Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  “I’ve already heard that line,” Scarne said. “I don’t think it applies here.”

  The priest moved his jacket back on his arm and Scarne saw the barrel of a automatic pistol sticking out.

  “You are quite right,” the man said. “Turn around.”

  “Whoever you are, I don’t think you will shoot me in broad daylight in a busy parking lot.”

  “I would prefer not to, unless I have no choice.” The man’s voice was calm, professional. He exhibited no tension as he looked at Scarne with an expression that mixed amusement and curiosity. “But time is not on our side. It is thus in your best interest to turn around.”

  Scarne did.

  ***

  The tiny point of light, vague and indistinct at first, grew slowly and began to fill the void. Soon there was no void, just light, bright light. Then complete darkness. This time when the light came back, it came back painfully bright. Then darkness again. Then flashes. Murmured voices. A hollow sound.

  “He’s coming around,” Levin said. The doctor had been alternately flashing a pencil light into Scarne’s eyes, which were now both open and beginning to focus. Scarne started to sit up, but quickly thought better of it as the room swam. “Easy, fella. No sudden moves.”

  Scarne looked around slowly, the simple process of moving his head aggravating the throbbing ache at the base of his skull. He was in a small hospital room. Levin was attending him. Was he in hospice? Boy, time really flies when your having fun. There was a large swarthy man standing next to the doctor and wearing a uniform with a Glock on his hip and a Smokey the Bear hat in one hand.

  “This is Captain Rodriguez,” Levin said. “State Police. He’s got some questions for you. Are you up for it?” Good man, Scarne thought. I’m his patient now. Shouldn’t have given him such a hard time. “Can you tell us what happened?”

  Scarne decided to see if his mouth worked. It did, but it hurt. His jaw creaked and he could feel puffiness in his lips and cheek.

  “The priest wasn’t a priest,” Scarne said. His brain was almost back, but his voice was thick. “He must have killed Banaszak. I let him get the drop on me,” he added in disgust. “He must have slugged me with his gun.”

  “I don’t think so,” Levin said. “There’s no injury to your head. You cut your chin and lip when you hit the pavement. There’s some swelling at the base of your neck. He probably used the side of his hand, like a karate chop.”

  “Who the hell is Banaszak?” Rodriguez looked annoyed. “And there’s another priest?”

  “Banaszak is the patient up on the hospice floor who died just before Mr. Scarne was knocked out,” Levin said. “There was a priest in the room with him. Apparently an imposter.”

  “Another priest?” Scarne’s voice was almost back to normal.

  “After you ran out I called security as you suggested,” Levin said. “They said they had their hands full with a man in clerical garb who was found in a laundry hamper.”

  “Dead?”

  “No, he’s up in X-Ray. He was knocked out much in the same manner as you, and trussed and gagged. I thought it might be our priest so I went to see. It was Father Mundy. While I was there you were brought in after they found you in the parking lot lying between some cars. We called the police.”

  “OK. Doc, that’s enough,” Rodriguez said, moving to the opposite side of the bed. “I’ll take it from here.”

  For the next half hour, under the watchful eye of Levin, Scarne told Rodriguez of his interest in Banaszak, while another trooper took notes.

  “So, you think the priest, I mean the fake priest, killed your hit man after conking Father Mundy? Then knocked you out in the parking lot?”

  It was obvious Captain Rodriguez was having a hard time believing the story. Scarne thought it sounded pretty farfetched himself.

  “The priest, whoever he was, had a scratch on his face,” Scarne said. “Banaszak probably put up a fight, even in his condition. He was a tough guy. I bet if you check his fingernails, you’ll find some skin or blood. Maybe you can get a DNA match. I don’t know about prints. There were a lot of people in there working on him. ” He looked at Levin. “You got a cause of death?”

  “After all the excitement I went in to look at him again. His skin was darker than usual. Blood in his nose. Consistent with suffocation.”

  Rodriguez crooked his finger at another trooper who came in from the hallway.

  “Hal, call the medical examiner.” The trooper turned to leave. “Wait a second. Take this down.” The man pulled out a pad. Rodriguez turned to Scarne and Levin. “Describe the fake priest.”

  After they did, he told the trooper, “Put out a BOLO on the priest, or whatever the hell he is.”

  “The guy’s a pro,” Scarne said. “He’s in the wind and probably not wearing Mundy’s collar anymore. But if they get lucky tell them to be extra careful.”

  Rodriguez ran his hand through his hair and laughed harshly.

  “This is like a Coen brothers movie. Smothered hit man, cold-cocked private dick and a suspect from Vulcan.” He looked at Scarne. “Must be quite a change from your usual cases.”

  “Not really,” Scarne said. He didn’t bother explaining that compared to his last case this one was still a relative walk in the park.

  “Captain, I want to get this man to X-ray,” Levin said.

  “Sure thing,” Rodriguez said. He turned to Scarne. “I have plenty more questions. And the Tampa police will, too.” He nodded his head toward a gaggle of waiting cops in the hallway. “And I bet the Feds will drop by. The hospital is government property. This is going to be a shit burger.”

  A hospital orderly came through the door with a wheel chair. He and Levin helped Scarne get in it. There was a water pitcher on a table next to the bed. Scrane reached for it.

  “Not so fast,” Levin said. “No water until we see if anything is broken in that hard head of yours. I don’t think so, but we have to check anyway.”

  ***

  Sobok had driven steadily since leaving Tampa, maintaining a legal and unobtrusive 70 miles per hour. He had flown in to kill Banaszak, but the Tampa-St. Petersburg airport wasn’t JFK. Even with the change in his appearance, he wasn’t going to fly out of the smaller airport. A few hours spent on the road were not a burden to him. But right now I can use a cup of strong coffee, he thought. He rubbed his neck and began scanning the signs for a rest stop on Interstate 75 after crossing the state border into Georgia.

  That priest’s collar damn near choked me. How can they wear them? Sobok had discarded the collar and the black wig that had covered his closely-cropped hair in a gas station garbage pail and was now wearing boots, jeans, a plaid shirt and a ridiculous cowboy hat. A blonde wig and sunglasses completed the makeover. If the police were looking for a black-suited, black-haired priest, they’d pass him by, especially since they had no idea what kind of car he was driving. Of course, if there were a law against looking like an idiot, they might shoot him on sight.

  The more he thought about it, he realized that he could probably have just gone up and done the job without a disguise. That had been his original plan. The place was a sieve. You’d think that with all the terrorists running around they would have better security at a veterans facility. Of course, terrorists like to kill healthy people. No sense in killing dying ones, he surmised. But when he saw the priest he decided to improvise. If something went wrong, who would stop a man of the cloth.

  Sobok spotted a sign for food and lodging at the exit for Valdosta. The symbol for a Cracker Barrel restaurant made up his mind. He was particularly fond of the chain, which he considered pure Americana. It took a lot to stand out in a Cracker Barrel in Georgia, so no one gave him or his outfit a second glance. A half hour later he drove away sipping coffee, his mouth watering with the smell coming from the paper bag on the seat next to him. He took out a disk from an audio book he had plucked from a carousel near the restaurant checkout and fed it into the CD player. It was a Spenser
novel narrated by Burt Reynolds and would make the drive to Savannah more than pleasant. Sobok wondered idly why he’d never come across a Travis McGee audio on the road.

  Leaving Valdosta, he cut over to a state road, 84, which would be slower, but scenic, and less scrutinized in the unlikely event that the police were seriously after him this far from Tampa. He reached in the bag and pulled out a ham biscuit. It was dripping maple syrup. This would be sloppy, he thought happily. Not to mention the pecan pie. One never went wrong with Cracker Barrel pecan pie. He wiped his sticky fingers on his flannel shirt, which he planned on ditching with the rest of his outfit at first chance, and pulled out a sausage biscuit, also dripping.

  Sobok loved working in the United States.

  ***

  Scarne’s X-Rays were negative, and Levin gave him some pills for his headache, which helped him weather a series of further interrogations by state, local and Federal officers, some of whom he could hear arguing jurisdiction in the hallway. He was eventually told he was free to go but warned he might be called back to identify the “priest” when he was caught. He assured everyone he would make himself available, sure in the knowledge the killer would never be caught.

  Scarne’s one non-police visitor was the sailor from the Abraham Lincoln.

  “I didn’t want to win that way,” the man said.

  “What?”

  “The pool! I had Banaszak, remember? But I hear I had outside help. That ain’t fair. I put the money back in the pot. It’s a carryover. Next winner will have a real windfall.”

  “What does a winner do with the money?”

  “Spend it fast.” They both laughed. “Seriously,” the man said, “most of the guys ask the staff to pick up some presents for the kids who visit their fathers and grand-pops and the like. Makes the place less depressing for them. And some buy gift certificates at restaurants and shops for the nurses. Not all the money, of course. No use in winning if you give it all away.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Franklin.”

  “I’m Jake. Do me a favor and go in that closet. Should be some money in my pants pocket. Take out $100 and put it in the pool.”

  “You ain’t eligible, Jake, although I also hear you came close.”

  “I don’t want to pick. And for God’s sake, don’t put my name in the goddamn hat! Just add it to the kitty. Please.”

  “You got it.”

  Levin discharged Scarne, with instructions to seek medical attention if he felt nauseous.

  “And stay away from priests. I’d avoid rabbis, as well, if I were you.”

  ***

  When he got back to his hotel, Scarne poured himself a bourbon on the rocks and called room service. He knew he was lucky to be alive after the confrontation with Father Death, or whoever that was in the parking lot. So, despite Levin’s suggestion that he take it easy, he wanted to feel alive. The food arrived just as he was emerging from a long, hot shower.

  He called Dudley Mack as the waiter set out his food: a rare Kobe beef cheeseburger, fries and a piece of apple pie. Comfort food.

  “Another damn priest,” Dudley said after Scarne told him about Banaszak’s murder and the break-in at his apartment. “Why don’t you just declare war on the Vatican?”

  “This guy wasn’t a priest. Lacuna must have brought in more hired help.”

  “No. It wasn’t Lacuna.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because Sallie Mae is dead. They found him and his bodyguard trussed naked in the basement of his goomah’s house last night. I was just about to call you.” There was a pause. “Somebody torched the bodyguard’s nuts.”

  “Good Lord.” Scarne’s headache suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

  “Lacuna’s squeeze saw him. Fits the description of the good Father.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “Please.”

  “Forgive me. He didn’t kill her?”

  “Nope.”

  “A hit man with a heart.”

  “A real pro. Not worried about being identified. Got what he wanted and left. Sallie Mae told him everything he knew.”

  “How can you be certain of that?”

  “Only Buccatelli, the bodyguard, was tortured. Salle Mae got one behind the ear, presumably as a consideration for being forthcoming. If he hadn’t spilled his guts, his balls would have been barbecued as well. Not your run-of-the-mill hit man. Smart, too. After leaving Sallie Mae, he tosses Banaszak’s flat and finds the V.A. stuff. Flies right down to Tampa, uses a priest of opportunity, so to speak, snuffs Banaszak like a fly, cold cocks you and presumably leaves town the same fucking day.”

  “Why didn’t he kill me?”

  “Same reason he left Sallie’s mistress alive. Didn’t think you were a threat, or worth the bother.”

  “I am now.”

  They were both silent for a moment. Finally Dudley said, “Listen, Jake. I don’t want you getting killed doing me a favor. You’ve done enough. This guy is no cupcake. Sallie Mae was a tough guy, and his bodyguard might have been even tougher. And our friend took them like they were Girl Scouts.”

  “I’m touched. But you don’t have a say in the matter. It’s personal now.”

  “Just because you got a little bump on the head?”

  “And because a crucial witness was murdered 10 feet from me. And because I chatted with the killer and damn near asked his blessing. And because the people who hired him, whoever they are, think nothing of raping and murdering a young girl.”

  CHAPTER 24 – CALLING THE PENTAGON

  Back in New York, Scarne spent an unproductive morning in his office trying to get a line on the faux priest who killed Banaszak. He finally called Dick Condon, reaching him during a break at a conference in the Pentagon, where he was leading a team of N.Y.P.D. terrorist experts sharing their expertise with other government agencies.

  “I feel a lot safer knowing that you are in Washington,” Scarne said.

  “I’m not sure how I should take that,” Condon said. “You need something. What is it?”

  Scarne described the incident in Florida.

  “Sounds like you’re up to your old tricks, Jake. Forgive me for asking, being only a lowly fucking Police Commissioner and all, but why am I only hearing about this now.”

  “I’ve been to the cops. I don’t like to run to you every time I need help. I’m saving you for the big stuff, like fixing parking tickets. Anyway, I couldn’t tell you everything, and I don’t like doing that.”

  “But you don’t mind lying to the people who work for me.”

  “I have my standards.”

  Condon made a sound halfway between a grunt and a laugh. Scarne heard a voice in the background say, “Chief, they’re starting up. We should go back in.” Condon said, “I need five.” Then, to Scarne, “Tell me everything.”

  Scarne did.

  “A priest,” Condon said. “Just what we need. This is a mare’s nest. But we’ve got to do something.”

  “I don’t know what else the department can do that Scullen isn’t already doing. I gave my word that I wouldn’t expose the priest.”

  “You might change your mind if you were clapped in jail as a material witness until you gave me his name. I like you Jake, but not that much. I don’t fix parking tickets but I can fix your sorry ass.”

  Scarne knew the threat was hollow.

  “You really want to go up against the diocese and your pal, the Cardinal. The Church has caved on a lot of things. But I think they may hold the line on the sanctity of the confessional. Stick with fighting terrorists. You have a better chance.”

  There was a long pause. Scarne wondered if the cell call had been dropped. But then Condon said, “Scullen is a good man. Bit of a burn out. They wanted to stick him behind a desk at One Police Plaza but I knew that would kill him so I sent him to Staten Island to wait out his pension. I’ll give him a call and tell him I’ve taken an personal interest in this.”

  The othe
r voice came back.

  “Chief, we’re up next. They’re looking for you.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Delaney. Get back in there and tell them I’m defusing a bomb in the Joint Chiefs’ bathroom or something.” Then, “Jake, go down to the Plaza and describe your hit man to our Interpol liaison unit. Tell them to check with the Florida State Police for any fingerprints they may have lifted in the hospital, although I’d bet that’s a non-starter. And spend some time with our sketch artists. I’ll have Delaney set it all up. Give him something to do. He’s about to have a canary. I have to get back in the conference. But Jake .…”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll give you a little room on this. But I want to hear something soon, or I’ll pull the string on you and take my chances with the Vatican. Got it?”

  “Sure, Chief. One thing, though.”

  “What?”

  “I got this ticket for parking in a handicap spot.”

  “Oh, fuck off.”

  ***

  When the Police Commissioner tells his subordinates to cooperate, they cooperate. Within an hour of arriving at One Police Plaza in downtown Manhattan, Scarne had met with the Department’s Interpol unit and, for good measure, its Organized Crime Task Force. E-mails and FAXes were sent. Computers computed. A dozen cops worked the phones. Florida was contacted, as was the F.B.I., D.E.A., C.I.A. and some agencies with initials Scarne never heard of. He even caught one detective Twittering.

  “Assassins Twitter,” he asked incredulously.

  “No,” the cop laughed, “but you’d be surprised what people know about on Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn and all the rest. Can’t hurt to send out his description. You never know.”

  “I’m not sure I want to,” Scarne said.

  A Deputy Chief who looked like a college professor sent Scarne down to sit with not one, but two sketch artists, one of whom did it the old-fashioned way and the other who used a computer to generate likenesses in Avatar-like 3D. When they were finished, one of them, the older sketch artist who still used pencil, said, “You know who this guy looks like?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Scarne said.