Two Jakes (50 page)

“I
don’t know. Were there any other stories that he was working on, something
someone might not want him to pursue?”

“Bob
was always tilting at windmills. He was a bit of a dinosaur that way. I’m sure
he pissed off a lot of people.” Popp seemed to consider what he said. “Look,
don’t get me wrong. He was a good editor and a good friend. Have you spoken to
him? I’m not sure he would like someone rooting into this, however well
intentioned.”

“I’m
not going to bother him unless I have to.”

“Good.”
Popp smiled and crooked his pipe at Scarne. “Look, I’d like to help. But I
can’t think of anything that Bob was working on that would cause someone to
murder his child.”

“Did
he have a particular interest in that racetrack that NASCAR is planning out
here?”

“Why
do you ask?”

“Just
something I heard.”

“If
you are implying that his position on that could have led to a murder, well, I
don’t see it. There was an initial burst of enthusiasm for the project, but
that has waned, to say the least. Bob asked the same questions as everyone
else. If anything, he was less strident on the subject than some civic
leaders.”

The
editor’s phone rang. He picked it up and listened for a moment.

“Thank
you, Peggy. Tell them I’ll be right there.” With that, he stood up and came
around the desk. Scarne rose. “I’m sorry I can’t spare any more time, Mr.
Scarne. I have an editorial meeting in five minutes. Have you gone to the
police with your theory?”

“Not
yet. But I will. Can you think of anyone on your staff who might be helpful?
Perhaps the reporters who worked on the NASCAR story.”

“Chris
Tighe and Sandy Doyle did the NASCAR legwork for Bob. They wrote most of the
early stories, but they’re not here anymore. I don’t even believe they are on
Staten Island. And nobody is actively working the story now. If something comes
up, we just pass it along to whoever is free. We’re short of staff and haven’t
even replaced Bob yet.”

“I
may want to speak to them.”

“Human
resources might have their current positions. If you have a problem, tell them
to call me. And Ev Harvey, our police reporter, was close to Bob. As was
Madeline Quinn, at reception. She’s been here forever. Knows more about the
paper than most of my editors. She can give you Ev’s number. You can talk to
anyone you want, but they’re your best bets. I’ll ask someone on the city desk
to sniff around. But it all sounds so unlikely. Monstrous really. I hope you
will let me know if you come up with anything.”

“And
vice versa?”

“Of
course.”

Both
men knew they were lying when they shook hands goodbye. Newspaper editors and
private investigators use many of the same methods but rarely share what they
uncover. That was fine with Scarne. He hadn’t expected to get much information
from Popp, especially since he was unwilling to reveal his own source. But Popp
would start making inquiries. The word would get out that the Pearsall case was
alive. That might frighten some people. The more the better. Frightened people
make mistakes.

Scarne
went by Human Resources and then on the way out of the building stopped by
Madeline Quinn’s desk. Another woman was sitting in her chair.

“Madeline
went to the yuck truck for a cup of coffee,” the woman told him. “It’s around
back by the loading docks.”

Scarne
found Mrs. Quinn standing in line talking to other employees. He offered to buy
her coffee.

“And
perhaps one of those cheese Danishes?” she said. “My doctor would have a
coronary if he knew. He’s one of those health nuts. Just got him. My old doctor
died last year. Was 78. Probably not enough Danishes. We can sit in the shade
on that wall over there.”

Five
minutes later Mrs. Quinn was happily munching on one of the largest pastries
Scarne had ever seen. She insisted he have half.

“I
don’t know how much help you got from Beldon, but if you want to find out
something about the murder or Bob, then he’s right, you should talk to Ev
Harvey. They were very close. He was there when they found that poor girl, too.
If Bob confided in anyone, it would have been Everett.” She reached into her
pocket and pulled out the latest iPhone, which she handled like a teen-ager.
“Here’s his cell number. He doesn’t come into the paper much. Usually at one of
the precincts, or the courts.”

Scarne
spent another 10 minutes chatting with Mrs. Quinn. Finally she looked at her
watch.

“Look
at the time. I told Gladys to hold the fort for a few minutes. She’s probably
ready to send out the cavalry. Whenever I’m a few minutes late they assume I’ve
croaked. But let me walk you to your car.”

“That’s
not necessary, Mrs. Quinn.”

He
didn’t relish the thought of this spry octogenarian finding out that he’d
parked in a handicap spot. With a low-slung sports car, no less!

“Nonsense.”
She started walking away briskly. “I could use the exercise.”

When
they got to his car there was a ticket on the windshield.

“Still
up to your old tricks, I see,” Mrs. Quinn laughed. “Not that I blame you. Half
the handicap stickers are bogus. Bad luck about the summons, though. Paper just
ran a story on some corrupt cops. Payback time.”

Scarne
sighed and pocketed the ticket.

“Good
luck,” Mrs. Quinn said. “I really mean it. Just between you, me and the
wallpaper, Jake Scarne, I think there is something very fishy about Elizabeth’s
murder.” Not much got by this old lady, Scarne realized. She should be working
in the newsroom, not on the reception desk. Scarne gave her a kiss on the
cheek. “If you talk to Bob, tell him we still love him and wish he would come
back. Although I guess that’s not likely. Now run along.”

She
poked him in the stomach.

“And
go easy on the Danishes.”

CHAPTER
12 – PERPETUAL MOTION

Scarne
tried Everett Harvey’s cell phone and got a recorded message. So he left one of
his own. He then called the 120
^th
Precinct and asked to speak to the
detectives working on the Pearsall homicide.

A
few moments later, a man said, “Detective Scullen, how can I help you?”

Scarne
explained who he was and what he was doing, and asked if he could stop by.

“Do
you have new information?”

Scarne
was prepared for the question.

“Maybe.
I also thought you might be able to bring me up to speed. And I don’t want to
step on anyone’s toes, so I thought I’d let you know I’m around.”

“What
do you mean ‘maybe’?”

“I
mean I may have something you’d want to hear. Not over the phone.”

“Who
did you say you’re working for?”

“I
didn’t.” He could feel Detective Scullen chewing on that. But the cop would see
him, he knew, because he was getting nowhere on the case. Moreover, anyone
calling in on a homicide is automatically a suspect. “Can you come in now?”

“No,
I’m on the road and have a few stops. How does 2 o’clock sound?”

Scarne
next called the District Attorney’s Office.

***

The
town of St. George, on the north shore of Staten Island, was the gateway to
Staten Island from Manhattan. In addition to being a ferry and commuter rail
hub, it contained a diffuse administrative complex that included the Supreme
Court system, the District Attorney’s Office and Borough Hall. Various other
borough, state and city offices – everything from the Veterans Administration
to the local Parole Board – could be found within a five-block radius. Also
within this city-within-a-city were many charitable and cultural non-profit
organizations that relied on governmental largesse.

Under
the latest revision of the New York City Charter, borough presidents were
stripped of much of their power, and most of their staffs. In the other four
boroughs, the BP’s had thus been reduced to mere ceremonial figureheads. On
Staten Island, however, the local political machine of the incumbent was so
powerful – and so feared – that the Borough President was able to place scores
of his supporters in jobs at these non-profits, in return for his funneling
city and state money to them. The non-profits, of course, contributed heavily
to the BP and his party. In effect, they were government-sponsored slush funds.
(It’s the perfect scam,” Dudley Mack explained to Scarne. “And, quite possibly,
the long-sought perpetual motion machine.”)

Scarne
spent a fruitless 15 minutes looking for a parking spot near the government
complex. Most of the metered spots were taken by cars sporting official decals
or signs identifying the driver as a government worker of some sort. He knew
from Dudley that the merchants in the area were resentful, since shoppers could
get nowhere near their stores. They, like Scarne, would have to park at the far
end of the commuter parking lot and walk a quarter mile, uphill. Most potential
customers would rather drive to a nearby strip mall. But the merchants were
mostly immigrants of color, and could not afford to complain to the very police
that were supposed to protect them. Those that did were soon hit with a
blizzard of building and sanitary violations.

After
leaving his car, Scarne headed toward the ornate Borough Hall, which sat on a
hill overlooking the ferry terminal. There was a small parking lot just to the
side of the building with five spots. The one nearest the stairs contained a
black Lincoln Town Car with an “Office of the Borough President” license plate.
Three adjacent spots also contained vehicles identifying them as official.

He
was walking past the last spot, which was vacant, when he was startled by the
blast of a horn from a vehicle turning into it. He backed off to let a white
Lexus SUV with “M.D.” license plates pull in to the spot, which had a large
brass “RESERVED” plaque at its head. Since Scarne was the only person walking
by, and there were no other cars on the one-way street, it occurred to him that
whoever was behind the wheel could have waited a second to let him pass. He looked
back as the car door opened and the driver lumbered out.

The
first thing Scarne noticed was the man’s feet, encased in huge brown loafers
that could have doubled as gondolas. The rest of the man was equally enormous.
He was dressed in a white linen suit that must have given his tailor quite a
challenge, because it somehow fit wonderfully. His thick neck looked like it
was bursting from his pink shirt’s collar. A striped pink and blue tie
completed the bizarre arrangement. As he shut the door, he caught Scarne
staring at him. His pig-like eyes, set in an incongruously small head, traveled
over Scarne, as if trying to categorize or place him. When he couldn’t, he
turned and trudged slowly up the stairs leading up to the building’s entrance.
At the top stood a police officer, who was looking over everyone who entered.
He greeted the fat man with a tight smile and a nod and opened one of the
massive doors for him. But the cop aimed a baleful look at his back when he
passed. Curious, Scarne walked up to the cop. He noted that no one else was
getting help with the door.

“Excuse
me, officer, who was that who just walked in? Big guy, white suit.” Except for
street directions, cops, in general, don’t like to give out information, so
Scarne added, “He waved to me, but Ill be damned if I can remember his name.”

“That’s
Dr. Bimm.”

“Medical
Examiner?”

The
cop laughed.

“Only
thing he ever examined were tits and asses. Was a plastic surgeon. Had clinics
all over the place. Now he’s some sort of special advisor to the B.P. Always
around. Like fly shit.”

“He
has his own parking spot?”

“What
can I say? Guy is so fat, we’re lucky he doesn’t take two spots.”

“Not
bad,” Scarne said. “I had to park in Kansas.”

“You’re
not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

Scarne
headed over to the adjacent building where, after clearing security, he was
greeted warmly by Mary McCallister, District Attorney Daniel O’Connor’s
administrative assistant. Scarne knew that McAllister had served O’Connor’s
predecessor for many years, and he was surprised to see her in the same job.
He’d heard, from Dudley Mack, that the new administration fired or transferred
anyone they could and filled their jobs with party hacks. She insisted on
getting him a cup of coffee and rolled her wheelchair over to the pot. After chatting
for a minute, she buzzed him into O’Connor’s office.

The
D.A. got up from his chair, smiling broadly. His shirtsleeves were rolled up
and his tie loosened. A blue suit jacket was hanging on a rack in the corner.

“Jake,
how are you?” They shook hands. O’Connor pointed to a pair of chairs in front
of his desk and sat in one. Scarne took the other. “I see Mary’s already got
your coffee.”

“I
was a little surprised to see her still here. I thought the new B.P. cleaned
house.”

“Blovardi
and I are in the same political church, different pews. I shook up this place,
sure. Too many of the old A.D.A.’s spent their time in local gin mills. They’re
in private practice now. I kept a few of the best. Some of the detectives. And
Mary.”

Scarne
and O’Connor had never been close. But the man was basically decent. He and his
predecessors, of both political parties, did a capable job of keeping the
borough free from violent street crime. O’Connor was a thin man, much shorter
than Scarne, with a pleasant, if rather bland, Irish face, wispy blond hair and
skin that needed to avoid the sun. But his complexion was good. Scarne knew he
neither drank nor smoked.

“Like
you, Jake, I’ve known the McCallisters since high school. One of the borough
hall crowd came over and told me to ditch Mary. His niece needed a job. I told
him Mary had overcome incredible hurdles to get ahead and was also the sole
support of a widowed mother. He called me a bleeding heart. I threw the prick
out bodily. I also let it be known that this office would look closely at any
cases of disabled employees forced out in other agencies.”

“Jeez,
you’re restoring my faith in the human race.”

“What
can I do for you, Jake.”

Scarne
knew he had to be careful.

“Anything
new on the murder of Bobby Pearsall’s daughter? That one must stick in your
craw.”

“You
bet it does, Jake. That kind of thing never happens out here. And I aim to make
sure it doesn’t again.” He looked generally pained. “I was there, you know,
right after it happened. Got the call and went right over. I can’t wait to get
the bastard who did it. And we will get him. But what’s your interest?”

“Been
asked to look into it.”

“By
who?”

“A
friend.”

“Who’s
the friend?”

“Sorry,
Dan. I can’t tell you. And it really doesn’t matter. But I understand the cops
are working under the theory that it was a home invasion gone bad. Anyone
consider the possibility that it wasn’t that random? Maybe she was a target. Or
maybe her father?”

O’Connor
leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.

“What
are you getting at, Jake? Somebody had it in for her, or Bob Pearsall? Makes no
sense. There was loot piled up in the hallway, ready to go. Saw it myself.”

“What
about a contract hit? Maybe Pearsall was working on a story that would ruffle
some feathers. He’d won a
Pulitzer
. Might raise too may questions if he
died under mysterious circumstances. But his daughter?”

“Who
would be that twisted?”

“There’s
a lot of money heading south in this borough, Dan. Serious money since the
bridge was built and the Island became prime real estate. Is it possible the
cops are too committed to one version of the crime?”

O’Connor
bridled at the implied criticism.

“Listen,
Jake, I’m sure you have the best intentions. But I can tell you the police are
very touchy about anyone meddling in their ongoing investigation of a homicide.
I am, too. I can’t let our personal relationship influence how I run this
office. I’m sure you understand that.”

Scarne
wanted to point out that they weren’t really pals. Instead, he said, “I do
understand. But this is something I have to do.”

“Well,
you’re wasting your time,” O’Connor said, looking at his watch and standing up.
“We have our best people on this. If you go around with a crazy theory about a
vengeance murder or a contract hit, it may detract from the search for the
girl’s killer. I’m telling you that as a friend. I don’t know who hired you,
but did you ever stop to think that somebody is jerking your chain? Crackpots
are coming out of the woodwork now. Psychics, mental cases. Couple of bozos
even confessed until we provided them with ironclad alibis. Happens in all
high-profile cases.”

The
friend thing again. Pretty soon I’ll be on his Christmas list. Scarne knew it
was time to drop a hammer. He’d already worked out the lie.

“You’re
probably right, Dan. Maybe it was just a crank call. But I have to run it
down.”

“Crank
call? To who?”

“My
friend. Anonymous. Untraceable. From a disposable cell. Guy said Elizabeth
Pearsall was killed by two pros who set it up to look like a burglary. What can
I do? Got to follow the string now.”

There
was consternation on O’Connor’s face.

***

Scarne
had one more official beehive to kick. He left O’Connor’s office and walked
down to Bay Street, where a previously magnificent view of New York Harbor was
partially blocked by a new minor league stadium that was home to the Staten
Island Yankees, a single-A farm club of the famous dynasty. He entered the 120
precinct house just before 2 P.M. and was directed to the detectives’ squad
room. There Detective Francis Scullen gave him a perfunctory handshake and
waved him to a seat.

“I.D.?”

Scarne
pulled his out and showed it to Scullen, who looked at it and flipped it
dismissively back across the desk.

“Before
you say anything, Shamus,” the cop said, “I just want to get one thing
straight. I don’t need some hot-shot private dick from the city coming here
screwing up my investigation. This is my town.”

Before
Scarne could think up a reply to that, Scullen laughed.

“I’m
fuckin’ with you. Always wanted to say that. I think I read it in a Spenser
novel. I made some calls. Spoke to some guys you used to work with when you
were on the job in Manhattan. Said anyone who tried to drop a city councilman
off a balcony can’t be all bad.”

“That
story has been exaggerated. And it was a terrible career move. He’s President
of the City Council now. Probably going to be mayor some day.”

“So,
that’s why you’re private,” Scullen laughed. “Want coffee?”

Scarne
smiled and looked around the dilapidated and nearly empty squad room. It looked
like a set from
Detective Story
, the gritty 1951 film noir that ended
with an obsessive cop played by Kirk Douglas shot by a prisoner. He decided to
skip the coffee.