Two Jakes (68 page)

CHAPTER
31 – TUNNEL

“I
hate to say it, Jake,” Mack said when they finished, “but this is a brilliant
idea.”

“Yes,”
Scarne agreed. “Too bad it got Elizabeth Pearsall killed.”

“Are
you sure?”

“In
my gut. One of the kids working the story for Bob found out about the old
tunnel projects. He was thinking about doing a whimsical story about them. He
even told Bimm, who said it was news to him.”

“He
lied. Both the track and Home Port were covers for modern tunnels.”

“And
if I’m right, the real tragedy is that the reporter didn’t know what he really
had. Pearsall wasn’t interested, but Bimm didn’t know that. He would have
assumed that the reporter was just being cagey and that Bob was behind the
inquiry. Bimm was afraid that he would eventually find out something he
shouldn’t.”

They
heard a slap and a yelp and then Bobo Sambuca walked in the room.

“Some
kind of neighborhood security patrol car just stopped outside. Our police guys
shooed him away, but they say we’d better wrap this up soon.”

“Won’t
be much longer,” Scarne said. “What did you just do to Herbie?”

“Just
a little practice,” Bobo said and went out.

Another
slap and yelp and then all was quiet.

“OK,
Jake. But what? People can get killed when billions are on the table. But why
in this case? Would the tunnels be that bad for Staten Island? I can think of a
lot of reasons why they might do some good. And most of those reasons have
exhaust pipes.”

Scarne
tilted his chair back and put his hands behind his head, thinking.

“I
don’t know. But we do know that Bimm is fronting for someone. He doesn’t have
the resources to pull this off. Who does?”

“Nobody
on Staten Island. Maybe some big Wall Street honcho, or a foreign government.
It would be interesting to find out who owns the land on the Brooklyn and New
Jersey sides.”

“Whoever
it is,” Scarne said. “They don’t want their involvement known. Might be
criminal. Might be something else.”

“It
would eventually come out, Jake. Somebody might notice the big fucking holes.”

“Once
they got all their ducks in order they might be willing to go public. Maybe
they hadn’t finished paying off all the right politicians.”

“I
love it when you get cynical. Now what?”

“We’ve
got nothing. All this legal gobbledygook won’t hold up in court. We can’t even
tie Bimm to Lacuna with this stuff. And with Sallie Mae and Banaszak dead all
we have are some phone records that a first-year law student could explain
away.”

“We
could give what we’ve got to the cops. Condon may be able to shake something
loose.”

“And
Bimm will lawyer up. And the people behind him probably can senator up. And
then we’d have to give up the priest or go to jail. No cops.”

Dudley
Mack shook his head.

“You
know, you amaze me. I keep forgetting that I’m supposed to be the crook. You’re
saying we have to squeeze Bimm ourselves. Get him to roll.”

“Yes.”

“Works
for me. You’d better let me do it. You’re too dainty.”

There
was another yelp from Lemming.

“Better
than a doorbell,” Mack said as Bobo walked in to the room.

“Fuzz
are antsy,” Bobo said. “They’re talking about their pensions.”

“OK,
we’re done,” Mack said, reaching into his pocket for a flash drive, which he
inserted in one of the computer’s UBS slots. “Let me copy all this.”

“You
must have seen that in a movie,” Scarne said.

While
Mack was downloading, he wandered around the room looking for anything
incriminating. Perhaps Bimm had a hidden safe full of numbered bank accounts in
Switzerland. He wondered if Herb the Perv had safecracking on his resume. He
squinted behind a huge painting of a Bengal Tiger. Nothing. He started heading
toward some other Holiday Inn art work on a far wall when he passed a bureau
covered with photo frames. Bimm apparently wasn’t a family man. But he was definitely
a narcissist. All the photos featured the fat doctor at various business
meetings.

Scarne
was about to move on when a familiar photo caught his eye. It was a shot of a
luncheon or dinner table at some civic function. Beldon Popp was sitting between
Donald Trump and Aristotle Arachne, who both had the same dyspeptic looks on
their faces. It was the picture Scarne had seen in Popp’s office at the
Register
.
He realized that the one at the newspaper had been cropped and blown up. This
one showed everyone at the table – including Nathan Bimm. Scarne glanced at an
inscription in the lower right-hand corner. The photo was taken two years
earlier at the New York Hilton.

Arachne
had told Scarne that he didn’t know Bimm. Of course, the photo didn’t necessarily
make him a liar. Arachne probably attended scores of functions a year. He might
not have remembered Bimm, even though the man was hard to miss in his white
suit, which made him look, especially in a photo, like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.
And that didn’t mean Ari would recall his name. But something nagged at the
back of Scarne’s brain. Then it hit him.

“Bobo!
Bring Herbie in here. Alive.”

Scarne
went over to the computer.

“What’s
up,” Mack said. “I was just about to close it down.”

“I
got a bad feeling about something.”

Bobo
came in with Lemming.

“Herb,”
Scarne said, pointing to the screen. “Open up that folder.”

“A.A.
Meetings? The guy’s a lush?” Lemming said, disapprovingly. “Can’t trust a
boozer.”

Scarne
and Mack traded pot-calling-the-kettle-black looks.

“Just
open it,” Scarne said.

The
security lock gave even Lemming some trouble.

“This
one’s a bitch,” he said.

“How
long?” Scarne said.

“Five
minutes, maybe ten.”

“Bobo,
go tell Abel we need more time.”

Sambuca
went out. Seven minutes later Lemming broke into the folder and opened one of
the files.

“The
son of a bitch,” Mack said after reading a few lines. Then he pulled Lemming
out of the chair. “Herbie, you did good. I may let you sit in the front seat on
the way back to the halfway house. But for now, go back in the living room and
don’t make a mess.”

The
files in the folder had nothing to do with Alcoholics Anonymous. They were all
related to Bimm’s business dealings with Aristotle Arachne.

“It’s
his tunnels, his money, his plan, everything,” Scarne said. “He was behind it
all along. Care to bet who owns that Brooklyn and New Jersey land?”

“Bimm
could have orchestrated Elizabeth’s murder on his own,” Mack pointed out,
“without Arachne knowing about it.”

“But
probably not Lacuna’s or Banaszak’s,” Scarne said. “Arachne lied to me about
knowing Bimm. And he set me up at Pocono Downs. We can’t prove it, but we know
it all. And so does Bimm. When is he due back?”

“Day
after tomorrow.”

“Can
you snatch him?”

“I’ll
use tranquilizer harpoons.”

When
they got out to the street Scullen said, “What did you find out?’

“He’s
got a terrific porn collection and a lousy decorator,” Scarne said. “Nothing
you can use.”

“Then
what took you so long. Did you grill some fucking steaks and watch skin
flicks?”

“Sorry.
It took time to go through Bimm’s files. It was like reading hieroglyphics. I’m
about to go blind even without the goddamn porn.”

Later,
as they were leaving the precinct, Scarne said, “I felt bad about that. Think
they bought it?’

“Probably,”
Mack said. “Cops are used to being lied to. You can make it up to them later.
Throw some credit their way. Now, I’ll handle Bimm. What are you going to do?”

“Confront
Arachne.”

“Where?”

“His
place.”

“You’re
gonna just waltz in?”

“I
have the secret code.”

“I’m
not sure what that means, but it might be better if we had Bimm first.”

Scarne
thought about it.

“You’re
right. Give me the flash drive. I’ll put Evelyn to work on putting something
together for me when I pop in on Arachne. Let me know when you have Bimm.”

“Make
sure you see Arachne with more than a flash drive in your hand.”

Scarne
looked at his friend.

“What?”
Mack said. “You think you’re the only one who can come up with lines from
The
Godfather
?”

CHAPTER
32 – FISH FOOD

“The
website said this was one of their newer resorts,” Sobok said. The cab had just
pulled up to the front entrance of the Paradise Island Beach Resort after
passing what appeared to be a huge industrial complex alive with dump trucks
kicking up dust. The air had a decidedly non-tropical smell. “Might have even
said newest.” The entrance looked tired and worn. Even given the short shelf
life of tropical properties, this one looked at least a decade old.

“Company
bought the property a few months ago,” the cab driver said. He was a grizzled
black man wearing a watch cap. “Means they can say it’s one of their newer
properties. Not lying, but not exactly the truth.” He saw the look of
resignation on Sobok’s face. “But it ain’t bad. Right on the ocean. Maybe even
closer, what with the storm coming.” Bahamian humor. Violet, a late November
Tropical Storm churning in the Atlantic was threatening to ruin the weekend
plans of thousands of tourists. I’ll be long gone by the time it gets here,
Sobok thought, after really ruining someone’s vacation.

“What
was that big facility we just passed?”

“Laundry
for the Atlantis resort. Behind it is a sewage treatment plant.”

Wonderful,
Sobok thought. Then he decided to enjoy himself. He’d stayed in much worse
accommodations earlier in his career. Even the ride in the ancient puddle-jumper
prop plane from Fort Lauderdale to Nassau had been nostalgic. It had been a
long time since he had watched a mechanic pour oil out of a quart can into an
exhaust-scarred engine just before takeoff. It reminded him of some flights in
Africa years earlier when he assumed, given the propensity of African aircraft
to fall out of the sky, he was probably in just as much danger as his intended
targets at the time.

After
paying the driver and politely refusing his offer to be a tour guide for his
stay, Sobok walked into the lobby, which had all the ambiance of a Salvation
Army consignment shop, right down to the decrepit furniture. There were three
women sitting behind the reception counter. Two didn’t even bother to look up,
but the youngest of the three stood and smiled pleasantly.

“Can
I help you?”

Sobok
figured she was new and still bright eyed and bushy tailed. He gave her his
reservation number and credit card for “incidentals,” which included a $50
“energy fee.”

“What
time do you schedule your electrocutions,” he asked.

“Sir?”

Apparently
Bahamian humor went only so far. Sobok was given a faded “VI” card which
allowed him to charge things to his room; he assumed the “P” had rubbed off.
The nice young girl gave him a small map of the property and circled his
apartment. He walked out a side door past a small pool where several squealing
children were hurtling down plastic slides. He entered a breezeway. On his left
was a small sundries shop and on the right what appeared to be a café. Several
people in bathing suits were sitting in the breezeway, either having coffee or
working on laptops. A woman on one of the computers saw him looking at her.

“Wireless,”
she said. “This is the only hotspot in the whole place. Or you can use the
computers off the lobby for $5 an hour.”

Sobok’s
apartment, on the second floor of a building just past the main pool and Tiki
bar, was about as expected. Two bedrooms, platform kitchen with attached dining
alcove, living room with a TV on a counter (the battery compartment in the
remote was taped closed) and a small terrace overlooking the pool and Tiki hut.
Nice view of the ocean about 75 yards away. Everything looked clean, in a dirty
sort of way. Cracked tile, old paint, no shampoo or other amenities in the
bathrooms except some bars of generic looking soap.

There
was no TV in the master bedroom, although one was listed on the sheet near the
refrigerator that catalogued the apartment’s contents. Sobok went into the
smaller of the two bedrooms. He spotted something on the far wall by the
window. He walked over. It was either a brown vine or the strangest looking
mold he’d ever seen. About three feet long, it snaked down from the top corner
of the window. The last few inches were powdery. Maybe it was dying. It
reminded Sobok of one of the tentacles coming out of the pod in
Invasion of
the Body Snatchers
. He decided to sleep in the other bedroom. Sobok threw
his bag on one of the twin beds in the bedroom furthest from the alien-looking
vine changed into a bathing suit and golf shirt, and headed to the beach.

The
choppy surf was feeling the effects of Violet, even though the storm was
hundreds of miles away. But there was only a slight breeze and Sobok enjoyed
his quick swim. Then he walked back to the hotel pool where just about every
lounge chair was occupied. Sobok dropped his towel and shirt on a chair and
dove into the pool. He was surprised by the chill. He swam over to the Tiki bar
and sat on one of the concrete stools that allowed patrons to sit in the water
and have a drink. He ordered a Planters Punch from the woman tending the hut .
The Tiki hut was octagonal and small clear plastic bags half filled with water
hung from the ceiling on the outside. When his drink came, he asked the server
about the bags.

“Keeps
the flies away.” More Bahamian humor? She saw the look on his face. “They
reflect the sunlight.” She sounded bored. He wasn’t the first one to ask.
“Flies see their reflection much bigger and it scares them away.”

“You’re
joking.”

“See
any flies?”

Sobok
was about to reply that maybe the flies were avoiding her Planter’s Punch,
which was terrible. Too sweet, with an undercurrent of coconut that didn’t
belong. But he didn’t want to push his luck. Place wasn’t all that bad. Usually
he stayed at the world-famous Dune Club when on Paradise Island, but this was
going to be a quick job and his rundown hotel was within walking distance of
the Atlantis, the huge resort and casino complex where Nathan Bimm was staying.

***

One
of the singular attractions in the Atlantis resort complex was its famous 2.7
million-gallon saltwater Ruins Lagoon, a huge open-air aquarium home to 20,000
reef and pelagic fish, and other marine life. The “Ruins” referred to the fake
artifacts and crumbling buildings strewn throughout the bottom of the lagoon,
which were supposed to represent the lost city for which the resort was named.

The
Great Hall of Waters in the hotel’s Royal Tower offered a faux sea-level view
of the aquarium and its denizens to diners in its café. Protected by a
two-story high wall of glass, they could eat their seafood while 12-foot
hammerheads and six-foot barracudas glided by, some of whom would have been
delighted to return the compliment.

The
café was sparsely occupied at 8 A.M., which gave Doris and Michael Fassbinder
and their three children the chance to grab the table nearest the aquarium
glass.

“Wow!
Look at that!”

Patrick
was only five, young enough to still be impressed by the Volkswagen-sized sea
turtle that cruised by with seemingly little effort from its massive flippers.
The boy had his face planted against the glass, having barely touched his
pancakes since they’d arrived. His parents were glad the waitress had suggested
the pancakes. The breakfast buffet would have been wasted on him. They could
always slip him some eggs, sausages and French toast from their mounds of food.

“The
glass makes it look bigger than it is, Trickster,” Lisa said. She and her twin
sister, Kate, both 12, had also skipped the hot buffet and were picking at
their yogurt and fruit plates. Conscious of their bodies even now, they were on
a health kick. They had both looked at their father’s heaping plate with
disdain. They were always on his case about cholesterol, fish oil and whole
grains. They were right, of course, Fassbinder knew. But what the hell? This is
a vacation getaway. He looked out at one of the Delphic columns in the
aquarium. Some poor schlep in the real Atlantis was probably eating a healthy
meal when the ancient volcano exploded. What good did it do him?

“I
don’t think it magnifies them all that much,” his wife said. The aquarium back
home in Norwalk, CT, had concave glass that made a striped bass look like a
dirigible. “That’s pretty close to life size.”

“Oh,
wow! Look at that. Come here!”

The
two girls rolled their eyes at each other but they went to join their little
brother. A late addition to the Fassbinder clan, he was their pet. Their
parents smiled at each other and, with no disapproving almost-teenage eyes
looking at them, dug into their sinful breakfast.

“What
is that?” It was Kate. “Someone swimming in there? Isn’t it dangerous? Hey
guys, you should check this out.”

Michael
Fassbinder was spearing a sausage from his wife’s plate.

“Probably
one of the staff,” he said to no one in particular. “They know what they’re doing.
The fish are well fed. It’s perfectly safe.”

“Speaking
of well fed,” his wife said, “go easy on the sausage.”

“I
think it’s a manatee,” Lisa said. “One of the sharks is eating it.”

“I
didn’t think they had manatees in the lagoon,” his wife said.

“Gross,”
Kate said.

Fassbinder
was playfully going for another sausage when he saw the funny look on his
wife’s face.

“What
is that,” she said, starting to rise.

He
followed her to the glass to see what the kids were looking at. Patrick had
started to cry. He was always sensitive.

“Don’t
look, Trickster,” Kate said protectively as the boy dug his face into her hip.

There
was a huge hammerhead shark slamming into something that was not quite
manatee-sized but pretty damn big. Too white for a manatee, Fassbinder thought.
A couple of barracuda were circling the object, occasionally darting in to tear
out a chunk of the animal. Well, so much for being well-fed. Law of the jungle
and all that, but this is probably something the kids shouldn’t watch. There
was a dark cloud beginning to surround the poor creature, which was being
nudged closer to the glass. Other, smaller fish, jacks, drums and snappers,
which normally swam by in platoons at a leisurely, disciplined pace, were now
darting about haphazardly in a panicked frenzy.

“OK,
everyone, back to the table,” Fassbinder said. “Show’s over. It’s time to .…”

He
didn’t finish the sentence as his wife and daughters started screaming
simultaneously. A busboy walking past said, “holy shit,” and dropped a tray
loaded with dirty dishes and glasses, adding to the clamor.

Fassbinder
stood transfixed as the body of a huge naked man bumped up against the glass,
minus an arm, which the hammerhead was shaking back and forth like a terrier
with a bone.

Nathan
Bimm’s eyes were agape and his fat, blubbery lifeless lips kissed the glass. As
the shocked father hurried his family away, alarms began sounding throughout
the hotel.