“Catch anything?”
Startled, he nearly baited his finger. He whirled around, dropping his knife in the sand. A man stood beside him holding a large plastic bag.
“Jesus, you almost gave me a cardiac!”
“To be quite accurate, it’s Jesús,” the man said, smiling. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t seem sorry. “I was swimming and saw you. I fish.”
Slight accent, probably Cuban. Good-looking, with a small black mustache that matched his slick, jet-black hair. He looked like one of the rumba dancers on a cruise ship. Beaded with water, the stranger wore a tight black bathing suit that boldly outlined his genitals. At his hip was a small waterproof pouch. Rubber gloves were tucked into the other side of the suit. The plastic bag looked half full, with a watery luminescence. The man carefully placed it on the sand. Liquid spilled from the neck, and a strand of … something … slithered out. He opened his pouch and took out a cigarette. He did not offer one to the fisherman and took quite some time with a lighter, flicking it on and off several times before lighting the cigarette.
“These things will kill you,” he said, laughing at some private joke as smoke hissed from his nostrils.
The fisherman heard a motor start up, and then a muted throbbing. He looked toward his apartment house, barely visible 200 feet away. There were lights in the high rise and on a calmer day he would have been able to hear the hum of traffic on Collins Avenue. But not tonight. The stranger’s appearance unnerved him. This section of Miami Beach was in transition and just north Collins still had its fair share of cheap convenience stores, coffee shops, payday loan operations, burger and burrito joints with vinyl chairs, seedy beach bars and vagrants. This man was no vagrant, but that was small comfort. It’s not easy to look sinister in a bathing suit, but the stranger managed it.
There was a thump as a fish tail flapped out of the bucket.
“Ah, bluefish,” the stranger said, peering in. “They’ll be delicious. How would you have prepared them?”
The fisherman relaxed, not noting the phrasing.
“I like to marinate them in key lime juice and dark rum. Then dust them with a little flour and bake then at 400 degrees. Maybe 10 minutes.”
He was about to suggest an appropriate wine when the “Cuban” looked past his shoulder out to sea and said loudly, “He’s alone. No one in either direction.” He flicked away his cigarette and put on the gloves.
A clipped voice behind the fisherman said, “Make it quick.”
He turned to see another man walking from the ocean. Sensing danger, he reached down to grab the knife, sticking hilt up in the sand. Too late. Garza lifted the plastic bag and in one practiced motion flipped it over the fisherman’s head, pulling the drawstring taut. Seawater and slime filled the man’s nostrils and ears. The seal wasn’t perfect and most of the water gushed out the bottom of the bag, leaving only the congealed “things” that had been floating inside. Something in the fisherman’s midbrain, just barely below the level of consciousness, a genetic remnant of primate fear, recognized the creatures. Although slimy, they seemed to be attaching themselves to his face.
Jellyfish! Something twirled up his nose. He dropped his knife as his hands flew up. He barely hooked his thumbs under the throat of the bag when dozens of tentacles almost simultaneously discharged their poison. It felt like scalding water. His eyeballs exploded. He inhaled reflexively to scream and the fire filled his esophagus, which closed in an agonizing spasm. The fisherman pitched backwards into the sand near the waterline, limbs twitching uncontrollably. Then he went limp, hooded head rolling freely in the waves.
Keitel reached into the dead man’s bucket and pulled out a Ziploc bag. “Keys, wallet and cell phone,” he said. “Convenient.”
Then the killers each grabbed the corpse by an arm and started to drag it into the ocean.
“Wait,” said Garza, dropping one arm, which started flopping grotesquely in the surf. He went to the bucket and retrieved the bag with the night’s catch.
“Are you completely insane?”
“I like bluefish,” Garza said. “He gave me a great recipe.”
Once in the water, they flipped their victim over and then paddled him out to the boat, face down. No harm in being sure. After climbing into the Dusky, they carefully removed the fatal hood from the fisherman, whose bulging, spider-veined eyes stared at them in seeming reproach. The jellyfish slid into the water, but some blue, beaded strands remained attached to the dead man’s face. Tendrils twirled out from his nose and covered his upper lip.
“He looks like Salvador Dali,” Keitel observed.
“That’s not a good look for him,” Garza said. He gave the body a gentle, almost loving, push towards shore. “Now he belongs to the algae,” he intoned solemnly. They had recently watched a History Channel special about the Lincoln assassination. “Get it?”
“It’s not funny when you have to explain it,” Keitel said.
Garza reached into his pouch and lit a cigarette, which he needed a lot more than the one he used on the beach as a signal. The corpse slowly sank from sight. The man had to be found. A mysterious disappearance might spur an open-ended inquiry. The body would wash ashore, but only after the sea and its creatures muddied the forensic waters. There would be no signs of man-made trauma. It was a murder using only natural ingredients.
“You know, Christian, Greenpeace would be proud of us.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. Take the wheel. I’ll put lures on the rods. We should look the part when we get back to the dock. Hell, we even have some fish.”
He lifted the top of a seat and pulled out a tackle box. He knew what he was doing. As a boy in Cuba he fished the Guantanamo River with his father and uncles, near where the big waterway ran to the sea, splitting the now infamous American naval base in two. They often came so close to the base perimeter that Marine sentries fishing from the bulkhead waved. The perimeter searchlights, designed to spot intruders – mostly Cubans swimming to freedom – were an irresistible magnet to huge shrimp, which the Marines put on hooks.
“You wouldn’t believe it, Chico,” his father told him, “they get big jacks, tarpon, barracuda, because of those lights. I saw a 100-pound tarpon, a five-footer, leap like a sardine. Even the Marines jumped back. Then we saw the big shadow in the water. Tiburón, a hammerhead. Chasing the tarpon. At least 15 feet and 2,000 kilos! Eyes this far apart.” His father held his arms as wide as he could. He was a fisherman, after all. “Only a fool would swim there.”
Another time, he tried to step on a log jutting from shore. The “log” turned out to be a giant barracuda. Huge eyes rolled up to look at his foot, which he held in midair as his shaken father snatched him back and hugged him tight. And he recalled how his uncles passed him the rum bottle after a manta ray big as a Piper Cub jumped over their boat. What fun they had! Garza felt a twinge of remorse. His father would not have liked him killing a fisherman.
Christian was saying something.
“You should call them. Are you listening? You’re a thousand miles away.”
“Only 90,” Garza said, picking up his cell phone from a bag at his feet.
***
In a luxurious penthouse in Coral Gables, a man teetered at his climax. The woman astride him was motionless but for the slight rise and fall of a small blue tattoo at the base of her spine as she clenched her internal sexual muscles. She had brought the moaning man close several times. Now she would end the sublime torture. She had a reservation at Joe’s Stone Crabs. Not with him. A cell phone buzzed on the side table.
“Fuck! Leave it alone,” the man gasped. “I’m almost there.”
The woman climbed off. The man cursed and squirmed, all he could do with hands tied to the bedposts. She placed the phone to the man’s ear.
“Yes,” he gasped. “Wha… What is it?” He listened. “OK. OK. Fine.”
The woman threw the phone on the table. Her face was expressionless.
&n
bsp; “Well?”
“It’s done,” he replied, groaning as she remounted.
“One less thing for us to worry about. Any problems?”
“For the love of God, can we talk about it later?”
“We both agreed on this. Perhaps I should get these things in writing.”
“I’ll sign the goddamn Magna Carta if you want! Let’s talk about it later!”
She laughed. The tattoo, of the Cross of Lorraine, resumed its rhythmic pulsation. She increased the frequency. A moment later her pinioned partner bucked upward violently, roaring in release. She gazed down at him dispassionately as his breathing slowly returned to normal and his eyes began to refocus. He could never be bored with her. That was the problem with all the men she slept with. True, he had been the most interesting. An affair that started with attempted rape had evolved into a lustful business relationship (in her mind, the best kind of sex). But she was ready to move on. They would still need each other, of course. There was a company to run. She wondered how he’d take it. Probably not well.
He was trying to say something.
“Shhhh, darling” she said, putting a finger to his lips. “Be right with you.”
Her hips began to move slowly. The pace quickened. Her mouth opened and her head tilted back, throat taut. A flush spread across her breasts. Their nipples, always prominent, became rock hard. A series of guttural cries. A final shudder. Her face softened into a smile. The man was mesmerized, as always. It was like watching a swaying cobra.
***
“What did he say?”
“He couldn’t talk.” Garza laughed. “He was tied up.”
He remembered the fisherman’s wallet. The apartment and car would be sanitized but people kept important information on their person: locker and safety deposit numbers, even computer passwords. Using a penlight he went through the billfold and was mildly surprised to find several crisp $100 bills, which he happily pocketed. There were a half-dozen credit cards. One in particular stood out.
“I thought this guy was a struggling journalist.”
“That’s what they told me,” Keitel said. “Why?”
“He’s got a Titanium American Express card.”
“So?”
Garza didn’t bother to explain. Christian left money matters to him. He wouldn’t know a Titanium card meant its owner had a net worth of at least $10 million. He pulled the card out of its sleeve and read the name. Confused, he scanned the driver’s license.
“Son of a bitch.”
He reached for his cell phone.
***
Luke Goldfarb had a problem most 14-year-old boys only dreamed about. The three girls on the adjacent blanket were topless. That wasn’t the problem. Unlike his grandparents, who looked like raisins after 30 years in Miami Beach, Luke, down from New York for a visit, was turning into the world’s largest blister. He needed the umbrella that was back in the condo. His grandparents were out shopping for Hanukkah. Before the girls took off their bikini tops, Luke’s thoughts had revolved around homemade sufganiyot – jelly donuts. Now all he wanted was to plant that umbrella like the Marines on Iwo Jima. I love you, Nana and Gramps, but I hope the engine falls out of your Escalade. He took a few deep breaths, thought about the Knicks to quell his erection and started to get up. Just then, the girls also stood and headed toward the ocean. Luke followed. Soon all four were standing side by side waist deep.
“Look at that,” one girl said. For a horrible moment, Luke, embarrassingly aware of his excitement, thought he wasn’t in deep enough. But then he followed her finger and saw something dark silhouetted by a wave. It was big.
“Probably a dolphin,” he squeaked, unforgivably. He had never spoken to a half-naked girl, let alone three. “Maybe a sand shark,” he was able to croak.
Luke thought that they would scurry to shore. He would stand his ground to impress them, although he did feel a thrill of fear. But these were Florida girls and edged out toward the object. It didn’t look like a fish. A log? He was about to tell them to be careful when the wave rolled the object right into the girls. All erotic thoughts were blown out of his mind as they screamed and ran. He swore later that the tits on the middle girl, the one with the large, dark aureoles, “twirled” in opposite directions like a New Year’s Eve party favor. It was sight Luke Goldfarb would remember the rest of his life, second only to the naked, bloated, almost faceless corpse now bumping gently against his hip.
CHAPTER 2 - A PLATINUM REFERRAL
Three months later, New York City
The phone warbled just as Scarne placed the last book into his London Library Cabinet. He ignored it and began arranging photo frames and plaques on the shelf, even though he knew Evelyn would eventually switch them around to her liking. Without his objection. In his relationships with women Scarne had long ago decided what few battles were worth waging. Decoration wasn’t one of them. She had put her foot down about the antlers and now ruled the roost. The phone kept trilling. It was her choice of ring tone, too, and sounded like a Parisian ambulance. He would speak to her about that. Why didn’t she answer it? Then he remembered she’d gone to buy last-minute office supplies. He reached his desk just before the answering machine picked up.
“This is Jake Scarne.”
“Mr. Scarne, my name is Sheldon Shields. Don Tierney suggested I call.”
Sheldon Shields? The name sounded familiar. Scarne pulled his laptop closer and sat down. He looked at the caller I.D. on his phone console: Shields Inc. One of those Shields? He began to Google.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Shields?”
“I may have something for you. Don said you can be trusted and have imagination.”
“That was kind of him.”
Scarne glanced at his computer. Sheldon Shields was the older brother of Randolph Shields, chairman of one of the nation’s largest media companies. Good old Don. The gift that keeps on giving.
“The matter is rather delicate. Are you available to meet with me today?”
Scarne preferred meeting clients in his new office suite, which offered a stunning view of Rockefeller Center and the twirling skaters 20 stories below. Montpelier arm chairs flanked the Burford dresser that served as a magazine table in his waiting room, and the desks, tables and bookshelves in his office and conference room were in British Traditions style. Dark green carpets, maroon accent pieces and nautical paintings completed a décor meant to impress clients and hint at high fees. There were still boxes lying about, but they’d be gone by the afternoon.
“Let me check my calendar, Mr. Shields.”
Scarne had barely begun riffing through a Golf Digest for sound effect when Shields said, “Any chance I could buy you lunch at the Federal League?”
Excellent chance, Scarne thought, the home field advantage of his office receding at the prospect of dining at one of the city’s premier social clubs. Besides, a Shields was a Shields. Not easily impressed. Or worried about fees, for that matter. They agreed to meet at 1 P.M.
After hanging up, Scarne went deeper into the company website. Sheldon Shields held various titles, but from what Scarne could gather played a distant second fiddle to his somewhat notorious brother, and mainly hosted media events, investor conferences and other social or business functions. Sheldon also ran the grandly-named Shields Foundation for Investors, a unit that produced print and electronic investment newsletters. Scarne himself was often solicited for them and now recalled Sheldon’s name on S.F.I. promotional flyers. Since annual subscriptions started at $1,000 – money better spent on a new set of golf clubs – the solicitations went into the circular file.
Randolph Shields held the real power in an organization that had grown exponentially since 1923 when their grandfather, Cornelius Shields, published Shields, the nation’s first pure business magazine. The broad-based conglomerate now owned a dozen other magazines and newspapers, two cable television stations, a movie studio and some of the priciest real estate in Manhattan. Not to mention an oc
ean-going yacht and a Boeing 727.
Despite his ceremonial role, Sheldon surely had access to other investigative outlets. Scarne assumed the call involved a personal matter: perhaps something potentially embarrassing to his brother – although “Randy” Shields, as the tabloids dubbed him, was a hard man to discomfit. He called Tierney, who was at a meeting. His secretary said she’d relay the message.
Scarne went back to his shelving. The cabinet contained every book written by Churchill. The cabinet and its collection had belonged to Scarne’s grandfather who, despite spending much of his career trying to torpedo ships of the Royal Navy, was an Anglophile.
“Very great race, the British,” the old sailor once told him. “Seafarers have to be hard. Practical, too. They kept Winston on ice until their backs were against the wall. Trotted him out to fight. After they won they threw him aside. Better system than ours. Some men are made for war; some for peace.”
Scarne smiled as he looked at Volume 4 of Marlborough: His Life and Times, the last section of the British Prime Minister’s million-word biography of his famous ancestor, John Churchill, the first Duke of Marlborough. The volume was marred by a perfectly round hole in its spine that obliterated the last three letters of the Duke’s last name.
“People will think it is about cigarettes,” his grandfather had said as he surveyed the damage after calmly and carefully removing the target arrow. The shaft had flown through the open window of his study, narrowly missing the old gentleman’s head as he sat reading court briefs. “But I suppose I should be grateful you weren’t using hunting points. The tome would have been ruined.” Then, turning to the speechless nine-year-old, he promised not to tell his grandmother if Scarne would confine his future jackrabbit hunts to the ranch’s outer acres – as well as promise to read the skewered book. Which he did.
Two Jakes Page 2
