Two Jakes (62 page)

Banaszak
started coughing again. He was partially acting, Scarne knew, but it worked.

“I’m
Doctor Levin. Time for you to leave.” Scarne nodded and they walked into
hallway. “I don’t know what your game is, but Mr. Banaszak is a dying man. I
don’t like anyone screwing around with my patients. Why don’t you vamoose
before I call security. And don’t come back.”

Scarne
thought it politic not to argue or explain. He wanted to go before anyone
noticed the missing cell phone. So he ‘vamoosed’ with as much dignity as he
could muster. Levin would be on the lookout for him the rest of the day. He’d
have to try again the next day. Banaszak looked like he’d be around for a few
more days at least. Maybe there would be another doctor on call.

***

Back
in his hotel room, Scarne took out Banaszak’s cell phone and checked the
battery icon. It only had two of three bars. Damn. He knew he could get it
charged somewhere and probably have an expert download the S.I.M. card, but
that would take time. So, he opened up the phone’s contact list and copied down
every number, as well as all those listed in the ‘Recent Calls’ file. There
weren’t that many in either list. Presumably, hired killers aren’t the most
social animals. Then he called Evelyn Warr and asked her to run down all the
numbers that had an area code for New York’s five boroughs. Many of the numbers
had generic tags, such as ‘Cleaner’, which could be a euphemism for another
contract killer, but Scarne doubted it. But he told her to call them all, especially
those without name tags. He would check the out-of-state numbers.

None
of the numbers he kept for himself had names attached to them, and he was soon
convinced he was wasting his time. All he discovered was that Banaszak
apparently used escort services in several cities. He also struck out with the
‘Recent Calls’ to and from the cell phone. All the numbers he called, including
the escort services, were of the type that could be found in any man’s cell. No
one answered the phone with ‘Murder Incorporated, Please Hold for the Next
Available Assassin.’

Evelyn
called back.

“I
didn’t realize there were that many escort services in New York, Jake. Are you
sure he isn’t dying of exhaustion. He likes his ‘slap and tickle’ as we say in
England.”

“Nothing
else?”

“Not
really. The only numbers that didn’t fit in with the dry cleaners, limousine
services, liquor stores, Chinese restaurants and comfort ladies were two on
Staten Island, a real estate office and a yacht club. In fact, they were the
only Staten Island numbers.”

Scarne
felt a small jolt in his stomach. He recalled Banaszak’s “fat prick” comment.
He also thought it unlikely he was house hunting on Staten Island.

“What’s
the name of the realtor?”

“Bimm
Real Estate Inc. The number is the direct line of Nathan Bimm, president. His
personal secretary screens the line and wanted to know how I got the number. I
told her I must have misdialed, and hung up. I’ve just started Googling him,
and I can tell you he’s a big deal out there. Lots of stuff about him in the
papers. Land developer, doctor, philanthropist, pal of the Borough President,
etc. Jake are you there?”

Scarne
realized that he hadn’t spoken.

“What
about the yacht club?”

“It’s
called the Crookes – that’s Crookes with an ‘e’ – Point Yacht Club and Marina.
I called the number and got a recording. I looked them up on the Internet.
There’s apparently a marine supply company attached to it and I called that as
well. Also got a recording. Do you want me to keep trying, or leave a message?”

“No,
I’ll follow it up from this end.”

Scarne
next called Dudley Mack.

“Son
of a bitch,” Dudley said. “I knew it. The fat prick.”

“That
seems to be the general consensus. Banaszak also had the number of something
called the Crookes Point Yacht Club.”

A
long pause. Then Mack said, “Well, the plot sickens.”

“What
do you mean?”

“You
know Great Kills Harbor, don’t you? Where we used to take party boats for blues
and fluke?”

“How
could I forget? You used to get seasick just driving there.”

“I
was hung over. The Great Kills Yacht Club is the premier boating club on Staten
Island. My grandfather belonged. Nice clubhouse. Great burgers. Old salts and
farts telling stories. He used to take us kids and show us off, and we’d steal
beers and sneak down to the dock to drink at night.”

Scarne
usually loved to hear his friend’s childhood stories, even those he’d heard
before, but he was tired.

“Deadly,
is there a point to this trip down memory lane?”

“I’ll
ignore your rudeness. You’re gonna love the payoff. The club let a few token
Jews and Dagos in, but drew the line at the Bada-Bing crowd. One of the
bent-noses they rejected was Salvatore Lacuna.”

“Sallie
Mae?”

“The
one and only. So Sal – who actually loves to sail – got pissed and started his
own club just down the street. The name was perfect. The fishhook shaped
peninsula that sticks out into Raritan Bay and shelters the harbor is called
Crookes Point. Sallie Mae obviously has a sense of humor. It’s now a
combination yacht club, marina and mob social club. Better food, naturally, than
the other club. I hear he does a lot of business just sitting out on one of his
boats, or a friend’s. Hard to bug a boat.”

“Simplifies
disposal problems, as well.”

“Ordinarily,
I’d say you’ve been watching
The Sopranos
too much, Jake. The mob out
here has become pretty toothless. But Sallie Mae is old school. Stone killer.
Tough as nails. Has a retired cop as a bodyguard. A real badass.”

“Any
connection between Bimm and Lacuna?”

“I’m
getting to that. Lacuna is Bimm’s connection with the construction and service
unions, which is why the fat prick never has any trouble on any of his
projects. And also why his competitors always do.”

“So,
Bimm hired Lacuna to kill Elizabeth Pearsall and Lacuna farmed it out to
Banaszak and his partner.”

“That’s
how I see it. You?”

“It
fits, but unless I can get Banaszak to open up, it’s all conjecture. Nothing I
can prove.”

“I
can have a word with Sallie Mae or Bimm.”

Scarne
knew what that “word” might entail.

“Hold
that thought. Let me see what I can get from Banaszak tomorrow. I can bluff him
with what we know about Lacuna and Bimm. He doesn’t want to rat, but if he
thinks they rolled on him I might get a deathbed confession.”

***

Evelyn
had booked Scarne into the historic Belleview Regency, overlooking Clearwater
Bay just outside Tampa and near the hospital. It was her belief that when
visiting a new area, it never hurt to absorb a little of the local culture. To
Scarne, who preferred modern and spotless accommodations, ‘historic’ often
meant ‘decrepit’ and when he learned the Regency was on the National Register
he resigned himself to musty hallways, faded drapes, a small room with a cranky
air-conditioner, no mini-bar and antiquated bathrooms with mildewed showers and
tepid water.

He
was not reassured when he pulled into the driveway of the huge hotel, which,
judging by the football-field expanse of black tarp on its roof, looked to be
recovering from the effects of several hurricanes. But he was pleasantly
surprised by a modern lobby and helpful front desk staff, not to mention his
large one-bedroom, third-floor suite, which, while showing its age, had charm,
and, more importantly, a room-service set-up of ice, Evian water, mixed nuts,
Angostura bitters and a fifth of Corner Creek Reserve Bourbon. Evelyn had
apparently taken his pre-flight grumbling to heart.

He
mixed himself a drink and unpacked. Then he headed to the hotel dining room.
Scarne was just finishing an excellent grouper sandwich when Daisy Buchanan
reached him on his cell phone.

“Boy,
was I pissed at you,” she said by way of greeting. “Leaving the door open and
crapping up the place. But you’re off the hook.”

“What
are you talking about, Daisy?”

“After
you left, I kind of overslept. Then I had a date. A real date, in case you’re
wondering. I have those too, you know. A nice guy I met in the 42
^nd
Street Library. I bet you didn’t think I go to the library. But I do. I was
looking for an Elizabeth George novel and so was he! I just love her stuff
about England. Did you know she’s an American? You’d never know it, the books
are so detailed. Anyway, he .…”

“Daisy!
I’m very happy for you.” He signaled to a waiter for another beer. “But where
is this going?”

“Oh.
It’s just that with oversleeping and all and going out that night, I didn’t get
back into Whitey’s apartment until this afternoon. The door was unlocked and
the place was a mess! So I was going to call you and give you a piece of my
mind. Then I thought, Jake wouldn’t do that. He left the key and everything. No
reason he’d leave the door open. So I checked it, and sure enough, someone
forced the door.”

“Was
anything taken?”

“I
don’t know. Lots of stuff strewn about. File cabinets open. But the TV, DVD
player and other stuff were still there. Whitey didn’t have much to begin with.
I guess I’m lucky we found that $3,000 before the burglars did.”

“Did
you call the police?”

“They’re
not exactly my biggest fans.” She hesitated. “Besides, the note said I could
sell his stuff. The cops might start asking questions.”

Scarne
thought that over.

“OK.
Don’t do anything. I’ll ask Banaszak about all this tomorrow.”

“You
found him! How is he? Tell him I’m asking for him! Tell him…”

Scarne
didn’t want her going off on another tangent.

“He
won’t be using his place again. If I were you, I’d take out anything you want
to keep or sell and get the lock changed. Then stay away from the apartment for
a while. If you want to rent it after his lease runs out, it should be safe.
But I don’t like coincidences. A lot of people may be interested in Whitey and
someone else may pay a visit. Be careful.”

“I
can take care of myself.”

“I
bet you can.”

CHAPTER
23 – LAST RITES

The
next morning Scarne again took the elevator to the hospice floor. No one tried
to stop him. He walked boldly past the nurses’ station.

“Oh,
hi. Back to see Mr. Banaszak?” It was the nurse from the day before. She looked
even prettier. “I didn’t see you leave yesterday. I was probably checking on
someone.”

Apparently
Dr. Levin had not told her about the scene in the room.

“I
had an appointment. Had to rush off. Just going to pop in and say goodbye
before I leave town.”

He
started toward Banaszak’s room. The girl stopped him.

“Oh,
you will have to wait a few minutes, until the priest comes out. I don’t think
he will be much longer. He’s been in there a while.”

“Priest?”

“Yes.
There are a lot of retired priests in the area and they augment our in-house
chaplains. This one was younger than we usually get, but he said he was filling
in for Father Mundy, who wasn’t feeling well.”

Scarne
leaned on the counter. She had a nametag above her left breast, which was, like
its partner, taut against her constricting uniform.

“Don’t
they give you a day off, Ms. Huff. This must be a tough job.”

“It’s
Miss Huff, in case you’re wondering. And it is a stressful job, which is why I
like to bunch my work days so I get a couple of days off consecutively to
recharge my batteries. Got this weekend off, actually.”

Scarne
was about to respond to the obvious invitation when he heard a voice behind him
say, “I thought I told you not to come back here.”

Nurse
Huff looked confused as Scarne turned to Dr. Levin.

“Don’t
you ever take a day off either, Doc?”

Just
then, the door to Banaszak’s room burst open and a tall, angular priest
shouted, “Nurse, come quick, something is wrong with Mr. Banaszak!”

The
girl rushed toward the room, followed by Levin, who spilled coffee as he placed
his cup on the nurse station counter. Well, the jig is up, thought Scarne, who
also headed to the room. Other personnel were also converging. Scarne couldn’t
enter the room and watched from outside as the staff worked on Banaszak. There
was no crash cart in sight and he wondered how much they would actually do,
considering that Banaszak was only supposed to get palliative care anyway.

“What
a pity.”

Scarne
turned to the priest, who was shaking his head sadly. The man, who was dapping
at a small cut on his cheek, was slightly taller than Scarne. His skin, other
than the small cut, was exceptionally white. Set off from his black suit and
wavy jet black hair, it gave him a startling appearance, compounded by a large
nose and piercing blue eyes under prominent eyebrows. His clerical collar,
clean but rumpled, looked off-white against his pallor and was so tight it
accentuated his prominent Adam’s apple. Looks like a young Boris Karloff, Scarne
thought. No, not Karloff, someone else.

“Such
a shame,” the priest said. “A hero like that.”

“What
happened, Father?”

“I
guess his heart just gave out, my son. One minute I was hearing his confession,
and then the next he made some strange gurgling noise, lashed out with his
arms. Caught me in the face. Then he just collapsed back and stopped breathing.
Poor man. God’s will. But I gave him absolution.”

“You
should get that scrape checked out. You can’t be too careful with hospital
infections.”

“Yes.
Thank you, my son. I certainly will.” The priest ran a finger under his collar
and adjusted it. “Are you a friend or relative of Mr. Banaszak? Such a fine
man.”

Before
Scarne could reply, someone grabbed his arm. It was Levin.

“Excuse
me, Father. I have to talk to this guy.”

“God
bless you all,” the priest said, and walked away from the confrontation toward
the elevators.

“I’m
calling security on you, pal,” Levin said.

“Go
ahead,” Scarne said angrily. “I came to ask Banaszak a few more questions.” He
pulled his arm from the doctor’s grasp. “If you have any problems with that,
it’s too damn bad. My name is Scarne and I’m a private detective working a
murder case. Banaszak is a contract killer. Is he dead?” He thought he already
knew the answer, from the resigned looks of the people leaving the room.

Levin
wasn’t used to being talked to like that, but he recovered nicely.

“As
a doornail. So, you’ll have to go elsewhere with your questions. Was he really
a hit man? How delightful. I bet he gave that priest an earful before he died.
Speaking of whom, where did he go? Don’t Catholics need last rights, or
something?”

“He
gave him absolution,” Scarne said. But then it hit him. Confession? Fine man?
Jesus Christ. “Listen call security and don’t let anyone else in Banaszak’s
room. Wait for me right here.”

“What
are you talking about,” Levin said, but Scarne was already sprinting toward a
stairway. After he reached the lobby he ran out toward the parking lot. He
spotted the priest walking between cars. He caught up to him.

“Father!”

The
priest turned and smiled. His folded suit jacket hung over his right arm.

“Yes,
my son.”

“Do
you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Not
at all, my son.”

“You
said that Banaszak was a fine man. But if you took his confession, you know that’s
not true.”

The
priest smiled.

“Surely,
you don’t expect me to violate the sanctity of confession, my son.”

“I’ve
already heard that line,” Scarne said. “I don’t think it applies here.”

The
priest moved his jacket back on his arm and Scarne saw the barrel of a
automatic pistol sticking out.

“You
are quite right,” the man said. “Turn around.”

“Whoever
you are, I don’t think you will shoot me in broad daylight in a busy parking
lot.”

“I
would prefer not to, unless I have no choice.” The man’s voice was calm,
professional. He exhibited no tension as he looked at Scarne with an expression
that mixed amusement and curiosity. “But time is not on our side. It is thus in
your best interest to turn around.”

Scarne
did.

***

The
tiny point of light, vague and indistinct at first, grew slowly and began to
fill the void. Soon there was no void, just light, bright light. Then complete
darkness. This time when the light came back, it came back painfully bright.
Then darkness again. Then flashes. Murmured voices. A hollow sound.

“He’s
coming around,” Levin said. The doctor had been alternately flashing a pencil
light into Scarne’s eyes, which were now both open and beginning to focus.
Scarne started to sit up, but quickly thought better of it as the room swam.
“Easy, fella. No sudden moves.”

Scarne
looked around slowly, the simple process of moving his head aggravating the
throbbing ache at the base of his skull. He was in a small hospital room. Levin
was attending him. Was he in hospice? Boy, time really flies when your having
fun. There was a large swarthy man standing next to the doctor and wearing a
uniform with a Glock on his hip and a Smokey the Bear hat in one hand.

“This
is Captain Rodriguez,” Levin said. “State Police. He’s got some questions for
you. Are you up for it?” Good man, Scarne thought. I’m his patient now.
Shouldn’t have given him such a hard time. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Scarne
decided to see if his mouth worked. It did, but it hurt. His jaw creaked and he
could feel puffiness in his lips and cheek.

“The
priest wasn’t a priest,” Scarne said. His brain was almost back, but his voice
was thick. “He must have killed Banaszak. I let him get the drop on me,” he
added in disgust. “He must have slugged me with his gun.”

“I
don’t think so,” Levin said. “There’s no injury to your head. You cut your chin
and lip when you hit the pavement. There’s some swelling at the base of your
neck. He probably used the side of his hand, like a karate chop.”

“Who
the hell is Banaszak?” Rodriguez looked annoyed. “And there’s another priest?”

“Banaszak
is the patient up on the hospice floor who died just before Mr. Scarne was
knocked out,” Levin said. “There was a priest in the room with him. Apparently
an imposter.”

“Another
priest?” Scarne’s voice was almost back to normal.

“After
you ran out I called security as you suggested,” Levin said. “They said they
had their hands full with a man in clerical garb who was found in a laundry
hamper.”

“Dead?”

“No,
he’s up in X-Ray. He was knocked out much in the same manner as you, and
trussed and gagged. I thought it might be our priest so I went to see. It was
Father Mundy. While I was there you were brought in after they found you in the
parking lot lying between some cars. We called the police.”

“OK.
Doc, that’s enough,” Rodriguez said, moving to the opposite side of the bed.
“I’ll take it from here.”

For
the next half hour, under the watchful eye of Levin, Scarne told Rodriguez of
his interest in Banaszak, while another trooper took notes.

“So,
you think the priest, I mean the fake priest, killed your hit man after conking
Father Mundy? Then knocked you out in the parking lot?”

It
was obvious Captain Rodriguez was having a hard time believing the story.
Scarne thought it sounded pretty farfetched himself.

“The
priest, whoever he was, had a scratch on his face,” Scarne said. “Banaszak
probably put up a fight, even in his condition. He was a tough guy. I bet if
you check his fingernails, you’ll find some skin or blood. Maybe you can get a
DNA match. I don’t know about prints. There were a lot of people in there
working on him. ” He looked at Levin. “You got a cause of death?”

“After
all the excitement I went in to look at him again. His skin was darker than
usual. Blood in his nose. Consistent with suffocation.”

Rodriguez
crooked his finger at another trooper who came in from the hallway.

“Hal,
call the medical examiner.” The trooper turned to leave. “Wait a second. Take
this down.” The man pulled out a pad. Rodriguez turned to Scarne and Levin.
“Describe the fake priest.”

After
they did, he told the trooper, “Put out a BOLO on the priest, or whatever the
hell he is.”

“The
guy’s a pro,” Scarne said. “He’s in the wind and probably not wearing Mundy’s
collar anymore. But if they get lucky tell them to be extra careful.”

Rodriguez
ran his hand through his hair and laughed harshly.

“This
is like a Coen brothers movie. Smothered hit man, cold-cocked private dick and
a suspect from Vulcan.” He looked at Scarne. “Must be quite a change from your
usual cases.”

“Not
really,” Scarne said. He didn’t bother explaining that compared to his last
case this one was still a relative walk in the park.

“Captain,
I want to get this man to X-ray,” Levin said.

“Sure
thing,” Rodriguez said. He turned to Scarne. “I have plenty more questions. And
the Tampa police will, too.” He nodded his head toward a gaggle of waiting cops
in the hallway. “And I bet the Feds will drop by. The hospital is government
property. This is going to be a shit burger.”

A
hospital orderly came through the door with a wheel chair. He and Levin helped
Scarne get in it. There was a water pitcher on a table next to the bed. Scrane
reached for it.

“Not
so fast,” Levin said. “No water until we see if anything is broken in that hard
head of yours. I don’t think so, but we have to check anyway.”

***

Sobok
had driven steadily since leaving Tampa, maintaining a legal and unobtrusive 70
miles per hour. He had flown in to kill Banaszak, but the Tampa-St. Petersburg
airport wasn’t JFK. Even with the change in his appearance, he wasn’t going to
fly out of the smaller airport. A few hours spent on the road were not a burden
to him. But right now I can use a cup of strong coffee, he thought. He rubbed
his neck and began scanning the signs for a rest stop on Interstate 75 after
crossing the state border into Georgia.

That
priest’s collar damn near choked me. How can they wear them? Sobok had
discarded the collar and the black wig that had covered his closely-cropped
hair in a gas station garbage pail and was now wearing boots, jeans, a plaid
shirt and a ridiculous cowboy hat. A blonde wig and sunglasses completed the
makeover. If the police were looking for a black-suited, black-haired priest,
they’d pass him by, especially since they had no idea what kind of car he was
driving. Of course, if there were a law against looking like an idiot, they
might shoot him on sight.

The
more he thought about it, he realized that he could probably have just gone up
and done the job without a disguise. That had been his original plan. The place
was a sieve. You’d think that with all the terrorists running around they would
have better security at a veterans facility. Of course, terrorists like to kill
healthy people. No sense in killing dying ones, he surmised. But when he saw
the priest he decided to improvise. If something went wrong, who would stop a
man of the cloth.