Madman's Thirst Page 5

  “I’m warning you,” he told the man. “God’s forgiveness is based on your contrition. You should turn yourself in to the police. The crime in ongoing, even if you won’t be.”

  That was blunt, but Jarecki, bound by the sanctity of confession, knew his options were limited. Deep in his heart, he had always thought it a weakness of his Church that sinners were let off the hook so easily. He suspected that it had more to do with keeping people in the pews, and the collection plates full, than genuine theology. But he had taken the vows, and Jarecki, though cynical, was a man of his God, and his word.

  “Don’t push it, Jarecki,” the killer had replied. “I’m not going to rat anyone out. What do you think I am? That’s got to count for something with the man upstairs. I’m banking on that. The cops? In this borough? You must be hitting the communion wine a little too heavy. Haven’t you heard anything I said?”

  But then he threw the priest a rope, frayed at best, but it was something.

  “I’ll make you a deal that shouldn’t bend you collar out of shape. You don’t know my name, and I’m not giving you anyone else’s. But this might have had something to do with that proposed stock car track they’re planning out by the Goethals Bridge. I ain’t even sure about that, but it’s all I’m saying. Whatever it is, you figure a way to stop these bastards, be my guest.” The man groaned. “Listen, I ain’t feeling so good. You want me puking in the confessional? We got a deal? For the girl, and, uh, some of the others?”

  ***

  “So you called Dudley,” Scarne said.

  “If you can’t go to the cops,” Mack said, “try the robbers.”

  The priest poured them all more shots. They were on their fourth.

  “I would have thought it was connected to the nursing home story,” Scarne said. “Pearsall must have frosted a lot of people with that story.”

  “Water under the bridge,” Mack said. “Those guys are in enough trouble. This must be bigger.”

  “Do you think NASCAR is that big a deal? Who stands to gain the most? The mob? Unions?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Contracts. Jobs. Patronage. All the usual suspects. But I know a lot of these people and I can’t think of anyone who would pull a stunt like this for a project that might not get approved even if the Register supported it. There’s a new dynamic out here. Hell, even the Russians wouldn’t risk it.”

  “So it’s something else entirely and the killer was wrong.”

  “He said he wasn’t sure,” Jarecki said. “I got the impression that it was an informed guess. All he said specifically was that the killing was designed to stop something from happening. The people who gave the orders thought it was too dangerous to go after the girl’s father directly, because of his position.”

  “As bad as killing a cop,” Mack said.

  “I imagine you feel that you’re pretty close to the line on this,” Scarne said.

  “But it’s a line I won’t cross, Jake. He gave me some leeway with the sanctity of confession, but made me promise I won’t go to the police. So, this is where it ends for me. The crime was an abomination. I hope justice is done. But I can’t do more. Are we clear on that?”

  “Sure, padre. I know the drill. I had the benefits of 16 years of Catholic education.”

  “A lot of good it did you,” Mack remarked. “Do you think the guy still lives here, Jerry?”

  “No. He said he was brought in for the job, or hit, or whatever you call it. Even mentioned how much the Island has changed in 40 years.”

  “Did the scumbag tell you what kind of cancer he had?”

  “Pancreatic.”

  “That might not leave us much time,” Mack said under his breath. Scarne caught the “us” and decided to let it lie.

  “I agree,” the priest said. “The son of a bitch said he went to the best doctors in the city but the disease is very advanced. He’s on the back nine.”

  Scarne shook his head.

  “Is that all you know about this guy? He lived on Staten Island 40 years ago and is presumably Polish?”

  “And his father was probably a baker.”

  Scarne and Mack looked at each other.

  “He said he used to get absolution for a bag of pączek,” Jarecki explained. “It’s Polish pastry, like a jelly donut, only deep fried and filled with a sweet filling like Bavarian cream or custard. He said it was his father’s pączek. It’s not something you make at home.”

  “I didn’t know there was such a thing as a Polish bakery,” Mack said. “Italian, German, Jewish, maybe, but not Polish. At least on Staten Island.”

  “There’s none that I know of now,” Jarecki said. He looked down the bar. “Stash, you ever hear of a Polish bakery in the neighborhood? In the old days.”

  “My grandmother used to talk about Gadomski’s out in Travis. Been closed for years, I think.”

  “Well, it’s a start,” Mack said.

  Jarecki walked them out the front of the church.

  “Good luck. I think I’ve done all I can. Maybe more than I should have.”

  As Mack and Scarne got into the car, the priest called out to them.

  “One more thing. If you come across any place to get some good pączek let me know. I’ll give you more than absolution.”

  ***

  “What did you think of Pontius Pilate’s story back there?”

  They were back on Richmond Terrace, heading to Brooklyn. Despite Scarne’s protests, Dudley had insisted on taking him back to Manhattan, with a stop for dinner at Peter Lugar’s in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn.

  “That’s not quite fair, Deadly. The guy’s in a tough spot.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m just pissed that they killed the girl to get to the old man. Fucking animals. You remember Bobby Pearsall? He was a lot older than us. I know you remember his wife. Ronnie. Ronnie Kane? Used to hang around with my sisters.”

  “Cute blonde? Pearsall married her?” Scarne could picture Ronnie Kane immediately. She was one of those girls a boy of a certain age never forgets. “She was quite a catch. Thought she’d go for a jock, not the bookish type.”

  “Bobby was a real good baseball player in his day. Star pitcher on the Wagner College baseball team. Sneaky little lefthander. Played into his 30’s in the local leagues on weekends. Used to humiliate me with his curveball. Couldn’t touch it.”

  “You couldn’t hit a fastball, either, Duds. I don’t think I ever faced him. You ever see Ronnie? I seem to remember you were sweet on her.”

  Mack looked out the window.

  “Died two years ago. Cancer, of course. Like everyone on this goddamn Island.” Scarne knew that Mack, like many people, was convinced that Staten Island’s high cancer rates were the direct results of its being downwind from northern New Jersey’s chemical plant belt, and half a century of hosting the world’s largest garbage landfill. But he was surprised by the bitterness in his friend’s voice. “That’s why Pearsall was vulnerable. Bastards counted on that.”

  “What’s got you so riled? You of all people know what goes on out here.”

  They were driving over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Mack lapsed into silence, looking out the window. Finally, he turned to Scarne.

  “I liked Bobby. In fact, I helped him win his Pulitzer. Those nursing homes were rivals of mine. I supplied him with a lot of dirt on them. Not that they didn’t deserve to get hammered. Goddamn cesspools. Gave him a second wind after Ronnie died. I liked his kid, too. I thought maybe you could look into this thing, if you’re not too busy.”

  This last was said casually, but Scarne caught the dig. Dudley had been bugging him in recent months to get his act together after the Ballantrae case.

  Scarne bridled, but then said, offhandedly, “I don’t know. It’s a crappy situation, I’ll admit, but I don’t like working on Staten Island. I know too many people.” He left unsaid what Dudley Mack knew: Staten Island, with its pleasant memories, was a refuge for Scarne. In fact, he was surprised his friend even suggested that
he get involved. “Besides, why don’t you let the cops handle it? I’m sure they’re not taking the murder of a young girl lightly.”

  “What are you the fucking CIA, Jake? Can’t work domestically? The Island isn’t a foreign country.” Mack relented. “Hell, maybe it is. I know how you feel. But there is something else going on here I can’t put my finger on. The cops are stumped. Even if they weren’t pissed off by the nature of the crime – and I know they are – it would be a coup for them to solve the murder of an editor’s kid. They found DNA. Nobody in the system. I’ve asked around. Pulled some strings. Nada. Brick wall. Be a miracle if they get anybody for it.”

  “We could tell them what we know now. We’re not priests. We’ll leave Jarecki out of it. You could say some lowlife told you.”

  “They’d pump me for info, and then hit me with an obstruction charge when I clam up. I’m one of the bad guys remember.”

  “I could let them know. Tell them I got an anonymous phone call. Just doing my civic duty.”

  “If it comes to that, do it, if you think it will help. But I doubt it will. They’ll probably file it under crank calls.”

  “Then what could I reasonably do that they can’t?”

  “Maybe nothing. But listen, I know you think you fucked up on your last case, or whatever that colostomy bag was, but you took some real maniacs off the board. I got a feeling that one of your creatively destructive investigations is just what this deal needs. Besides, there’s something else. Personal.”

  What came next surprised Scarne.

  “I was more than just sweet on Ronnie. We had a thing going, back in the day. While she and Bobbie were dating. He never knew. I guess she wasn’t sure about him. Sometimes women get cold feet and warm them with a final hot fling. At least that’s been my experience” He smiled, and shrugged. “But, hey, what the fuck do I know?”

  Scarne couldn’t help but smile back. Dudley ’s conquests were the stuff of legend. One day he finally felt compelled to ask him how he did it.

  “Assuming they are of legal age,” Mack told him blithely, “I ask every woman I meet if they would like to fuck. Sometimes I phrase it more delicately, although my experience is that the word ‘fuck’ works best, especially if there is booze involved. I figure that I’ve asked way more than a thousand broads. I occasionally get slapped or have a drink tossed in my face, which to tell you the truth I find refreshing – not the drink – but the morality. But I have about a 10 percent success rate. Do the math.”

  Scarne had wished he’d never asked. Now, Mack read his mind.

  “I know what you’re thinking. But Ronnie was different. She turned me down at first – a woman of rare taste – but called me when she and Bobbie were going through a rough patch. I really fell for her. Pulled out all the stops. Flowers, dinners, stuff I don’t do. But she saw through me pretty quickly. She made the right choice. Married Bobbie a month after we broke up and never looked back. I never forgot her, though.” Mack looked away again. “You know I’m not exactly the romantic type, but there was something about Ronnie. I think I would have married her, given the chance. Maybe we would have had a daughter that age.” He saw the look on Scarne’s face. “Yeah. I know. It’s possible the kid is …. was mine. The timing would be close. Not likely, but possible. But it don’t matter. Paths not taken and all that bullshit.”

  The two friends were again quiet for a moment and then Dudley said, “You know the worst thing in the world is to love someone who only likes you. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind sticking it to the pricks who killed the girl. An Act of Contrition may cut it for the Church, but not me.”

  Nothing else was said until they pulled up to the famous steakhouse abutting the Williamsburg Bridge. The East River glimmered in the moonlight.

  “So, what do you say? A little pro bono sleuthing to get your act together after your recent vacation? You must be getting tired of snooping around hotel lobbies trying to catch some hedge fund guy with his zipper down.”

  Scarne and Mack had been close since their college days at Providence, where, after trying to beat the hell out of each other, they learned they had a lot in common. And like most good friends, they knew how to push each other’s buttons. Which what was Mack was doing now.

  “OK, Deadly,” Scarne said with a resignation that was nevertheless tinged with intrigue. “But you’re buying dinner.”

  “What’s new? Look on the bright side. It’s a goddamn miracle that we even have the chance to do something. If the scumbag hadn’t gotten cancer... If he didn’t go to Jarecki…. If Jerry didn’t call me…. If I didn’t know Ronnie…. Coincidence? Serendipity? Whatever. It’s meant to be. The bastards who did this don’t know we’re coming. Now let’s eat. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen Bobo order Lugar’s porterhouse for two, just for himself.”

  CHAPTER 8 – CANDY IS DANDY

  Emerald Shields returned the wave of an investment banker dividing his charm between two women at the bar. The women – who turned to look her way with undisguised envy – were drinking Cosmos. They were attractive enough, and were probably mid-level publishing or fashion industry vice presidents. Or perhaps college administrators at N.Y.U. or Cardozo. Emma, too honest to pretend she wasn’t beautiful, knew that in her they recognized the real deal, which in addition to looks, included money and breeding. The man picked up a beer. Probably non-alcoholic, she thought dismissively. She mentally braced for the inevitable approach. Emma was becoming a hot property among the Wall Street set, which was, she supposed, a good thing. But she was hoping for a quiet lunch at the Gotham Bar & Grill, or at least a private one. She sipped her Gibson and studied the menu. Maybe that would keep the man at bay until her luncheon companion showed up.

  Emma rarely drank anything stronger than wine at lunch, but she was a bit nervous. A recent complication in her romantic life added a new dimension to this particular lunch. Not that it changed her plans – or hopes, she would have said – for the afternoon. She’d probably have another Gibson. A couple of strong drinks seemed to make things go smoother. Candy is dandy and all that. She smiled, recalling the better line: I love a martini, but two at the most. Three I’m under the table; four I’m under the host. Gibsons were martinis by another name after all, and she didn’t think Dorothy Parker would mind. She glanced up from the menu. Damn! Mr. Wall Street was headed her way.

  Emma Shields was rising rapidly in the ranks of the Shields organization, having just negotiated a $600 million infusion of outside capital into the 80-year-old media giant. The family was forced to relinquish 40 percent of its privately-held stock to an investor group, but maintained managerial and editorial control of its magazines, Internet sites, and television and radio properties. The fact that Emma had come up with the idea, lined up the financing and then actually convinced her father and brothers to go along, thus ensuring that all the Shields heirs would stay very rich despite troubling times in the media industry, was an eye opener to Wall Street.

  Randolph “Randy” Shields, as the tabloids had dubbed him for his sexual peccadilloes, had expected one of his sons to eventually take over the company. Now it looked as if his youngest child might be the one. As a man who never underestimated any woman, especially a beautiful one, Randolph harbored no prejudice against the idea (unlike the heads of other prominent New York dynasties, who favored sons – and even sons-in-law – over daughters). He had always suspected that Emma, for all her childhood sweetness and current glamour, was a tough cookie, and perhaps the brightest of his brood. After all, she had survived the cancer death of a husband and the murders of a favorite cousin and uncle by rogue billionaire Victor Ballantrae, all in short order, and still kept her wits about her. Not only that, but she had overseen the coverage of the collapse of the criminal Ballantrae empire – coverage that had won the Shields organization numerous journalism awards. The rumors surrounding the mysterious disappearance of Ballantrae and his chief of staff, the beautiful Alana Loeb, didn’t hurt. With other media empires reeling from s
candals, the Shields family was given credit for settling accounts with criminals who thought themselves beyond the law. It was credit not fully deserved, Randolph and Emma knew. The man who deserved most of it – the man responsible for the deaths of Ballantrae and Loeb – had just walked in the Gotham’s door.

  As Jake Scarne walked over to her table, Emma Shields wondered if he still loved Alana Loeb, a woman he’d shot through the heart.

  ***

  “It looks like I got here just in the nick of time,” Scarne said as he sat down. “A shark is heading up the chum line.”

  Emma, who was sitting with her back to the window overlooking 12th Street, smiled indulgently, and watched the approaching investment banker hesitate, take a long look at Scarne and swim back to the bar.

  “Pungent, but apropos. But how do you know it wasn’t ‘Mr. Right.’”

  “More likely, ‘Mr. Write Me a Check.’ Now that you are known for more than your beauty, you will have to question the motives of every man who comes sniffing around.”

  “Including yours?”

  “My motives and sniffs have always been discernible and dishonorable, and you know it. But enough friendly chit chat, I’m thirsty and starving.” As if on cue, a waiter appeared and greeted them by name. Scarne smiled up at him. “Frankie, get Ms. Shields another Gibson and if they’ve got any of that Cruzan Estate rum left I’ll take it in a snifter.”

  They were at their “regular” table at the Gotham, famous in Manhattan for its prix fixed lunch, which cost whatever the year was. Scarne had been lunching there frequently ever since it went for $19.97. He figured it would still be a steal in the year 4000. Of course, he wouldn’t be prix fixing today. Lunch with Emma, while not a rarity for Scarne, was always a special occasion. She looked particularly fetching, he thought, in a blue silk herringbone shirt dress, buttoned down the front and tied with a fabric belt, and was easily the most attractive woman in the place, despite stiff competition from some other women whose features were more conventionally classic. Funny how that worked. Some women had it, and some didn’t. Emma had it. Her thick auburn hair flowed to her shoulders. Her color was high. Probably the Gibson, which he noted, was a good sign. Suddenly feeling churlish, he asked after her daughter.