Two Jakes (31 page)

CHAPTER
37 – RUSH HOUR

The
mood of the rush hour crowd pouring down the stairs at the 34
^th
Street station could best be described as sullen. It was an abominable Spring,
with only brief flashes of warmth to break up days of cold drizzle. The jet
stream, which had dipped farther south than normal in the winter, bringing
absurdly frigid temperatures to the Northeast, was apparently still on
vacation.

The
elderly man was jostled on his way down the stairs. The steps were slick with
muddy rain and he held the railing. There were no apologies as sodden people
brushed past him. Manhattan subway riders, not the most civil of urban animals
anyway, were being sorely tested, and not only by nature. A recent fire at a
crucial Midtown switching complex had severely curtailed service at two major
lines that served a million people. One out of every five trains were
dispatched and routed manually. In effect, much of the system was being run the
way it had been in the 1920’s. In some locations, conductors could not leave
one station until a dispatcher at the next called and said the line was clear.
Needless to say, savvy straphangers avoided the first and last cars.

The
fire was caused by a homeless man using newspapers to heat a can of soup right
under the antiquated switching box. Even had he cared, the vagrant would
probably have assumed the rusted mass of metal and wires above his fire was an
abandoned relic from another era. He barely survived the explosion and
subsequent meltdown. When the head of the Transit Authority predicted it would
take five years to fix the prehistoric wiring in the damaged switching station
(which now resembled molasses) the tabloids went berserk. The Mayor’s security detail
wouldn’t let him take the subway to work anymore.

With
service so unreliable, many platforms were crowded. The old man, who in normal
times would have made his way to the front of the platform so he could exit
nearest the stairs most convenient to his destination, was now content to stand
near the stairs he had just descended. A young girl with a backpack shouldered
past him. She was a cute thing, he noted, who would be even cuter if she ever
learned some manners. He almost said something but then caught himself. Kids,
he thought. I shouldn’t be too judgmental. She’s in her own little world. He
moved just far away from the stairs to avoid the flow of people, edging closer
to the yellow line behind which passengers were supposed to stand for safety.

Many
people ignored the line as they craned their necks to look down the tunnel for
an approaching train. One of them was the young girl who had bumped him. She
kept looking into the void and then down at her wristwatch, a look of annoyance
on her face. She was late for something. School? Work? A young man? The elderly
man hoped it was the latter. What the girl lacked in comportment she more than
made up for in looks. Not for the first time he felt that pang of envy that
youth invariably stirs in the mind, and loins, of the old. Oh well, I had my
innings. Some young fellow is probably stepping up to the plate with this gal.
Lucky bastard. His thoughts were interrupted by a comforting rumbling. A train
was heading toward the station. He leaned forward and peeked down the tunnel
but couldn’t see any headlights. As he straightened up he felt someone brush up
against his back.

“Sorry,”
a man said.

Well,
at least someone had manners. He caught a whiff of expensive cologne, which
stood out amid the general mustiness. Now he could see as well as hear the
train. Its lights shimmered and wobbled in the tunnel as it approached the
station.

“It’s
about fucking time,” the young girl just down the platform said.

The
old man gave her a disapproving look and smiled sadly. The girl saw the look.
The old fart didn’t like my language? Who was he to judge? She thought about
flipping him a surreptitious bird but then caught herself. He looked a little
like her gramps. No harm, no foul, she thought. As the train roared into the
station, the man instinctively stepped back a bit, and bumped into the fellow
behind him. It was now his turn to apologize.

“Excuse
me.”

He
turned to the right and looked back over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of a
wintry smile and a red ski cap. The man leaned past as if looking down the
tunnel.

“You’re
excused,” he whispered, and shoved his victim off the platform.

It
all happened too quickly for distinct impressions to register with witnesses,
which worked in the killer’s favor, as he knew it would. The old man tumbled to
the tracks silently, too stunned to cry out. He landed on his feet but almost
immediately his knees buckled and he pitched forward, arms outstretched to
break his fall. He was splayed across both rails. He might have cried out when
his face hit the ground, but in any event it would have been drowned out by
screams from others on the platform and the screeching from the train’s brakes
as the motorman made a valiant, if futile, effort to stop the hurtling metal
monster. The train finally stopped three quarters of the way down the platform.
By then, it didn’t matter to the man on the tracks. The motorman leaned out of
his cab and vomited, splattering boots and trousers.

After
the train came to a halt, Christian Keitel casually dropped a manila envelope
between the train and the platform. In the ensuing pandemonium no one noticed.
He had considered planting it in the man’s pocket before pushing him but didn’t
want to chance the enclosed disk being crushed by the subway car’s wheels. The
police would move the train to recover the body and would undoubtedly collect
everything from the track area. Since the envelope had the man’s name on it, it
would be added to his effects.

Keitel
pulled off his red cap, pirouetted and started up the stairs, yelling, “Oh my
God, a man jumped! Call 911!” When he got to the top, he removed his ski cap
and pulled another one out of his pocket – this time it was blue. As he put it
on, two cops rushed by him, heading down to the platform. He doubted anyone
would chase him, and if they did, they would be looking for a red ski cap. He
debated reversing his dual-zippered jacket but decided against it. Somebody
might notice him doing that. On the street he hailed a cab. There was plenty of
time for a swim in the hotel’s indoor heated pool and perhaps a massage. Then a
leisurely dinner at his favorite French bistro on 61
^st
Street.

***

On a
subway platform crowded with hundreds of distracted, miserable people, there
was only one real eyewitness to the murder. The girl whose curse had earned her
the old man’s rueful smile had glanced back to see if the old gent was still
looking at her. His head was turned in her direction. He was apparently saying
something to the man behind him. She saw him pitch forward with a startled look
on his face, right into the path of the oncoming train. Later, she would
remember certain things. How the old man’s arms shot out to brace himself. How
he landed awkwardly, almost on his knees and then pitched full forward on his
face, an umbrella flung to the side. Then, it was all a jumble of screams,
screeching metal, a horrified look on the motorman’s face – eyes wide open,
mouth making a perfect O! – as the train roared past her.

But
she was sure she saw a hand on the back of the old guy, pushing. The man the
old guy was talking to. The left arm of the stranger straightening against the
old man’s back. The black glove. She even started to call for someone to grab
the man with the red ski hat, but was drowned out by more screams. And the man
lingered. He looked like he was peering down along the side of the car in front
of him, not even interested in the man he had pushed to the tracks. But when he
started shouting and running away, she excitedly began telling people what she
saw. Two young black kids actually believed her and ran up the stairs looking
for a red ski cap. But they came back empty handed. They went to get a Transit
cop for her. Finding one was no problem. The platform was now swarming with
them, in an out of uniform. A couple looked like panhandlers, real skells, but,
of course, that was the idea. Two uniforms jumped down to the tracks between
one of the cars, and came back looking ill. She thought she heard one of them
say, “Just a leg.”

Another
cop walked up.

“Did
anyone see what happened?”

Someone
said, “I think he jumped.” Others chimed in, turning what they heard second and
third hand into gospel.

The
girl was beginning to doubt what she saw, but after things settled down she
approached a young cop (he was very cute).

“Are
you sure, Miss?” he asked politely. (She was cute herself.) When she said she
was “pretty sure” he told her to wait around until a detective could take her
statement. “Meanwhile, could you describe the man?”

She
did, and the young cop spoke into his radio. Cops topside found only one white
male wearing a red ski hat, and he was pushing a stroller with a squalling
infant whose face matched the cap. A very fat woman, apparently his wife, was
berating him. Something about his mother. He didn’t appear to be making a
getaway, although they wouldn’t have blamed him.

When
the detectives arrived on the platform, the young cop pointed the girl out.
They introduced themselves, and the younger of the two, a tough-looking
Hispanic, pulled out a notepad.

“What’s
your name, miss?”

His voice
was mellifluous, not at all in keeping with his appearance.

“Nancy
Lopez, like the golfer. I don’t golf, though. I mean, I took lessons at Dyker
Park with my boyfriend. I just can’t seem to find the fucking time. Sorry. He’s
not my boyfriend anymore.”

The
cop smiled. The kid was nervous. Better get her back on track before she
forgot.

“That’s
fine. Just tell me what you saw.”

She
did. It started to come out in a rush, but the detective soothed her to a
manageable rate. It was embarrassing to tell them why she was looking directly
at the old man, but it needed to be said, especially when one of the detectives
pointed out that everybody else was saying the man jumped. Actually, she
started feeling pretty good about herself. She was going to miss her first
class at Pace, at least, but she was doing her civic duty. She hoped the cute
young patrolman noticed. He was still hanging around, a good sign. Then she
felt bad. She hadn’t even been thinking about the poor old guy who was killed.
I wonder what his name was. He looked like my gramps. And how horrible was the
death! I bet they won’t be able to identify him. That’s silly, he was well
dressed. He must have had a wallet. I’m glad I didn’t say or do anything to
him. What a shit I can be! She thought she might start blubbering, but didn’t.

The
detectives noted the glistening eyes, but were firm with the girl, trying to
make sure she wasn’t just looking for attention. Her description of the
“assailant” was pretty good, considering. White, not as tall as the old man but
not short. Blonde hair sticking out under the red cap. High cheekbones. Thin
mouth. Blue, mean, eyes. (The detective noted the color and discounted the
characterization; you push somebody in front of a train, you are, per se, a
mean S.O.B.). Dark blue jacket, pretty nice, but nothing special, dark sweat
pants, couldn’t see his shoes. She could only guess at his build, what with the
jacket and all. But he didn’t look particularly heavy. Oh yes, black gloves.

“Definitely
not a homeless guy, but no Beau Brummel, either,” she said.

The
cops looked at each other and smiled. This girl was a bit rough around the
edges, but sharp as a tack. They eased up just before she was going to tell
them to go fuck themselves if they didn’t believe her. They liked her. When
they asked her to go down to the precinct and make a more formal statement “and
maybe look at some pictures” she took a deep breath and frowned.

“I’m
going to miss all my classes,” she said, although she had just made up her mind
to go home. She felt ill. The shock of what she had seen was finally seeping
past the adrenaline. She took a deep breath.

“Listen,
honey, you don’t look too chipper,” the older of the two detective said gently.
He reminded the girl of Lenny Briscoe. The show wasn’t the same without Jerry
Orbach. “Officer Long can give you a ride to the precinct, and then maybe drop
you off at home. He’ll even give you a note for school.”

He
hooked his thumb at the cute patrolman, who seemed eager to help.

“No
problem,” the girl said.

CHAPTER
38 – BODY COUNT

A
preoccupied Alana Loeb spent much of the flight on the phone in the front cabin
arguing with someone. Scarne occasionally caught her looking over at him. He
had a couple of stiff bourbons with Merryman, who began to relax the further they
got from Antigua. Both men thought the Dolphins needed a new quarterback. After
a while they nodded off and slept most of the way to the States. Scarne was
awakened by the slight bump of their touchdown at Miami International. The
small jet taxied to the General Aviation area and pulled into the Ballantrae
hangar. Merryman asked him if he wanted to go to a hospital. Though he felt
like he had gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson in his prime, Scarne declined.

“Are
you sure? You look like a pile of shit.”

“Thanks.
Just get me a ride to my car, will you?”

Alana
came over.

“Jake,
I have to go to the office. There is a lot to straighten out.”

I’ll
bet, Scarne thought, with two dead men in three days. He looked pointedly at
Merryman, who took the cue and left the plane.

“Alana,
we have to talk. When can I see you?”

“Go
back to your apartment and rest up. I’ll come to you tomorrow.”

She
kissed him. He started to protest. She put a finger to his lips.

“I
can’t talk here. Just wait, please. I need you. But I have to go.”

When
Scarne deplaned, Merryman was standing by a limo where a driver was holding a
door open. Scarne told the driver to take him to the parking garage at the main
terminal. He retrieved his car and was at Josh’s apartment 20 minutes later,
and fast asleep five minutes after that.

He
dreamt he was in a large room, a boardroom of some sort, with plush carpeting
and period furniture. It was dark. He walked toward the end of the room, where
there was a light. As he got closer, he saw the bed, with a woman on it. She
was clothed, though her feet were bare. At first he thought it was Alana, but
the hair was darker. It took him forever to reach the bed. Emma Shields looked
up at him, smiling. There were red striations on her neck. Had he done that? He
started to say something, but was interrupted by someone pounding at a large
red door behind the bed. He hadn’t noticed the door before. He woke. The dream
receded but the pounding continued.

“Mr.
Scarne! Mr. Scarne!”

He
threw on his crumpled pants. He was almost at the front door of the apartment
when he heard a key in the latch. He looked out the peephole and saw Mario, the
concierge. Scarne opened the door.

“Mr.
Scarne, I am so sorry. I thought there might be something wrong. The night man
said you came in and looked, well, injured. No one saw you come down this
morning. And your secretary just called. Said it was urgent. She said you were
not answering your cell phone. When you didn’t answer the door right away, I
grew concerned. I have a pass key. Please forgive the intrusion.”

He
looked Scarne up and down and his eyes widened. Scarne was bare-chested, and
his bandages were prominent. His hands and face were bruised.

“Madre
Dios! What happened to you?”

“I
took a full swing at a golf ball in a tile bathroom.”

Mario
looked confused.

“Never
mind. Let me grab a shirt. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

When
he came back, he said, “Is there a phone I could use? My cell phone is
smashed.”

“Please
use mine.” The concierge reached into his pocket and produced a cell phone.
“Just drop it off in the lobby whenever you can.” He turned to leave, then
slapped his hand against his forehead. “Idiota! I almost forgot. There were two
police detectives here looking for you. Said they had tried your mobile phone
and your office. Said you gave this address to them. I’m to call if you
returned. I have the number downstairs. What do you want me to do?”

For
a moment Scarne drew a blank. Then he remembered the homicide cops at Alana’s
house. They must think he was on the lam. He rubbed his eyes. Still half
asleep, he was having trouble focusing.

“You
should sit down, Mr. Scarne. Have you eaten? Can I get you something from
across the street? That little hotel has a wonderful café. Good Cuban coffee. I
don’t think you feel much like cooking, no?”

Scarne
was famished. He instinctively reached in his pocket and brought out a wad of
cash. He pressed it into Mario’s protesting hands.

“Coffee,
egg sandwich. Make it two, any kind of meat. Keep the change. Don’t argue.
You’ve been very kind. Use your key. I’m going to jump in the shower. Call the
detectives and tell them you saw me. Do it right away. That way you are
covered. I have their cards. I’ll call myself in a few minutes.”

After
a painful shower, Scarne dressed gingerly. His stitches seemed to be holding.
He went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of orange juice. He was
refilling the glass when Mario came back. The smell of the food made Scarne
dizzy. The concierge began opening the bag and Scarne took it from him.

“Mario,
you’re a lifesaver. I’m fine. You’ve been away from the front desk too long.
I’ll take it from here. I’ll get the phone back to you soon as I can.”

He
ushered the still-commiserating man out the door and ate the sandwiches
standing at the kitchen counter. The Cuban coffee came in a container but was
accompanied by the thimble cups from which it was traditionally savored. Scarne
ditched the cups and drank half the potent brew. It was incredibly sweet. He
immediately began to feel much better. He picked up Mario’s cell phone and
dialed his office. Evelyn answered immediately.

“Jake,
where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for two days. I was about to
call Dudley.”

Evelyn
was never flustered, but he could sense the tension in her voice.

“My
cell phone is broken. What’s the problem?”

“Well,
you didn’t call me about the funeral, so I took it upon myself to send flowers.
I thought you’d probably come up for it, but when I didn’t hear from you, I
became worried. Especially after a Miami Beach detective named Paulo called
looking for you.”

“Funeral?
What funeral? Who died?”

He
hoped it wasn’t a friend.

“Jake,
it was in the papers and all over the telly. Didn’t you see it?”

“For
God sakes, Evelyn!”

“Sheldon
Shields fell under a subway train yesterday. The service is tomorrow. Jake, are
you there?”

“Fell
under a train?”

He
knew he sounded ridiculous. He gulped the rest of the coffee. He could feel his
heart racing. It might have been the coffee.

“They’re
saying it was a possible suicide. I feel terrible. I really liked him. Such a
gentleman. Can you make the service?”

She
gave him the details and he told her to make travel arrangements. Then he
dictated an expurgated version of the events in Antigua. When he was finished,
he was greeted with silence. That was unlike Evelyn, who, during his occasional
catastrophes, could usually be counted on for at least some droll English
sarcasm.

“Evelyn?”

“I’m
beyond speechless, Jake. Would you like me to list the bodies in alphabetical
or chronological order?”

That
was more like it.

“Just
get me on a plane this afternoon.”

“Shouldn’t
you see a physician?”

“I’m
all right. This coffee will probably kill me before anything else.”

“And
what about the detective?”

“I’ll
take care of it. I know who it is. I think it’s related to the shooting at the
pool. The local cops are probably wondering what I’m doing.”

“They
are not the only ones.”

“I’ll
need a new cell phone. Mine is toast. I’m using a friend’s.”

“Just
remember to bring your old phone with you when you come to the office. I’ll run
it down to the dealer and have him switch out the SIM card so you’ll have all
your contacts. And, Jake…”

“Yes?”

“I’d
be careful of my friends.”

***

Scarne
wished he had thought to ask Mario to get cigarettes. Sheldon Shields! That
made four deaths, all somehow involving Ballantrae. But two of the deaths,
while obviously connected, seemed unrelated to those of Josh and Sheldon
Shields. Scarne no longer had a client, but he knew he was in the case, or
whatever it was, until the end. After all, he himself added to the body count
and would possibly have to answer for it some day. Moreover, he had to find out
if he’d done anything that precipitated Sheldon’s murder. For he was certain it
was murder, no matter what the media said.

And
he was also certain that Victor Ballantrae was capable of murder. What he was
lacking was any sort of proof. He could hardly tell the police that he was
suspicious because Victor Ballantrae cheated at golf. But he certainly could
report to Randolph and Emma Shields. He owed it to Sheldon to warn them about
the kind of person they were dealing with. Randolph would now surely unleash
his investigative cannons.

But
where did Alana fit in to all of this? He called her office.

“I’m
sorry, but Ms. Loeb is unavailable.”

“Please
find her. Tell her it’s Jake Scarne. I think she’ll take the call.”

“I’m
sorry, Mr. Scarne, but Ms. Loeb is traveling. She and Mr. Ballantrae flew out
this morning. I’m not sure when they will be back.”

Scarne
had a sinking feeling.

“Do
you know where they went?”

“I’m
sorry. I can’t divulge that information. I can try to reach her and let her
know you called.”

He
had a thought.

“Can
you connect me to Jesús Garza or Christian Keitel?”

“Certainly,
but I think they are out of town, too.”

“That’s
fine. I need to speak to their assistant. They gave me an investment idea and
I’d like to see if they sent out some follow-up material.”

“Of
course, please hold.”

Even
before she came back on, Scarne knew what she would say. And he knew the timing
was right.

“Mr.
Garza and Mr. Keitel’s office. How may I help you?”

“Hello.
This is Jake Scarne. I know that Jesús and Christian are in New York, but they
asked me to call if I had a question about a trust agreement they are
preparing, and I do. How can I contact them?”

“Actually,
only Mr. Keitel was in New York, but he already left. Not that he’s here now. I
believe he is flying to meet Mr. Garza somewhere. Do you want me to try and
reach them?”

“No,
that OK. It isn’t that crucial. I presume they are with Mr. Ballantrae on his
trip. They mentioned something about it.”

“They
did? I don’t think they knew they were going. It was quite sudden.”

“I
bet that happens a lot. Victor sure does get around, doesn’t he? So, Christian
had to cut short his Manhattan trip. What a pity. How long was he there?” He
hoped he wasn’t laying it on too thickly.

“Oh,
he was coming back anyway. He was only scheduled to be there Monday and
Tuesday.”

Plenty
of time to push a helpless old man in front of a subway train.

“Well,
thanks for your help. Tell Chris and Jesús I said howdy. By the way, did they
leave word when they’ll be back in town?”

“No,
I’m afraid not. Next thing on their schedule in Miami is the annual client
party next Sunday.”

”Oh,
yes. They told me I should stop by. I doubt if I can make it, but just in case,
where is it again?”

“The
Forge in Miami Beach. Starts at 8 P.M. Have you been to the Forge? It’s
wonderful and Mr. Ballantrae pulls out all the stops.”

“Oh,
Victor will be there?”

“He
never misses it. People come from all over. You should try and go.”

“Well,
you never know. I just might.”

Scarne
wasn’t looking forward to his next call, but knew it was unavoidable. Detective
Frank Paulo got right to the point.

“Where
the hell you been, Scarne?”

“I
went to the islands for a couple of days. My cell was on the fritz. I just got
your message. What’s up? You didn’t tell me not to leave town.”

“This
isn’t a movie. We don’t say things like that anymore. But everybody kind of
disappeared all at once, and after a homicide we don’t like that.”

“Who
else?”

“Well,
the mistress of the house for one. And the two heroes on the boat, for two and
three. You made four. Care to explain?”

Scarne
saw no harm in answering honestly. Somewhat.

“I
went to Antigua with Ms. Loeb.”

“Business
trip?”

“Not
entirely. But what you should know is that someone tried to kill her down
there.” He gave Paulo a brief rundown. “Before you ask, yes, I think it’s tied
to Goetz. But I don’t know how. Garza and Keitel weren’t with us. Keitel may
have been in New York.” No harm in having Paulo check that out. That’s all I
know.” Not true, but enough for the cop to digest.