Killerfest (6 page)

CHAPTER 9
–
MAIN LINE

After leaving
Falls Church, Scarne headed toward Philadelphia. If there was a real threat to
Quimper’s life, he wanted to draw his own conclusions about the murder of Ralph
Arhaut. Stopping only for a quick sandwich in a service plaza on I-95, he
arrived at the Haverford Township Police Department on Lancaster Pike just
after 4 PM. Ten minutes later he was escorted to the office of the commanding
officer of the Detective Division. His name was Lieutenant Bryer Burgess.
Scarne had done some homework. The Haverford P.D. wasn’t a shit-kicking
operation. The department employed almost a hundred officers. The Detective
Division alone had nine investigators.   

Burgess handed
back Scarne’s I.D. He was a thin man, in shirtsleeves and tie, and wore
wire-rimmed glasses.

“Sit. You’re
the guy who called earlier about the Arhaut killing.”

“Yes.”

“What did you
do before you went private?”

“I was a cop,
investigator in the Manhattan D.A.’s office.”

“Why did you
quit?”

Scarne was
used to this type of grilling from cops, most of whom weren’t crazy about nosy
private eyes. Fortunately, the truth about his leaving the force always seemed
to endear him to his interrogators.

“A city
councilman paid off some political favors by screwing up a case I made against
some drug dealers. I held him by his heels from the balcony at City Hall. I was
asked to resign. I thought that was unfair. I didn’t drop him.”

“What happened
to the councilman?”

“He’s
President of the City Council now.”

Burgess
smiled.

“You would be
a natural in Philadelphia. How’s the pay in the private sector?”

They always
asked that.

“Varies. This
case is on the high side.”

“What’s the
case?”

“I’ve been
hired to help protect another author who has been threatened, presumably by the
same people.”

“Tell me about
it.”

Scarne did.

“Sebastian
Quimper. It must be a good payday. I tried reading his books. They suck.”

“It’s nice to
speak to a man with taste,” Scarne said.

“Ever read
John O’Hara.”

“Sure.
Appointment
in Samarra, Ten North Frederick
.”

“Now, there’s
a man who could write. What do you want to know?”

“Anything that
wasn’t in the papers. Leads? Suspicions? Guesses?”

Burgess tilted
his chair back and put his hands behind his head.

“No one knew
the waiter. He apparently just walked in before the luncheon wearing the same
outfit the rest of the help wore. Could have gotten the clothes from a uniform
supply company. We checked with local suppliers but no one could remember a man
fitting his description. But there are dozens of such stores in the
Philadelphia area. Probably paid cash, anyway, unless he was a complete idiot.
Only one other waiter even asked who he was and he said he was just hired.
After he killed Arhaut, he ran out of the club and hopped into a black van. A
woman was driving. Redhead. No one got a clear look at her. No one got a plate.
No markings on the van. A similar van was found burning in a wooded area about
five miles from the club. There was a body inside, burned to a crisp. We can’t
be sure it was the same van, but what are the odds it wasn’t? Two killings
involving a van five miles and fifteen minutes apart? Got to be connected. From
the V.I.N., we know the torched van was stolen in Baltimore the day before the
murder. The plates were switched. Turned out they were from a vehicle in the
long-term lot at Philadelphia International. We don’t know when they were
lifted.”

Even given the
probability that murders in and around Haverford weren’t that common, Scarne
was impressed with the lieutenant’s grasp of the facts in the Arhaut
investigation. 

“No I.D. on
the body in the van?”

“Forensic team
could barely tell it was a man. The inside of the van was melted. They knew it
wasn’t just the gas tank. At first they thought it was thermite, but tests run
by the State Trooper lab in Harrisburg revealed it was phosphorous, probably a
grenade. They think he was trying to destroy evidence and got careless.”

Scarne could
tell by the cop’s expression that he was skeptical of that explanation.

“What do you
think?”

 “There wasn’t
much left of the guy, but there is always some fiber residue on a burned body.
This guy was naked when he went up. I don’t know why he wasn’t wearing clothes,
but it makes no sense for a naked man to be handling a grenade. I think he was
maybe changing his clothes when someone threw in the phosphorous. Or maybe he
was expecting some job-well-done nookie. If that was the case, he sure got the
well-done part.”

“The woman?
Eliminating a witness?”

“That’s my
guess. We found another set of tire tracks near the van. I figure he was just a
soldier, expendable. She killed him and drove away. Nobody knows who the guy is
and all we have on her is a quick glimpse in a parking lot and a statement from
the soccer mom who reported the burning van. She said she passed a car going in
the opposite direction near the fire scene. It was driven by a pretty blond
woman who seemed to be in a hurry. The mom only remembered because they almost
collided.

“Blond?”

“There were
minute traces of a red wig hairs in the dead man’s crotch.”

Scarne tried
to imagine the scene.

“He was
waiting for some post-assassination sex,” he said. “She throws in the wig, then
grenade.”

“Or the other
way around,” the detective said. “Didn’t really matter. It was a blow job he
didn’t expect.”

“I don’t
suppose the soccer mom remembered the make of the car.”

 “Wasn’t even
sure of the color. Wouldn’t matter. If it was involved, it’s probably in the
same long-term parking lot the plates came from.”

“But the mom
said the woman was attractive?”

“Yeah. Women
notice those things. Said they had to slow at the turn and she got a good look.
The woman had short blond hair done up in the latest fashionable style, which
is why it made an impression on her. Something called a ‘Karlie’.” Burgess
spelled it out. “Named after some famous model.”

Scarne looked
at him. Burgess laughed.

“Hey. I asked
my daughter about it. Last time I do that. She went out and got one. Cost me
200 bucks.” He pulled out an iPhone. “Here’s what it looks like. My daughter is
dark haired, though.”

Scarne looked
at the picture on the phone.

“Nice-looking
kid. How old would you say the blond woman is?”

“Hard to say.
The hairdo makes women look younger, I think. But the soccer mom figured
mid-to-late 30’s.”

Scarne thought
about it all.

“So, what do
we have? A stolen van, stolen plates, unidentified body, woman getaway driver
who probably wore a wig, and a blond in a car near the scene of the burning van
who might have absolutely nothing to do with any of this.”

“They could
probably solve this on TV,” Burgess said. “Might be a two-parter, though.”

“What about
your chances, Lieutenant?”

“This has
every indication of becoming a cold case. Unless, of course, there is another
murder and somebody screws up.”

“I’m not
rooting for that.”

“No, I guess
not.”

“Does this
look like terrorists to you? Killing their own assassin.”

“No. More like
a pro. If the terrorists had a man to lose, they could have used a suicide vest
or something.”

“Not if they
wanted to make a specific point. Send a specific message.”

“What are you
getting at, Scarne?”

“Maybe the
terrorists hired a pro. Or, like you said, it’s not terrorists.”

“You’re not
exactly narrowing the suspect pool.”

“Never my
strong point.”

CHAPTER 10
–
NOAH

Scarne got up
early the next morning feeling cranky and creaky. He hadn’t slept well. He
loved driving and didn’t regret his visits of the previous day, but sitting in
a car for hours on end had stiffened him up. He felt annoying twinges and
actually heard faint but noticeable crackling sounds from one of his knees when
he slid out of bed. A sign of age? Or was it just that some of the wounds his
body had accumulated over the years were rebelling.

He padded into
the bathroom and stood naked in front of the mirror. Several scars aside, he
was still a young man, with a full head of hair and a flat stomach. Not a
washboard to be sure, but he could do a hundred sit ups when he wanted. But
Scarne didn’t want to, right then. He had to loosen up first. He decided to
walk to his office. He packed a small gym bag and after exchanging local gossip
and pleasantries with the concierge and doorman of his apartment building on
8th Street headed uptown just as the sun came up. He would shower in the new
health club that had opened in the basement of his office building at
Rockefeller Center.

It was cool
out and the walk, just under three miles, was pleasant. By the time Scarne
reached the gym, he had loosened up. He then spent a vigorous hour on the
Universal machines and, just to spite his earlier creaky self, ripped off a
hundred sit ups. Then he showered and dressed, and went to a small coffee shop
in the lobby. The picture of the granola and yogurt parfait on the glossy
plastic menu looked tempting.

“What can I
get you,” the waitress asked.

“Orange juice,
fried egg sandwich on a hard roll and coffee, two creams,” Scarne said. “Why
waste a hundred sit ups.”

“You’d be
crazy to,” she replied.

Scarne walked
into his office at 9 A.M. sharp.

 “My, aren’t
we chipper this morning,” Evelyn said. Only then did he realize he was
whistling. “But really, Jake,
“The Marine Corps Hymn?”

Scarne laughed
and went into his office. He stood by his window looking down at the famous ice
rink 20 stories below. There were, of course, no skaters at this time of year.
The rink was covered with umbrellas, under which tables were set up for outdoor
dining. His office phone buzzed. It was Evelyn.   

“Noah Sealth
called while you were away. He’s in town. Wants to know when you’re free for
dinner. Left his cell number.”

Scarne smiled.
Sealth was a Seattle homicide cop that he’d met when investigating the murder
of Joshua Shields, Emma’s favorite cousin and the son of Sheldon Shields,
Randolph’s brother. They’d crossed swords at first but eventually found common
ground and a friendship. Sealth was helpful in keeping Scarne out of the hands
of both Federal and Florida state prosecutors when the dust, and bodies, had
settled in the Ballantrae case.

“I hope he’s
available tonight,” Scarne said. “Starting tomorrow I’ll be tied up with
Quimper.”

*** 

“Where will
you live?”

Noah Sealth
had just told Scarne that he had retired from Seattle Homicide after 20 years
and was moving to New York. They were sitting at the famous ‘Bar 21’ in The 21
Club on 52nd Street waiting for their table. Above them, hanging from the
ceilings, were hundreds of toys and model airplanes, ships and cars donated by
the corporate chieftains and power brokers who made the restaurant their New
York home away from home over the years.

“I’m sharing
an apartment with a woman on 82nd Street.”

“Jesus, Noah.
That’s quick work, even for a West Coast hotshot like you.”

“Not really.
Do you remember that French policewoman, the one who was assigned to Interpol
in Paris when I was doing some liaison work?”

“Don’t tell me.”

“Yes. She’s
moved to New York on an assignment with the United Nations. Minimum of two
years.”

“As I recall,
you were merely exchanging Christmas cards.”

“Yeah. And in
the last one she included a note about her divorce.”

“I’m happy for
you, Noah. That calls for another martini.” Scarne signaled the waiter, who
reached for the Grey Goose bottle. “I’d like to meet her. ”

“You will,
soon as I’m settled in. How’s your love life?”

Scarne smiled.

“Well, it’s
just taken a turn for the worse, but I’m always hopeful.”

Scarne told
him about Emma’s move and the Quimper assignment.

“So, Randolph
doesn’t want his daughter anywhere near you when the bomb goes off.”

“Gee, Noah, I
hadn’t thought about it that way. Thanks.”

“How serious
do you think the threat is?”

“I’d say
somebody really wants to make a run at Quimper. And if the hit in Pennsylvania
is any indication, the bad guys know what they are doing. Whether anything will
happen during the Killerfest is the question. It may be too obvious; too
similar to the Arhaut murder. A potential assassin would have to figure that
security will be tight. It would be better to wait a while until Quimper lets
his guard down. Or maybe they just want to keep him, and other writers,
intimidated. Remember how long Salman Rushdie had to lay low. But the threats
you ignore always seem to be the ones that bite you in the ass.”

Their table
was ready. Scarne ordered a bottle of Château Vieux Maillet bordeaux and they
politely listened to the specials before both deciding on Caesar salads to be
followed by
“Chef Greeley’s Signature Mixed Grill of Game (elk,
chocolate-rubbed venison, rabbit sausage, bacon-wrapped wild boar) with
sauerkraut and apple purée.”

“How come
every time we have dinner together,” Sealth said, “we endanger a few species. A
wolverine would love this menu.”

“It’s our
Indian genes. I almost asked for everything raw.”

They spent the
next hour eating and catching up.

“This food is
exceptional,” Sealth said at one point. “I thought the 21 Club was a cliché.”

“A cliché with
a solid kitchen,” Scarne said.

“I’m thinking
about going into your racket.”

“Private
investigation?”

“Yeah. You’ve
made a go of it. How hard can it be?”

Scarne
laughed, thinking about his last two major cases, during which he was almost
consumed by an crocodile and thrown off a skyscraper.

“Got to find
something to do,” Sealth continued. “Carry my weight. The pension won’t cut it.
How long would it take to get licensed?”

“With your
background, a few weeks. You can work out of my office, in the conference room.
The paperwork is a bitch. But Evelyn knows all about the process, the bonding,
the permits. You’ll need references from your old life, and some from people
here, but I can help with that.” Scarne smiled. “I might even give you one
myself.”

“I appreciate
that, Jake.”

“Forget it.
Least I can do for my new partner.”

“Partner?”

“Sure. Do you
think I want some Seattle super sleuth setting up as a rival stealing all my
clients? I have to be able to keep an eye on you.”

“You probably
want to meet your quota for hiring minorities. With me you get African-American
and Native-American.”

“I don’t
suppose you cross-dress or anything?”

“Sorry.”

“Damn. That
would fill three slots. Well, let’s give it time. This is New York, after
all.”