Madman's Thirst (21 page)

“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.

Sobok spotted a sign for food and
lodging at the exit for Valdosta. The symbol for a Cracker Barrel restaurant
made up his mind. He was particularly fond of the chain, which he considered
pure Americana. It took a lot to stand out in a Cracker Barrel in Georgia, so no
one gave him or his outfit a second glance. A half hour later he drove away
sipping coffee, his mouth watering with the smell coming from the paper bag on
the seat next to him. He took out a disk from an audio book he had plucked from
a carousel near the restaurant checkout and fed it into the CD player. It was a
Spenser novel narrated by Burt Reynolds and would make the drive to Savannah
more than pleasant. Sobok wondered idly why he’d never come across a Travis
McGee audio on the road.

Leaving Valdosta, he cut over to a
state road, 84, which would be slower, but scenic, and less scrutinized in the
unlikely event that the police were seriously after him this far from Tampa. He
reached in the bag and pulled out a ham biscuit. It was dripping maple syrup.
This would be sloppy, he thought happily. Not to mention the pecan pie. One never
went wrong with Cracker Barrel pecan pie. He wiped his sticky fingers on his
flannel shirt, which he planned on ditching with the rest of his outfit at
first chance, and pulled out a sausage biscuit, also dripping.