They pulled into the driveway of La Gorce.
“Looks solid enough,” Scarne said casually.
“This place? No, this is a good building. I know the guys who run it. I mean the concierge and like that. They love it. You’ll see. It was built a few years ago before all the lice came.” He turned in his seat and leaned toward Scarne. “Hurricane hits, you can hole up here unless the city forces you to leave. It’s a rock. Just be careful if you walk down the street past one of the new monstrosities. Might fall on your head.”
An attendant walked over, took Scarne’s Dakota and exchanged pleasant insults with the cabbie in Spanish.
“What did he say?” Scarne asked.
“Who the hell knows?”
Scarne paid his fare and walked into the lobby. A uniformed man and a woman stood behind the counter of the concierge station facing a bank of security cameras. When Scarne told them his name, the man offered his hand.
“I am Mario. We’ve been expecting you. Did you know young Mr. Shields? A wonderful man. We were all very sad about what happened.”
“I’m a friend of the family, here to clear up some personal and legal matters. I understand you have apartment and car keys for me.”
Mario reached under the counter and brought out a thick manila envelope. He shook out some metal keys and plastic disks.
“The keys are for the apartment and car. These disks open and close all the security doors in and out of the building, garage and grounds. Mr. Shields had me stock the pantry and refrigerator with the basics. I’ll take you up.”
The Shields apartment was on the 29th floor, just below the penthouse level. Outside the door were The New York Times and Wall Street Journal.
“These never stopped coming,” Mario said, picking them up. “I told Mr. Shields about it, but he said to let the subscription run out and pass the papers on to other tenants. I told the boy to deliver them up here while you were staying. A little bit of home, no?”
“That’s thoughtful. But they may never stop. I’d bet they are automatically renewed by a credit card, charged yearly. And I think the cards are still active.
Mario looked pained.
“I never thought of that. I’ll call Mr. Shields and tell him.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it before I leave. If I don’t speak to him, I’ll just call the papers. There is a code on the label I can use.”
Mario gave Scarne a quick tour. The two-bedroom apartment featured a living room with wrap-around, floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Scarne walked right up to the glass. He felt as if he was jutting out over the Atlantic Ocean. Looking down he could several women sunning themselves on a pool deck. The master bedroom had a bathroom suite as large as some Manhattan studios. There was a pass-through bar between the kitchen and living room. An outside terrace connected the master bedroom and kitchen and was accessible from both through large sliding doors. The entertainment center in the living room had a large plasma TV, DVD player and a sound system surrounded by a large bookcase whose shelves alternated between books and sea shells of all varieties and sizes. Josh may have worked for an alternative newspaper, but he lived like a Shields.
“The cleaning lady was here Wednesday. She comes once a week.”
Scarne walked to the bookcase and picked up a shell.
“Mr. Shields liked his shells,” Mario said. “These are what’s left. The family took a lot back home with them. He never went to the beach he didn’t bring back some shells. He gave me some nice ones. The gym, sauna and steam rooms are on the seventh floor. Do you want to see them now?”
“No, this is fine. I want to unpack. You’ve been very helpful.”
Scarne reached into his pocket and took out a $100 bill. Mario held up his hand and said, “That isn’t necessary. Mr. Shields takes good care of the staff.”
Scarne pressed the money into the man’s hand.
“I’m sure. I’d feel better showing my own gratitude. Don’t fight me.”
Mario smiled and took the bill.
“When you need the car, call me at the desk and I will take you to it. The garage can be confusing.”
After he left, Scarne wheeled his bag into the master bedroom and unpacked. Then he went to the kitchen and opened the folding doors to the liquor closet. The “basics” included Kendall Jackson wines, and bottles of Grey Goose vodka, Meyer’s Dark Rum, Glenlivet 20-year-old single malt scotch, Bombay gin and Remy Martin cognac. Mixers for all. Thoughtful. Six real Cuban cigars lay in their metal tubes. Very thoughtful. He was hungry. There were enough provisions to last a month. He made himself a ham sandwich, opened a bottle of Sam Adams and went out on the terrace, picking up the two newspapers off the coffee table where Mario had dropped them. He’d have to remember to cancel them. Even the wealthy shouldn’t have to pay for eternal subscriptions. Then he had a thought. He pulled out his cell phone and called Evelyn Warr, getting the answering machine. He left a message, which included the account numbers he read off the subscription labels from both the Times and Journal.
After finishing his lunch, Scarne put on a bathing suit and T-shirt. He found a pair of flip-flops still in their wrapping next to the Jacuzzi bathtub. He hesitated. He detested flip-flops. These were light blue with a flowery tropical motif. What the hell, he thought. At least they’re not pink. He grabbed a gaudily colored beach towel from a rack, thought better of it, and took a solid white bath towel instead. On the way out he stopped at a small bookcase. All the books were devoted to nature. He picked out the brightly illustrated Sport Fish of Florida: 231 Species: Food Values, Methods and Ranges by Vic Dunaway. He took the elevator to the seventh floor and followed the signs to the pool deck.
The pool was crowded. There was a nice breeze off the ocean. A small group of men and women had pulled some lounges and chairs together and were smoking and speaking French. Scarne had intended to take a quick swim, until he noticed several fathers dipping their squealing diaper-clad infants in the water like teabags. He resigned himself to a deck chair far from the maddening crowd. He opened his book to the chapter on marine predators. There were plenty of sharks in Florida waters, and many of them, especially the Hammerhead, Tiger, Mako and Bull, were man killers. The section on Carcharodon carcharias, the Great White, noted that it was only an occasional visitor to southern Florida. Under “Food Value” the author wrote: “From whose viewpoint, the angler’s or the shark’s?”
A thin but pot-bellied man wearing a red-checkered boxer bathing suit walked over and stretched out on a lounge chair next to Scarne.
“You a renter or an owner?”
Scarne looked over at the man.
“I’m sorry.”
“Just wondered if you rent or own here.”
The man looked to be in his mid-30’s. He had a concave chest and what little hair he had left on his head was blonde and wispy.
“Just visiting,” Scarne said, turning back to his book.
“I own three condos in this building,” the man said, undeterred. “Total of about 20 up and down the coast. Gonna buy more now, with prices dropping like they are.”
Scarne couldn’t see any way out of the conversation.
“A lot of speculators are getting burned.”
“Last time I looked, God ain’t making any more beachfront. But I’m no speculator. I mean, I think I’ll make out in the long run, but I’ve got to put my dough someplace. Ran a hedge fund in Connecticut. Made a fucking fortune. Retired at 36, can you believe it? Just having fun. Women down here are hot.”
If it wasn’t for his wallet, Scarne thought, they’d have to be blind.
“Why Miami Beach,” Scarne said. “You have that kind of money, I’d think Palm Beach would be more your style.”
“Don’t like the people,” the man said seriously. “Nouveau riche.”
Scarne didn’t have a reply for that. Fortunately the man soon walked away. But the respite was short-lived. Almost immediately two women took adjacent lounges. One was incredibly
pregnant and wore a thong. She wouldn’t have been the thong type nine months earlier. Her stretch marks looked like an Amtrak route map and her blue-veined, bulbous breasts threatened to burst the trace of fabric that held them. She started slapping suntan lotion on all her exposed skin. What she couldn’t reach the other woman, apparently her mother, did. It sounded like a butcher flattening cutlets. It was all too much for Scarne. He decided to chance the sharks.
He took the beach elevator to the ground floor. He waved his electronic key in front of a pad to use the elevator and again to get through the rear door to the tropical garden that led to the beach. The garden had a small bath house, as well as a children’s playground and barbecue pits surrounded by wooden or stone picnic tables and benches. A half dozen or so feral-looking cats eyed him suspiciously as walked to the beach gate. They undoubtedly were tolerated for their ability to keep the rat and palmetto bug population under control. A narrow trail led through the dunes to the beach.
Scarne spread his towel, dropping his keys at one end under his book. He had to walk out 30 yards before it was deep enough to swim. He glided through the water, occasionally jackknifing to touch bottom and gauge the depth. Glittering schools of bait fish scattered. At one point, a large shadow passed just below Scarne. He felt a trill of fear in his groin. After a half mile he stroked towards shore and beached. He walked back and found his towel, book and keys untouched.
CHAPTER 15 – THE BEST MOJITOS IN TOWN
After showering, Scarne called the Miami Beach Police Department and after the usual bureaucratic wrangle was connected to its Homicide Unit. After another 10 minutes of explanation and name dropping, one of the detectives who investigated the death of Josh Shields came on the line. They made arrangements to meet. Scarne then called Mario, who told him to take the elevator to the parking garage on the sixth floor. Scarne hoped that the lush Shields lifestyle would be reflected in Josh’s choice of car. He didn’t want to be saddled with a broccoli-fueled hybrid.
The concierge was waiting when the elevator door opened, and led him to a low-slung vehicle covered by a tarp – a good sign. The La Gorce garage extended from the sixth through the ninth floor. The walls were latticed with openings, which meant a strong breeze would bring in both salt and sand. Josh Shields thought enough of his car to protect it from the elements. Scarne helped Mario pull the tarp off the car.
“ What the hell?”
“This was his baby,” Mario said. “Limited-edition Rouche Mustang Convertible. I just had it detailed and tuned. Full tank of gas.”
“It’s a beauty,” Scarne said, somewhat dubiously, as he looked at the bright red 400-horsepower muscle car. “But not exactly inconspicuous.”
“Don’t you watch C.S.I.? This is Miami. Everybody has a crazy car.”
Scarne, a car buff, liked nothing better than seeing what a high-performance auto could do. Even so, the Rouche took some getting used to as he headed down Collins Avenue toward South Beach. The manual transmission was a dream, but he doubted he’d have to get out of second gear before leaving Miami Beach. He assumed he could pass the Space Shuttle in sixth gear.
***
As a rule, homicide detectives don't like to talk to private investigators, who they believe will pollute their cases. If they must, they prefer to do it outside their offices. Not only won't they be seen by their colleagues but there is also the chance they can get a free meal, drink or at least a cup coffee. Still, Scarne hadn’t expected Detectives Frank Paulo and William Curley to pick the Fontainebleau. Newly renovated at a cost of $1 billion to recapture its past Rat Pack and Goldfinger movie glory, the hotel, although reportedly again facing bankruptcy, was once again the centerpiece of Miami Beach high life.
From his perch at the glass-enclosed “Bleau Bar” in the lobby Scarne watched a seemingly endless parade of bikinied beauties gamboling in the pools below.
“You Scarne?”
He turned to see two men in sports coats and floral shirts. They both gave him the cop stare. Despite Condon's intervention with the Miami police, second-guessing a police investigation would not endear him with any cops.
“You guys must be Crockett and Tubbs. How did you know it was me?”
The cop who addressed him, a short, redheaded man with thick arms, looked at his partner and sighed.
“I’m Curley. This is Paulo. You weren’t hard to spot. Hotshot Big Apple dick looking for clues out there at the pool.”
“You picked this place. I guess you didn’t want to be seen with me.”
“Crap. We come here all the time. Best mojitos in town.”
Scarne decided that being a homicide cop in Miami Beach had its perks.
“Can’t argue with you on that,” he said, lifting the mojito he’d ordered and signaling the bartender for three more drinks.
"Captain says that you are looking into the Shields case," Paulo said. He was a tall thin man with a dark complexion and a beak nose.
"That's right," Scarne said, "just trying to tie up some loose ends."
"You working for the old man?" Paulo said.
Scarne nodded.
"Guy just won't leave it alone," Curley said. "No disrespect, but he can be a pain in the ass."
"Which is why he sent me. He knew you probably wouldn't take him seriously anymore."
"And we're supposed to take you serious?" Curley said.
"You're here aren't you?"
"Only because somebody made a phone call," Paulo said, “and that only got you a courtesy visit. Timoney ain’t our chief. Miami Beach is a separate jurisdiction.”
The drinks came. Nobody clinked glasses.
"Look, let's cut to the chase,” Scarne said. “I used to be a cop so I know that you're not overjoyed being here, mojitos aside. But Timoney asked a favor from your boss, who has banked it for the future. So you have to talk to me. I don't want to step all over your investigation but I have a job to do. The boy's father thinks he may have been murdered. You're convinced it was an accident. From what I know so far that seems the more likely conclusion. I'll make just as much money proving you right, so there is no downside in talking with me."
The partners looked at each other and shrugged.
“Fair enough,” Paulo said. Both detectives pulled up bar stools and faced Scarne. “Why’d you leave the cops? You look too young to be retired. Disability?”
No matter where he went, cops quizzed Scarne about New York’s disability and pension policies, which were the envy of other jurisdictions.
“I wish. Got suspended for holding a city councilman off a balcony.”
The two detectives looked at each other.
“You must have had a reason,” Paulo said.
Scarne told them an abbreviated version of the story, which he knew wouldn’t hurt his standing with them.
“Prick,” Curley said.
“Listen, we won’t have much for you,” Paulo said. “Homicide wouldn’t have even caught the squeal except for the lack of I.D. on the vic and then him turning out to be semi-famous. Family pressure kept us on it longer than it deserved, but you know how that goes. We closed it. Opened it. Closed it again. Came out the same. No signs of foul play. No apparent motive. No witnesses. No suspects, unless you count jellyfish. M.E. wrote it up as accidental and we agree. I feel sorry for the old guy, but he should let it go.”
“Nothing about it bothered you?”
The bartender put a couple of bowls of nuts on the bar.
“Thanks, Hal,” Curley said as they all took a handful. “Look, you’ve been there. You know how it goes. Young guy dies, you always look a little closer, even if his family isn’t prominent. Guy is gay, even closer. I mean we probably shouldn’t cause it’s kind of discriminatory to do that, but it is what it is. In this case, the circumstances weren’t all that mysterious. I mean, he wasn’t found in an alley behind a stud bar or anything. He was fishing in the ocean at night and washed up crab-eaten a couple of days later. You know, sometimes even healthy young gay guys d
ie naturally or accidentally. Believe me, our captain would have loved to make the Shields family happy by catching a murderer. But there was no murder.”
“What about the missing wallet and keys? His father doesn’t believe they fell out into the ocean. Said his son would have left them in his bucket.”
“Probably stolen,” Curley said.
“Credit cards haven’t been used.”
“Then they’re in the drink. Guy forgot to put them in his bucket. We’re lucky the bucket was still there. Tide ran high and the water was rough that night. I think there were even small craft warnings out that day. I know the lifeguards were worried about rip currents.”
Scarne suddenly thought of something.
“What about his fishing rod?”
“What do you mean?” Paulo said.
“Did you find it?”
“Yeah. It was in one of the rod holder things you stick in the sand, next to the bucket. Where you going with this?”
“Well, if he was fishing, and got stung by jellyfish or pulled in by a rip current or had a heart attack, why was his rod on the beach?”
The detectives looked exasperated.
“Hell, we don’t know,” Curley said. “Maybe he had two poles working. A lot of guys do that. Maybe he was looking for seashells. There was a pile by the bucket. Or he just went into the surf to wash his hands off.”
“Or kill himself,” Paulo said. “I know the father doesn’t want to hear that, but it was my first thought.”
“And all of it was still there?’
“Look,” Curley said, “I know this is Miami, but nobody is gonna steal a fishing rod, a bucket and some shells. That stuff might still be there if we hadn’t found it.”
“What about his computer?”
“What about it?
“His laptop is missing, along with all his notes.”
The cops looked at each other.
“We didn’t know that,” Paulo said. “The family went through the apartment. Never said anything to us.”
Two Jakes Page 13
