Two Jakes (49 page)

CHAPTER
11 – THE REGISTER

Scarne
had never been to the
Richmond Register’s
spanking new publishing
complex on Fingerborad Road in Arrochar. All aluminum and glass and sharp
angles, it was a far cry from the newspaper’s original brink and mortar
monstrosity in Rosebank, which now served as a T-shirt factory.

When
staying with the Mack clan during and after college, he had often accompanied
Dudley to the old newspaper plant when his friend had to drop off a death
notice or arrange advertising for his family’s funeral business. Occasionally,
both boys would stop by the sports department to deliver the scores and
highlights of the various community or parish basketball and baseball games. In
the beginning, the highlights stressed how brilliantly Dudley Mack and Jake
Scarne had performed. That annoyed not only their teammates, but also the
opposition, which, in basketball, consisted of wiry, black doo-ragged toughs
from the projects and, on the baseball diamond, frustrated Irish, Italian or
Polish fireplugs. Hard fouls on the courts and a succession of bean balls soon
convinced them to spread the glory around in print. (“I didn’t know any of
those mooks could read,” Dudley had commented after a taste of chin music from
an irate pitcher.)

One
thing hadn’t changed at the new building. There was still not enough parking.
Scarne circled the lot twice before sliding his lovingly restored 1974 MGB into
a “Handicap Parking” spot. He assumed the cops left the newspaper alone. Having
seen men and women sprinting from their handicap-tagged cars to make tee times
at golf courses, often carrying heavy bags, Scarne knew Handicap Parking was one
of the nation’s great scams. For every legitimate handicapped person there was
a robust family member who used the car on errands, or some political
contributor who wheedled a sticker out of city hall.

Despite
his belief, Scarne felt momentarily guilty as he got out. It would be obvious
to anyone that no one with even the slightest disability could climb out of a
low-slung roadster. To make matters worse, he spotted a senior citizen with a
walker being helped from his car by a teen-aged girl nearby. Scarne suppressed
the temptation to fake a limp as he headed to the front door. He walked into
the spacious lobby and up to a reception desk, which was piled high with that
day’s edition. A woman who looked as if she held the prints for Guttenberg
looked up from her crossword puzzle and smiled at him.

“Can
I help you, young man?”

Her
voice was firm, her diction clear. Scarne recognized her immediately, but
didn’t believe it.
Her voice was

“Mrs.
Quinn?”

“Yes,
do I know you?”

Madeline
Quinn was an institution at the paper when Scarne had dropped off the ball
scores and funeral notices. She must have been in her late 60’s back then. Was
it possible she still worked the reception desk at the paper?

“I
used to give you the death notices with Dudley Mack, Mrs. Quinn.” He would have
never thought to call her Madeline. “I’m Jake Scarne.”

“Well,
of course you are, dear. Hard to forget a couple of reprobates like you two.”

Scarne
was oddly pleased that she remembered him, whatever the reason.

“You’re
a little thicker around the middle, perhaps, although not as thick as Mr. Mack.
He still stops by, just to say hello. They mostly just email the notices now,
of course. I told him to cut back on the corned beef. He tells me that when I
kick the bucket he’s going to cremate me and flick his cigar ashes in my urn
and tell everyone I’ve put on weight. Wonderful man. Can’t believe everything
you read about him in the papers, can you? Although I guess I shouldn’t say
that around this place. Give me a straightforward crook any day, rather than
some of these political types.”

Scarne
smiled down at the little old lady, who was obviously long past the point where
she had to watch what she said.

“You
look wonderful, Mrs. Quinn.” It was true. Her hair was all white, but there was
plenty of it, and it was nicely coiffed. Her skin tone was good, and there were
surprisingly few wrinkles for a woman who had to be past 80. “How have you
been? I would have thought you’d have” … Scarne caught himself … “retired by
now.”

“And
do what? Climb the Matterhorn? See the world? Been there, done that. They’re
going to name a cruise ship after me. No, I’ve got to keep working. Going on 60
years here. Second longest employee at the paper, after Frank Bacci, down in
printing. He started as a kid, maybe 15, running galleys back and forth. Now
he’s the foreman. Doesn’t do much, everything is automated. I think they put a
mirror under his nose every now and then, just to be sure. He’s aiming to get
his 75-year pin, and I’m not betting against him.”

She
turned away for a minute to take a package from a UPS driver.

“Where
was I?” It was obvious she enjoyed Scarne’s visit. “Oh, yes. I’ve been here
forever. Thought we’d be put out to pasture when the family sold out to the
mucky-mucks, but old man Simons – he was a peach – had them write into the
contract that we could stay on as long as we wanted. I don’t think the new
owners thought we’d hang on like this, but they’ve been pretty decent about it.
Both Frank and I got written up in
People Magazine
in an article about
the nation’s longest-serving employees, something like that. It’s good public
relations for the corporation, which could use some. They’ve even stopped with
the buyout offers. But I’m rambling like an old lady. I guess you’re not here
to put in some ball scores. Most people just call them in now. Place has gotten
pretty hoity-toity. We don’t just let people wander in anymore like the old
days. Too bad, really. So, who are you here to see?”

“I
have an appointment with Beldon Popp.”

“Well,
let me call up for you.” She picked up the phone and punched a button. “Peggy,
dear, there is a Mr. Scarne to see Mr. Popp. Of course. I’ll send him right up.
You’re a peach.” She hung up and pulled over a pad of visitor’s tags, tore off
one and wrote Scarne’s name down, adding a little smiley face. She handed it to
Scarne, who peeled off the back and started putting on his left lapel when she
stopped him. “No, no. Put it on your right side. It makes it easier for people
to read your name when they shake your hand. Remember that when you go to a
convention. What are you up to now? Still friends with Mr. Mack?”

“We
keep in touch,” Scarne said. “I’m a private investigator. Looking into the
death of Bob Pearsall’s daughter. I guess that must have been quite a shock to
everyone around here.”

Mrs.
Quinn didn’t seem surprised, only interested. Tough to surprise people in their
eighth decade, Scarne knew.

“We
were all broken up about it. Elizabeth was a darling girl, and everyone loved
Bob. Man loses his wife and only child in such short order, well, I don’t have
to tell you how sad that is. Is there new information?”

“There
might be.”

Scarne
didn’t offer anything else. His purpose in mentioning the reason for his visit
was to get the word out. With Mrs. Quinn as a conduit, everyone at the paper,
and the borough, would soon know of his inquiries.

“Well,
I wish you good luck. Just go through that door over there and take the
elevator to Editorial, on the third floor. Tell the receptionist there that Mr.
Popp is expecting you. More security here than at the Pentagon. His office is
in the far corner. She’ll direct you.”

Two
minutes later Scarne was ushered into Beldon Popp’s corner office by his
assistant, who directed him to a comfortable chair.

“Mr.
Popp will be right back. He had to run downstairs to the computer room for a
minute. Can I get you anything?”

Scarne
declined and began to look around. It was his experience that you could tell a
lot about a person by his or her office. Beldon Popp’s desk was surprisingly
uncluttered for a newsman. Other than a phone, laptop computer, the de rigueur
in/out trays and an odd paper clip or pen, it was barren. There was no lamp,
but the panels of the recessed ceiling lighting provided plenty of
illumination. Only half of them were on, probably because during the day
sunlight would stream in from two directions.

The
ledges below the office windows, and a large bookcase on the opposite wall,
were filled with awards, plaques and photos. Scarne counted 20 of the latter,
all but one showing Beldon Popp with various people, obviously at a dinner or
ceremony of some sort. Popp with the President. Popp with the Governor. The new
one, not the indicted one. Popp with Senators. Popp with Martha Stewart and
Barbara Walters. Popp with the Steinbrenners. Popp with Derek Jeter. Scarne was
instantly envious.

There
was one photo that brought a smile to Scarne’s face. It showed Popp sitting
between Donald Trump and Aristotle Arachne on some dais. Trump and Arachne
looked as if they had swallowed worms. It was common knowledge that the two
real estate moguls despised one another; their frozen smiles indicated that
whoever arranged the seating was in for a very hard time. If Emma came through
with an introduction, perhaps Arachne could help out with more than NASCAR. He
might know some people on Staten Island. Scarne made a mental note to tease him
about the photo.

The
plaques and awards were mostly from local civic or political groups: the
Republican, Democratic and Conservative parties; the Catholic Youth Organization;
The Protestant Pastors’ League; B’nai B’rith, the Chamber of Commerce; the
Borough President’s Council on the Arts; the Boy and Girl Scouts; the Richmond
County Bar Association; the Staten Island Police Association (Scarne was now
more confident about not getting a ticket for his Handicap Parking violation);
the Richmond Court Officers Association; the bar association and dozens of
charitable and non-profit organizations.

Scarne
was reading some of the inscriptions when Beldon Popp came through the door.
After a cursory introduction and handshake, Popp waved him to a chair.

“Seems
pretty quiet out there,” Scarne said, indicating the half-empty newsroom.

“Yes.
It’s a tough time to be a newspaper. We’ve had some cutbacks.”

“I
remember the old building. People were sitting on top of each other.”

Popp
laughed.

“So,
I heard. That was too small, and this is too big. Had they seen the Internet
coming they probably would have never moved, or at least they would have built
something smaller.”

“And
cheaper?”

“You’re
right about that. I’d rather pay reporters than a mortgage, but what are you
going to do?”

“Well,
don’t feel too bad.
The New York Times
made the same mistake, only about
a billion dollars bigger.”

“Yeah,
there’s that,” Popp said, smiling. “So, what can I do for you?”

“Well,
as I explained over the phone, I’m looking into the murder of Elizabeth
Pearsall. I thought you, or someone on your staff, might provide me with
information.”

“Can
I see your credentials?”

Scarne
pulled out his wallet and opened it to his private investigator’s license. He
handed it across. While Popp made a charade of studying it carefully, Scarne
sized him up. The managing editor of the
Register
was of medium build
and height, with an incipient belly that, probably as a result of all those
award dinners, strained against his vest . He was a lot younger than Scarne
expected, perhaps in his early 40’s, and had a full head of black hair, crew
cut, flecked with grey at the sides. He was trying for a moustache, probably to
offset his bushy eyebrows, large, sad eyes, and long nose.

“Who
hired you?” Popp said as he passed the wallet back.

Scarne
smiled enigmatically. Popp reached in a drawer and pulled out a pipe. He didn’t
light it, but put it in his mouth as he tilted his chair back.

“Do
you have new information?”

“Yes.”

“Can
you share it with me?”

“Only
that I have reason to believe that the murder wasn’t random. The girl wasn’t
the target. Her father was.”

Popp
stared at Scarne.

“That’s
preposterous. Why hurt the daughter? Why not just kill Bob?”

“I’m
working on the theory that killing a
Pulitzer Prize
winner, hell,
killing any newsman, might get people wondering what he was working on. But a
seemingly random tragedy that drives him into retirement is another thing.”

“Who
would be that sick?”

“That’s
what I intend to find out. By the way, where is the
Pulitzer
?” Scarne
pointedly looked over at the other awards. “I’d have thought you would display
it prominently.”

Popp
was offended.

“It
was displayed ‘prominently!’ Out there in the newsroom, where it was won. I
sent it out to have it properly framed and to add a dedication to Bob. It will
be hung in the main lobby. We’re going to have a little ceremony.”

Scarne
was properly chagrined. After an awkward moment, Popp said, “But who would want
to hurt Bob? The nursing home people?”