Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  Keitel lowered the rifle. Funny, the other boat seemed to have widened the gap. It was speeding up, heading right into the descending roadway. He watched in fascination and frustration as their low-slung target shot under the roadway, which was almost completely down, and into the waterway beyond. Damn it! His frustration soon turned into horror as Garza poured on the power. The lunatic was going to try to make it through as well!

  “We’re not going to make it,” Keitel shouted. The drawbridge roadway, perhaps 100 feet away, was almost fully down.

  “Piece of cake,” Garza said.

  Keitel saw people on the bridge waving and heard a woman scream somewhere above him. Garza jumped down from behind the wheel and, quite calmly, said, “Duck!” Keitel dove for the deck. The boat’s cockpit smashed into the bridge roadway and was sheared off. Wood splinters, glass and metal shards rained down on the two men as the mangled cabin cruiser emerged on the other side. With its engines still on full power it zigged sharply to the left toward a rock bulkhead. The two men looked at each other and jumped overboard. A moment later the boat smashed into the bulkhead spectacularly and seemed to accordion. Garza and Keitel had just pulled themselves onto shore nearby when its fuel tank exploded. They watched it sink amid bubbles and steamy hissing.

  “Pity,” Garza said. “By the way, did you see who it was?”

  “No. But I have a pretty good idea.”

  “Seattle?”

  “He may be smarter than you thought.”

  A smoldering plank floated by.

  “Piece of cake,” Keitel said, plucking it from the water and handing it to his partner.

  Garza shrugged.

  “Come on. Let’s find a cab.”

  CHAPTER 31 – A TOUGH TOWN

  The first siren had been joined by several others. Their wavering pitch indicated that the cruisers were weaving through local streets as they neared the house. Scarne briefly considered melding with the crowd inside the house to avoid a prolonged grilling by the cops. But he’d liked Goetz. It didn’t seem right to leave him lying there all by himself.

  Tony Goetz? Who would want to shoot him with a high-powered rifle from a speedboat? It didn’t figure. There were easier ways to kill stockbrokers. Gut instinct told Scarne that Goetz was just what he appeared to be – a loud, funny and cynical salesman. A good guy to get drunk with. But not a player. True, he wasn’t very discreet. But a company party was no place to permanently silence a malcontent. If someone wanted to kill a broker, tossing him out a high-rise window might be the perfect crime. Scarne couldn’t dismiss outright the possibility that a jealous lover, disgruntled client or man from Mars shot Goetz, but thought it more plausible he was not the intended target. Besides, there was that second bullet that, in effect, “iced” the dolphin sculpture.

  Garza, Keitel and Alana were standing next to Goetz when he was killed. Scarne looked at the water in the bay. It was fairly calm, and had been all afternoon, but there were small swells, mostly generated by boats. Such swells were unpredictable, but could throw off even an expert marksman’s aim by a few inches, up or down – or side to side.

  The sirens grew louder and then stopped. Scarne could see flashing lights through the bushes at the side of the house. He shook out a cigarette from a pack left in haste on a nearby table. He lit it with a candle and was about halfway through the smoke when two uniforms walked over to him. Miami Beach cops. They looked down at the body. Scarne dropped the cigarette in a half-full glass and rose. The older of the two cops looked at him.

  “Who are you? Why aren’t you inside with the others?”

  “Name is Jake Scarne. I was on the job once, so I tried to protect your crime scene. No one touched the body after some CPR.”

  “What did you see?”

  Scarne told them. They took notes and asked a few questions. Their job was to nail down the time frame and secure the area.

  “All right. Have a seat. The detectives will want to talk to you.”

  As they walked away, one of the waiters tentatively approached them. He was holding Scarne’s shirt. The poor guy was nervous as hell. He was probably undocumented and wanted nothing to do with anyone in uniform. The younger cop spoke to him in Spanish. The waiter relaxed when he heard the comforting language. The cop pointed to Scarne and the waiter walked over.

  “Miss Alana asked me to give you this, sir.”

  It was chilly and Scarne was glad to get the shirt. He thanked the waiter, who hurried away. Scarne wondered why he had not vamoosed right after the shooting. “Miss Alana” probably laid down the law.

  Within a half hour the pool area was crawling with police. A five-person CSI unit taped off the area and scoured the area for evidence. Two of them, a man and a woman, knelt over the body and began examining it, as another man took photos. Just like on TV. The other two looked into the pool and started arguing, in a friendly way. Finally, they faced off and Scarne heard one of them say, “One strike three, shoot.” Two arms shot out with hands displaying fingers. After three plays, one man said, “Shit, I never win.” He walked back to the front of the house. In a few minutes he was back wearing a bathing suit and a mask and climbed into the pool, giving the finger to his smiling buddy.

  The two cops who were first on the scene returned. With them were Detectives Frank Paulo and William Curley.

  “This one probably wasn’t an accident,” Scarne said.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Curley said.

  Scarne debated how much to tell them. He knew he’d have to feed them something, or he might wind up answering questions “downtown,” wherever the hell that was in Miami Beach.

  “Before he died Josh Shields was working on an article about Victor Ballantrae and his company.”

  “The financial mucky-muck?”

  “Yeah. Ballantrae and the Shields family are pretty close. I thought he might give me some useful background.” As with most good lies, it had the element of truth and might even hold up. “Met with him and his chief of staff yesterday. This is her house. She invited me to this party. I thought it would be an easy way to meet a lot of employees. Get a feel for the company. Just covering all the bases.”

  “Except a guy gets murdered right in front of you.”

  “I’ve heard Miami is a tough town.”

  Scarne could tell that they didn’t quite believe him, but there wasn’t much they could do about it.

  “OK,” Paulo said, opening his notebook. “Lead us through it.”

  Scarne did. He told them how he met Goetz. The two shots. The panic. The cigarette boat. How Garza and Keitel pursued the shooter. How he dove in the pool and found Goetz’s wound. How he secured the crime scene. He even ventured a guess at the caliber of the bullet.

  Then Paulo said, “Quite a shot, don’t you think? From a boat.”

  “It was pretty calm. But good shooting nonetheless, I’ll give you that.”

  Curley said, “Did the two heroes come back?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “And the second shot came after the vic was already under water?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So maybe he wasn’t the target.”

  “Maybe we were all targets. Some nut with a rifle.”

  Both detectives stared at Scarne so long he finally had to smile.

  “Well, maybe not.”

  “Go through it again,” Curley said.

  Scarne did.

  “So, the dead guy, Goetz, was standing right between the Loeb woman and the two guys who chased the shooter. That right?”

  “Among.”

  “Among what?”

  “She was standing among the three of them, not between.”

  “You know, Scarne, it’s not hard to understand why you got the boot from the cops in New York. But this isn’t New York. You’re here at our sufferance.”

  Scarne figured he said “sufferance” to regain the rhetorical high ground, but let it go.

  “Can we get back on point here,” Curley
said.

  “My point is that if Goetz or the fuckin’ frozen dolphin weren’t the target, then one of the other three standing with him were. You got any idea why?”

  “No. But it wouldn’t surprise me if Garza and Keitel had enemies. They didn’t react like your typical brokers. More like Navy Seals. They’ve been shot at before.”

  The CSI man from the pool walked over holding a clear plastic bag full of what looked like green marbles.

  “What have you got?” Paulo asked.

  “Olives.”

  “Olives?”

  “Yeah, 10 olives and a martini glass. All on the bottom at the end of the pool where the vic went in. Nothing else.”

  “Manzanilla,” Scarne interjected.

  “Manza-what?” the two detectives blurted almost simultaneously.

  “Manzanilla. Spanish olives, with pimentos.”

  “Manzadead,” the tech said, looking at Scarne. They both laughed.

  “Goetz had them all in his glass before he went in,” Scarne explained. The detectives looked annoyed. “I prefer a twist, but he used the olives to keep count. He’d stop when he couldn’t fit any more in the glass. One per drink.”

  Curley looked at the dripping CSI tech, who was still chuckling at his witticism.

  “Ten fucking martinis? Are you sure the bullet killed him?”

  “Yeah. They can go easy on the formaldehyde at the funeral home.”

  “I think he was Jewish,” Scarne said.

  “So?’

  “Means he probably won’t be embalmed after the autopsy.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot they did that. Religious thing, right. Course, he might not be Orthodox.”

  “Enough with the embalming crap,” Paulo said impatiently. “What about the second bullet?”

  “We’re looking,” the tech said. “But don’t get your hopes up. Could have gone anywhere after it hit the ice sculpture. Might be in the side of the house or in a tree.”

  “I’d check right around the buffet table,” Scarne said. “The first one didn’t go through the victim, so it mushroomed. The ice might have stopped the other bullet. Look in the shrimp pile.”

  “Not bad,” the tech said, walking away.

  “You guys through with me?”

  “Yeah, for now,” Paulo said. “I made some calls after our meet. You still got friends in New York. But I got a feeling you’re not telling us everything you know. I won’t hesitate to hit you with a hindering charge if I find out you’re holding back on us. This is a homicide.”

  “Hey, I gave you a solid lead on the olives, didn’t I?”

  ***

  Paulo and Curley finally cut him loose and went to interview the guests who had stuck around. Scarne was fairly certain they would now look at Josh’s death in a new light and seek a connection to Goetz’s murder. He wasn’t sure what that would accomplish, and it might prove embarrassing to Ballantrae, but there was nothing to be done about it. He reflected that if Shields Inc. was a publicly traded company, it would probably be a good time to short its stock. Any planned merger would surely soon be as dead as Josh – and Tony Goetz.

  He changed his clothes and went to mingle with the guests and staff. Many of the Ballantrae employees knew Goetz and liked him. Garza and Keitel were also well known in the company. No one spoke ill of them but a few echoed Goetz’s inability to explain how they made all their money given their erratic work habits. The “clients” and other hangers-on were uniformly circumspect about their dealings with the company. Scarne heard a lot of meaningless Wall Street palaver about trusts and hedge funds. Only one man, obviously in his cups from depleting Alana’s brandy supply, let slip that the only reason he dealt with the company were the incredible rates on its certificates of deposit.

  “Man, get one of their CD’s. The return is almost three percentage points higher than at regular banks. Do the math.”

  Scarne asked him how that was possible.

  “Hell, I don’t know. Something to do with their offshore bank and investing overseas by using computers to find the highest worldwide returns balanced against political and economic risk. Who cares?”

  Scarne went back out to the pool. Goetz’s body had been removed. The CSI tech was talking to the detectives and eating a shrimp.

  “You were right,” he said when Scarne walked over to them. “Well, almost. The bullet was in a pile of clams. Really flattened. Almost a dum-dum. The one inside the vic must have done a lot of damage.”

  “You sure it came from the same gun?” Curley asked.

  “We’ll have to run some tests on both bullets, but the sculpture was on basically the same line. My guess is same gun, same shooter. I don’t see any grassy knolls out there in the bay.”

  After the tech walked away, Casey said, “Everyone’s a comedian. It’s those damn TV shows.”

  Alana Loeb walked up to the three men.

  “Detectives, all the guests have gone. I wonder if I can send my staff home. They are very upset.”

  “Of course, Ms. Loeb,” Paulo said. “We have all their names. I’m sure this must have been trying for you as well. But we do have a few more questions for you.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll see Mr. Scarne out and then meet you in the house. Is that all right?”

  After the detectives went into the house, Scarne said, “I think I should stick around, Alana.”

  “I appreciate all you’ve done, Jake, but that’s not necessary. Christian phoned. He and Garza will be here shortly. They chased the other boat up the Indian River, but apparently had some sort of accident and it got away. I’m sure the police will want to get a statement from them when they get here, and then we have some business to talk over. So you might as well go home.”

  “What’s going on Alana? We both know Goetz wasn’t the target.”

  “Let it go, Jake.” She touched his cheek. “You saved my life. Now I will return the favor. What happened tonight is none of your concern. I don’t want you involved. Forget about me. Forget about the company. Just go back to New York.”

  “But I am involved. You remember Josh Shields, don’t you?”

  “You will get nowhere with that. And nowhere with me. Goodbye, Jake.”

  He was left staring at her back. He went to the valet station. No one was there, but his key was on the rack. As he walked to his car, he noticed Garza and Keitel getting out of a cab. They appeared to be dripping wet.

  CHAPTER 32 – FIERCE LOVE

  Scarne was back at La Gorce 10 minutes later. Instead of entering the garage, he pulled into the semicircular driveway, his mind racing.

  “Do you want me to park the car for you, sir?”

  He barely heard the valet standing next to his window.

  “Sir?”

  Scarne shot onto Collins Avenue, to a cacophony of angry horns. Weaving in and out of traffic, he roared toward the drawbridge over the Indian River. He jammed on his brakes as the bridge road gates came down amid clanging bells. The span began rising as a cabin cruiser idled toward it. Son of a bitch. After what seemed an eternity, the small boat passed and the roadway came down. Traffic began to move slowly over the bridge. He got stuck behind two cars, side by side, driven by old men strictly observing the 25-mile-per-hour limit on the winding road. Hitting his horn wasn’t an option. They wouldn’t hear him, even with their hearing aids. The last time those old coots were in a hurry the Berlin Wall hadn’t been built. The driver on the left had his right signal on and the guy on the right had his left on. Maybe they planned to crash into each.

  Disgusted, Scarne didn’t wait to find out. He made a right and headed toward the bay. After a few minutes of aimless wandering in poorly lit neighborhoods, he got lucky and hit the street that paralleled the waterway. He soon spotted Alana Loeb’s house. There were four cars in her driveway: three squad cars and a nondescript sedan. He doused his lights, rolled to a stop behind a neighbor’s car a few houses away and scrunched down. After an hour, only the sedan was left. He waite
d. Fifteen minutes later, Curley and Paulo left in it. Finally, a cab pulled up and he spotted Alana walking out with Garza and Keitel. He could hear the anger in their muffled voices. She turned on her heel and they drove off.

  Scarne strode to the front door. He rang the buzzer. Nothing. He pounded. Nothing. The front of the house was dark. He tried the door. It was locked. He thought he heard music. He followed the path around the side. Small creatures scuttled away in the grass into the bushes and flower beds. A large insect brushed his hair. When he turned the corner of the house he saw that the pool area was unlit. He could barely make out the yellow crime scene tape. A small green light on a pole flickered on and off, casting an intermittently eerie glow on the dock and the shimmering water beyond. He thought of Gatsby. As he passed the spiral staircase, he heard a rustle.

  “I knew you would come back.”

  Her voice was hoarse. He didn’t trust his own. She was standing halfway up the staircase, leaning back against the rail, backlit by the light emanating below her from the kitchen. She was wearing a white kimono-like translucent robe. He could see her legs through the fabric. She was barefoot. One arm was relaxed at her side; the other lay on the railing. The music came from her bedroom. What the hell was he doing?

  He started up the stairs. She backed up, spiraling silently away from him. As they pirouetted, she undid her robe and dropped it off her shoulders. Whatever reservations he had dropped with the robe. She was naked. Her nipples were fully erect. He had never seen anything like them. They were like pencil erasers, he thought irrationally. The flickering lights from scented candles in the room behind her gave it an eerie, exotic glow.