Two Jakes (8 page)

“Bring
the dumb shit back in one piece. He’s not a bad guy. All he did was throw the
loudmouth out the door, which unfortunately was locked. Cracked his skull like
a quail’s egg. I’m gonna put a sign up. ‘Helmet law applies inside the
premises, too!’”

“Why
don’t you let the local cops handle it? The D.A. won’t be thrilled about me
stepping on their turf. O’Connor hates my guts.”

“Hell,
I hated your guts and got over it. I squared it with O’Connor. He owed me one.
Besides, Bobo’s a hothead and he hates Island cops. Thinks they’ve forgotten
where they came from. They used to hang around with Bobo in the same gin mills.
They’re pissed because he beat them in arm wrestling.”

“It
wasn’t arm wrestling, Deadly. It was extortion. Bobo never lost. Just the
weight of his damn arm was enough half the time. Hell, he took ten bucks from
me every time I walked into the bar. It was like a cover charge.”

“Listen,
Bobo might shoot any cops trying to bring him back. He probably won’t shoot
you, you’re family. I’m sure we can get him off on second-degree manslaughter.
He didn’t mean to kill the guy, who was an asshole by the way. He punched a
waitress.”

So
that’s how Scarne and a resigned Bobo Sambuca wound up on an early flight out
of Las Vegas on September 11, 2001. Scarne had just nodded off when Bobo nudged
him awake.

“Wake
up Jake, something is wrong.”

A
flight attendant raced up the aisle. The seat belt light flicked on and the
captain asked all passengers to return to their seats as the plane banked
sharply. What the hell!

A
man on an Airfone in the next aisle said, “You’ve got to be shitting me.” He looked
at Scarne. “They’re attacking New York and D.C.”

Before
he could reply, Scarne noticed the flight attendant who had been on the
intercom stride purposely toward him. She leaned down and whispered.

“You
are a police officer, right? Can you come with me please?”

“What’s
going on?”

She
leaned down and whispered, “There have been several hijackings. They destroyed
the World Trade Center. The captain is worried about some of the people on
board. He wants everybody out of first class and his door guarded.” Her lips
were trembling. “Can you do it? I’ll see if I can get help.”

“Don’t
you worry,” Bobo said. “You ain’t gonna need anyone else. They’d just get in
the way.” He let the blanket covering his hands slide to the floor. “Jake, take
these fucking things off. Sorry, miss.”

Jake
unhooked Bobo. The girl’s eyes widened at the sight of the handcuffs.

“I
ain’t no choir boy, honey, but I’m just what you need.”

“Follow
me.”

She
walked to the first class cabin and asked everyone to move to coach.

“These
two police officers need this section.”

Sharp
girl, Scarne thought. He looked at Bobo, who was grinning at his recent
promotion. Some of the passengers had already heard of the attacks and were
ready to follow any orders. Those that grumbled took one look at “officer” Bobo
and became instantly docile. A few minutes later the attendant brought two
off-duty Marines to sit in the first seats of coach. They looked in at Bobo,
who nodded at them. They turned and started scanning the rest of their cabin.
U.S. Marines know when their flank is secure. The flight was diverted to
Indianapolis. The people the pilot was worried about proved harmless, or were
rendered harmless by Bobo’s presence. By the time they landed, Scarne had
gotten most of the details of the catastrophe and was anxious to call his
secretary. At the time his office was at One Liberty Plaza, directly across
from the Trade Center complex. Bobo was also frantic.

“My
cousins work a boiler room in the North Tower. I hope they made it.”

Bobo
wasn’t talking about a maintenance shop. It was an open secret that Mack and
the Sambucas controlled a small brokerage house that specialized in pumping
shares of companies that had no products, revenues, earnings or future. The
boiler room also ran the biggest football pool in lower Manhattan. After
landing, they jumped in a cab and headed into town. Scarne figured they’d have
a better chance of renting a car outside the airport. They almost struck out.
The clerk at the rental counter in the Indianapolis train station claimed all
his cars were reserved. Fortunately for them (and unfortunately for him), he
was of Middle Eastern extraction, and Bobo was having none of it. They left in
a brand new Volvo, unlimited mileage.

On
the ride out of town, Scarne got through to Maria Marquez, his secretary at the
time.

“You’re
gonna need a new office,” she began without preamble. Puerto Rican girls were
tough once they brushed the dust off.

After
12 grueling hours, they arrived on Staten Island, where Scarne was supposed to
deposit his “prisoner” at the 120
^th
Precinct in St. George.

Bobo
wasn’t happy. “I gotta see my family, Jake. Then I’m gonna go into the city and
look for my cousins. You can’t turn me over.”

A
sworn officer of the law, Scarne knew he couldn’t let Bobo go.

“Here’s
my cell number. Check in with me every day. I’ll square it with the D.A. He’s
got other things on his mind right now. But if I tell you to surrender, get
back here. I’ll be in the city, too. I’m trusting you, Bobo.”

“Don’t
worry, Jake. My word is good. And I’ll never forget this.”

It
was, and he didn’t. Bobo spent a month at Ground Zero even after he learned
that his cousins survived. He was worth four men. The D.A., who acted honorably
for once, finally pulled the string and Bobo surrendered. His rescue efforts,
attested to by dozens of firemen and cops, were acknowledged in his sentencing
report. He did a year on an involuntary manslaughter plea.

At
that, he got off easier than Scarne or Mack. They both enlisted, something
neither of them let him forget.

***

As
Scarne and Bobo walked into the dining room, Mack and his father were already
seated at the huge table and, as usual, debating politics.

“Scumbags,
all of them.”

“Well
put, Dudley” George Mack said. “Very profound.” He smiled at Scarne. “Jake,
there are more horses’ asses in this country than horses.”

“I
recall you telling me that once or twice Mr. Mack. I could be wrong.”

That
brought a gentle slap to the back of Scarne’s head from Patricia Mack, who was
walking by carrying a large tray of lasagna, which she put down next to a round
platter of antipasto. Jake found it curious that she served the antipasto and
pasta together. He had mentioned it to her once. And only once.

Now
she said, “You know George has a dozen more piquant sayings to go through
before dessert. Might as well let him get them all out.”

Then,
addressing her husband, she added, “And you shouldn’t call your own son a
horse’s ass in front of company.”

“Jake’s
not company. He’s family.”

“And
truth is a defense,” Scarne added helpfully.

“What
about Bobo?”

“Oh,
for God’s sake, Pat, I got the expression from old man Sambuca. And I wasn’t
referring to Dudley. Besides, Bobo’s almost family from what I hear.”

“Oh,
shit,” Bobo said. “Sorry, Mrs. Mack.”

“What
a fine bunch of idiots,” she said. “Dig in. I got the antipasto from
Stanzione’s. Think of it as your salad.” She shot a look at Jake. “The
lasagna’s mine. The steaks will be ready in a minute. Girls, get the side
dishes and the kids, not necessarily in that order. Bobo, open the wine.”

Most
of the meal conversation revolved around the athletic prowess of the various
Mack grandchildren produced by Laura and Alice and their ex-husbands. The
marital record of the girls had for years provided cover for both Mack and
Scarne when the subject of their own love lives was broached. Most of their
kids were at the table. The extended clan, consisting of parents, stepparents,
grandparents, in-laws (and a few outlaws), aunts, uncles, cousins and others
usually made up the largest cheering section at any parish game. It also made
for some very unhappy refs. After dinner, the youngsters headed to the game
room. Scarne and Bobo helped the girls clean up

When
he got back to the table, father and son were back talking politics.

“You
weren’t always so cynical about things,” George Mack said. “Both you and Jake
served your country.”

“I
think he drugged me when we enlisted. Anyway, that was then. The people who run
things now are a ferry ride away. Not that I give a rat’s ass. This is a great
climate to make money. But it bothers my pal, Jake, here. He’s a romantic. Want
to hear him recite the Gettysburg Address?”

“Put
a sock in it,” Scarne said equably, pulling up a chair. Dudley’s war had also
been short and brutish. He dealt with it by joking.

“No
more politics,” Patricia Mack said sternly as she sat down, casting a worried
glance at her son. She knew he and Jake didn’t talk about the war. “Or no
coffee and dessert. So, Jake, how’s your love life. When are you going to get
married?”

“Ma,
give it a rest,” Laura said.

“You
give it a rest. Jake’s getting long in the tooth to be catting around. I
thought Italians were all about family and Sunday dinner.”

“How
about them Knicks,” Bobo murmured.

“Mom,
don’t be insulting,” Dudley said. “You’re stereotyping Jake. He’s part Indian.
All he wants to do is get drunk, roam the prairie and rape white women, or
maybe just women. Or is it buffalo, I never could get that straight.”

Pat
Mack ignored him

“Oh,
Jake knows how we feel about him. Bobo, too. There’s nothing wrong with keeping
with your heritage. And I realize that this family hasn’t exactly produced
poster children for the sacrament.”

Scarne
didn’t like the way this conversation was headed either.

“If
you ever stop feeding me, Mrs. Mack, I’d probably have to get hitched. When the
right girl comes along, who knows? If I could have caught one of the Bobbsey
twins here between husbands, it might have happened already.”

“You
wish,” the sisters said simultaneously.

“The
right girl came along,” Patricia Mack continued. “You let her get away.”

“I
need a smoke,” Dudley interjected quickly.

The
four men retreated to the deck.

“Thanks
for the rescue,” Scarne said, taking one of the cigars his friend passed
around. “Even if you did suggest I screwed buffalos.”

Soon
a cloud of smoke hovered around the four men as they puffed quietly. The breeze
was against them and it drifted toward the kitchen window.

“For
God’s sake,” Patricia Mack said as she slammed the window closed.

The
men laughed.

“Hell,”
Dudley said. “I’d rather get porked by a buffalo than get cross examined by
Ma.”

“She
means well,” George Mack said. “But women have to get men married. It’s in
their DNA. But, Jake, if you don’t mind my asking, how’s Kate?”

“She’s
in LA. Won’t talk to me.”

“I’m
sorry I introduced you two,” Dudley said. “She poisoned your head.”

“Nonsense,”
his father said. “It’s the ones that make you crazy that matter. Never be
cautious in matters of the heart, Jake. Remember one thing.”

“I
sense a piquant remark coming,” his son said and they all laughed.

George
Mack patted Scarne on the shoulder.

“A
faint heart never won the chorus girl.”

CHAPTER
8 – SEATTLE SLIME

The
three men and one woman stood silently in a small dimly-lit room facing a large
window. Folding chairs bracketed a dull-gray metal table on the opposite wall.
The water cooler and wastebasket by the door were also gray. A bright red
ashtray on the table and the white blinds covering the window seemed out of
place.

Two
of the men were from Seattle’s elite Homicide Unit, which consisted of three
squads of six detectives each who worked full time on the 30 or so murders that
the city of 570,000 people generated every year. Seattle homicide cops were
proud of their 80% one-year clearance rate. Given the circumstances and the
people involved in this particular crime both cops hoped for a quick
resolution. Their superiors obviously expected one. The squads usually caught
murders in random rotation. Not this time. These two detectives had the highest
closure rate in the division and were specifically assigned to this case.

The
woman was a new assistant district attorney. She tried to look professional but
was falling a bit short. Although it was purposely cold in the room, there was
a slight sheen of sweat on her face and she was taking exaggerated breaths. One
of the cops, a large dark-skinned man with a sad face named Noah Sealth,
exchanged a knowing glance with his younger, white partner. She wasn’t bad
looking for a D.A., Sealth noted. He hoped she wasn’t a fainter. Supposed to be
an up and comer. The first one of these is always the toughest. She’ll adjust.
He was wrong. This would be the woman’s last time at the window. Within a month
she’d be doing wills and trusts, and in therapy.

The
third man in the small room was almost as impassive as the detectives. Only his
rigid posture suggested a coiled tension. He even offered the young woman his
handkerchief, which she almost took before realizing the absurdity of the
situation. For the man was well known to all three law enforcement officers.
Ordinarily, none of them, particularly the cops, would have given him the time
of day. Today they were very solicitous, which he appreciated.

A
fan kicked in with a rattle that settled into a hum. It was part of the
facility’s primitive positive-pressure air-circulation system designed to keep
the interior environment protected from outside contaminants. Sealth knew its
limitations. They weren’t making computer wafers in there. At best, the system
helped to suppress particularly noxious odors. But what was that smell? He
sniffed the air, hoping not to be too obvious. Then he remembered where the
woman was found. He said a silent prayer that Brutti wouldn’t ask him.

A
buzzer went off as a small red bulb over the center of the window lit. The
woman gave a visible start. There was no reaction from the men. The white
detective said gently, “Carlo, are you ready?” The man didn’t turn his head,
but nodded. The cop reached for the drawstring that controlled the blinds and
started pulling. On the other side of the window was a gurney on which was
draped the form of a woman, made clear by the gentle mound of her chest under
the sheet. A white-haired and bespectacled man in a light green medical smock
stood at the head of the gurney. Around his forehead was a visor that had a small
light attached. He looked like a coal miner, Sealth thought. I guess he is
going to do the post himself. Kind of unusual for the chief medical examiner,
notorious for not working weekends, but this was an important case. Glad he
held off on the mask and the gloves until this part was done. The M.E. was not
known for his social skills. Would have been just like him to show up with a
blood-stained apron and a surgical saw in his hand. The presence of the M.E.
also explained why there were two other people near the foot of the gurney, a
man and a woman in their 20’s. Trainees. The woman held a spiral notebook; the
man a clipboard. Their pens were poised. They had serious looks on their faces
but were obviously nervous. The cops looked at each other. Of all days for show
and tell! They knew that the M.E. was a stickler about on-the-job training, but
at the same time they felt some sort of adversarial professional courtesy for
the victim’s brother and didn’t want a circus. Sealth, who was still worried
about the A.D.A., was thankful that this viewing promised to be a piece of
cake. It wouldn’t do to have city employees on both sides of the window
dropping like flies in front of this particular relative.

If
Brutti noticed the extra audience, he didn’t react. The only noticeable effect
to the sight of the body was an increase in the depth of his breathing. The cop
at the window pressed a button on an intercom and said, “OK.” The M.E. reached
across the body and pulled the sheet back from the head, draping it modestly
well above the woman’s breasts. The dead woman’s skin was very white. Sealth
reflected briefly that even for a corpse she looked exceptionally drained of
color. Probably the immersion, he thought. His eyes met his partner’s.

“Is
that your sister, sir?” the younger cop said.

Brutti
said nothing. He stared at the face. Then the tough-guy veneer broke.

“Maria!”
he said. “What did they do to you?”

“Is
this your sister?”

Brutti
got control of himself and nodded. Then, realizing that the officers probably
needed a verbal response, he said. “Yes, that is my sister.”

“Sorry
for your loss,” Sealth said, as his partner reached for the intercom and the
drawstring. “Let’s go outside and see about her personal effects.”

It
was an obvious attempt to distract the bereaved man. Again, he was thankful for
their consideration. This was not pleasant for them, he realized, no matter
what their feelings about him. A young woman was dead and they would do
everything they could to find out what had happened. The fact that she was the
sister of a notorious local gangster might complicate their investigation but
not alter their dedication to find her killer. In that they would make common
ground. He knew they wouldn’t even bother telling him to leave it to them. This
would not be the first time Carlo Brutti tried to save the state the time and
money of a trial.

“Where
was she found,” Brutti said.

Shit.
Sealth hesitated.

“I
will find out anyway, detective, so you might as well tell me now.”

“In
a warehouse near the docks.”

“What
warehouse?” Brutti’s eyes bore into his. Double shit.

“Seattle
Seafood Distributors.”

“Boyko!”
Brutti spat the name out.

“Don’t
jump to any conclusions, Carlo. We don’t know anything yet.” Sealth decided not
to tell Brutti his sister was found under a half-ton of halibut.

The
detective who was lowering the blinds heard something clatter on the other side
of the window. He looked into the other room. The male student had dropped his
clipboard. His mouth was agape. This had barely registered with the cop when he
noticed the young A.D.A., who had stopped in her tracks and was now staring at
the gurney with one hand at her throat and the other bracing herself against
the window, knees buckling. Sealth also saw the prosecutor sagging and took a
step toward her. But a shout drew his gaze into the scene on the other side of
the window. The medical examiner and his two students now had all their
attention focused at a point about two-thirds down the table. The male student
had started backing away.

“What
the fuck!” the younger cop said. “Noah!”

The
A.D.A. screamed. Both cops forgot her and rushed to the window. The draped body
was motionless, but the sheet was billowing upward and undulating. The people
on both sides of the window were frozen. Only their heads moved as they
followed the swaying “bulge.” They looked like spectators at a tennis match.
Finally, the medical examiner, forgetting the proprieties and the brother,
ripped the sheet completely off the body.

“Mother
of God!” Sealth exclaimed, instinctively reaching for his weapon. He stopped in
mid draw. A slithering pinkish grey eel-like creature was crawling down the
corpse’s right thigh. A bubbling excretion started to spread from the animal.
It rolled off the table onto the floor, although the whitish slime made it seem
like it was still tethered to the woman. When it hit the tile floor it made a
disgusting smacking sound, clearly audible through the glass. It was at least
two feet long, thick as a garden hose.

There
was a loud crash from inside the viewing room as the A.D.A pitched backward
into the folding chairs, almost upending the metal table. None of the men even
turned. In the morgue itself, both students had now fled to a far corner. The
boy was vomiting. Even the M.E. had retreated a few feet. But once over his
initial shock his scientific training took over and he began to advance on the
“thing.” Its movements were slowing. It’s horrible mouth, rimmed by serrated
teeth and short thick rubbery tentacles, opened and closed spasmodically. Then
it was still.

The
total silence which accompanied the final moments of the terrible tableau was
shattered by the sounds of fists pounding on the window. Only then did the
detectives remember Brutti, who seemed to be trying to claw through the
partition. The white officer pinned his arms back while Sealth shouted, “Get
him out of here!” Then he turned to the A.D.A., who was moaning feebly and
bleeding from a nasty gash on the back of her head. He put his handkerchief
against the wound. She was coming around. He took off his jacket, rolled it up
and made a pillow for her head. Uncharitably, he hoped she wouldn’t bleed
through. It was his favorite. Scalp wounds were the worst. He heard his partner
and Brutti shouting in the hallway. Other voices, shouts. An alarm began clanging.
He looked up and saw the M.E. gingerly prodding the slimy creature with his
booted foot. The two assistants were slowly walking towards the table on which
a now totally naked woman lay indelicately exposed. For some reason he noticed
her bright red toenails, so incongruous against her pale skin and the horror of
her condition. It made him think of the ashtray on the table. He’d been off
cigarettes almost two years but now he felt like he might kill somebody if he
couldn’t get a smoke.

One
of the kids, showing amazing spunk under the circumstances, reached for the
sheet. Sealth punched the intercom and shouted, “Don’t touch anything. I want a
crime scene unit in there!” He reached for his cell phone. Christ! What a
colossal fuckup!