Since he was facing first base, Joey never saw the impact of the two bodies halfway between home plate and third base. But he sure as hell heard it. It was something between a splat and thump. He jumped off the rubber and twirled around, an obvious balk. But the home plate umpire didn’t call it. Instead, the man said, “Jesus Christ!” At first, Joey couldn’t process what he saw. The Moanalua third base coach was sprawled on his back and looking at a crumpled mass not ten feet from where he had been standing. Dust and baseline chalk had risen in a puff from the impact. The Kilani High third baseman kept saying “Holy shit!” over and over again. The third base coach rolled onto all fours and started puking. Joey looked at what he now realized was a human body. Except that it didn’t look all that human, with two flattened heads and more arms and legs than it should have. He felt his own gorge rising as a red stain started spreading across the third base line.
Then the screams started.
***
A half mile away, a man was standing outside his black SUV. He put away his binoculars. I have to give that instructor credit, he thought. He had balls. Of course, a father will do just about anything to protect his family. The man got into the SUV and drove to the impact site. His instructions were clear. Visual confirmation, close up. Overkill, he knew. He’d seen the impact and actually heard the muffled impact.
He pulled up to what he now recognized was a baseball field. There were dozens of people milling around. Some women were crying and rushing children away. He hadn’t expected that. With all the vacant land surrounding the drop zone, not to mention the Pacific Ocean, they landed in the middle of a ball game! I hope they didn’t hit any kids, he thought. The first sirens warbled in the distance. The man quickly made his way onto the field. No one paid him any attention. Those people who had stuck around were all on cell phones. Some were even using their phones to snap pictures. The man shook his head. What a world. He did a quick head and limb count and was relieved to see that the gelatinous mass near third base consisted of only two bodies. No one went near it. He walked back to his SUV, took out his cell phone and speed dialed.
“Dead on arrival,” he said. “You can finish it. I’ll pick you up in 15 minutes. Our plane leaves in two hours.”
***
The man who had answered the call was the head of the hit team.
“Show time,” he said to a third man, who nodded and calmly walked over to the bed where the woman and her 10-year-old daughter were lying face down, their arms tied behind their backs with silk scarves, which would leave no marks. It was the only mercy they were shown. At least they wouldn’t see much of it coming. From a room down the hall a baby squalled loudly.
Using one of the dead instructor’s own Kanetsune Damascus skydiving knives, which could cut through a parachute cord like butter, the killer reached down and pulled the woman’s head back and expertly slit her throat. Then he did the daughter. It had taken no more than five seconds. There was some thrashing and some muted gurgling but it was soon over. He wiped the knife off on the bed sheet, which would soon be covered by the spreading pools of blood. The knife would be dropped in the ocean. Then he took another Damascus knife out of a plastic bag and, gingerly holding it by two fingers of his gloved hand, dipped it in the blood of both victims. When he was finished, he dropped it to the floor. It, like the actual murder weapon, had been in the garage with some other skydiving equipment. The instructor’s fingerprints would be all over the handle.
“Untie their hands and rearrange the bodies so it looks like they put up a bit of a struggle,” the leader said. “Be careful. Don’t get anything on you and don’t forget the scarves.”
“Like I’ve never done this before,” the killer said, sarcastically. “Just go write the fucking suicide note on the computer.”
When he had finished staging the scene in the bedroom, the killer went to the family room, where the computer was located.
“Car’s outside,” the leader said, finishing up the bogus suicide note.
“Did you put in the corporate crap?”
“Like I’ve never done this before, either.”
The killer read the note.
“Poor bastard. Loses his life and reputation in one day.”
Suddenly, he noticed how quiet it was. The baby had stopped crying. He looked at the other man.
“The baby?”
“All taken care of.”
The killer stared at him in horror.
“Why? He couldn’t identify us. What are you, some kind of a goddamn freak?”
The team leader looked confused, and then started laughing.
“I didn’t hurt him, you idiot. I just changed his diaper and gave him a bottle while you were cleaning up. I got kids of my own.”
“That was fast.”
“Twins, man. I have twins. You learn to be fast. Now, let’s get the hell out of here.”
***
The gruesome death of the vibrant C.E.O. of the BVM Corporation, one of the world’s largest, immediately created a media firestorm. The subsequent discovery of tandem instructor Matthew Campbell’s murdered wife and daughter added fuel to the fire. The police, who had gone to the Campbell home on what they thought was a routine death-notice visit, soon changed their initial assessment of the incident. What had been assumed was a tragic accident was now considered a bizarre murder-suicide, in which Bryan Vallance was an unfortunate victim of a distraught and deranged war veteran. The suicide note found on the Campbell computer referenced nightmares, suspicions of marital infidelity and money troubles. There was also a mention of corporate greed, which apparently sealed Vallance’s fate. It was almost immediately assumed that Matthew Campbell, a former army paratrooper with two tours in Afghanistan under his belt, had snapped, probably from Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Given the prominence of Vallance in Washington and Wall Street, there were calls in Congress for an investigation of how the Army and Veterans Administration had let Campbell’s P.T.S.D. slip through the cracks without treatment, or even a diagnosis.
A tragedy all around, the media opined.
The story petered out within two weeks, although photos from the tragedy remained popular on YouTube for much longer.
Sean Campbell, eight months old, was taken home by his maternal grandparents.
***
More than 4,000 miles away, Demarco Livingston, a Villanova University graduate student working for the American Chestnut Society, drove up to a plot of land on the forested outskirts of Dillsburg, Pennsylvania, not far from Gettysburg. He wanted to check on the progress of 50 young chestnut trees, Chinese-American hybrids that offered the hope of restoring the chestnut tree in the United States to its former prominence. The society, a non-profit, was working with several universities and supported by grants from the Federal Government.
The project had immense economic ramifications. Prior to the introduction of a parasitic fungus from Asia in the early 1900’s, the fast-growing American chestnut was one of the tallest and most-beautiful trees in Eastern forests. Their hard, rot-resistant wood was ubiquitous in furniture across the nation for much of the 18th and 19th centuries. Some said the American chestnut helped build the nation. But by the 1950’s, the blight had killed most native chestnut trees, some five billion in all.
The genetically altered seedlings were designed to blend the fungus-resistance of Chinese chestnut trees with the hardiness of the American variety. Hybridization had been tried before, but the current experiment went one step further than mere hybridization. It used the latest gene splicing techniques, introducing a wheat gene that helps the hybrid produce an enzyme that helps to kill the fungus before it can do much damage.
Livingston was paid a small stipend, but more importantly he was getting credit toward his master’s degree in botanical science. The trees in his “garden,” which were spread over two acres, were only five years old, mere saplings. But they were already a foot taller than he was. At six-seven, he’d managed to win a walk-on spot on the Villanova ba
sketball team in his junior year. He’d actually been inserted in one home game that was a blowout because the coach knew his family was in the stands. He scored four points and had two rebounds in the easy victory, the high point of a basketball career that ended after that season. Livingston was a step too slow for the college game, let alone the pros, and he was savvy enough to realize that his future lay in botany, not basketball.
When Livingston saw the first dying chestnut tree, he wasn’t too alarmed. Just because a tree was a hybrid didn’t make it immune from other dangers. Even the sturdiest tree will succumb if it loses out against other species in the perpetual battle for survival. The test trees were on the edge of a forest and competed with cedars, firs, pines and spruces for nutrients and sunlight. Livingston and the rest of his team wanted their chestnut trees to grow in the most natural conditions possible. Some casualties were to be expected. He walked to the next tree. It, too, was dying. Within 20 minutes, he’d ascertained that the entire grove was dying.
Demarco Livingston, who grew up black and poor in South Philadelphia, had never seen a chestnut tree until he got his position with the American Chestnut Society. Now, looking at the doomed saplings, which he’d grown to love, he cried for the first time in his adult life.
CHAPTER 3 - PRIVATE DINING
Noah Sealth walked into Jake Scarne’s office. Evelyn Warr was already there, seated in front of Scarne’s desk, where she was helping him go through a cardboard box brimming with paper. The side of the box said “Cutty Sark Scots Whiskey” and was adorned with a picture of a 19th Century clipper ship. Taped underneath the ship was a handmade printed label that said in capital letters: BUSINESS RECEIPTS (2011). Evelyn was sorting the paper into specific piles.
“I hope that box holds more than booze receipts,” Sealth said, remaining standing.
Rain pelted against the 20th-floor windows in Scarne’s office overlooking Rockefeller Center but the sky looked brighter off to the west. It had rained all weekend and now it looked like Monday, a workday, would turn out pretty nice. New Yorkers would say that figured.
“I remember when I could keep my tax records in a shoe box,” Scarne said sourly. “These goddamn audits are a pain in the ass.”
“They spelled Scotch wrong,” Sealth said.
“No, they didn’t. That’s how they spell it.”
“Why don’t you just send the box over to your accountant and have his people go through the stuff? Isn’t that what you pay him for?”
“I am going to send the receipts over. But a lot of them aren’t marked. The last time I went through one of these I made the mistake of shipping everything to Saul, and one of his assistants inadvertently sent the IRS some receipts from Belmont Park and a couple of casinos in Atlantic City. I had a hell of a time straightening that out. So, I want to check all these against my diary to make sure they are legit. Or, at least can be argued.”
“He means he wants me to check them against his diary,” Evelyn said without looking up. “And his computer. And his Google calendar. And his iPhone.”
“Are you permitted to deduct wedding presents?” Sealth asked.
“I’m not sure,” Scarne said distractedly. “If they’re business-related, maybe.”
“I think the limit is $25,” Evelyn said. “Same as gifts for your employees.”
“Can you double up? I mean, if your employee gets married, can you get a $50 deduction?”
Scarne looked up.
“What the hell are you talking about, Noah?”
“Just wondering. I know you’ll be more generous to Juliette and I.”
“Don’t tell me,” Evelyn said.
Noah smiled broadly.
“Yup. Asked her last night and the crazy little fool said yes.”
“Oh, Noah. That’s wonderful.” She jumped up and gave him a big hug and a kiss. “Juliette is a terrific gal.”
Scarne came around his desk and pumped Sealth’s hand.
“Congratulations. When?”
“Haven’t picked a date. But soon.”
“This calls for a celebration,” Scarne said.
“As long as it’s not Cutty Sark,” Evelyn said. “It’s not even 10 A.M.”
“I don’t even have any Cutty around,” Scarne said. “This box is probably nine years old. Don’t we have some champagne in the fridge?”
“No. But I think there’s a split of Prosecco.”
“Never too early for Prosecco. Make sure you use the really good plastic cups.”
When Evelyn went to get the Italian sparkling wine, Sealth turned to Scarne.
“I was hoping you would be my best man, Jake.”
Scarne clapped him on the shoulder.
“I’d be honored, Noah. You know that you and Juliette are more than a potential deduction to me.”
Evelyn was back shortly with the Prosecco. They sat around sipping it when the phone rang. Scarne looked at the caller I.D. It was his lawyer, Donald Tierney.
“What’s up, Don.”
“Are you free for lunch today? I know it’s short notice, but it’s rather important. A potential client for you. Very deep pockets.”
Scarne had been considering taking Sealth out to lunch to continue their celebration, but Tierney and his firm, one of Wall Street’s best, had thrown a lot of business his way. In fact, enough to allow Scarne to maintain an office at Rockefeller Center and bring Noah into the firm. He didn’t want to pass up the prospect of another lucrative payday to keep the office running smoothly until Noah was up to speed.
“Sure, Donald. Where and when?”
“Maloney & Porcelli, at 1?”
“OK. Want to tell me what it is about?”
“Wish I could. But Todd, that’s his name, called me out of the blue. Said he knew of our relationship and wanted me to sit in on the meeting, so he figured he’d just call me first. But he wouldn’t give me a heads up.”
“Who is he?”
“Winston Todd, a managing partner of the Chicago firm of Sibellius, Rockford and Todd. Top-drawer firm. More than 200 attorneys. We’ve done business with them on occasion, though I’ve never met Todd. He was close to the Daleys and is still a big player politically in Chicago.”
“What do you think?”
“No harm in listening to him. And we’ll get a good lunch.”
Tierney hung up. Scarne looked thoughtful.
“What’s up?” Noah said.
“Don’t know. But it’s not just lunch.”
***
Maloney & Porcelli is on 50th Street between Park and Madison Avenues only a few blocks from Rockefeller Center. By 12:45 the rain had slowed to a drizzle so Scarne decided to walk. He was in a good mood and began to whistle Singing in the Rain until he felt ridiculous, which was almost immediately. He was happy for Noah and Juliette, a detective with France’s Sûreté Nationale on temporary assignment to the United Nations, and the reason Sealth had retired from Seattle Homicide and moved to Manhattan. They had met years earlier when Noah was part of an Interpol exchange program with the Sûreté. Scarne really liked the diminutive French woman, who could not only cook a hell of a cassoulet but who also had contacts among European police authorities (and some criminals) that came in handy, especially in Scarne’s last case involving the Killerfest conference. Scarne smiled. He and the big Seattle cop had certainly come a long way since almost coming to blows at their first meeting during the Ballantrae fiasco. But after their initial conflict, they had quickly learned to trust each other. Maybe it was because they both had a little Native-American blood running through their veins; Cheyenne in Scarne’s case, Suquamish in Noah’s.
When Scarne got to the restaurant and asked for Todd, he was taken in hand and led to the Mahogany Room, one of two private dining areas in Maloney & Porcelli. The elegantly appointed room was hidden behind the restaurant’s wine vault and lived up to its name, with dark red velvet and brass accents set off with plush mahogany millwork. Tierney was already there, sitting near the head of a long
rectangular table that could easily seat 30. There was a briefcase on the chair next to him. Only one other chair was occupied, at the head of the table, by a distinguished-looking, white-haired man. Both men were deep in conversation.
A waiter carrying menus followed Scarne into the room, as well as a bartender wheeling a martini cart, which he drew up next to a sideboard on which sat a vintage cigar collection and a coffee service. Tierney and Todd rose at Scarne’s approach as the waiter placed the menus on the table.
Tierney, a man about Scarne’s size, but older, was the quintessential successful Wall Street lawyer. Some of the 10 years he had on Scarne showed under his vest. But he didn’t look soft, and wasn’t. His face was all sharp angles, only rarely broken by a smile. He had once briefly been Scarne’s commanding officer in the Marine Corps and was part of the old-boys network that kept track of fellow jarheads in New York City. Not only had he sent lucrative clients Scarne’s way, he’d also skillfully defused many of the controversies surrounding some of Scarne’s unconventional actions. But it wasn’t a one-way street. Scarne solved some ticklish problems for Tierney’s firm that no one else seemed able to.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice, Jake,” Tierney said, putting out his hand.
“Sure, Don.”
“Jake, this is Winston Todd.”
Scarne shook Todd’s hand.
“My thanks for coming as well,” Todd said. “I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient.”
“Not at all,” Scarne said. “This isn’t Burger King, after all. Don knows how to appeal to my better instincts.” Both men laughed and they all sat. Scarne looked around. “Are we expecting anyone else?”
Todd smiled.
“Rather grand, isn’t it? But I wanted privacy and since I also wanted a good lunch while in New York, I thought this would do nicely. I’ve used the Mahogany Room before when in town. The restaurant has another private room, the Skylight Room, I believe, but that seats a hundred or more.” He laughed. “Don’t want to be too ostentatious.”
THE VIRON CONSPIRACY (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS #4) Page 2
