Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  “They were distraught. Didn’t think about it at the time. Maybe you guys should have. Shields was a reporter, for Christ sake. Didn’t you think it odd that there was nothing related to reporting in his apartment?”

  Paulo’s face reddened. He started to say something but the other cop put a hand on his arm.

  “He’s right, Frank. Maybe we should have spotted that.” He turned to Scarne. “You saying there was something on that computer that might have gotten him killed?”

  Scarne hesitated.

  “I don’t know. Just makes me curious.”

  Curley spotted the lie.

  “You wouldn’t hold back something in a homicide, would you?”

  “I thought it was an accident.”

  It took another round of mojitos to mend fences after that remark. But by the time they left, they were all, if not pals, at least on the same side of the case, whatever it was. They exchanged business cards and the cops said they would go back and review their file, which Scarne assumed they would. For his part, he promised to keep them informed, which they half believed. He also asked if he could get a copy of their final report. They glanced at each other. The councilman story had probably done the trick because Paulo said, “Why the fuck not?” He said he would email a copy later that day.

  Scarne was hungry. He left the bar and went to the beach. After a short walk along a boardwalk he came to the Eden Roc, another recently renovated Miami Beach landmark. He sat at the bar at the hotel’s Cabana Club and ordered conch chowder and a grilled grouper sandwich, washed down with a Sam Adams. After which he picked up his car at the Fontainebleau valet and drove back to La Gorce.

  ***

  In Manhattan, Garza was just about to leave Scarne’s apartment. The man was either extraordinarily neat or the maid had just been there. Probably the former, given his Marine Corps background. Garza had known about his service. Finding the medals buried deep in a sock drawer told him something else about the man. There wasn’t much else to learn in the place. Garza had gotten more off the Internet and from his contacts.

  It would be obvious to a trained detective that the place had been tossed, but Garza tried not to leave too much of a mess. He thought about pocketing a few small valuables to make it appear more like a random burglary but quickly shelved the idea. Scarne would see through the ruse.

  Garza paused before the beautiful chess set. Like many Cuban boys, he had been brought up on the tales of José Capablanca, the charismatic Cuban grandmaster who dominated the chess world in the 1920’s. Garza played a mean game himself and he studied the position before him. There was a notepad next to the set. It was Scarne’s turn. The move was obvious. What the hell was he waiting for? Garza’s gloved hand hovered above Scarne’s white bishop, then picked it up and moved it across the board to capture his opponent’s remaining knight. Scarne would lose the bishop on the next move, to a pawn, but according to Capablanca, Scarne’s remaining queen and knight would prove more powerful than black’s remaining queen and bishop, both of which traveled in a straight line. A knight, however, could jump over pieces and wreak all sorts of havoc.

  Just for good measure, Garza made a note on the pad and circled it. Then he left the apartment and went to dinner.

  CHAPTER 16 – THE SOUTH FLORIDA TIMES

  The next morning Scarne called the South Florida Times and made an appointment to meet its editor, John Pourier, at 10 A.M. at the paper’s Hollywood headquarters. He had picked up a copy of the weekly the night before in the lobby of the apartment building and read it cover to cover before going to bed. He thought it compared favorably with New York’s famed Village Voice. Within its 128 pages were movie, book, restaurant and club reviews; sports and business columns; community notices and news, and, considering the moribund media environment, an incredible amount of classified and display advertising. Most of its stories dealt with local political shenanigans and the blights of overbuilding and traffic congestion. Miami’s hedonistic lifestyle and its extensive gay community were prominently covered. The editorials pulled no punches. From what he knew about Josh Shields, it was not surprising he’d found a home there.

  Following directions given him by the editor, Scarne took Collins Avenue up through Hallandale Beach and cut over on the Lehman Causeway to Ives Dairy Road. Pourier said the route would help him avoid the rush hour madness on Interstate 95 near Miami. Great plan, didn’t work. He stopped at a small Jewish deli on the way and the short delay allowed a freight train pulling at least 100 cars to get to Ives Dairy just before he did. He killed 15 minutes munching a bagel, sipping coffee and calling his office.

  “I checked with both papers,” Evelyn said. “Josh apparently stopped delivery when he was going away for more than a couple of days. He had the Times and Journal donate the issues to schools.” She didn’t mention that she was the one who arranged that for Scarne, who invariably forgot.

  “What about the time he was scheduled to go to Antigua?”

  “He arranged for a halt of service, just for a week.”

  It wasn’t conclusive he knew, but one more argument against suicide.

  He thanked Evelyn and rang off just as the railroad gate started to open. Once on I-95 he made good time and exited at Hollywood Blvd., heading west. He soon spotted the building he was looking for at the Presidential Center, in the center of a huge traffic circle. The building was at least 20 stories with four towers surrounding a large enclosed courtyard filled with benches, trees and sculptures. The effect was more artful than utilitarian, and Scarne liked it. He entered an elevator serving the South Tower, holding the door for two short-skirted, long-legged women chatting happily in Spanish. Their clothes were high quality and cut short. In New York they might have been criticized for dressing in hooker chic but in the Miami area they were in uniform. Cuban girls set the style and were among the sexiest women in the world.

  The South Florida Times occupied the entire 10th floor. Scarne walked in through double glass doors. A receptionist was on the phone, transferring a call. When she finished, she looked up at him and said, “Can I help you?”

  She was cute but wasn’t going to win Miss Elevator in this building.

  “I’m here to see John Pourier. My name is Jake Scarne.”

  “If you will take a seat, I’ll let me him know you are here. Coffee?”

  Scarne declined and sat down next to a rack of magazines. Two men sat on a couch across from him. They both had coffees and as the aroma drifted his way he regretted his decision. He began leafing through Florida Sportsman, which had numerous photos of attractive women in bikinis holding large fish.

  “Mr. Scarne? I’m John Pourier.”

  Scarne stood. Pourier belonged in a bank boardroom, right down to the suspenders and club tie. He was a good deal shorter than Scarne and well fed. He pointed at the photo Scarne was looking at.

  “Hell of a snapper.”

  Scarne laughed as they shook.

  “Let’s go back to my office. Want some coffee?”

  This time Scarne accepted. On the way through the cubicled newsroom, Scarne remarked that it seemed strangely quiet. Half the desks were empty.

  “It’s always like this the first couple of days after we put out an edition. We use a lot of stringers and part-timers. It will pick up, believe me.”

  After stopping at a small room to get coffee (and half a donut for Pourier – “I can’t resist these things, as you can probably tell”) they walked to an expansive corner office. A window ran the length of the room and Scarne could see the traffic swirling around the circle below. In the distance glistening high rises dotted the Atlantic beachfront. Pourier sat down, chewing his donut and spilling crumbs on his blotter. Scarne sat across from him.

  “Now, what can I do for you? I understand that you have some questions about Josh Shields. His father called by the way. Said you would probably stop by. Very nice man. I’ve spoken to him before, of course, after Josh died.”

  Scarne looked around the office.
Everything was expensive, down to the silver Movado clock on the bookcase. A full set of the newest Cobra golf clubs leaned up against the wall. Picture frames lined the ledge in front of the window. There were shots of Pourier with a tall blonde woman and children in various venues: beaches, ski slopes, lakes and athletic fields. Interspersed with the frames were plaques and trophies. Scarne spotted one statuette of a man on a polo pony, in the act of swinging a mallet. He couldn’t read the inscription.

  “Am I in the right office?”

  Pourier laughed.

  “Yeah, I know. I bet you didn’t think alternative journalism could be lucrative. This is a great market. We have to fight off advertisers.”

  “With a polo mallet?”

  Pourier laughed.

  “Oh hell, I have to fess up. I don’t make that kind of money doing this. I made it the old-fashioned way. I inherited it. Bought a piece of the paper and made myself editor. Took a while to win over some of the longhairs out there” – he hooked a thumb toward the newsroom – “but they came around after I skewered some fat cats. Most people at my clubs don’t know what I do, for which my wife is eternally grateful.”

  “Did you know Josh Shields was looking at Victor Ballantrae?”

  “Not until his father called.”

  “Did he tell you why?”

  “No. Just that he’d appreciate any help I could give you. I was surprised. Ballantrae Financial is a big deal in these parts. Even advertise with us, which is a bonus. We don’t get much advertising from banks, drug companies and the like, as you might imagine. But Ballantrae is trying to make a splash in South Florida and is covering all the bases, especially in the Latin community. Young Cubans are the hippest people on Earth and our club coverage is the best in Miami. And we have a growing South American population. They have a god-awful amount of money. Own half the condos on Miami Beach.”

  “What kind of ads?”

  “The usual stuff. Financial planning, trusts, insurance, banking. Ballantrae also sponsors golf and tennis tournaments and ran promos about those.”

  “Would you have printed an unflattering article about Ballantrae?”

  Pourier looked offended. He hooked a thumb at his polo trophy.

  “I said his advertising was a bonus. We don’t need it. We exist to piss off the powerful and it hasn’t hurt our advertising. It’s something the mainstream press hasn’t grasped. Getting in bed with the people fucking the country doesn’t sell papers. They never learn.” Pourier sat back in his swivel chair and put his feet up on his desk. “We run an exposé a week. South Florida has no dearth of scoundrels. You might have heard about the city councilman who shot himself in the lobby of the Herald after being caught with his hand in the till? Everybody was shocked. Who kills themselves for stealing in Florida? Anyway, I just told my staff to start looking into Ballantrae.”

  “Come up with anything?”

  “Mr. Shields asked me to cooperate with you. But professional courtesy only goes so far. What’s in it for me?”

  “Maybe we can help each other out?’

  “How?”

  “I might find out things you can’t.”

  “And of course, you’ll rush right over and tell me.”

  “If it doesn’t hurt my client.”

  “I don’t seem to be getting much out of this. Lots of quid, little pro.”

  Scarne knew that telling Pourier of Sheldon Shield’s suspicions was risky. Borderline irresponsible, particularly if Ballantrae was innocent. But getting information from the editor could save a lot of time. He assumed that Pourier wouldn’t risk a lawsuit from a billionaire without hard evidence.

  “Off the record?”

  “Sure,” Pourier said.

  “Josh’s father thinks Victor Ballantrae might be involved in his death.”

  Pourier’s feet came off his desk and he sat up. He stared at Scarne.

  “You must be joking. I thought it was an accident.”

  “Probably was. But there are a few things bothering the old man, and I have to admit they bother me too.”

  “Such as.”

  Scarne told him. Pourier started taking notes halfway through.

  “Two feet of water? Jesus Christ. I didn’t know that. Maybe I should have. And the business about his computer and notes is inconsistent with the reporter I knew. Josh was a good journalist. With his financial background and contacts, he stood out down there, not that he flaunted it. I’m not sure how many people the ‘Hidless’ thing fooled inside the building but he got some great stories on people who didn’t know who they were dealing with.”

  “Like Victor Ballantrae?”

  Pourier nodded. “It’s possible.” He picked up his phone and punched a button on his console. “Lois, can you come in here? And bring whatever you’ve got on Ballantrae.” He listened for a moment. “Yeah. The man and the company. I know. Anything at all. Just bring it in here. Thanks.”

  He hung up and looked at Scarne.

  “Why isn’t Shields, the company, doing something?”

  “Randolph Shields thinks his brother is crazy. Ballantrae is also planning to buy into the family business.”

  “Good God, man. I don’t know what Sheldon is paying you, but it can’t be enough. Randolph Fucking Shields is nobody to screw around with.”

  There was a knock on the half-open door and a young woman walked in holding a manila folder. Without asking she sat on a chair next to Scarne.

  “Meg. This is Jake Scarne. He’s a private eye. Jake, this is Meghan Pace.” He saw the look on Scarne’s face and laughed. “Oh. Meg is our Lois Lane. Just a nickname. My best reporter and soon-to-be deputy editor.”

  Scarne shook hands with Pace, a compact brunette wearing jeans and a sweater.

  “Now, what do we have on Ballantrae?”

  She hesitated.

  “It’s OK. We’re working on something together, so you can talk freely.”

  She did. Alternately glancing at her notes and documents in the folder, she painted a picture of Ballantrae and his organization. Scarne knew much of it, from his talk with Huber, but he didn’t interrupt.

  “Ballantrae seemed to arrive in Southern Florida full-blown about five years ago,” she said, “simultaneously opening a flagship office on Brickell Avenue in downtown Miami for its Financial Services subsidiary; satellite offices in Coral Gables, Kendall and Lauderdale, and a research division with 40 stock and bond analysts in Boca Raton. The investment banking unit has made some small deals locally, mostly with high-tech startups in Port St. Lucie. It’s the offshore bank that interests me. According to the company it has almost $10 billion in deposits and is growing by 20 percent a year. It seems to be generating the most revenue, selling certificates of deposit to rich South American expatriates in South Florida. They’re apparently a hot item since they offer an interest rate a couple of points higher than anyone else is.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Pourier said. “Some of my banking and broker friends at the club are bitching. Ballantrae is cutting into their business.”

  “Isn’t that suspicious?” Scarne asked.

  “According to the sales brochures,” Pace said, “the bank is treated differently tax wise and since they market directly to the public there is little overhead. They also claim that as an international company they can invest in foreign markets for higher returns. The CD’s aren’t FDIC insured, by the way, so there is risk. Which they disclose. But investors are apparently willing to take that risk because Ballantrae has never missed an interest payment on a CD. Whatever they’re doing, it’s been approved by the SEC and a whole slew of state regulators.”

  “An S.E.C. imprimatur doesn’t impress me,” Scarne said. “Madoff, Stanford and some of the other crooks bragged about how the S.E.C. gave them a clean bill of health. That’s how they suckered so many people.”

  “Look, I’m just starting to look into Ballantrae. It’s hard to get any info out of the company other than their approved brochures. You have to go thr
ough their lawyers in Houston and an in-house PR firm. If you ask them anything about finances they say its proprietary and they don’t want their competitors to know how and what they are doing. Same with Victor Ballantrae himself. There is very little on him, except what’s in the corporate bio, which basically describes him as a wonderful human being.”

  She saw Scarne and Pourier exchange looks.

  “What is this, a fraternity house? What do you guys know that I don’t? Why the sudden interest in Ballantrae? Why is a private eye involved?”

  The men were silent, but then Scarne said, “She probably has a right to know, if something did happen to Shields.”

  Pourior told her. Her expression went from interested to incredulous.

  “This has Pulitzer written all over it,” she finally said when he’d finished.

  “Or lawsuit that will bankrupt me,” Pourier said. “It may be total bullshit.”

  “And it may be dangerous,” Scarne said.

  “Josh Shields was a friend of mine,” Meghan Pace said quietly. “I don’t know if his father is right but I’d like to find out. I’ll tell you one thing. If Josh said Ballantrae was bent, you could take it to the bank. Well, maybe not a bank. And I don’t like his computer and notes disappearing.”

  “You know,” Pourier said, “you might want to talk to the guy who puts out Offshore Confidential. Real piece of work named Reginald Sink.”

  “Offshore Confidential?”

  “Yeah. It’s a newsletter that tracks fraud, money laundering and such around the world. Lots of stuff on Africa, the Caribbean and South America.”

  “Is he nuts?”

  “In addition to putting out his newsletters,” Pourier said, “he runs conferences that a lot of law enforcement types attend. Probably figures that gives him some protection. For my money he’s still crazy. Something happens to him they’d have to put all the suspects in the Orange Bowl.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Not many people have, but Reggie’s a legend among cops and crooks. He was actually one of the latter. Got nailed for insider trading and did time.”