me his statement as part of discovery. Nothing in it of note. Guy was a jerk. Said Alva was loaded and threw up so he put her out of the car. Said she told him to go fuck himself and that she could just walk home from there. He’s probably bullshitting about that but the cops said there was no crime committed.”

  “You happy with the discovery material the D.A. and cops gave you?”

  “I don’t believe in the tooth fairy, but I also don’t think they had any reason to hold anything back. Like I said, why screw up such a solid case on a technicality?”

  “How many people did the cops interview from the party?”

  “I have no idea. If I had to guess, not many. They weren’t going to bust their balls over Manny Herrera’s story.”

  “So, basically, all you and the cops were able to ascertain was that Alva Delgado was at the party at Desiderio’s house in Naples?”

  Their drinks came. Turay took a long pull.

  “Listen. I’m no fan of the cops. But if they didn’t have a suspect like Manny covered in the victim’s blood they might have done a lot more with the party story. And if I didn’t have a client covered with the victim’s blood, I might have gone to the C.C.W. and told them to open up their wallet to hire a hotshot private investigator like you, not to mention all sorts of forensic experts. But there was no way they were going to spend their limited resources on someone like Manny. That’s just the way the system is. If Manny was some rich kid with a million bucks to spend and Johnnie Cochran in his corner it would be different. But all he had was me, and I gave it my best shot. With the manslaughter plea, he could be out in ten years, maybe sooner. I did my job.”

  CHAPTER 5 - JOCKS

  Calusakee is in Collier County, the largest county in Florida, with a land area bigger than the states of Delaware and Rhode Island. Crimes committed in the county come under the jurisdiction of Florida’s 20th Judicial Circuit, which also includes Charlotte, Glades, Hendry and Lee Counties. The Homicide Unit of the State Attorney’s Office is made up of prosecutors based in Fort Myers. All this Scarne now knew, which was why he was sitting in the office of Raymond Loquitor the next morning. Loquitor was the Assistant District Attorney who prepared the case against Manuel Herrera and negotiated the eventual plea bargain with Jamilia Turay.

  “How is Jamilia?”

  “Probably overworked and underpaid,” Scarne replied. “But she looks well.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Loquitor said with a trace of a Southern accent. “She’s a hell of a lawyer. I’ve gone up against her a few times. She’s tough, but fair. We have a good working relationship. She did a hell of a job for Herrera, considering she didn’t have much to work with.”

  “Which brings us to why I’m here,” Scarne said.

  “Yes,” Loquitor said. “Although I don’t know how much of a help I will be. Let me be frank, Mr. Scarne, the only reason I’m talking to you at all is that I got a call asking me to extend every courtesy. I don’t know who you know, but they are apparently above my pay grade.”

  “I pulled a few strings,” Scarne replied. “But I’m not throwing my weight around. I won’t tell you who I represent, but I can assure you I’m not out to question your investigation or embarrass anyone.”

  Loquitor was a good-looking man. He had a full head of black hair and a trim, runner’s physique. He leaned forward and curled his fingers on his desk

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that. The last thing we need, or appreciate, is some Yankee from up in New York telling us how to run our business. Why are you smiling?”

  “Mr. Loquitor, I may not know much about Florida, but I do know that except for the alligators many of its residents weren’t born here. You, for example. Born in Michigan. Went to college in Illinois. Fordham law in Manhattan, which last time I looked, is in New York. Moved to Florida six years ago when you took this job. The Southern accent is probably more recent. You’re still working on it.”

  “That damn Internet,” Loquitor said with a laugh. “If you m
ust know, it killed me to give up my Knicks season tickets.”

  “I know people who moved out of town because of the Knicks,” Scarne said.

  Loquitor laughed harder.

  “OK. Just tell me what you already know.”

  Scarne did, leaving the football players and Cassie Mulloy’s speculative story out of it.

  “Well, you seem to have it all,” Loquitor said when Scarne finished. “I don’t like to use the term ‘open and shut’ when referring to a case, because that usually comes back to bite us on the ass, but the Delgado murder comes pretty close.”

  “You mean manslaughter, don’t you?”

  Loquitor smiled.

  “Yeah. Look, we weren’t unsympathetic to the poor jerk who killed her. Herrera. It was obviously a crime of passion. It’s not like he beat the crap out of her, like some of those guys do to their women. He just punched her in the wrong place. He had no record of previous abuse, on her or anyone else. So we took that into consideration.”

  “Then why charge him with murder in the first place and threaten him with the needle or life? Why not start out with manslaughter?”

  “For an offense like that? This is Florida, Mr. Scarne. I charge some migrant worker with manslaughter and the C.W.C. sends a lawyer in to try to plea it down to simple assault, or jaywalking. Herrera was drunk and bloodied, had motive, no alibi and was driving around with the dead body of a beautiful young girl. Hell, a jury of migrants would have convicted him. I knew he’d take manslaughter, and so did Jamilia. To tell you the truth, there were some people in this office who were worried that we’d look too soft with the manslaughter plea. The chief of police in Calusakee went berserk. Said it was the kind of deal he expected from a Northern liberal pantywaist like me. For crissakes, I’m a Republican. A lot of people were hoping Herrera would balk on a plea so we could convict him on a murder charge. It wouldn’t have taken much time and effort and it would look great for our statistics. But I don’t work that way. Herrera is a born loser, but compared to some of the other guys we prosecute, he’s no hard case. He actually cried during the plea negotiations. I believe he had real remorse for what he did. That’s one of the reasons I was willing to deal.”