Two Jakes (36 page)

CHAPTER
46 – DIRTY BUSINESS

Scarne
was up early the next morning. After a cobweb-clearing swim in the ocean and a
quick room-service breakfast, he opened his “toiletry bag.” The blue/black gun
was in a Houston paddle holster, designed to fit on a hip or in a waistband.
The Bersa slid out easily. He worked the action and ejected the magazine. The
thin man was right. It was a quality piece and amazingly light. He opened the
box of shells and loaded the magazine. He left the chamber empty. The silencer
screwed on easily. He went through the routine three more times with his eyes
closed. Removing the silencer, he put the gun, holster and ammunition in a
small overnight bag, then called the front desk for a cab.

Fifteen
minutes later, after crossing the Rickenbacker Causeway, the cab pulled up in
front of a small, one-story building that was part of the Crandon Park Marina
on Key Biscayne. The building housed a bait shop, small seafood restaurant and
various sightseeing and fishing charter offices. The air smelled of diesel fuel
and French fries. Scarne told the cabbie to wait and went through a door that
said “Yacht Net, Inc. (Boat Ownership That Makes Sense).”

A
weather-beaten woman was sitting behind a counter looking at a computer screen.
A small yellow Post-It note pinned to her blouse said “Marge.” She looked up at
him and smiled. At least Scarne thought she smiled. There were so many creases
in her tanned leathery face he couldn’t be sure. There was a rustling sound
behind Scarne. He turned to see a large, sinewy dog with an absurdly small head
struggle to stand in a plush canine bed. The fragile-looking animal made its
way over to him and sniffed his leg. He reached down and let it smell his hand
before gently petting it.

“Is
this a …”

“Yup,
a greyhound,” the woman said. “Belongs to the owner. Once they’re finished
racing the tracks put them up for adoption. Make wonderful pets. Happy to sit
around all day. Not surprising after running a million miles chasing fake
rabbits they never caught. Course, Lancelot here couldn’t catch an armadillo
now. Eats too much and has arthritis to boot. But he’s a sweetheart and makes
the effort to check out anyone who comes in the door.”

Lancelot
gave Scarne a rheumy but not unfriendly look and then ambled unsteadily back to
his bed, where he lay down in stages.

“Now,
what can I do for you, handsome?”

The
wall behind the woman was almost entirely covered with nautical maps, all
liberally punctured with variously colored pins. Scarne noted the distance
between the marina, which was marked with a large “YOU ARE HERE!” and a red
star, and the section of Miami Beach where Josh Shields died. It would have
been an easy trip.

He
wanted to ask Marge if she was Quint’s mother, but instead said, “If I were to
give you a date within the last year or so, could you tell me who took out one
of your boats on that day?”

“What,
no foreplay? Just wham, bam, thank you m’amm. Hold the KY jelly?” The old woman
cackled and punched Scarne on the arm. “Just funnin’ with you. Now what do you
need?”

Scarne
couldn’t help but laugh.

“Sorry,
my name is Jake Scarne and I’m a private investigator.” He pulled out his
wallet and showed her his license, holding it close for her to see. “I’m trying
to find out if two men involved in a case I’m working used one of your boats on
a particular date.”

“Sonny,
you don’t have to shove that in my face. Old Marge’s eyesight is probably
better than yours. I can still spot a herring slick a mile away. What did these
guys do that a New York private eye needs to know about their sailing habits?
Drugs? Murder? Illegals? Or something really bad, like credit default swaps?”

Scarne
was about to lie when she said, “Don’t matter. It’s privileged information. We
have an exclusive clientele. They pay a lot of money to be able to use one of
our boats whenever they want. It wouldn’t be good for business if we go around
telling tales on them, now would it? And did you know that it’s against the law
in Florida for a boat rental operation or boat club to reveal that kind of
information to a third party without a subpoena? You got one of those?”

“No,
I don’t.”

Scarne
was debating how much cash it would take to get the woman to subvert the
ridiculous law when she cackled.

“Well,
that don’t matter either, cause I made that shit up about the Florida law. I’m
making minimum wage here. You think I give a rat’s ass about boater privilege?
Goddamn government knows when we take a crap. Nothin’s a secret anymore. What’s
their names?”

Scarne
could have kissed her (well, maybe, he thought).

“Jesús
Garza and Christian Keitel.”

“Why
didn’t you say so at the beginning? They’re famous around here. Sank one of our
boats, for Crissakes. Gave us some cock and bull story about losing control.
Way I heard it, they ran full tilt into a bridge. Probably all coked up. Thank
God for the insurance.”

Scarne
recalled Alana telling him that Garza and Keitel had an “accident” chasing the
sniper at the pool.

“They
give me the creeps, those two,” Marge said. “I don’t even want to know why
you’re asking about them. Come across so smooth. But they can’t fool me. Pair
of barracuda. Hold on a sec, honey buns.” Her hands flew across the computer’s
keyboard and she worked the mouse like a teen-ager. “Here it is. Take a
look-see.” She motioned Scarne behind the counter. “See, this is their account.
It shows how many hours they’ve purchased, how many hours they’ve used, how
many are left, blah, blah, blah. I hit this thingamajig and we get to the page
showing past usage. Dates. Type of craft. Hours used on those dates. All sorts
of stuff. What date you interested in?”

Scarne
told her and she scrolled backwards. Garza and Keitel took out boats about
twice a month. He asked about the (WR) notation next to the dates.

“Means
weekend rate. It’s higher than during the week. Your boys only went out on
weekends. Here we are. Hey look at that. I spoke too soon.”

The
date she pointed to with a bony finger did not have a (WR) next to it. Scarne
knew it was a Wednesday. It was the only weekday Garza and Keitel had ever
taken out a boat. Even the time fit – 2 P.M. to 8 P.M.

She
looked up at him and saw the smile.

“Well,
Sherlock, you look like the cat that swallowed a canary. Something tells me you
found a clue. Am I right?”

“It’s
been so long I’m not sure.” But Scarne couldn’t quite keep the excitement out
of his voice.

“This
even tells you what kind of boat they took,” the woman said, getting into the
moment. “See those initials – SL50 and HAT50 – that means…”

“…Sealine
and Hatteras 50-footers.”

“Well,
ain’t you the bright one. Regular
Jeopardy
candidate.”

Garza
and Keitel had discussed those very boats with Scarne at the party when Goetz
was killed. From the list on the computer, it seemed that those were their
craft of choice. So, they’d managed to sink a Sealine. Not easy to do on a calm
inland waterway. But they hadn’t taken such a large boat out on the date Scarne
had given the woman. On that date, they had taken out a DSK24.

The
woman had noticed as well.

“Wonder
why they took a Dusky out that day? Another clue, Shamus?”

It
might not hold up in court, Scarne thought, but on the day Josh Shields died, a
day they never went boating, Garza and Keitel took a Dusky from a marina a
half-hour away from where he was fishing. And where a witness said he noticed a
Dusky or Grady White in the water a few feet away. Scarne couldn’t help
himself. He gave the woman a kiss.

“My,
aren’t we the bold one. Don’t even know my name and you give me a kiss. Now
you’re gonna have to buy old Margie a dinner.” She saw the look on his face and
laughed. “Don’t sweat it sweetie. You don’t have to be there.”

“Thanks,
Marge,” he said, handing her $100.

“Come
back anytime, big spender,” she said.

Lancelot
didn’t bother looking up as he left.

***

Scarne
had the cab drop him off at a small public park adjacent to a fire station on
Collins Avenue a few blocks short of La Gorce. He walked through the park to
the beach and headed north to the apartment building on sand hard-packed by
joggers. When he got to the back entrance at La Gorce, he waved his electronic
“key” at the pad on the outside fence, and was rewarded with the familiar buzz.
The same held true for the metal door that led into the garage. He didn’t want
to chance the lobby elevators and a run-in with Mario. So he took the
“recreation deck” elevator to the seventh floor and exited by the pool. An
employee was skimming the pool. The man waved to Scarne indifferently. He
entered the building proper and took an elevator to Josh’s floor. He walked to
the apartment and tried the key. The lock hadn’t been changed!

Scarne
despised this kind of work, but he was good at it. The bathrooms would be the
easiest place to start. They were mostly tile and there were few spots to hide
anything. Scarne took off his blue sports jacket, khaki trousers, shoes and
socks. This would be dirty business. He reached in his overnight bag and pulled
on a pair of thin latex gloves and the tool kit, then headed to the small
bathroom off the guest room. It contained a shower stall, toilet and cabinets
above and below the sink.

He
turned on the overhead light and then unscrewed the cover before the bulb
became too hot. Nothing there. He put the light fixture back together and
walked into the shower stall and unscrewed the shower head and tried to pry out
the floor drain. It didn’t budge, and looked like it never had. The soap dish
was empty, and solidly entrenched. He then checked in and around the toilet
bowl. He lifted the cover from the reservoir and dismantled most of the inner
workings, paying particular attention to the ball cock. Nothing. He tried to
lift the toilet. It didn’t budge. He checked in, around and under the sink and
cabinet. The drawers below the sink contained towels. He checked every one, and
then took the drawers out. He looked behind and under them. The open space
below the sink contained the usual things such places contained, including
bottles of shampoos and liquid drain cleaner. The shampoos were see-through, so
he let them be. But he carefully began pouring the drain cleaner into the sink.
It was drain cleaner.

When
he was finished, the drain was probably working better than it had in years. He
moved on to the medicine cabinet, where, luckily, there were only a few bottles
of pills and powders. He emptied every one. He squeezed the toothpaste. He
didn’t know what he was looking for but felt certain that he would recognize
anything out of place. The mirror looked, well, like a mirror and didn’t appear
to have been tampered with. He checked the towel racks. They also looked
undisturbed and firmly planted. He checked his watch. This one little bathroom
had taken him almost 45 minutes! He shrugged.

Just
outside the bathroom was a utility closet, with an over and under washer/dryer
combination. That would be a bitch to search. He’d come back to that. He headed
to the master bathroom on the other side of the apartment. Following the same
routine, he cleared it in just under an hour, even though it was three times
the size of the first one. A lot of wasted space, he thought. Had both
bathrooms been about the same sizes, the designer could have fit another small
bedroom or den in the apartment. He was certain he missed nothing, even unscrewing
the water jets in the Jacuzzi tub. Another waste, he thought. The huge tub was
impractical, considering that the room’s walk-in shower could fit three people,
and the building had a heated spa by the main pool.

He
walked back to the guest bedroom. Josh Shields had only the best equipment,
including Shimano reels and Loomis rods. Everything was meticulously
maintained. There was no rust on any metal surfaces, including lures and hooks.
Even a battered and ancient “Old Pal Pail” minnow bucket resting on a shelf was
spotless. It now held only a variety of lead sinkers and cork bobbers. He
guessed that the bucket was a cherished relic from childhood (Scarne had kept
his own until it rusted through in college, where it had done yoeman’s service
as a beer bucket). He wondered if Sheldon had given it to his son, and probably
couldn’t bear to take it home. He checked the bucket, and every tackle box,
rod, reel, lure and fishing vest.

He
tore apart the bed and looked under the rug, in the drapes, rods and blinds. He
looked behind pictures on the wall, in lamps and the smoke alarm. He unscrewed
everything that could be unscrewed. Standing on a chair, he checked the ceiling
fan. He would never trust a ceiling fan again, he thought bitterly. He opened
all the air vents. On the way out, he checked the utility closet, pulling out
the washer/dryer. He made a lot of noise, but it couldn’t be helped. By the
time Scarne headed back to the master bedroom another two hours had passed and
he was sweating and filthy. His fingers ached and he had skinned his knuckles
painfully despite the gloves.

Scarne
was hungry. He stripped off his gloves and went to the kitchen and found some
Genoa salami, provolone cheese and olives in the refrigerator. As he cut into
the salami he half hoped a computer disk might fall out. It didn’t. He wasn’t
looking forward to going through the cabinets and all the food and appliances
in the kitchen but there was nothing for it. He put on a pot of coffee. He
swirled a knife through the coffee can. Nothing. Fortified by his snack and two
cups of black coffee he put the gloves back on and headed to the back bedroom
and its large walk-in closet. When he emerged he was confident that he hadn’t
missed anything. The only thing of value, to him anyway, was an unopened pack
of cigarettes, buried deep in a drawer. He found some matches in the kitchen
and had a smoke with another cup of coffee.