Two Jakes (61 page)

“Looks
like he’s been in every state in the union,” Scarne said, wondering if
Banaszak’s travel was for pleasure or work, or both. There was an old grocery
list under a magnet. It didn’t say arsenic, strychnine, cyanide or fugu poison.
It said eggs, bacon, milk, lettuce and tuna fish.

Daisy
took the photo from his hand.

“He
has a lot less hair now, of course,” she said. “Because of the chemo, although
it was starting to come back. I guess they stopped it. Wasn’t doing much good.
And it was white before he got sick. I used to tease him that it fit his nickname
anyway. He said it started changing right after he got back from the war.
Blamed Agent Orange or something. I think it was the stress. Saw it in some
firemen after 9/11.”

Daisy
handed the photo back to Scarne.

“He
was real proud of his men. He was a sergeant or something. Said he and his
buddies were loops, whatever that is.”

“You
mean ‘lurps’?”

“Yeah,
that was it. What’s it mean.”

“It’s
an acronym for Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols, LRRPs, pronounced ‘lurps.’
Guys who would go behind enemy lines for weeks at a time, live off the land,
track the enemy’s movements.”

And
ambush and assassinate when necessary, Scarne thought to himself. Tough,
resourceful men. Good contract killer material.

Daisy
opened the freezer and pulled out a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon.

“Ever
had this ice cold, straight up? Whitey used to give me a nightcap every now and
then. It’s early, but I’m just off work. Kind of wound up. She opened a cabinet
and pulled out rocks glasses. “How about it?”

“Sure.
What’s your last name, by the way? I’m Jake Scarne.”

“Same
as on your license. How nice.” She poured two strong tots of bourbon, which
flowed viscously into the glasses. They clinked glasses. “I’m Daisy Buchanan.”
She noticed the look on his face. “Hey. It’s my real name. Or rather the last
name is. The ‘Daisy’ is a nickname. I was born Dorothy in Gatsby, Kansas. You
can figure out the rest. I still haven’t read the book. Is it any good?

“You’d
like it,” Scarne said, laughing. He took a sip of the almost-frozen bourbon. It
was delicious. Almost like a cordial, but with a kick. “Listen, I’m going to
check out the bedroom.”

“Don’t
make a mess. I’m going to rest my tootsies and sip this.” She walked into the
living room, kicked off her shoes, sat in a swivel chair at a large roll top
desk and idly started looking at some scattered papers. Scarne was saving the
desk for last, although he knew it was probably a waste of time.

There
was nothing incriminating in bedroom; no sniper rifle broken down in an attaché
case under the bed. Scarne had just finished looking through a closet and a
chest of drawers when Daisy appeared in the doorway. She leaned against the
wall, crossing her long legs, holding her drink in one hand and a newspaper
clipping in the other.

“That
murdered girl live on Staten Island?”

He
walked over to her and took the clipping.

“It
was in the roll top desk,” she explained.

The
article, obviously a follow-up to previous story, had appeared in the New York
Post, on Page 3, under the headline: ‘Police Say Slain S.I. Schoolgirl Was
Raped.’ Scarne began reading:

“The
16-year-old St. Peter’s Girls High honor student found brutally murdered last
week in a sedate Randall Manor neighborhood on Staten Island was also raped.

According
to police Elizabeth Pearsall was sexually assaulted and then manually strangled
shortly after walking home from school. Her body was discovered by the family
cleaning lady, who arrived apparently moments after the killing. Police
theorized that the victim walked in on a burglary in progress. They noted that
various household items, including jewelry and silverware, were piled up in
pillow cases near a side door.

“The
burglar, or burglars, may have panicked and left the valuables behind,” said
Daniel O’Connor, the Staten Island District Attorney.

The
crime shocked the close-knit neighborhood, and garnered significant media
attention because the murdered girl was the daughter of Robert Pearsall, the
city editor of the Richmond Register, Staten Island’s community newspaper.
Pearsall, who won a Pulitzer Prize for his investigation into nursing home
abuses on Staten Island and across the nation, lost his wife two years ago and
was devastated by the murder of his only child. He reportedly collapsed at the
newspaper when he got the news.

District
Attorney O’Connor, who pointed out that burglaries and violent crime were rare
in his borough, said his office was devoting all its resources to solving what
he called ‘one of the most heinous crimes in our memory.’”

Banaszak
had not only clipped the article about the murder, but also had underlined, in
red, the part about the rape.

“Is
Whitey your guy?”

“Looks
like it.”

“Damn.
Never would have figured him for something like that.” She shuddered and
finished off her drink. “I guess I’ve had a close call. Christ, I’m pretty good
at sizing up people, especially men. He was so nice to me.”

“Well,
for what it’s worth, he’s a pro, and probably wouldn’t harm a fly in his
‘civilian’ life. And he apparently didn’t have much to do with what happened to
the girl. In fact, he probably regrets it, which is why I’m trying to find him.
I’m after the people who ordered the murder, not him. Any ideas where he might
be? Family? Friends?”

Daisy
Buchanan shook her head.

“He
never mentioned anyone. There’s no other photos around. Never saw anyone visit
him. I used to kid him that he must be in the witness protection program. He
thought that was hysterical. Now I know why. He’s probably the reason some
people are in the program.”

They
walked back to the kitchen, and she poured them both another drink. She hopped
up on the counter to sit and Scarne stood across from her.

“If
you find him alive, what are you going to do? Call the cops?”

“Ask
him some questions first.”

“And
if he won’t answer?”

“He’ll
answer.”

She
looked at him appraisingly.

“And
you’re drinking the man’s bourbon. What about the people you said ordered the
girl killed?”

“Cross
that bridge when I come to it.”

“Raping
and strangling a kid like that. Someone did that to one of my sisters, I’d kill
them.”

“People
who planned it weren’t counting on the rape. It was business.”

“That
makes it worse, don’t you think?”

Scarne
nodded. She leaned forward to clink her glass with his. Her smell, sensual and
tinged with whatever she had done the past night, wafted over him. It was
magnified by the bourbon. She noticed the subtle change in his posture, and
laughing softly, brought the glass to her lips.

“I
like you, Jake. We talk easy. And you haven’t asked what a nice girl like me is
doing hooking.”

“We
don’t know each other well enough to start unburdening our souls, Daisy.
Besides, if a hit man likes you, that’s good enough for me.”

She
laughed and then leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. She leaned
against him, her hand on his chest and looked up.

“Something
tells me we might eventually get to know each other,” she said. “But right now
I’m beat. I’m gonna sleep for a week. Got at least a $3,000 head start on the
weekend, so I’m on vacation, as of now. When you finish in here, just drop the
keys in the umbrella stand outside my door. I’ll clean the place up later. Got
a card in case I have to reach you?”

Scarne
took out his wallet and gave her one. She took it and walked out to the roll
top desk where she had left her pocketbook and put the card inside, pulling out
one of her own. It was gold embossed, with just her name, cell phone number and
email.

“Simple,
but elegant,” he said, sliding it into his wallet.

“Just
like me,” she said. “Except for the simple part.” With that, Daisy Buchanan
from Kansas said “toodles” and walked out the door.

Scarne
spent much of the afternoon searching the apartment, and then took on the nooks
and crannies of the roll top desk, which were stuffed with old mail, bills, a
Zagat’s restaurant guide, a subway map, seating charts for various local sports
stadiums, playbills from Broadway shows, delivery menus from local ethnic
restaurants, pens, pencils, a stapler, scotch tape and just about everything
else one would expect in a New Yorker’s desk.

The
last drawer he opened contained tightly cramped hanging files, each full of
thick folders. It appeared that Banaszak didn’t throw much paperwork out. Since
the drawer had not been locked, and other than the newspaper clipping Scarne
hadn’t come across anything remotely tied to the Pearsall case, he was pretty
sure that he wouldn’t find anything incriminating in the folders. But he knew
he’d have to read every piece of paper in them.

Banaszak
was a disciplined man. All the folders were neatly labeled alphabetically:
‘Automobile’ to ‘Zoo.’ Could there be a clue in Zoo? Was there an animal
connection? He was tempted to pull that folder out and work his way backwards
but it was easier to flip through the folders from the beginning, and start at
‘Automobile.’

There
was nothing remotely incriminating or instructive until he hit the folder
labeled ‘Veterans Administration,’ which Scarne noted sourly, was just before
“Zoo.” In it were copies of various official forms related to Banaszak’s
military experience, including his DD214 discharge papers from the Army, and
applications for medical and other benefits due him. Of particular interest
were some brochures from the V.A. listing the hospice services available to
qualified veterans. The preamble to one brochure stated that the V.A. was
committed “to providing a peaceful journey to America’s veterans in their last
days, to fulfill Abraham Lincoln’s Civil War pledge ‘to care for him who shall
have borne the battle.’” Scarne opened the brochure and found a passage that
Banaszak had highlighted:

“The
V.A. is committed to the provision of compassionate and humane care to the
terminally ill veteran and veteran's family. Hospice and palliative care are
now included in the Medical Benefits Package for eligible enrolled veterans.
Hospice and palliative care optimize the comfort and dignity of the patient
through the effective management of pain and other symptoms. All medical
centers assure that hospice care is made available to all enrolled veterans who
need and select this type of care.”

Scarne,
who himself had been in the V.A. system as a result of wounds, was surprised at
the extent of the hospice and palliative care detailed in the brochures. He
thought it likely that the dying Banaszak was now in one of the V.A.’s hospice
units. But which one? They were undoubtedly spread across the nation, although
Banaszak would probably choose one close by. He looked through the file, hoping
to find a letter of acceptance or referral, but there wasn’t any. Banaszak
might have taken it with him.

He
called Evelyn.

“Find
out how many V.A. hospitals offer hospice care. It’s probably on a Government
website. Then call them and see if they are treating a Wit Banaszak. I could
kick myself I didn’t think about hospice care when you mentioned the V.A. the
other day. I may have to check myself in for observation, or lack of it.”

“Don’t
be too hard on yourself. You got to him pretty quickly anyway.”

“In
his condition, pretty quickly may be too late.”

Scarne
gave her Banaszak’s service number, just in case Meryl Streep needed some help.
He then went through the last folder. It turned out that Banaszak was life
patron at the Bronx Zoo and had donated $1,000 to have a brick with his name
placed on the path leading up to a soon-to-be-built nursery for the babies of
endangered primates. Baby gorillas and
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers
.
I have to meet this guy, he thought.

He
didn’t feel right leaving too much work for Daisy, so he spent almost an hour
repairing most of the disarray from his apartment search, then cleaned himself
up in the kitchen, where he also had another bourbon, which reminded his
stomach that he had skipped lunch. He called Evelyn and told her to order in
some dinner for the both of them. Then he locked the apartment door and walked
down the hall to Daisy Buchanan’s apartment. He could hear soft music through
her door but no other sounds. She was presumably asleep. He dropped Banaszak’s
key in the umbrella stand and took the stairs down. He headed left down the
block toward Amsterdam Avenue to hail a cab.

Scarne
never noticed the tall man dressed in a black suit and turtleneck who turned
the corner at Columbus and walked up to Banaszak’s building.

CHAPTER
22 – THE WORM POOL

By
the time Scarne got back to his office Evelyn had printed out a list of all the
Veterans Administration facilities in the nation. It was six pages long.

“It’s
quite a system. There are 20 Veterans Service Networks, spread out by region.
In each network there are hundreds of hospitals, vet centers, community based
outpatient clinics and the like.”

“I’ll
be the one who’s dead by the time we find him.”

“It’s
not that bad. Assuming Banaszak is in hospice care, the facility is probably in
a hospital. We can eliminate 90 percent of these facilities. Let’s just call
the hospitals, starting in the tri-state area. If that doesn’t work, given the
time zones, we’ll do the East Coast and head west.”

They
worked steadily for two hours, stopping only to eat some heavily sprouted whole
grain sandwiches and drink “organic” coffee from a local health food store.
Scarne was so hungry the sandwiches actually tasted good to him. The coffee
tasted like coffee.

Some
hospitals didn’t offer hospice care and were quickly stricken from the list. At
the others they simply asked to speak to Wit Banaszak. Evelyn was calling the
hospitals in the appropriately named VA Sunshine Network in Florida when an
operator tried to connect her to Banaszak. She quickly hung up with an apology
to the operator about an incoming call.

“The
bastard is still alive,” she said in triumph. “And he’s in the bloody Veterans
Hospital in Tampa.”

Scarne wanted to
catch the 9:30 PM flight from JFK to Tampa.

“What good will
that do, Jake? You’ll get in after midnight, even if it’s on time, which it
won’t be. They won’t let you see him.”

“He’s dying in
hospice, Evelyn. I’m so close.”

“You need a good
night’s sleep. You show up looking like you do they’ll think you’re a patient.”

She was right,
of course, as usual.

***

Feeling vaguely
human and fortified by two blessedly sproutless Egg McMuffins and a large black
coffee, Scarne was on the first nonstop the next morning, a Jet Blue Airbus 300
out of Newark. It was just 11 AM when his rental Ford Fusion pulled into the
hospital parking lot of James A. Haley VA Medical Center on Coombs Blvd. in
Tampa.

According to the
information provided by Evelyn that he read on the plane, Haley was a modern
tertiary care teaching facility affiliated with the University of South Florida
College of Medicine. Of its 350 beds, 180 were designated as nursing home beds.
Of those, 30 were set aside in a separate hospice unit. Banaszak had picked a
good place to die.

The receptionist
at the lobby desk directed him to the third floor, where the hospice beds were.
Banaszak was in room 3303. Scarne got on the elevator with a lanky middle-age
black man wearing dark green corduroy pants, a long-sleeved checkered flannel
shirt and a baseball-type cap that said
‘U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln CVN-72.’
The man sported a bushy white moustache and neatly trimmed beard that matched
his eyebrows and sideburns.

“What floor?”

“Three,” Scarne
answered. “Thanks.”

“That’s my
floor, too,” the man said. “You visiting someone?”

“Guy named,
Banaszak. You know him?”

“Whitey? Sure,
our crazy Polack.” The man suddenly looked curious. “You a friend or relative?
Whitey said he had none of each.”

“Never met the
man. Here on business.”

“Better wrap it
up quick. Don’t think Whitey has much business left to do. I’ve got him in the
Worm Pool and I think I have a good shot.”

“Worm Pool?”

“Yeah. Every
week or so we chip in 50 bucks each and pick names out of the hat. If the guy
you pick croaks first, you win. Serious dough. I got a good chance with Whitey.
He ain’t been looking too perky.”

They reached the
hospice floor and stepped out of the elevator.

“That’s pretty
callous,” Scarne said coldly. “I wonder what the hospital administration would
say, not to mention the patients or their families.”

“Hell, man, the
patients run the pool.” He looked at Scarne appraisingly. “What, you think I
work here, or am visiting? Shit. I’m a resident. I checked into this roach
motel, and I ain’t checking out. I once picked my own name out of the hat.
That’s too creepy, so they let me pick again.”

For the first
time, Scarne noticed the hollowness in the man’s cheeks behind the moustache
and beard, and how loosely his clothes hung.

“I’m sorry. I
just thought, you know, with you walking around…” He didn’t know what else to
say.

“Some of us have
more time than others, and good days and bad days. This is a good day for me.
We ain’t chained to the beds. They let us walk around a bit if we can. I like
to go outside on the lawn in back, sit in the sun. I saw you looking at my
outfit. It’s freezing in the ward. But it’s too much effort to change just to
go out for a few minutes. You think I’d walk around in Florida in this outfit all
the time? Where’s your head at?”

They started
toward a nurses’ station and Scarne changed the subject.

“You serve on
the
Lincoln
?”

“Yeah. You know
her?’

“Took a tour of
her once with a buddy who was assigned to her Marine detachment. Couldn’t
believe how big she was.”

“She’s a
beauty,” the old sailor said reverently. “Spent my best years on her, though I
did time on other
Nimitz
-class carriers. I was a senior chief on the
landing crew. Great ships those flattops. Pride of the nation. People want to
run down this country only have to look at our carrier fleet. Wished they named
them after states, though.”

“What do you
mean?”

They had stopped
just short of the nurses’ station.

“The carriers
are our capital ships, now, right? Just like battleships used to be. I guess I
got no complaint naming ships after Abe Lincoln, or George Washington, or the
Roosevelts or even Truman or Eisenhower. Maybe even Kennedy. At least they were
dead a while. But the
USS Carl Vinson
and the
John C. Stennis
?
Man, those were just payoffs to guys who threw money at the Pentagon. And the
USS
George H.W. Bush
? Give me a fuckin’ break. No sir. Our big ships should be
named after states. Binds the country together. The
Tennessee.
The
Missouri
.
The
New Jersey
. When a ship with a name like that gets into a fight,
people can identify. If it gets itself sunk, that’s like losing a piece of the
country. Think about the
Arizona
. Or the
Maine
. Course, certain
names should be retired, like them two. But you get the picture. Same with
cities. In World War II, when the cruisers
Vincennes
, and
Quincy
went down off Savo Island and
Indianapolis
was torpedoed after
delivering the A-bomb to Tinian, people in every city could identify. Can’t
really get the same feeling about the USS
Lobbyist
, now can you?”

He
laughed and then headed down a hallway, leaving Scarne standing in front of the
nurses’ station. A pretty young nurse filling out paperwork and occasionally
glancing at a bank of monitors looked up and gave Scarne a tired smile. After
he asked for directions to Banaszak’s room, she brightened.

“Gee,
you’re the first visitor he’s had,” she said. She had a lovely smile. “He’s
just down that hallway, last room on the right. Just go right in.”

He
thanked her and headed toward one of several short hallways that emanated
spoke-like in a semi-circle from the nurses’ station. The hospice floor of any
hospital is a depressing place. This was no exception. Despite the best efforts
of staff and décor, there was no hiding its “last stop” ambiance. Gentle
palliative care, brightly painted walls, seascape paintings, balloons and, in
some rooms, attentive family members, were only delaying the inevitable. The
worms were just offstage.

He
passed several rooms where dying veterans lay silently gazing at the ceiling.
Some had single IV bags hanging from poles with thin lines into one arm or the
other. Pain killers, Scarne assumed. There were few sounds, not even the
mechanical clicking and beeping sounds common to most wards, where machines
monitored vital signs, provided nourishment and did a variety of other
life-supporting activities. Life support wasn’t on the agenda here. It was the
silence of the pre-grave. In one or two rooms, women sat silently holding the
hands of feeble men who, in the thrush of their youth, may have thrown a
satchel charge into a Japanese bunker on Tarawa , or cut down North Vietnamese
sappers in the Ia Drang Valley. In one room, a younger vet, bald and emaciated,
smiled and gave a feeble thumbs up. Scarne, feeling guilty about his own good
health, returned the gesture.

He
entered Banaszak’s room. In the bed was a motionless bag of bones. The man’s
skin was a ghastly white. Christ, Scarne thought. I’m too late. But then he saw
the chest rise and fall, almost imperceptibly. He was sleeping. Scarne walked
around to a small bureau on the side of the bed nearest the window. He opened
the top drawer. Amid the usual clutter – tubes of skin cream and other salves,
various pills, hard candies, an Ed McBain 87
^th
Precinct paperback (
The
Frumious Bandersnatch
– one of Scarne’s favorites), tissues – there was a
cell phone.

“Who
the fuck are you?”

Scarne
turned toward the raspy voice. Banaszak’s head was now lolling toward him, and
his eyes were beginning to focus. Scarne powered off the cell phone and slipped
it into his pocket. The dying man didn’t seem to notice. He made a weak effort
to sit up, but then collapsed back on his pillow.

“Help
me sit up,” he wheezed.

Scarne
reached under Banaszak’s shoulder and lifted. It took virtually no effort. He
had the impression he could fold him in half like a napkin. Fluffing up two
pillows, he gently leaned the sick man back.

“Water.”

Scarne
picked up a cup from the chest and put the straw to Banaszak’s mouth. He took
several small sips and then ran his tongue around his lips.

“What
I wouldn’t give for a fuckin’ smoke. Like it would make a difference, right?
That’s what I tell my doctor. I think I’m wearing him down. Smokes like a
chimney himself. Nurses tell me he’s always sneaking out on one of the
terraces. Piece of work. He’ll give me a butt before this is all over.”
Banaszak was overtaken by another fit of coughing. He quieted, then looked at
Scarne. “So, who are you? Cop?”

The
man wasn’t dead yet, Scarne thought. Not much use in lying to an old pro like
this.

“Private.
I’m investigating the murder of Elizabeth Pearsall.”

“So
Jarecki dropped the dime. Not that it will do you any good. I said as much as
I’m going to. I’m no rat. I made it clear to the priest. No names.”

“What
do you owe anyone? You’re dying, for God’s sake. I’ll get the bastards
eventually. You can just speed it up for me. You think they’re scum, too. Or
you wouldn’t have gone to Jarecki to clear your conscience.”

“Forget
it, pal. You seem to be doing fine. How did you find me?”

Scarne
told him.

“Not
bad, shamus. Who you working for anyway?”

“Myself.
Knew the family. You’re lucky you’re almost dead.”

Banaszak
smiled.

“Tough
guy, huh? You’d be doing me a favor. That’s why you won’t do it, right?” He
leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “Tough guy. Like me.” He closed his
eyes. Scarne thought he was drifting off. But then the eyes opened and he
turned to Scarne. “Tell you what. No names. But here’s how it went down. I
freelance, but most of my work is for the local mobs in New York. I generally
like to work alone but this time I got set up with a black dude from out of
town. He’s the one who raped and killed the girl.”

“Don’t
you want him to pay for that?”

“I
killed him.” Banaszak confessed to murdering his partner with the ease of a man
ordering a ham sandwich. “Fuckin’ animal.”

“Nice
to know you have standards.”

“Fuck
you. I’ll kill anyone they tell me to. Been doing it for 30 years. But it’s
always business. The rape wasn’t business. She died hard. Wasn’t right. The hit
was meant to shake up the girl’s father, a newspaper guy who was getting in the
way of something.”

“Any
idea what it was? NASCAR?”

“You’ve
been doing your homework. But it had to be bigger than that.”

“Like
what?”

“How
the fuck do I know? Now beat it, I’m getting tired.”

Scarne
was going to press the issue when a voice behind him said, “Any problems, Mr.
Banaszak?”

He
turned to see a huge man in a green smock filling the doorway.

“Doc,
get rid of this guy. He’s been trying to sell me life insurance. What kind of
operation you running? How did he get in here?”