Scarne eventually found Michael Hinton’s mother sitting alone at the far corner of the bar in the yacht club.
“Mrs. Hinton?”
She squinted at Scarne. It was just past 4 P.M. and she was drunk.
“And you are?”
“My name is Jake Scarne. I’m a private detective. I would like to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind.”
“You working for my husband? Because if you are, speak to my lawyer.”
“I’m not working for your husband. This has nothing to do with your marriage.”
“Good. I have nothing to do with my marriage, either.”
She emitted a harsh laugh and called out to the bartender who was down the other end, probably for a reason.
“Freddie! Another gimlet!”
She looked at Scarne.
“How did you know where to find me, Mr. Barnes?”
“It’s Scarne, and your daughter told me. Perhaps you should speak to her about that. She could be more circumspect.”
“Tracy is like her father. She’d live with him if I’d let her.” A sly smile spread across the woman’s face. “But I’m glad she told you where I was.” She held out her hand. “The name’s Grace, by the way”
Her hand, which had been wrapped around more than one gimlet, was ice cold.
“You’re a good-lookin’ devil, Jake. Not like the greasy little bastard who was following me around after I filed papers on Harry. Did everything but look in my bedroom window. And for all I know he did that, too. I bet you don’t have to look in bedroom windows. I bet you’re invited in. Am I right?”
Grace Hinton probably had been good-looking herself 20 years and 40 pounds ago, Scarne reflected, as he disengaged his hand with difficulty. Thankfully, her latest gimlet arrived, which gave her something else to hold. She drank half of it.
“So, Jake, what is this about?”
“Ford Landon.”
“That son-of-a-bitch.”
Scarne had been counting on that reaction. If hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, second place went to a Southern mother whose son loses his starting quarterback job. Grace Hinton held the top two spots. He knew he had entered the lion’s den.
“I take it you are not a fan of his.”
“He stole Michael’s job.”
“As quarterback?”
“As everything. His girlfriend, too. My son was humiliated.”
“I understand he quit the team.”
“Can you blame him? That idiot coach wanted him to play cornerback, and not even first-string. Michael said no thanks! He even wanted to leave Piper Academy but me and Harry talked him out of that. Harry got that right, anyway. No way would we let Michael jeopardize his future in college just because Landon and his nig … negro pal showboated their way on to the team.”
The latest gimlet was gone. She hooked a finger at the bartender.
“Freddie. Fill ‘er up. And go easy on the lime juice. I ain’t worried about scurvy. And give my friend here whatever he wants.”
“I’m buying, Mrs. Hinton,” Scarne said.
“Guests can’t pay for drinks, Jakey,” she said. “Especially when they are as good-lookin’ as you. Just tell the man what you want. It’s for a good cause. My soon-to-be-ex still has to pay my bar bill.”
“Beer, any kind,” Scarne said, exchanging a look with the bartender.
They waited for their drinks and clinked glasses. Some of Grace Hinton’s gimlet spilled out in the process. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Landon and Weatherly were good players, weren’t they?”
“So was Michael. It’s a cryin’ shame. Weatherly shouldn’t even have gotten into Piper. It’s exclusive. We used to only have a couple of minorities in the school. And they had to be smart. Now they are letting down standards, just to win a couple of football games. Michael is better off. He’s at Pepperdine, you know. He’ll make more money than all of them.”
Probably not as much as the Touchdown Twins, Scarne thought.
“Why are you asking me about those two? They knock somebody up?”
“Why do you say that?”
“They would fuck snakes if they stood still,” Grace Hinton sneered. “Landon even screwed Miss Goody Two Shoes in the school office.”
“Mary Stoner?”
“You know her?”
“I stopped by the school to look at yearbooks. She was very helpful.”
“I bet she was. Slut.”
Grace Hinton was getting loud. Freddie the bartender looked nervous. Two men at the other end of the bar also looked their way and laughed.
“I bet the black kid screwed her, too. They probably had a threesome. A nice sex sandwich. Like an Oreo. No, that’s not right. Landon is white. But you get the idea. You ever have a threesome, Jakey?”
Scarne knew he didn’t have much time to get anything out of Grace Hinton. Her squint had become severe; her eyes were mere slits now.
“Are you sure about Mary Stoner?”
“Why, because she looks like a librarian? Everybody knew about it. Didn’t last long, though. They moved on. Screwed half the cheerleaders.”
“Didn’t anyone say anything? About having sex with an adult in the school office.”
“I don’t think they did it in the office. I heard they used to go to her house. She lives alone.” Grace Hinton cackled. “No surprise there.”
“I meant an adult who worked in the school office,” Scarne explained, not that Grace was paying much attention.
“I think Landon screwed one of the English teachers, too. Why would anyone say anything? They were stars. Druggies, too.”
Scarne had done a little research on the Touchdown Twins. There was no record of drug use. Despite her inebriation, Grace Hinton saw the look of skepticism on his face.
“Everybody covered that up, too. I don’t know about the black kid, but Michael told me that Landon was into cocaine. Big time. Said he would inhale the 20-yard line if he could. Whatever that means.”
Her head began to sag.
“How are you getting home, Grace?”
She perked up.
“Why? You want to take me home, Jakey?”
She leaned into him. Her breath smelled like sour limes. Her not insubstantial breasts sagged against the bar.
“I’m not sure you should be driving.”
She laughed and slammed a hand against the bar.
“Shit! I’m not sure I should be walkin’, honeybuns. But not to worry. I take car service everywhere. My lawyer says I don’t need another D.U.I. before the divorce hearing.” She gave Scarne her best leer. “But I’ll go home with you, big boy. Whaddya say?”
“What about Tracy?”
“What about her? She’s a big girl. Probably could teach me a trick or two.”
“Grace. You are an attractive woman. But I’m spoken for.”
“Who’s the lucky dame?”
Anyone else but you, Scarne thought, uncharitably. But he merely smiled and rose to leave.
“Hey. You hardly touched your beer, handsome.”
“I have to go, Grace. Anything else you can tell me about Ford Landon and Marcus Weatherly?”
“Lying phonies. Both of them. Two fuckin’ phonies. Bet neither of them could get into Pepperdine.”
She got up and taking her drink in one hand and alternately grabbing onto chairs and the bar with the other wobbled her way down to the two men at the other end. Both were white-haired with ruddy complexions and had on a blue blazer with some sort of emblem on the left breast. Scarne would have bet the ranch that it was an anchor. The men exchanged knowing smiles with each other and greeted her effusively. Scarne wondered which one she would take home. He didn’t rule out a “sandwich”.
Scarne decided to spend the night in Vero Beach. He asked Freddie the bartender for a hotel suggestion.
“Try the Driftwood Inn. It’s right on Ocean Drive. Can’t miss it. When you leave here head to the Atlantic and make a right before you hit th
e beach. Place has gone mostly timeshare, but they do have individuals rooms, especially this time of year. And a pretty good restaurant.”
The Driftwood was a two-story hotel built out of cypress logs with balconies surrounded by pole railings. The lounge, restaurant and rooms were furnished with a crazy assortment of ships' wheels, cannons, ornate chests, plush sofas and huge bells, some from churches and others from locomotives. When Scarne checked in he was told not to be surprised when someone rang a bell. Guests were encouraged to do so. Scarne had his doubts about the place, which looked more Wild West than seashore, but the bartender at the yacht club was right about the food at Waldo’s, the hotel grill. After a couple of bourbons and a decent prime rib, Scarne headed off to bed. He even rang a bell on the way.
***
Mary Stoner got out of her Hyundai Accent and started walking toward her office at Piper Academy. Classes started at 8:30 A.M. but she was always at work a half hour before that. There was a man leaning against a tree on the walkway.
“Miss Stoner.”
She looked at him, startled. Then she smiled.
“Mr. Scarne. Do you want to look at more yearbooks? It’s a little early, but you can come in if you like.”
“Actually, I came here to talk to you. And I’d rather do it out here. I think you’d rather, also.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t like doing this, Mary. But you should know that I’m a private detective and I’m looking into something that may involve Ford Landon and Marcus Weatherly.”
A look of fear crossed her face. Scarne was relieved. He had not been sure of Grace Hinton’s story until that very moment.
“I don’t know what I can tell you. Maybe you should talk to the school principal or the football coach.”
“Why? Did the boys also sleep with them? I know you did.”
Mary Stoner held her pocketbook across her chest, as if it could ward off a blow.
“I, I, I don’t know what you are talking about.”
She started to walk away.
“Don’t be a fool, Mary. I can find out everything, but that might cost me some time, and would only embarrass you. And, who knows, maybe the police would get involved.”
Scarne was bluffing. He had no intention of going to the police, even if a crime had been committed. And he wasn’t sure one had been. He didn’t know how old Landon and Weatherly had been when the alleged sex occurred. And Mary Stoner wasn’t a teacher. But she stopped dead in her tracks. She turned. Her mouth started moving, but nothing came out. Scarne took her arm and lead her to a bench. They sat.
“Tell me what happened, Mary.”
Fifteen minutes later, she got up and walked robotically toward the building. Two girls passed her with a cheery greeting and looked at her strangely when she didn’t respond. Scarne walked to his car. He felt terrible about what he’d just done.
“Maybe I should peek in bedroom windows,” he whispered to himself.
CHAPTER 9 - DESIDERIO
There are no poor neighborhoods in what is called Old Naples. But a ride along Gordon Drive heading south out of downtown was like entering another world entirely. Scarne, who had done some work for lawyers whose clients tried to recover money lost to Wall Street shysters, was familiar with the area. He knew that many of the properties he passed, on their two-acre parcels, had once been called “Enron Mansions” after one of the earlier scams that made millions for its perpetrators and, temporarily, for some of their clients. Many of those homes could just as easily now be called “Madoff Mansions” or “Stanford Mansions” after more recent financial debacles.
Many, but not all. Scarne also knew that Gordon Drive and similar premier Naples neighborhoods were favored by corporate and Hollywood elite that included some of the most famous and most wealthy people in the nation. As he approached Port Royal, at the southern tip of Gordon Drive, he wondered where Anthony Desiderio fit in this glittering company.
Scarne did not believe his visit to Herrera in prison had been a waste of time. Manny had not provided him with any evidence, but he couldn’t help but feel that a guilty man could have come up with a better story. Perhaps someone else had actually killed Alva Delgado. Of course, that didn’t mean that two of the biggest football icons in the country had anything to do with it. But he now also knew that the Touchdown Twins apparently couldn’t keep their dicks in their jock straps and at least one of them might be a coke head. That, too, didn’t make them murderers. But, given their public personas, that made them, as Grace Hinton had so inelegantly put it, lying phonies.
It wasn’t their moral dishonesty that intrigued Scarne. The country was awash in charlatans, from Washington to Wall Street. And in all sports. It was the sheer recklessness of Landon and Weatherly that bothered Scarne. Mary Stoner had told him that she only slept with Ford Landon.
No, he hadn’t forced himself on her. She described him as charming and manipulative, and said she was devastated when he stopped seeing her, even though toward the end of their relationship he had taken her for granted and she felt a bit used. But she had now come to terms with it and regarded the experience with fondness. She insisted that it was her only dalliance with a student. She begged Scarne not to say anything. He promised not to.
Scarne slowed when his GPS system indicated a left turn off Gordon Drive. He waited at the intersection while traffic passed in the opposite direction: two Bentleys and a landscape truck. On his right was The Port Royal Club, which blotted out the Gulf of Mexico it fronted. He turned into the residential section of Port Royal, a bit surprised that it was not gated. Two minutes later he pulled into the driveway of Anthony Desiderio’s Ginn Lane mansion. The woman who answered the door was holding a broom and dustpan.
“Mr. Tony not here,” the woman said when Scarne asked.
“When will he be back?”
“Tennis.”
“Pardon.”
“He play tennis. At club.”
“The Port Royal Club?”
“Yes.”
A man appeared behind the woman.
“Who is it, Yolanda?”
“No lo sé. Él quiere que el Senor Desiderio.”
The man was short, no more than five-six, with a fleshy face sporting a nose that had stopped too many fists. He was wearing white shorts. Thick black chest hair peaked out from a blue shirt decorated with yellow alligators. The shirt was too small; some of the gators looked distorted by the man’s big belly. But the man’s hairy forearms arms bulged with muscles and Scarne suspected under the belly fat was muscle. The man ignored Scarne and stared hard at the maid.
“What did you tell him?”
The woman looked frightened. Scarne didn’t want her getting in trouble.
“I was just about to ask her where he was. My Spanish is a little rusty. Maybe you can help me.”
The man jerked his head at the woman, who scurried away.
“He’s out.”
Scarne played along.
“When do you expect him back?”
“Who are you, pal?”
“I work for Brownpeace.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Well, you’ve heard of Greenpeace, haven’t you?”
“The tree huggers.”
“Yes. Save the whales and all that malarkey. We’re kind of the opposite. We believe humans, not animals, have a right to do to the planet what they want. Right now, here in Florida, we’re looking for people to help us with our drive to eradicate the manatees. They are a danger to navigation, you know. When they get chopped up they clog the propellers. We want to sign up all the yacht owners.”
“Yeah, sure. I’m with you on that. But like I said, Mr. Desiderio ain’t here. Don’t know when he’ll be back. Just send some literature.”
The man shut the door. Scarne smiled. He knew a thug when he saw one. And the guy was the first person he’d met in Florida who didn’t care about manatees.
***
The weather being gorgeou
s, all the tennis courts at the Port Royal Club were in use. But Anthony Desiderio was easy enough to find and Scarne took a seat under a shelter where players and others could stay out of the sun and drink from urns of iced tea and lemonade. Two teen-aged girls were on the court nearest the shelter and they were involved in a spirited match. Both were excellent players. Scarne knew there were worse ways to spend a morning than sitting under an awning watching long-legged girls run around in short skirts. He tried to concentrate on their tennis strokes.
Desiderio was on the next court over getting a lesson from a lanky young instructor who kept hitting to his backhand and yelling at him.
“Tony! Stop with the lobs and the cut shots. Only use them when you can’t do anything else. I’ve seen para-Olympians with better backhands. Swing through the ball!”
The instructor hit a soft liner and Desiderio took a full swing. The yellow ball arched over the fence behind the instructor.
“I think that one went into the Gulf,” the instructor laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I’d rather have you do that than hit one of those namby-pamby shots. Set your feet and hit through the ball. Bring your racket up and through. Up and through. The topspin will keep it in.”
Desiderio’s next return hit the fence, but he soon got the hang of it and a number of his shots actually remained within the court.
A doubles match on a nearby court ended and four women walked over to the shelter and started pouring themselves drinks. All were trim, probably in their 30s and exuded money. One of them put her foot up on the chair next to Scarne and tied her tennis sneaker. Her light brown hair was held back by a yellow scrunchie. There was a thin sheen of sweat on her tanned skin. She eyed him boldly. And smiled.
“I don’t think I know you,” she said.
“My misfortune,” Scarne replied.
“Are you staying for lunch?”
“I hadn’t planned on it. I’m not a member. I’m just waiting to talk to someone.”
The three other women were toweling off and talking about jewelry.
“We usually finish around 11:30 and then get cleaned up and eat. I’d love to be able to tell them I made plans. Can I buy you lunch?”
She had a husky, sexy voice and reminded Scarne of a young Lauren Bacall. He debated trying a Bogart accent but thought better of it.
PEDESTAL (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 5) Page 9
