Two Jakes (10 page)

“So
what? So do I.”

“Ten,
twenty grand a match?”

“Well,
no.”

“Didn’t
think so, hotshot. Then there’s the broads. Always a model on his arm. Not a
bad looking guy. Big bastard. Don’t know what more I can tell you. If you come
across anything you’ll let me have it, won’t you? You owe me.”

“I
gave you Barnes and Taliger before anyone else,” Scarne said.

“Yeah.
Great story. I got to like those fruitcakes. Completely unrepentant. Told me it
wasn’t like they put fingers in the chili at a restaurant. Only sued
‘blood-sucking brokers,’ as they put it. Personally, I’m glad they didn’t do
any time. By the way, they think you had something to do with that. Did you?”

“I
put in a good word for them, but I think their restitution had more to do with
it.” Scarne laughed. “They sent me a Christmas card.”

“Me,
too. Well, they know real estate. Helped me on a couple of stories. More than
you’ve done lately.”

They
walked out of the newsroom together.

“I
can’t believe it’s so quiet in here,” Scarne said.

“Newspapering
went to hell when they switched from hot to cold type,” Huber said. “When I
started, it took time for the composing room to punch out the linotype and
arrange the words. We had a couple of hours between editions and could run out
for a real dinner and some drinks. Hell, I could go to the Village, Chinatown,
Little Italy. Mix with people; find out what the fuck was really going on. Now,
with computers, there’s maybe a half hour between editions. These kids rarely
get out into the real world. They’re glued to their computers. Of course, it
may all be academic. We’re facing extinction.”

“Why
don’t you take a buyout?”

“And
give up my bicycle slot?”

CHAPTER
11 – EMERALD OF THE SEAS

The
sleek black limousine pulled up to the 23
^rd
Street dock next to
Chelsea Piers. Scarne got out and gazed in admiration at the
Emerald of the
Seas,
the magnificent seagoing yacht that was the most visible symbol of
the Shields media empire. At a time when corporate bigwigs were shedding
private jets and other the trappings of their wealth, the family stubbornly
held on to the yacht, which for years had entertained advertisers, lobbyists,
politicians and movie stars. It had been featured in both Bond and Bourne
movies and its lounges and staterooms were the staple of architecture and
fashion spreads in two-pound coffee-table books that invariably highlighted the
huge oval bed on which Randolph Shields reportedly entertained many starlets
half his age.

Other
limos and taxis pulled up, disgorging a cross-section of New York’s cultural,
media, political and financial elite. Scarne recognized at least two of Wall
Street’s recently disgraced CEOs heading up the gangplank with their slim and
spectacular trophy wives. Not the gangplank they deserve, he thought.

“Mr.
Scarne?”

He
tuned to see a thin black man wearing a Hugo Boss suit.

“I'm
Nigel Blue, Mr. Shields's assistant. Thanks for coming on such short notice.
Please follow me. Have you ever been on the
Emerald
, Mr. Scarne?”

“No.
She’s a beauty. Must be 200 foot.”

“Just
under. Mr. Shields named her after his daughter, Emerald...Emma.”

“Beats
the hell out of
Randolph of the Seas
.”

Blue
started to say something but was drowned out as a helicopter circled the ship,
hovered and finally landed on a small pad behind the bridge.

“Mr.
Shields is hosting a short cruise up the Hudson tonight,” Blue explained as the
copter’s whine decreased. “It’s the first of the season and rather special.
Some guests have flown in. We pick them up at the airports.”

Two
white-coated stewards were checking in guests at the top of the gangplank. Both
wore little blue berets. Blue nodded at them and he and Scarne jumped the line.
As they walked down the length of the yacht Scarne peered into several lounges
where bars were already doing a good business and more stewards were passing
canapés.

“We
have bars and buffet stations set up on every deck but there is a V.I.P.
cocktail party on the fantail,” Blue said. “Mr. Shields will join you there.”

“I’m
honored,” Scarne said. “Is Sheldon Shields on board?”

Blue
looked at him and smiled.

“No.
He is otherwise occupied.”

“I
thought he hosted these types of events.”

“Not
tonight, apparently,” Blue said easily. “He recently lost his wife.”

“A
pity.”

There
were only a few people on the fantail, situated just below a deck on which two
rakish cigarette boats hung from davits. Most were sensibly congregated near a
bar. It was warm for the first week of April but Scarne noticed a couple of
space heaters, which would undoubtedly come in handy when the cruise got
underway. The guests all seemed to be drinking wine or champagne and Scarne was
momentarily discouraged until he saw a tall, auburn-haired woman standing alone
at the rail sipping a martini.

“I
have some duties to attend to, Mr. Scarne,” Blue said. “Can I get you a drink
before I leave? Mr. Shields will be along shortly.”

“I’m
fine.”

Scarne
was particular about his martinis and after Blue left went to the bar and
ordered one to his liking. Then he walked over to the rail and stood next to
the woman. He tilted his glass at her.

“Until
I saw you,” he said. “I feared this might be a wine-tasting cruise.”

She
laughed.

“When
you’ve been on enough of these,” she said, “you learn that a stiff drink is the
only thing that makes them bearable.”

“Well,
I’m not sure that sentiment would go over well in Rwanda,” Scarne said dryly as
a steward offered them some smoked salmon. “But I can see where all this could
be a burden. Let them eat canapés!”

“Oh,
God. You’re right. Listen to me. Marie Antoinette on the Hudson.”

“I’m
just teasing you. I wouldn’t worry about the Rwandans.” Scarne adroitly snared
a small beef Wellington from another passing tray. “But you might not want to
tell Randolph Shields how you feel.”

“Oh,
I already have. Many times.” Before Scarne could react to that, she said.
“Speak of the devil.”

“Is
that anyway to speak of your father, Emma?”

Scarne
turned. Randolph Shields could have used a few of his brother’s inches to
spread his weight more attractively on his frame. He wasn’t fat, but even his
expertly tailored Armani suit couldn’t hide the fact that he’s earned his
reputation for good living. But his fleshy face, with its prominent eyebrows,
strong nose and piercing blue eyes radiated power and privilege. With him were
the city’s billionaire Mayor, Police Commissioner Richard Condon and the
President of the City Council, a weasel-faced man named Michael Grubber. A trio
of plainclothes bodyguards hovered nearby, as inconspicuous as white rhinos.

“I
see you’ve met my daughter, Mr. Scarne.”

“Yes,
we were discussing the situation in Rwanda.”

Shields
looked confused, but said, “Tragic, tragic. Those poor people.”

He
turned to his guests and introduced Scarne, who shook hands with the Mayor and
Condon, who said, “Like a bad penny, Jake.”

Grubber,
whose face had turned splotchy red, didn’t offer his hand. Rather, he said,
“You son of a bitch,” turned on his heel and stormed away, startling everyone
except Scarne and Condon.

“What
the hell was that about,” Shields said.

“Perhaps
you shouldn’t have tried to throw him off the balcony at City Hall, Jake”
Condon said, trying, unsuccessfully, to suppress a smile.

“Man
is overreacting. I had a good grip on him. Of course, had I known he would
become President of the City Council, I might have dropped him.”

“Too
bad,” the Mayor said. “Would have saved me a lot of trouble with the budget.
Well, come on Dick. Let’s go smooth his ruffled feathers.”

“I’d
better go along too,” Shields said, staring hard at Scarne. “Emma, will you
entertain Mr. Scarne for a moment?”

He
walked off without waiting for a response.

“I
suspect I may not be invited to too many of these shindigs.”

Emma
Shields smiled. “It was shaping up to be your only one, anyway. I guess what my
father says about you is true.”

“And
what’s that?”

“You
are trouble.”

“Some
women think that’s my most endearing quality.”

“They
probably don’t own stock in Shields Inc.”

Scarne
didn’t have a witty comeback for that, and was relieved when several couples
walked over to them. Amid air kisses Scarne drifted a few feet away and studied
Emma Shields. She was a very pretty woman with an angular, athletic frame. She
wore her rich hair long, a style that often does not work in a woman in her
mid-30’s, as Scarne guessed her to be. It worked for her. Her face radiated
intelligence and a bit of mischief. She wore little makeup and was dressed
sensibly for the weather. The night air and slight breeze brought out color in
her cheeks. When she was alone again he approached her.

“Why
do I feel as if I’m going to walk the plank tonight?”

“Perhaps
because you should. My father thinks you are taking advantage of Uncle
Sheldon.”

“Do
you?”

“I’m
very fond of my Uncle. And I loved Josh.”

“More
than your portfolio?”

Emma’s
face hardened.

“Grubber
is right. You are a son of a bitch.”

“You
brought up your stock position in the company, Ms. Shields. I’m a simple
gumshoe hired to find out what happened to your dear cousin. If that means
trampling on people’s sensibilities and jeopardizing Wall Street’s next big
scheme, so be it. You can help or hinder me, but that won’t change the outcome.
I’m going to find out.”

“I
suppose that means you are going to Miami.”

“Yes.
And Sheldon tells me you and Josh were close. I was hoping you might be able to
answer a few questions.”

Before
she could reply, they were interrupted by Randolph Shields.

“Will
you excuse us, Emma? I’d like a word with Mr. Scarne in private.”

“Of
course, Dad.” She extended her hand to Scarne. “Will you be joining us for the
cruise up the Hudson? We sail at eight.”

“I
think Mr. Scarne…”

“Has
other plans,” Scarne finished.

***

Randolph’s
stateroom was the size of a large hotel suite but still managed to be dominated
by the famous circular bed, which was covered by a thick, dark red comforter.
Photos of Randolph Shields and various dignitaries and beautiful women were
arrayed on walls and ledges. The two men sat opposite each other in leather
lounge chairs.

“How
much is my brother paying you?”

“Don’t
beat around the bush, Mr. Shields”

“I
asked you a question.”

“None
of your business.”

“Whatever
it is, I’ll double it.”

“I
seem to be having a good week.”

“Then
it’s a deal?”

“No.
I sense a conflict of interest.”

“How
much do you want?”

“To
do what?”

“Drop
this nonsense about my nephew.”

“Let
me ask you something Mr. Shields. How do you know your brother hired me?”

“It’s
wasn’t all that hard. He withdrew a considerable amount of cash from his office
account. I have contacts at the Federal League Club.”

Probably
monitors his calls, too, Scarne thought.

“My
brother is sick...delusional. Understandable, with what he's been through. I
have to protect him from making a fool of himself....or being taken by some
shyster looking for a big payday.”

Scarne
stood.

“Thanks
for the drink Mr. Shields. You've got a nice little boat. I think I’ll go below
and visit the galley slaves.”

Shields
stood and blocked Scare’s way.

“Victor
Ballantrae is a respectable businessman and a valued friend. I won’t have him
harassed by a cheap gumshoe.”

“Just
for the record Shields, I'm an expensive gumshoe. Do you need Ballantrae's dough
so badly, you'd risk covering up your nephew's murder?”

“You
arrogant son of a bitch!”

“We
seem to be reaching a consensus on that.”

Shields
jabbed Scarne in his chest.

“I
loved Josh. He and my Emma grew up together, like brother and sister. But his death
was an accident! And if you don't drop this lunacy I'll make your life
miserable. I'll get your fucking license. I promise you.”

Scarne
didn’t like to be touched. Or threatened. The combination was too much. Blood
roared in his ears and everything seemed to take on a reddish haze. His mind
barely registered a knocking sound, growing more insistent. Shields saw
something in Scarne’s face that made him stagger back. The knocking grew louder
and finally the stateroom door flew open. It was Emma Shields, with a
worried-looking steward standing behind her.

“Daddy,
is everything all right?”

Randolph,
his face red, turned to her.

“Scarne
was just leaving.”

***

On
his way off the yacht, Scarne spotted Dick Condon at a buffet table.

“Where’s
the Grubster?”

“Last
I saw, he was getting smashed on the poop deck, or whatever they call the
goddamn thing.” Condon laughed. “I thought he was going to poop his pants when
he saw you. What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

“I
was invited by Randolph.”

“This
have anything to do with your lunch with his brother?”

Scarne
tried to avoid lying to Police Commissioners whenever possible.

“I’m
doing some work for Sheldon.”

“Not
for Randolph?”

“Actually,
he just threw me off the boat.”

Condon
stared at him.

“It’s
complicated. But don’t be surprised if you get a call from him. In the
meantime, can you do me a favor?”

“What
is it?”

“Isn’t
your pal Timoney still the police chief in Miami?”

“Yeah.”

“Give
him a call and see if he can put in a good word for me with the local homicide
cops and the medical examiner’s office down there.”

Scarne
could almost see the light bulb go on above Condon’s head.