PEDESTAL (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 5) Read online

  “Manny. Help me. Oh, God.”

  Her voice was slurred, but Manuel could hear the panic in her voice.

  “Alva! What’s wrong? Where are you?”

  “The dinosaur.”

  ***

  It took him 20 minutes to reach her, driving his pickup flat out. He knew he would be in big trouble if the local cops stopped him. They showed no mercy to migrants, drunk or sober. But she had sounded bad, disoriented.

  When he got to her, she was kneeling down by the side of the road. Across the street was the 30-foot tall statue of a Tyrannosaurus Rex that stood at what once was the entrance to “Calusakee Prehistoric Park”, a tract of onetime farmland that contained a second-rate museum filled with paper maché and Styrofoam dinosaur replicas, and a gift shop. The park was a local entrepreneur’s dream of capitalizing on increased traffic flow to the casino, whose neon sign glowed in the distance.

  Unfortunately for the owner, people heading to or from a casino weren’t all that interested in long-dead reptiles. And once the novelty wore off among local residents, who in any event had better things to do with their money (like eating and sending something some home to their families), the exhibit quickly became extinct itself. The property was now overgrown with weeds and the museum and gift shop were boarded up. At the insistence of some local farmers, the county let the T-Rex stay. It was tilting badly to one side and mottled with mold and bird droppings, but it was a great place to sell peaches and other fruit from roadside stands on the weekend.

  Manny got out of his truck. Alva was rocking back and forth holding her stomach, moaning slightly. She looked up, her eyes glazed. Even in the moonlight he thought she looked pale.

  “What happened, baby?”

  “The man left me.”

  “What man?”

  “From the party. He got angry when I threw up in his car. He made me get out and then he drove away.”

  “What man? Did you go to the party with this bastard who abandoned you here?”

  “No, no. I went with Rosalita and Carmina, but they left early. The man worked for Tony.”

  “Who is Tony?”

  “I met him at the casino. It was his house.”

  Herrera was about to berate Alva for her choice in men, especially since it apparently didn’t include him, except when she was in trouble. But then Alva suddenly leaned over and began to retch. He remembered how much he loved her and he steadied her until the spasms stopped. His shoes were splattered but he didn’t care. Alva was saying something.

  “What was that? What do you mean?”

  She straightened up a bit.

  “They raped me. Then they hit me.”

  Manny’s stomach lurched.

  “Who did this thing?”

  She started sobbing.

  “Tony said it would be fun. I would meet college boys. I was on a big boat. I must have passed out. I woke up and he was on top of me.”

  “This Tony?”

  “No. One of his friends. I fought him but he was too strong. When he finished with me another boy tried to do the same thing. I hurt him and he got mad and he started punching me. Some men ran in and stopped them. The next thing I remember the party was over and I was sitting by the pool.”

  Herrera was enraged. His face flushed and he balled his fists.

  “Who were these cerdos? Where do I find them?”

  A spasm hit her and she doubled over again.

  “I don’t feel so good. It hurts so bad.”

  Alva began to sag and Manny caught her and tried to keep her upright. When he removed his hand he noticed blood on it and his shirt. He looked at the road and his shoes and saw more red among the vomit.

  “Manny,” she whispered. “Take me home. I want my Momma.”

  Herrera knew she must be close to delirium. Her mother was in Mexico. He tried to help her up but she quickly sagged again. He put his arms under her back and legs and easily lifted her. Working in the fields had made him strong. She screamed in agony and dug her nails in his arm and neck. He finally managed to get her into the car. When he tried to secure her seat belt, she again screamed. He patted her face. It was clammy. Her eyelids fluttered.

  “It’s OK, cariño. We don’t have to far to go. You rest. Everything will be OK. Your Manny is here.”

  Her breathing had become labored. It reminded him of the old man working next to him in the fields who suddenly keeled over. They’d put him in the back of a produce truck and Manny never saw him again. He wasn’t taking Alva home. There was a hospital on the other side of town. He would take her there and they would call the police. Those rich fucking college “boys” would pay for what they did. And so would that man named Tony and whoever left Alva by the side of the road like a piece of garbage.

  Manny swerved his pickup out and raced to the main highway. There was hardly any traffic. He jammed on the accelerator and got the 12-year-old Chevy up to 80 miles an hour, his fingers crossed. With 198,000 miles on the odometer, he prayed the clunker wouldn’t give up the ghost before he reached help.

  “Alva. Talk to me. Stay awake. Where did this happen?”

  She was slumped over in the seat and didn’t answer. He saw the sign for the hospital. He sped up. It was a good hospital. The Coalition of Calusakee Workers had lobbied for better medical services, and the casino, seeing a public relations coup, had been generous with donations. The CCW would help them catch the rapists. Even the casino would not stand for one of their waitresses being abused like this.

  “We’re almost there. Everything will be all right. They will take good care of you.”

  That’s when he heard the siren and saw the flashing lights of a patrol car behind him. He pulled over to the side, almost relieved. Maybe he could get an escort right to the emergency room. He jumped out of his car. Two cops got out of theirs. The officer on the driver’s side held up his hand.

  “Hold it right there, pal.”

  Herrera was illuminated by the police car’s headlights as the cop walked toward him, hand on his holster.

  “Watch it, Fitch,” the other cop shouted. “He’s covered in blood!”

  “Get on the ground,” the first cop said.

  “You don’t understand. I need help.”

  “Get the fuck down!”

  Herrera did as he was told. He felt a knee in his back as his hands were jerked behind him. He felt the cuffs dig into his wrists. Then he was dragged to his feet and pushed face down on the hood of the patrol car. The cop started patting him down.

  “Christ, Pablo, you smell like booze and puke. What you been up to?”

  “Please, officer. My girl. In the truck. We got to get her to the hospital. I was gonna call you.”

  The cop finished his search, removing Herrera’s wallet.

  “Hey, Herbie, go check the pickup. Be careful.”

  “Roger that.”

  Herrera heard a door open and then a thud.

  “Jesus Christ,” the second cop said. “Fitch, call it in. I think she’s dead.”

  Manual Herrera came off the car hood and started running toward his truck.

  “No! No! No!”

  The cop who had cuffed him kicked his legs out from under him and he fell face down on the road. His chin and lips began gushing blood. He felt the cold steel of a gun barrel on his neck.

  “Don’t move, Pablo, or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

  The pressure of the gun eased and Manny heard the crackle of a police radio. He turned his head painfully and saw Alva sprawled by the side of his car. Her eyes were open, staring at him. Red rivulets trickled from her mouth and nose. He started to cry.

  CHAPTER 1 - TIMES LUNCH

  New York City - One Year Later

  Jake Scarne could count on one hand the number of times Bob Huber offered to buy him lunch.

  All he had to do was make a fist.

  Not that they’d never had a meal together. Scarne was a valued source for the business reporter at The New York Times, and Huber recip
rocated by being a font of information and gossip on some of Scarne’s biggest cases. But Scarne always did the inviting, while Huber usually insisted on picking the most expensive restaurant and would sooner give up his Pulitzer Prize than pick up the check.

  Scarne had just started going over travel plans with his office manager, Evelyn Warr, when Huber called.

  “Are you sure you didn’t call the wrong number, Bob?”

  “Don’t be a wise guy. I’ll meet you at 12:30 in the Times dining room on the 14th Floor. I’ll leave your name with the guards downstairs. They’ll take you to the executive elevators.”

  Scarne looked at his watch. He had less than 45 minutes.

  “OK. I’ll be there.”

  He hung up.

  “Who was that?”

  “Huber. He invited me to lunch in the Times executive dining room.”

  “Sure he did. After the stuff he’s written about his own management, they probably wouldn’t let him in there. What did he really want?”

  Scarne laughed.

  “I kid you not. Don’t forget, he’s got a Pulitzer now. We’ll have to pick this up later. But remind me again why we have to go to Ireland for Noah’s wedding. He’s from Seattle, Juliette is from France and they both live together here in Manhattan.”

  Noah Sealth, a former Seattle homicide detective who was now a partner in Scarne’s two-man private investigation firm, was marrying Juliette Loudin, the French agent he’d fallen in love with years earlier when on an exchange program with the Sûreté Nationale.

  “Her parents run the best French restaurant in Killarney. All her relatives are coming over from Paris. It will be a blast. And you know you’re dying to play golf over there anyway.”

  “It will probably rain. It always rains in Ireland on the golf course.” Scarne looked out his window. Rain from a typical April storm pelted against the glass from low-hanging, fast-moving clouds.

  “Is scudding a word?”

  Evelyn was used to Scarne’s occasional verbal tangents.

  “Yes, I think so. Why?”

  “Then that’s what those clouds are doing.”

  “How nice for them. Who told you it always rains in Ireland on the golf links?”

  “Everyone I know who golfed there. By the way, why do you Brits always say golf links instead of golf course?”

  “The same reason I knew scudding is a word. We’re better educated than you Yanks. And don’t fret. The weather in Ireland can be very nice the first week of May. Besides, it won’t rain on a bride.”

  “She’s not getting married on a golf course. Maybe I’ll ask Noah to do an anti-rain dance before they leave on their honeymoon.”

  Sealth, a big black man, had a fair amount of Native American blood in him.

  “Maybe you can dance together. You are part Cheyenne, aren’t you? And the rest is Sicilian. It wouldn’t dare rain on you.”

  ***

  The rain had stopped and Scarne walked over to the 52-story New York Times Building, located on the east side of Eighth Avenue between 40th and 41st Streets across from the Port Authority Bus Terminal. The executive dining room was not large, but it was plush, with cream-colored walls and cherrywood columns. Scarne searched for Huber at the few occupied tables but didn’t see him. He grabbed a passing waiter.

  “Mr. Huber is waiting for you in the lounge. Please follow me.”

  The man led Scarne through the room to a private room at its rear. No one glanced at him as he walked by, but when he turned to look back before entering the room everyone did. Apparently, eating in the lounge meant he was probably important.

  Huber was sitting at a table drinking what appeared to be a martini. The waiter asked Scarne what he wanted.

  “Do you have Guinness?”

  “Yes, sir. On tap. I’ll bring you one right away.”

  Scarne looked around at the inlaid maple and mahogany fixtures and furniture. He suspected that the lounge’s padded maroon wool walls provided both ambiance and soundproofing. His suspicions were confirmed when the waiter closed the door on his way out. Scarne couldn’t hear anything from the main dining area.

  “Guinness?” Huber said.

  “I’m getting in shape for Ireland. Going over for Noah’s wedding.” Huber looked confused. “Don’t ask.”

  Scarne noticed that the table was set for four and the waiter didn’t clear the other two settings.

  “I take it we won’t be dining alone.”

  “Gee. You are a good detective. No, Pinch and Baquet will be joining us.”

  Scarne was taken aback. “Pinch” Sulzberger and Dean Baquet were, respectively, the publisher and executive editor of The New York Times. The “Old Gray Lady”, beset by the Internet and other means of mass communication, had lost some of its luster in recent years, but the two men were still arguably the most powerful figures in American journalism.

  “You’ve come up in the world, Bob. I guess I can’t impress you with a bagel and coffee anymore.”

  “Don’t stop the bagels. I’ll probably get diverticulitis eating the crap up here. Not that I think I’ll be invited back. This is my first time.”

  Scarne laughed. Bob Huber was a good, tough financial reporter who had almost worn out his welcome at the Times for his criticism, in print, of some of the paper’s disastrous business decisions, which included the purchase of the building they were sitting in, as well as the expenses related to some of the building’s interior, including the executive dining room. His George Polk business writing awards had bought him some time at the paper, and now the Pulitzer made him professionally bulletproof. But he presumably didn’t get invited to many lunches with the publisher.

  “Are you going to call him ‘Pinch’?”

  “Nah, he doesn’t like it.”

  Scarne knew that Arthur Ochs "Punch" Sulzberger, Sr., the previous publisher, relished his boyhood nickname. When the son took over and cut staff, he became, inevitably, “Pinch.” It wasn’t the only difference. The old man had been a Marine in World War II and Korea. His son marched against the war in Vietnam. The tone of the paper had inevitably changed. Its liberal bias occasionally grated on Scarne, almost as much as the far-right editorial page of the Wall Street Journal. He often wondered if they covered the same planet.

  “Any idea what’s going on, Bob?”

  “Nope. You’re the honored guest. I’m merely the messenger boy.”

  With that, the door opened, and Sulzberger and Baquet entered, trailed by the waiter. Scarne would have recognized them even if he hadn’t expected them. Both had been all over the media during the past few months of turmoil at the Times. Both he and Huber stood.

  “Jake Scarne, Arthur Sulzberger and Dean Baquet,” Huber said, making the introductions.

  After handshakes all around, everyone sat. The two newcomers ordered white wine.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Jake,” Sulzberger said. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “Probably why I have a lot of free time,” Scarne said.

  Sulzberger laughed. He was a medium-sized bespectacled man, with graying hair and a boyish face that belied a toughness he’d shown in the many editorial battles and scandals that had rocked the paper during his tenure.

  “Randolph and Emma Shields speak very highly of you.’

  “I’m not surprised to hear that about Emma,” Scarne said. Emma Shields, now the power behind the Shields media empire, was a friend and sometimes lover. But her father? I bet Randolph had his fingers crossed.”

  “Oh, I know you and he have a history.” Which included getting his brother killed, Scarne mused. That was water under the bridge that no subsequent collaborations would ever erase. “He actually said you are a pain in the ass, but that you can get the job done.”

  “I think I may put that on my business card.”

  The waiter returned with their wine and another beer and martini. Scarne hadn’t ordered another. He guessed Huber had signaled the waiter surreptitiously. It wouldn’t go to
waste. They ordered. Scarne opted for a club sandwich; the others had salmon.

  “I suppose you’d like to know why we wanted to talk to you,” Sulzberger said.

  “I take it it’s not about my subscription.”

  The publisher smiled.

  “Randolph was right, I see.”

  He looked at his executive editor.

  “Dean, why don’t you take it from here?”

  Baquet was a head taller than his boss, and black, the first African-American to head the Times newsroom. From everything Scarne had read, he was a tough and talented journalist who had paid his dues just about everywhere.

  “I presume that everything we tell you will remain in confidence,” Baquet said, “whether we hire you or not.”

  Scarne always liked to hear the word “hire”, though he was somewhat miffed at the insinuation that he might not keep his mouth shut. He also reflected that the biggest defenders of the First Amendment always seemed the most willing to shut other people up. But all he said, shortly, was, “Of course.”

  “You can trust, Jake,” Huber said. He was miffed, too. “Or I wouldn’t have set this meeting up.”

  “Let’s move on, Dean,” Sulzberger said.

  “Do you know who Marcus Weatherly and Ford Landon are?”

  “Florida’s Touchdown Twins?”

  Baquet nodded.

  “Everyone who follows college football knows who they are,” Scarne said. “They put Collier University on the map. Maybe the two best players in the country. Alternated Heisman Trophies. Landon got his as a sophomore and then Weatherly in his junior year. Just had an outstanding season and probably split the vote this year or one of them would have won it again. Both are expected to go high in the NFL draft. First round.”

  “Why are they called the Touchdown Twins?”

  It was Huber. Scarne knew his sporting interests began and ended at the racetrack.

  “Because they are practically joined at the hip,” Scarne said. “Have been since childhood in Florida. Just read a big story about them in Vanity Fair. Played Pop Warner football together. Went to the same high school; room together in college. Could have turned pro already but wanted to win a national championship for Collier.”