Two Jakes (48 page)

“Three
times, I believe.”

“Who’s
counting,” she said. “Anyway, he’s a regular on the yacht. He advertises with us
and we carry his celebrity reality show on some of our networks.”

“The
one where they eat cockroaches from his hotel rooms?”

“No,
you ass. The one where he hires…oh, why do I bother with you! Stop laughing!
Ari might be able to help you with the NASCAR people. He likes to race Formula
1, like Paul Newman did, and has contacts in NASCAR. Remember when all the big
drivers brought their cars to Times Square for that photo shoot when the Staten
Island project was announced. I think they stayed at one of his hotels. He’s
hosting a charity thing at the Met Saturday night. Shields took a table. You
can be my date. We’ll probably all go back to Ari’s place afterwards and you
can get to know him.” She paused. “He’s a fascinating man. You’ll like him.”

Emerald
Shields didn’t mention that Aristotle Arachne had made it very clear that he
found her just as fascinating. And had confided that his marriage was on the
rocks.

CHAPTER
9 – NEW TRICKS

They
were on the sidewalk outside the Gotham. A group of chattering students hurried
past them and entered a small Indian restaurant a few doors down. Despite being
full, Scarne savored the smells emanating from the place. That was one of the
things he liked about the East Village. With NYU, Cardozo, the Fashion Industry
of Technology and other schools nearby, restaurants and businesses catering to
student wallets were plentiful. Some of the best food in Manhattan – Indian,
Italian, Japanese, Greek, and even French – was readily available for a
relative pittance. And the college-age kids lent a happy urgency to street
life.

“Would
you like to come back to my place?”

Scarne
was surprised. Not by the offer, but by the location. Both their apartments
were nearby, but they always went to his. Then he remembered the sleepover.

“What
if Becky has a tummy ache and wants to come home?”

“I
told Fanny to call me if that happened.” She smiled wickedly. “My girlfriends
like their little conspiracies. They’re always trying to fix me up. This might
keep them off my back.” She laughed. “That’s funny, on my back to get them off
my back.”

“Are
you drunk, Emma?”

“A
little. Come on. Let’s go to my place. Afterwards, I can lounge and eat bonbons
and watch crappy TV shows like a normal woman for a change.”

Emma
lived in a brownstone on 10
^th
Street. Most of the rest of the family
lived in Connecticut, but with her increasing responsibilities in the company,
she found that a Manhattan address gave her more time with her daughter.
Between business and her duties as a mother – and she was a devoted mother – Emma
had little time for a regular sex life. She told Scarne that she had been
celibate during the final year of her husband’s illness and her one or two
forays after his death had been furtive and unsatisfying. Then Scarne came
along. They had been friends and occasional lovers for about six months, but
Scarne had been clear that he wasn’t ready to risk his heart again, just yet.

“I
know you think I got you on the rebound,” Emma told Scarne one night after he
apologized for his reticence, “and that I helped get your head straight after
what happened, but I had selfish motives, as well. You’ve helped me as much as
I may have helped you. You’re the only sex I can fit into my busy schedule.”

She
had said the line flippantly, and he laughed, but he knew it to be at least
partially true. He admired her for her candor and practicality. Their roughly
twice-a-month trysts, while always satisfying and occasionally spectacular,
were enough for her and left him free of encumbrance. Neither knew where their
arrangement would eventually go, and that made their lives more interesting in
the interim.

Emma’s
house was three blocks away, and they walked casually, until she said, “Why are
we walking so slowly?”

“I
don’t know. I guess I don’t want to seem too anxious. What about you?”

“The
same. Should we break into a trot, or maybe a gallop?”

“There’s
a difference between trying not to look anxious and being ridiculous. Besides,
we might get hit by a bus.”

“Well,
we’d really be fucked then, wouldn’t we!”

“You
are tipsy.”

Laughing,
they finally reached her building, a three-story brownstone. After closing the
gleaming mahogany front doors behind them, Scarne remarked on the “new home”
smell.

“We
just completed a custom renovation. Cost a bloody fortune. My brothers started
it, and, well, I had to finish, didn’t I? Next step is redecoration. Place is a
bit masculine, don’t you think. Becky’s room is the only one with any color.
Couldn’t wait on that. Want a quick tour?”

“Very
quick.”

She
laughed and led him through the downstairs.

“We
kept four
original marble mantelpieces, but just
about everything else is redone.” Passing a den on their left and a staircase
to the upper floors, they went through a parlor with white oak flooring into a
large maple kitchen with a center island surrounded by the most modern
appliances including a ConServ “Eco-Fridge” refrigerator, a Fisher-Paykel
“double-dish drawer” dishwasher and a dual-level Imperial gas range and oven.

Scarne pushed a few buttons on the latter.

“Nice,” he said. “What time is lift-off?” He smiled. “I’m a
Whirlpool kind of guy myself.”

“My brothers aren’t,” Emma said. “Toys for boys.”

A door at the rear of the kitchen opened out to a deck and small
garden. A spiral staircase twirled up to the roof.

“Where’s
the maid?’

“I
gave her the day off.”

Walking
back to the foyer, he asked, “Have I been set up? Sounds like you planned our
afternoon like D-Day.”

Emma
laughed, and, startlingly for her, ran her hand down the front of Scarne’s
trousers.

“You
can always go back to your ship, sailor.”

He
made a grab for her and she twirled away, laughing.

“I
want to take a quick shower,” she said as she headed up the stairs. “My bedroom
is on the second floor. Just follow the running water. There’s a nice bottle of
Veuve Clicquot in the fridge and an ice bucket on the counter with flutes. Why
don’t you bring it up with you?”

“I
take it back, Emma, Eisenhower and Monty had nothing on you.”

She
was still in the shower when Scarne left the champagne by the side of the bed
and shucked off his clothes. Her back was facing him when he entered the steamy
room but she turned at the blast of cooler air. He stepped into the stall and
took the soap from her hands and started washing her back as she leaned into
him.

“Ouch,”
she said, reaching down. “That doesn’t go there.” They both laughed. She sat
down on a bather’s ledge in the corner and alternately raised her legs and
braced them against his upper thigh so that he could do a better job. Then she
stood and took the soap began lathering him. They let the water run a few
minutes to get the soap off and then she said, “I can’t wait” and pulled
Scarne’s right hand between her legs. He began stroking and she tightened her
arms around his neck. Her breath came in short bursts and then her body tensed.
She whispered urgently, “I’m coming, Jake, hold me.”

Scarne
used his left hand to lift her gently by her buttocks as she climaxed. He could
feel her toes clenching the top of his feet. After a few minutes her paroxysm
and cries subsided and she sat back down. Her head was at his groin level. She
was still breathing heavily.

“Now,
it’s your turn.”

She
put her hands on his hips and pulled him towards her and enveloped him with her
mouth, tentatively at first, and then with an enthusiasm that he both
appreciated and found surprising. It was something she had never done with him
before. It wasn’t long before he had to grip her shoulders for support.

***

Later,
snuggling in bed, Scarne said, “This room isn’t what I would have expected. Who
furnished it, Abigail Adams? Is that a Chippendale dresser?”

Emma
laughed. “Actually, it’s a Hepplewhite. This house was basically a bachelor
pad. My brothers are quite the little Colonials. I think they made girls walk
the plank if they didn’t come across. They moved to Connecticut when they got
married. Thank God one of them took the Maine Sea Captain Bed, circa 1801, that
used to be in this room. It was huge. I felt as if I should harpoon something
before going to sleep. This bed used to be in the guest room. It’s called a
“Ball & Ring Bed” and dates from the revolution.”

“Well,
I get the ‘ball’ part,” Scarne said, leaning over and kissing a nipple, which
almost immediately began to harden. “But I’m not sure I want to know about the
‘ring’ thing.” He began working on the other nipple as his hand slipped between
her legs.

“Mmm.
That’s nice. But the ball and ring refer to the bedposts, topped by small
wooden cannonballs. “And the rings, oh, the hell with it. Don’t stop. You can
bite harder. I’ll finish the history lesson later.”

***

Much
later, after another bout of lovemaking in which Emma had displayed even more
ingenuity, Scarne reflected on the experience while she napped. Woman never
failed to surprise him, he admitted, but a few of the things she had done
reminded him of someone else. He had believed that experience to be unique.
What the hell, it was probably all available in
Cosmopolitan
or one of
the other women’s magazines that alternated “summer dining recipes” with
graphic primers on oral and every other kind sex.

***

They
were in the kitchen sharing a pot of coffee and some decadent day-old Italian
pastries. The ice bucket and its empty bottle stood on the counter. Emma was
dressed in a robe and wearing fluffy rabbit-head slippers. Her hair was
disheveled and there were small red blotches on her upper chest where the robe
draped open. Her face was relaxed, almost somnolent. Scarne was wearing all his
clothes but his sport jacket, which was draped on a stool.

She
poured him another cup of coffee and said, “It’s black tie, of course. Can you
pick me up at 6:30? I want to make part of the cocktail hour at least. And that
will give us some time to talk to Ari. He’ll be pretty busy during the function
itself.”

“Sure,
but I want your assurance that both your daughter and the maid will be here.
And the First Marine Division, if you can arrange it. I’m not sure I can
survive another bout with you alone.”

Emerald
Shields blushed to her hairline and threw a mini sfogatelle at him, which he
caught, laughing. He put the crunchy sea shell shaped pastry in his mouth and
took a sip of his coffee. “My favorite,” he said, and came around the counter
and kissed her. “See you Saturday.”

After
cleaning up the kitchen, Emma went back to her bedroom, smiling at the disaster
her bed was. Jesus, what an afternoon. I acted like a slut, but I don’t feel
slutty. She straightened out the sheets but decided not to make it. She fully
planned to spend the rest of the day (God, it was almost time for the news!)
relaxing under the covers. But first she went to the bookshelf recessed above
the bed’s headboard. She had almost died when she spotted the DVD sitting atop
one of the books. She turned crimson again thinking how she saw it. Thank God
for the “woman above” position. And thank God Jake was oblivious when their
positions were reversed.

Emma
wondered if he suspected anything. He looked surprised a couple of times. Then
she decided that she didn’t care. Let him wonder. What was the downside? This
kind of sexual expertise will come in handy no matter where our relationship,
or my life, leads me. Suddenly she realized that, perversely, she was looking
forward to having Scarne and Aristotle Arachne both vying for her attention at
the upcoming dinner. The thought excited her, even after all her recent
exertions. It was apparently true; she was in her sexual prime. She certainly
didn’t need sex to get ahead, or as a weapon. She just liked it. It was
thrilling to see a powerful man lose control. She had heard some incredible
things about Arachne from her girlfriends.

Emerald
Shields picked up the infamous DVD. Taken surreptitiously in the Antigua villa
Scarne had shared with Alana Loeb, it was meant to discredit both of them. Emma
walked over to her desk and put it in a drawer under a pile of stationery. Jake
had never asked about the sex video after the dramatic and humiliating
confrontation in her father’s library following her uncle’s murder.
Ballantrae’s plan had backfired, setting Scarne on the road for revenge – and
the ultimate tragedy of Alana Loeb’s death. I will destroy this video soon,
Emma resolved. Just as soon as I learn everything Alana Loeb has to teach me.
For all her evil, she was quite a woman, Emma thought with a touch of envy.

CHAPTER
10 – IN THE HUNT

Scarne
had set his alarm for 6 A.M. After putting on a pot of coffee, he spent 30
minutes doing nonstop push ups, knee bends and sit ups. As if I didn’t get
enough exercise yesterday, he thought, smiling at the memory. But it felt good
to be back to the regimen that had been his norm prior to his recent lassitude.
After two cups of black coffee, orange juice and a two eggs softly scrambled
with fresh chives, he showered and started walking the two miles to his office
overlooking Rockefeller Center.

The
late October sun was still low in the cloudy sky. It felt more like a gloomy
day in late November. Most everyone on the streets was bundled up but Scarne,
energized, barely felt the chill. It was obviously the Pearsall matter. He had
little to go on, and there was not going to be any payday – a sobering thought
considering the upcoming co-op assessment. But he was back in the hunt, and his
prey had killed a child. Getting in shape would clear poisons from his body;
finding out who killed Elizabeth Pearsall might clear some from his soul.

***

“So,
what do we know?”

Evelyn
Warr didn’t reply immediately. She was unwrapping sandwich bags and opening two
frosty Sam Adams Octoberfest beer bottles. They were having a late working
lunch at his desk. Scarne had spent the morning and early afternoon reading
everything he could find on the Internet about the Pearsall murder and the
proposed NASCAR track, and lining up appointments for the next day on Staten
Island.

He
always let Evelyn pick the food, which ordinarily would be full of sprouts. But
today she was in a celebratory mood and wanted to indulge him. Jake was more
animated than he’d been in weeks. He had a real case, unlike the humdrum
marital and insurance work he had been content with (he said) for the past few
months. The office filled with the smell of pastrami from the Carnegie
Delicatessen as Evelyn doled out some potato salad, spread the pickles and
applied the mustard.

Evelyn
put a large piece of cheese cake to the side. Scarne’s eyes followed it like a
Great Blue Heron stalking a frog in the Everglades. He knew he would only get a
sliver. The rest of it, and half of Evelyn’s sandwich, would go to one of the
homeless men she passed on her way home.

“Well,
for one thing, the killer is Polish.” she said finally. “Or at least is of
Polish extraction. And might be named Gadomski.”

She
wrote something down on the yellow legal pad now balanced delicately on the
knee of one of her delectable legs. She took a bite of her sandwich. How she
could write, converse, drink beer and eat a dripping mile-high pastrami sandwich
at the same time was a mystery to Scarne. She would emerge spotless. He stood a
good chance of looking like a Rorschach test.

“This
would be a lot easier if our man was Czechoslovakian with a name that looks
like a line on an optometrist’s eye chart,” Evelyn said. “But we’ll make do. He
has pancreatic cancer, is presumably in his 60’s if he fought in Vietnam. He,
or his family, went to St. Stanislaw Roman Catholic Church on Staten Island.”
She looked up. “Was that really the church in
Working Girl
? Melanie
Griffith was wonderful. So was the theme song, by Carly Simon,
Let the River
Run
.” Evelyn was a movie buff. “The song won an Oscar, though it had
precious little to do with the plot. And he is left handed.”

Scarne
stopped in mid bite, pastrami hanging off his lower lip.

“How
the hell do you know that?”

“Just
kidding. Wanted to see if you were paying attention. Wipe your mouth.”

Scarne
laughed. Evelyn Warr, sweet, smart, sexy and very British, was the kind of
office manager (secretary or office assistant would never do) that any
executive would kill for. Now she theatrically drew a line across the pad.

“That’s
what we know, above the line, so to speak in bridge parlance. Let’s see what we
can infer below the line.” She looked at Scarne. “Your turn. I’m tired of doing
all the work.”

Scarne
was halfway through his sandwich. He took a forkful of potato salad and a swig
of beer.

“I
think he is still local. Probably not on Staten Island, or Dudley would have
flushed him, but elsewhere in the tri-state area. If he was from way out of
town, I doubt he would have come back to confess his sins, no matter how badly
his conscience bothered him. He’s nearing the end, sought comfort at the church
of his childhood. He told the priest that he had the best doctors in ‘the
city.’ I think we can assume he means Manhattan. Find out what hospitals
specialize in treating pancreatic cancer here. See if they are treating anyone
named Gadomski. Meanwhile, I’ll run down that bakery on Staten Island. Maybe
somebody in the old neighborhood remembers something.”

“I
wonder if hit men have medical insurance,” Evelyn mused.

“He
may be old enough for Social Security by now,” Scarne said. “And could be on
Medicare.”

“The
mind boggles,” she said. “But, listen, Jake, I’m going to run into
confidentiality problems with the hospitals.”

“I
know. Maybe you can just ask to speak to Mr. Gadomski, or inquire about his
condition. Everyone has a concerned aunt. Use guile.”

“You
mean lie?”

“You’re
a Brit. Make believe you work for a London tabloid.”

“What
about the V.A. hospitals? The military is a veritable finishing school for
professional assassins. You Yanks have been fighting one war or another for 60
years or so.”

“We
only picked up where you Brits left off,” Scarne retorted. “Still, let’s hold
off on that for now. The V.A. system has gotten a lot better, but I don’t think
it can compete with our top private hospitals in oncology. They probably refer
the tough cases to the experts. While you are at it, compile a list of all the
Gadomskis in the tri-state area. It can’t be that common a name.”

“There
are 45, with 23 in Manhattan alone,” Evelyn said, one step ahead of him, as
usual. “I have them all listed on my computer. Only two on Staten Island,
though. I presume you’ll start there.”

“Yeah.
That’s where I have my biggest clue.”

“Which
is?”

“A
jelly donut.”

“Don’t
despair, Jake. Sherlock Holmes didn’t even need a jelly donut to solve a case.
Of course, he was British.”

She
began to cut a sliver from the slice of cheese cake.

“Is
that going on a microscope slide?’

“You’re
such a baby. I’ll take this one.”

She
then cut a piece for Scarne that, to his surprise, wasn’t transparent.