FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6) (14 page)

By the time he got to the kitchen, which smelled of coffee, bacon and biscuits, Russell was ladling scrambled eggs onto two plates at a dinette table.

“Can you pour the coffee, Jake?”

He took the carafe from the Krup coffeemaker on a counter and poured. They sat and ate, hardly speaking. The food was delicious. She had sprinkled fresh chives over the eggs. When they were on their second cup of coffee, Russell said, cautiously, “Will I be seeing you again?”

“No,” he said.

She looked momentarily startled.

“I make it a habit never to take up with beautiful women who are spectacular in bed and can cook,” he continued. Then he laughed. “Of course, you will see me again. Assuming I don’t get hit by that bus or shot by a miscreant.”

Scarne reached out and touched her hand.

“I think you are wonderful. I liked you the moment I walked in your office. I’ve been thinking about you constantly.”

She leaned over and they kissed. When they broke apart, she said, “I’m sorry that it was a tragedy that brought us together, but I’m glad we met.”

“Life is often like that,” Scarne said.

“Do you think you will ever find her?”

“Yes.”

He did not know why he said it, but for some reason he was sure.

“Will it be dangerous?”

“Probably not as dangerous as mucking around Barnard and Columbia, where I emerged without a scratch.” He smiled, rubbing his shoulder. “Well, almost without a scratch.”

Regina Russell blushed spectacularly.

CHAPTER 19 - AMBUSH

Two Weeks Later

Scarne was about to go out for lunch when his office phone buzzed.

“Someone named Barry wants to speak to you,” Evelyn said.

Scarne drew a blank.

“What’s his last name?”

“He wouldn’t give it to me.”

“Take a message.”

He was putting on his jacket when Evelyn buzzed him again.

“He is very insistent. Said you called him about a man named Willet.”

Now, Scarne remembered. Barry Hine. The name on the envelope among Willet’s stuff.

“Put him through.”

The Dallas case had gone cold. There was no trace of Willet. Maura had remained adamant about not involving the police. Scarne thought his chances of finding her daughter, dead or alive, were nil. He had been fielding ever-more antagonistic phone calls from Anastasia wanting progress updates. Scarne was forced to provide no-progress updates. Most calls did not end with a ‘goodbye’; the line just went dead. 

“You Scarne?”

“Yes,”

“Still looking for Mr. Willet?”

It was a nasally voice.

“You Barry?”

“Yeah, sure. I just got your message.”

“I called two weeks ago.”

“I been away. No cell phone service.”

That meant Antarctica or jail. Scarne didn’t think it was Antarctica.

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“Not exactly. But I may have some information. What’s your interest in Willet? You a cop?”

“Private. I’ve been hired to find someone Willet may know.”

“Your client got cash?”

“I don’t normally work for free, Barry.”

There was a pause.

“Me neither, pal. This is gonna cost.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Scarne said, and put the hook in. “Client is loaded.”

“A lot.”

“I said that wouldn’t be a problem.”

“At least a grand. You understand, pal?”

“Barry, this is a very good connection,” Scarne said wearily. “Where can we meet?”

There was a longer pause.

“Do you know where Crotona Park is, in the Bronx?”

Scarne said he did.

“There is an old bathhouse next to the pool. I’ll meet you there at midnight.”

Scaren was amused.

“Midnight? Won’t it be dark?”

“Sure. That’s the point. We don’t want any busybodies around do we?”

“No, I suppose not. I’m sure Crotona is crawling with busybodies during the day.”

Barry Hine was not into irony.

“Just go to the north end of the boathouse, pal. Make sure you have the grand with you. And come alone.”

Scarne, who silently mouthed the “and come alone” as Barry Hine said it, said, “sure” aloud.

The phone went dead. Scarne put his feet up on his desk and thought about the meeting.

“Alone with cash in the dark,” Scarne said to the room. “Gee, Barry. Sounds peachy.”

He called Dudley Mack. 

***

When Scarne finally left for lunch he asked Evelyn if he could bring something back for her. She gave him a perfunctory, “no, thank you.” He recalled that she had seemed distracted all morning.

“Something wrong, Ev?”

She looked up at him. Her voice was strained.

“I went to the doctor’s yesterday.”

“Yes, I know.”

Scarne felt a chill.

“He found a lump in by breast. He told me it was probably nothing, but I have to go for a biopsy tomorrow.”

There were many reasons Scarne was glad he wasn’t a woman, and this was one of them. He struggled for words.

“I’m sorry, Ev. Why don’t you go home? Nothing is going on here.”

“Thank you, Jake. But I’d rather worry here than at home. I need something to keep me busy.”

“I understand. But I’m sure it will turn out all right.”

She smiled.

“From your lips to God’s ears,” she said. “Now go enjoy your lunch. And perhaps I wouldn’t say no to a crumpet if you happen to come across one.”

“You got it.”

***

Crotona Park, off Third Avenue in the Bronx, is considered the most dangerous park in New York City, based on its relatively small size and limited number of visitors. During the day, with a police presence and the activity at its popular Olympic-size pool, tennis courts and pond, the 12-acre recreation area is fairly safe. But when the sun goes down, the crimes go up. Crotona sees almost half of all the park crime in the Bronx. Just the week before, a young woman was raped in the park, which is the scene of one or two drug murders a year, and dozens of muggings. Scarne knew that Crotona was a thorn in Dick Condon’s side. He was always complaining about it. But he couldn’t police it around the clock; it was a big city, and it was assumed that anyone who ventured into an abandoned city park at night had a screw loose.

Scarne had most of his screws on tight, which is why he left his car in the garage and took a cab to the meeting. He did not want to return to find his Fusion on blocks.

The cabbie gave him a strange look when he got out.

“Don’t you want me to wait, mister. This ain’t the best neighborhood.”

“No, thanks.” Scarne gave the man an extra $20, knowing his chances of picking up another fare in the area were slim. “I’ll be fine.”

The walk through the park to the swimming area reeked of danger. There was just enough light from a few working park lamps to make it really spooky. Scarne passed several men sitting on benches or lounging around a tree. As he passed one group he heard someone say, “bastardo blanco estúpido”. He couldn’t argue with that. At one point two young punks moved to block his path. He opened his jacket to show his gun. They shrugged and moved aside. He heard them laughing as he walked on. They were probably better armed than he was but couldn’t be bothered. They’d wait for easier pickings.

When he reached the north end of the massive old bathhouse, he stopped and waited. It was 12:15 before Barry Hine came out of a clump of trees and walked up to him.

“You got the money?”

Scarne patted his inside jacket pocket.

“Right here. What do you have for me.”

Hine walked closer. He was a skinny kid, emaciated really, with scraggly blond hair and a wisp of a beard on his chin. Scarne had seen enough drug addicts in his time to recognize one of them.

“Let me see it.”

Scarne took the envelope out and fanned the bills.

“Satisfied?”

“Yeah. Hand it over and you won’t get hurt.”

“Barry. Is this a set up?”

“Fraid so.”

“Well, that doesn’t seem very fair, does it,” Scarne said calmly. “And just how did you expect to take the money?”

Barry Hine sneered.

“You’ll see, tough guy. Skeets, Rocco, you can come out now.”

He looked expectantly at the bathhouse behind Scarne, and then smiled when he heard a door creak. Then, there was a sound like two melons squished together. Hine’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.

“Hey, Jake, look what I found.”

Scarne turned and smiled at Bobo Sambucca, who walked out of the bathhouse toward them holding two unconscious men. The huge man had them by their collars and dragged them along like two sacks of potatoes. He did not appear to be straining. Scarne turned back to Hine.

“Friends of yours?”

“What did you do to them?” Barry croaked.

“They hit their heads,” Bobo said.

“Are they dead?”

“Not yet,” Scarne answered. “Nor are you. But the night is young.”

Barry Hine stared at the gun now in Scarne’s hand.

“What are you gonna do?”

The druggie’s knees were visibly shaking.

“I haven’t decided whether to just shoot you, or let my associate have some fun. Or maybe let you talk your sorry ass out of this. Your call, Barry.”

Scarne walked over and frisked Hine. All he had was a rusty switchblade.

“You really ought to take care of your equipment, Barry,” Scarne said, putting the knife in his pocket. “This is a disgrace.”

“What do you want?”

“Everything you can tell me about Willet.”

“Sure, sure. And believe me, it’s worth the grand.”

Scarne laughed.

“God, Barry. You are thick. I think the drugs have fried your brain. Or maybe you got your head banged around at Rikers. That’s where you were when I first called, right?”

Hine nodded.

“A pussy marijuana beef,” he said. “Some rookie cop wet behind the ears busted me.”

“Don’t you just hate it when that happens, Barry. So, forget the thousand bucks. You are singing for your life. That’s the deal now.”

One of the men Sambuca was holding moaned. Bobo bumped their heads together again and the noise stopped.

“Sorry, Jake” Bobo said. “Losing my touch.”

That did it for Barry. He started talking so fast Scarne had to slow him down. When he finished, Scarne said, “So, you gave Willet some knockout drops to use.”

“Yeah.”

“Where did he find you?”

“I go to Bronx Community.”

“Well, well, a college boy. How long have you been going there?”

“Six years.”

“Six years! I thought it was a two-year college.”

“It is. But some of the teachers, like Willet, fix it so I can stick around. Better for business, you know. He says I’m gonna graduate Magna Cum Turtle.”

Scarne had to laugh.

“Did he tell you who the drugs were for?”

“Nah. And I didn’t ask. I figured some chick he wanted to fuck.”

“Any other drugs?’

“No. That was the only time he asked for drugs. I offered him some other stuff, but he said he wasn’t into it, you know.”

“I have to tell you, Barry, that doesn’t sound like information worth a grand. I think your situation is still precarious.”

“There’s more.” Hine’s nasally voice was desperate. “Good stuff, I swear.”

“I’m listening.”

“He wanted fake passports.”

“Aha,” Sambuca said.

Scarne turned to his friend.

“That’s my line, Bobo.”

“Beat you to it, Jake. You can’t have all the fun.”

Scarne looked at Hine.

“You forge passports?”

Barry shook his head.

“I know a guy.”

“Where do I find him?”

“I don’t know where he lives. He hangs around in a bar in my neighborhood.”

“What bar?”

Now, Hine looked really worried.

“Hey, man, you can’t roust him. He’ll know I ratted. I do a lot of business in that bar. Even if he don’t kill me, I’ll lose my livelihood.”

“Barry, it should be obvious by now that I’m not particularly concerned about your life or your livelihood.”

“You don’t need him. I paid him for copies of what he made. Thought they might come in handy, you know?”

“You are a piece of work, Barry,” Scarne said, shaking his head. “You were hoping to blackmail Willet.”

“I thought they might be worth something to him, sure. But he disappeared. And I ain’t going to the fuckin’ Caribbean to look him up.”

“The Caribbean?”

Hine was calmer. He was pretty sure he was going to survive the evening. 

“Yeah. I think I know where he went. Someplace in the Caribbean. Martinique, I think. Saw some brochures in his apartment when I dropped off the passports. If I show you the passport copies, are we square?”

“Plural? Passports? How many did he need?”

“Just two. One for him and one for his chippie.”

“Did you meet the girl?”

“No. He just gave me some photos of both of them taken in a drug store or something.”

Scarne knew he would see the passport photos soon, but he had to ask.

“What did she look like?”

“A fuckin’ knockout, man. Blond, long hair. Great face. You could tell she’d have a body to go with it. Nobody looks that good without the whole package.”

“About 21-22?”

“Yeah, I guess. You know her? Fuckin’ Willet really lucked out for an old fart.”

“You’re probably right about that,” Scarne said, resignedly. He waved his gun. “OK, let’s go. We’re going for a ride.”

Hine’s face dropped again.

“Jesus, man, I gave you what you want,” he whimpered. “I don’t wanna die.”

Scarne laughed.

“You’re watching too much cable, Barry. We’re going to your place. I want those passport copies. After that you can go back to a life of petty crime.”