Two Jakes (26 page)

He
heard a man say, “Jesus, they got Flipper. I was right next to it.”

The
dolphin ice sculpture on the buffet table had been decapitated. Some people
were still pulling shards out of their hair. One hysterical woman was screaming
“I don’t match” repeatedly. In her panic she had put on someone else’s bikini
top.

Scarne
heard the first siren. He looked down at the dripping body.

“You
were right, Tony. She throws a helluva party.”

***

“What’s
the use, Jesús? We’ll never catch the fucking thing. It must have 10 miles an
hour on us.”

Not
to mention that the speedboat was already moving away at high clip by the time
he and Garza even climbed aboard their Sealine, Keitel reflected.

“Knots,
Christian,” Garza said. “We’re on the water. The term is knots, which means
nautical miles per hour. He has us by eight knots, maybe.”

“Oh,
for Christ’s sake!”

Keitel
was keenly aware they were on the water as both boats raced up the crowded
river, scattering pleasure craft before them. The only knot was in his stomach
and he felt that familiar twinge in his tailbone. I’d rather be shot, he
thought, than endure another crazy boat ride with Jesús.

“We
might get lucky, if one of the bridges is down,” Garza said, ignoring the horn
blasts and angry shouts of boats they nearly swamped. “Plus he only just
realized we were chasing him amid all these goddamn boats.”

And,
in fact, a highway drawbridge loomed ahead, and it was closing. The speedboat
would have to slow, Keitel realized, and so, thank God, would they. He reached
under a tarp, opened a storage locker and pulled out an M-14 rifle. Bracing
himself as best he could against a railing (well, they do call it a gunwale, he
mused) he tried to get the speedboat in the crosshairs of the 10-power
telescopic sight. But with both boats bouncing and swerving it was virtually
impossible. But when they slowed, he’d have them. He would put 20 rounds into
the speedboat and its occupants in 10 seconds.

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.