Two Jakes (5 page)

“What
did Pullen order?”

Shields
looked confused for a second and then laughed.

“I
love stone crabs,” Scarne said, turning to the waiter. “And I’ll have the bay
scallops.”

Shields
ordered Dover sole.

“I
know you are curious about why I asked you to lunch, Jake. But before I get to
that, I wonder if you would tell me something about yourself?”

Scarne
hesitated a moment, as if concentrating his thoughts.

“Not
much to tell. I’ve been doing private investigative work for almost eight
years. I don’t always get my man, but it’s not for a lack of trying. I win more
than I lose and I have references from people who don’t even like me.”

Scarne
realized he had been using the same spiel for quite some time. It sounded a
little stale and a bit too pat. He’d have to work on another.

“Some
people think you are a bit of a cowboy.”

“I
come by that honestly,” Scarne said evenly. “I was born in Montana.”

The
crab claws arrived, along with martinis in frosted glasses. The claws were cold
and plump, set off perfectly with lemons and the traditional mustard-laced
dipping sauce. Both men tucked into the delicious meat.

“I
never feel guilty eating these,” Shields said, waving a huge claw. “Totally
renewable. They pull off one arm and throw the crab back. The appendage
regenerates completely in two years. Season is closed from May to October to
give the buggers an additional break. Look at the size of these. Even with one
claw the crabs can defend themselves against most predators.”

“Anyone
ever ask the crabs how they feel about being so renewable?”

“I
suppose you’re right,” Shields said as he vigorously split a shell with a
nutcracker. “It all depends on one’s perspective. Hell is probably full of
one-armed crustaceans with a long memory.”

When
their entrees came, Shields ordered a bottle of Cakebread chardonnay. The room
began to fill up. Only an occasional laugh or rattling cocktail shaker rose
above the murmurs of the well-to-do and politically connected diners. After
they finished they both ordered coffee and brandy.

“Tierney
told me a little about your background,” Shields said as two waiters cleared
their table. “And about your grandfather. He must have been quite a man. How in
the world did an Italian submarine captain wind up in Montana?”

“He
liked to joke that they gave him the wrong charts. The truth is almost as good.
His sub was rammed by a British destroyer in the Mediterranean. The crew was
eventually rescued by an American merchantman. He wound up in a P.O.W. camp in
Montana near my grandmother’s farm. They fell in love and after the war he went
back to Montana, became a citizen and married her.”

“He
never returned to Italy?”

“Grandpa
loved the West. As a boy in Sicily he was devoted to dime novels about cowboys
and Indians. He became a lawyer, eventually a judge. He always said he always
wanted to find the British captain, to thank him.”

“Don
said your grandfather basically raised you.”

“Yes.
My parents died when I was very young and my grandmother soon afterward. So it
was just the two of us.”

“A
plane crash. I mean your parents. Which you survived. It must have been quite
traumatic.”

“I
barely remember it.”

Which
wasn’t quite true, Scarne knew. But those nightmares were less frequent now,
replaced by those spawned by more recent horrors.

“Why
didn’t you stay out West?”

“My
grandfather thought I needed some polishing. He also wanted to keep me out of
the hoosegow. My friends growing up were real cowboys and I had cousins who
were real Cheyenne Indians. We were always getting into scrapes. A hundred
years ago we’d have been hung from the nearest tree, Judge Scarne or no. So he
sent me off to Providence College in Rhode Island.”

“Why
Providence?”

“Good
Catholic school. But mainly because he had cousins in the city, men he
respected for having the good sense to leave Italy before the war while, as he
put it, “I stayed to fight for that fat, bald shit Mussolini.’”

Shields
laughed.

“Don
said you also have an admirable war record. Marines, right?”

Scarne
felt the familiar feeling of withdrawal, the barrier going up, whenever his war
was mentioned. He never considered blood, fear, filth and death admirable. Or
some of the things he had done to other human beings. His medals were in a
drawer. He wished he could put his memories in with them.

“You
guys had quite a chat, didn’t you?”

Shields
noticed the subtle change in Scarne’s demeanor.

“Don’t
be offended, Jake. I asked Don a lot of questions. He thinks highly of you and
broke no confidences. For the record, he’s not the one who told me you were
suspended from the District Attorney’s office for throwing a City Councilman
off the balcony in City Hall. By the way, is that true?”

Scarne
smiled, his humor restored.

“An
exaggeration. I had him by his ankle.”

Shields
picked up his brandy glass.

“I’d
like to hear the reason.”

“He
bought off one of my witnesses with a patronage job. My case went down the
tubes and a rapist, a cousin of a big contributor, went free.”

“It
cost you your career.”

“But
now people buy me stone crabs and brandy at fancy clubs.”

“No
regrets?”

“Only
that I didn’t drop the bastard. Is this a problem for you?”

“Quite
the opposite. I need someone who can shake things up, who is not afraid of … consequences.
There is an element of danger in what I want you to do. Professional, for sure,
and maybe more than that.”

“Is
this where I say, ‘danger is my middle name’ Mr. Shields?” Scarne smiled
reassuringly at the old man. Everyone thought their problem unique and
intractable. Must be woman trouble. Some gold digger has gotten her claws into
the recent widower. Blackmail? He noticed that Shields wasn’t smiling. “I’m
sorry. I shouldn’t be flip. Why don’t you just tell me what this is all about?
I’m sure I can help.”

Shields
took a large swallow of his brandy.

“I
think Victor Ballantrae killed my son.”

CHAPTER
4 – JOSHUA HIDLESS

Scarne
wasn’t sure he’d heard Shields correctly.

“Victor
Ballantrae?”

“I
take it you know who he is.”

“Of
course. Doesn’t everyone? Wall Street’s latest darling.” Up until now, the old
man had seemed so rational. “Your own magazines have run glowing profiles on
him.
‘At the Top from Down Under,’
was one story I recall.”

Shields
waved his hand dismissively.

“At
one time or another we’ve run glowing profiles on Ivan Boesky, Bernie Madoff
and Allen Stanford. Business journalism is an oxymoron. We shill for these
crooks until they’re caught. Then we blame the regulators.”

Scarne
thought the same but was surprised by the man’s candor.

“Not
what you expected from someone in my position, is it Jake? Let’s just say that
I don’t agree with my brother’s editorial policy as it applies to Wall Street.
And neither did my son.”

“I
heard about your recent losses, Mr. Shields. I’m sorry. I would have said
something earlier but I didn’t think it was my place. We didn’t know one
another. But I was given to understand your son died accidentally.”

“That’s
bullshit!”

Scarne
saw Condon and the Cardinal glance in their direction.

“When
they told me Josh apparently drowned while fishing, I couldn’t believe it. I
can see by the look on your face that you are wondering about his name. Yes, I
named him after Chamberlain. Anyway, it’s always a shock when your child dies.
But it seemed inexplicable. Josh was at home around the ocean. They said he got
knocked over by a wave and panicked in the dark. A rip current surprised him.
Or he got stung by a jellyfish. Maybe it was the tooth fairy. All sorts of
theories. All nonsense. Nobody drowns in two feet of water in Miami! My boy was
an excellent swimmer. For God’s sake, all he had to be was an excellent wader.”

“Mr.
Shields,” Scarne said gently. “Anyone can be unlucky.” Or stoned.

“I
know what you are thinking. But Josh rarely drank and there was no alcohol or
drugs in his system. They said he might have had a heart attack or seizure,
since there wasn’t much water in his lungs. And there were jellyfish stings on
his body, even on his face. I understand how they would assume it was an
accident.” Shields hesitated. “They even suggested suicide.”

“Can
you dismiss that possibility?”

Shields
took in a lot of air.

“You
have children, Jake?”

Scarne
shook his head.

“Well,
you’d be surprised how often parents think about their kids killing themselves.
Rich or poor doesn’t matter. When Josh was growing up, and torn about his
sexuality, my wife and I worried constantly that he might do something to
himself. But it doesn't make sense, not now.”

“Josh
was gay?”

“Yes.
And happy in his own skin.”

Scarne
reserved judgment on that. Parents see what they want to see.

“Was
he in the family business?”

“For
a while, on the magazine. But he grated on my brother.” Shields took a sip of
his brandy. “Please don't misunderstand me. Randolph didn't give a hoot about
Josh's lifestyle. People in glass houses and all that. But Josh never met a CEO
he didn't think should be indicted. He loved skewering them.”

“Including
some of your advertisers?”

Shields
smiled ruefully.

“The
biggest. To be fair to Randolph, Josh could be a rant. He knew he was becoming
an embarrassment to me. So he moved to Miami and joined the
South Florida
Times
, what they call an alternative weekly.”

“Were
you estranged?”

“No,
nothing like that. I was quite proud of his independence. Children have to find
their own way. It’s the way of things. He was doing good work down there. After
oranges, corruption is Florida's biggest crop. With his business savvy, he got
stories other reporters found too complicated. We used to discuss his scoops
all the time. We were planning a fishing trip this spring.”

Shields
leaned forward.

“If
Josh wanted to kill himself, why take his fishing gear to the beach?”

“To
make it look like an accident, to spare you and your wife.”

“His
wallet, his keys and cell phone weren't among his things on the beach. And they
weren’t in his apartment or car.”

“Perhaps
they fell out of his pockets...when he...in the ocean.”

“Rubbish!”
Shields waved his hand dismissively. “That’s what the police said. I told them
that no surfcaster forgets to empty pockets. Everything goes in a watertight
plastic bag. Taught him that myself.”

“Someone
could have stolen them after the fact.”

“Cops
said that too. Seemed logical at the time. But a thief probably would have used
Josh’s credit cards right away, before they were canceled. There were no
charges, ever. And I’ve left them active.”

“What
did the police say about that?”

Shields
gave Scarne a disgusted look.

“Catch
22. Josh’s cards were either in the ocean or were stolen after he died. The
fact that they weren’t used means they were probably in the ocean.”

They
were interrupted by the Cardinal and the Police Commissioner, who stopped by
their table as they were leaving.

“How
are doing, Sheldon,” the Cardinal said. “I was saddened to hear of Adele’s
passing. She is in my prayers. As are you.”

“Thank
you, your Eminence. That’s very kind.”

The
Cardinal looked at Scarne, who stood. Shields made the introduction. The last
time Scarne had met a Cardinal was at his confirmation and he’d kissed his
ring. He was relieved when this Cardinal stuck out his hand for a manly shake.
Condon winked at Scarne as they left.

“Where
does Victor Ballantrae figure into all of this?”

The
old man's shoulders slumped. He waved to the waiter.

“I
will have another brandy.”

The
waiter looked at Scarne, who shook his head. Shields took a healthy pull of his
drink and then reached across and gripped Scarne’s arm.

“Josh
was investigating the Ballantrae Group.” He sagged back in his chair. “And it’s
my fault.”

“I
don’t understand.”

“I
know Ballantrae. Hosted him several times on our yacht. That’s one of my
responsibilities. One of my few responsibilities. Randolph – I should say we –
may need some deep-pocket partners. Our company is not immune to the inroads of
the Internet. Ballantrae has offered us a substantial infusion of capital for a
minority stake.”

“That
would also explain the glowing profiles.”

“Yes.”

“So,
what was the problem?”

“Randolph
thinks Ballantrae is a hale fellow well met. Blinded by his money. No, that’s
not quite fair. They have a lot in common. Bigger than life, buccaneers. Talk
women and golf incessantly. You know the sort. But something about him just
didn't sit right with me. I can’t put my finger on it. Call it intuition.”

“Surely
your brother did his due diligence.”

“If
a check clears, that's all the due diligence Randolph needs. Especially now,
with other sources of money drying up.”

“Did
you tell him about your doubts?”

Shields
sighed.

“My
brother doesn’t have a high opinion of my financial acumen. Or my intuition. I
needed some ammunition. I asked someone in our cable news division to
discreetly look into the Ballantrae organization. He wasn’t discreet enough and
Alana Loeb got wind of it.”

“Alana
Loeb?”

“Ballantrae’s
chief of staff. She called Randolph and demanded an explanation. He naturally
didn’t know a thing about it and denied any involvement. When he tracked down
the reporter and found out it was true, he was justifiably outraged. I’d put
him in a bad spot.”

Scarne
thought about that. His sympathies were with Randolph. Just what the man
needed: a meddlesome, passed-over brother second-guessing efforts to save the
family company. Moreover, everything he’d read about Victor Ballantrae was
positive, even discounting the public relations hype. He was becoming a
national icon for funding rehab facilities for wounded veterans. The Ballantrae
Invitational was one of the premier events on the pro golf tour, raising
millions for childhood cancer research. Scarne had been lobbying with friends
to get an invitation to the tournament’s Pro-Am for months.

“What
happened?”

“It
was all I could do to save the reporter’s job. And I had to fly down to Miami –
that’s where Ballantrae happens to be headquartered – and apologize in person.
I was humiliated. And angry. So while I was there I told Josh what happened. I
should have known he’d follow up.” Shields took a sip of his brandy. “Maybe I
did. Maybe I wanted him to.”

“But
you both must have realized Ballantrae would find out.”

“Josh
wouldn't trade on his name. He wrote under the byline ‘Joshua Hidless.’”
Shields spelled out the last name. “It’s an anagram of Shields. I’m afraid it’s
also a dig at my brother, a rather poor pun indicating that now he could write
what he wanted.”

“Did
he come up with anything?”

“I
think so. He called and asked me if any deal with Ballantrae was imminent. I
told him that it was some months away. He was relieved. He said he had gathered
information about Ballantrae that was too explosive to talk about over the
phone, but if it were true there was no way our family should get in bed with
him. I pressed him on the details, asked him to send me what he had, but he was
reluctant. Given their past battles, Josh knew my brother would question his
objectivity. He was probably also trying to protect me. He would have wanted
ironclad proof.” Shields finished his brandy. “Josh was a good journalist. He
wanted to give the company a chance to respond. He said he was heading down to
Antigua to tie up some loose ends.”

“Why
Antigua?”

“Ballantrae
International Bank is domiciled there.” Shields took out a handkerchief, blew
his nose and wiped his eyes. “Sorry. He never made it.”

Scarne
gave Shields a moment to compose himself.

“He
must have left copies of his story or notes. Did you call his paper?”

“Not
right away. When I didn’t hear from Josh, I assumed he was traveling. It was
two days…before his body…washed ashore. We were in shock. Flew down to bring
him home. Went to his apartment to gather his personal things. It was
particularly tough on Adele, seeing the shell collection he’d started as a boy.
Magnificent specimens, some quite rare. She insisted on taking most of them
home.”

Shields
took a long sip from his water glass and stared at Scarne, his eyes clear. When
he spoke, his voice had a new determination.

“Losing
Josh killed my wife. She didn’t even bother to fight the cancer. These last few
months, I just concentrated on helping her. No time for anything else. But
after she passed, I decided to see what Josh had found out about Ballantrae.
Not only might it help the company, but it could also be a fitting memorial for
my son to get his story in print.”

“What
had he discovered?”

Shields
shook his head and looked exasperated.

“I
don’t have a clue! When I called Josh’s editors they said they knew he was
working on something about Ballantrae but didn’t know what it was.”

“Isn’t
that a bit unusual?”

“They
apparently give their reporters a lot of leeway. Besides, Josh probably kept
things close to his vest. He wouldn’t want anything leaking out. And their
reporters typically wrote their articles on laptops and emailed them. They
didn’t have his laptop. Wanted to know if I did.”

“Didn’t
you?”

“No.
In hindsight, we should have wondered about that. But we were half out of our
minds when we went through his apartment. Even if I noticed it missing, I probably
would have assumed it was at his office. I called the building manager and
asked him to go into Josh’s apartment, which hasn’t been touched except for a
monthly cleaning. I haven’t had the heart to sell it, or his car. Anyway, I
told him to look for the computer. It wasn’t there.”

“Sometimes
cleaning people help themselves,” Scarne interjected. “And maybe it wasn’t the
first time the super had been in the apartment. It happens.”

“I
thought of that. So I flew down. Looked everywhere. No computer. No flash
drives, notebooks or anything like that. A computer is valuable, but scraps of
paper? It was as if Josh never existed as a journalist.”

“Did
you check his car?”

Shields
smiled.

“Almost
didn’t. It was Mario who suggested it.”

“Mario?”

“He’s
the building concierge. He was fond of Josh and took care of his car. Still
does. Solid fellow. Helped me search the apartment and the car. Nothing.”