FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6) (15 page)

“Hey, Jake, what do you want me to do with these two sacks of shit?”

Scarne turned to Sambuca, who was alternately raising each thug off the ground like a human barbell.

“Good exercise,” Bobo explained.

“Got their weapons?”

“Yeah. Nice Glocks. Dudley can use them.”

OK. Take the guns, leave the cannoli.”

“You just had to say it, didn’t you?”

“Sorry. Just throw them in the pool.”

As they walked out of the park from the opposite side Scarne had entered, they could hear cursing and thrashing in the pool. Bobo Sambuca’s car, one of the hearses in Dudley Mack’s funeral home fleet, was idling at the curb.

At the sight of the hearse, Barry Hine’s knees buckled. Scarne grabbed him and said, “Relax, kid, you’re still going to make it to graduation, if you don’t die of old age first.”

The man behind the wheel of the hearse got out.

“Any problems with the locals, Muscles?” Bobo asked.

The driver, an obvious weight-lifter who was only slightly smaller than Bobo, shook his head.

“What a surprise,” Scarne said.

“Jake, this is Sal Scungili. We call him Muscles.”

“Muscles Scungili? You ever think about opening up a seafood restaurant?”

“Nah. I just drive for Mr. Mack.”

***

Barry Hine lived in a run-down garden apartment on the ill-named Tiffany Street between the Oak Point Freight Yard and the Hunts Point Sewage Treatment Plant. Scarne took Barry into his apartment alone. He did not expect anything funny from Hine, especially with Bobo and the other side of beef waiting outside in a hearse.

When Barry opened the door to his place, a large tomcat padded over and started rubbing against his leg. He picked it up and turned to Scarne.

“He’s hungry. Mind if I feed him?”

“Go ahead.”

Barry went to cupboard and opened it. He reached in. The cupboard was filled with different brands of premium cat foods. Barry took out two cans and filled the animal’s bowl, and also put out some water. The cat start eating greedily.

“Expensive cat food,” Scarne commented.

“Got a discount,” Barry replied, smiling. “Off the back of a truck.”

They went into a surprisingly neat bedroom, where in addition to a bed, there was a table with a laptop computer and printer. They looked new and Scarne wondered if they were also stolen. Barry went over to the printer and lifted the front off, as if he was going to change the ink or paper. It was hollow. Inside were packages and vials of presumably illegal substances. But there was also a manila envelope. He handed it to Scarne and they went out to the kitchen and sat at a table.  Scarne opened the envelope. In it were photostatic copies of two passports, flattened open to the I.D. pages.   

It was the first time Scarne had seen a picture of Willet. It made no impression on him one way or the other. The other photo did.  Belying the old saw that no one looks good in their passport photo, Alana Dallas was as beautiful as she appeared in any of the photos Maura and Anastasia had supplied.

“These aren’t their names,” Scarne said.

“Yeah,” Hine said. “Me and my friend asked Willet about that. He said Brandeford was his real name and he wanted the broad to travel with it, too. Said he’d make it official soon, anyway. Tell you the truth, I think he was in love with her. Can’t say I blame him. She’s fuckin’ hot looking, ain’t she?”

“Did you know he probably used your drugs on this girl?”

“Shit, no, man! I told you before I figured he needed them for a date or something. Guess they kissed and made up. You should be glad it all worked out.”

“You sure those brochures you saw were for Martinique?”

“I’m not positive. They were lying on a table. I barely glanced at them.”

Scarne fingered the passports, which looked as if they were expert forgeries. He wondered how hard it would be to track down Brandeford, whoever he really was. The name meant nothing to him. And Alana Dallas was obviously no longer a prisoner. She was an active participant, an accomplice, in whatever the hell was going on.   

“These passports are the old type,” Scarne said. “The new ones have a chip in them for identification and tracking purposes. They are much harder, if not impossible, to forge.”

“Yeah. I know. But old passports are still valid until their expiration dates and these won’t expire until next year.  By then someone will have figured out how to beat the chip thing. My man is already working on it.” Hine was almost proud. “Impossible, my ass. Nothing the Government does he can’t beat.”

Scarne had a thought. He reached in his pocket and took out $200. He threw it on the table.

“When your pal beats the chip, give me a call,” Scarne said, thinking that such excellent fake passports could come in handy in his own business, not to mention Dudley Mack’s. “I may be able to throw some work his way.”

“You mean my way,” Hine said, smiling.

Scarne laughed.

“You know, Barry, I’m getting to like you.”

“You like me enough to give a couple hundred more? Those two guys you beat up are friends of mine. I haven’t even paid them yet. And you took their guns.”

“What the hell?” Scarne took out another $400 and threw it down on top of the other bills. “I got more than I expected from you and I guess we all have to live. But keep your mouth shut about all this.”

“Who would I tell? Willet is in the wind.”

“Don’t even brag about it, Barry. I’m serious. You have any more copies than these?”

“No.”

“I hope you’re telling the truth, Barry. Because I’m taking these. There may be other people looking for Willet. And they are nowhere near as nice as Bobo and I. They are the kind of people who like to tie up loose ends. They’ll turn you into cat food.”

Scarne could tell from the look of fear on Hine’s face that he’d made his point.

***

It was almost 4 AM when Bobo and Muscles dropped Scarne off in the circular driveway in front of his apartment building in Greenwich Village. The doorman did not even bat an eye when he got out of the hearse. He was used to Scarne’s sometimes unconventional arrivals.

“Thanks for your help, boys,” Scarne said, reaching into the hearse to shake their hands. “Sorry I kept you out so late. Tell Dudley to give you the rest of the day off.”

“Sure you don’t want to come with us to Coppelia’s for some huevos rancheros, steaks and a couple of mojitos, Jake.”

Coppelia’s was a Cuban all-night diner in the West Village on 14th Street.

“Fuck the mojito’s,” Scungili said. “It’s tequila time!”

“Some other time,” Scarne said, laughing, thinking he could probably sell tickets at Coppelia’s when Bobo Sambuca and Muscles Scungili showed up in a hearse.

CHAPTER 20 - CALLING IN A FAVOR

It was almost noon when Scarne got to his office. Evelyn was undergoing her medical procedure and had the day off, but Noah was in his office. Scarne put two coffees and a bag of donuts on Sealth’s desk and told him about the biopsy.

“Jesus, I hope it turns out OK. Do you think she’ll mind if I tell Juliette?”

“They’re pretty close. I think Ev would appreciate the support, whichever way it goes.”

Like most tough men who took their health for granted, the occasional work-related wounds aside, the thought of serious illness frightened both Scarne and Sealth, especially when it concerned someone they cared about deeply.

“Jules is real Catholic. She’ll break out the Rosary beads. I think she even has a Novena for this kind of thing.”

“Can’t hurt,” Scarne said.

Then he told Sealth what he found out from Barry Hine.

“The son-of-a-bitch was going to mug you for the dough,” Sealth said. “You can never trust a druggie.”

“This one may come in handy. He’s our druggie now.”

“I bet he got quite a shock when he saw Bobo. And this Scungili character. Dudley must employ people by the pound.”

They broke out the coffees and donuts.

“This will probably ruin my lunch,” Sealth said.

Scarne looked at him. Noah shrugged.

“Well, maybe not. So, what’s our next move?”

“I’ll call Anastasia and bring him up to speed, and then I’m going to track this guy Brandeford. If he used the passports, he shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

“You going to contact that gal you know in Washington, what’s her name?”

“Rasmussen, Anne Rasmussen.”

“You ever see her?”

“Just keep in touch on the phone, emails, the occasional text.”

“She still got the hots for you?”

“I don’t know about that. But I’m sure a visit to D.C. would be worthwhile.”

Sealth laughed.

“Man, if I recall, you sucked a deadly virus out of one of her boobs and saved her life. I’d be on the Acela to Washington quicker than the Sioux on Custer so she could show me some gratitude.”

“She doesn’t owe me anything,” Scarne said. “Besides, I’m kind of involved with someone right now.” He got up. “Enough gossip. I have to make some calls. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you, how did the stakeout go?”

Sealth had been in and out of the office for most of the past two weeks.

“Film at 11. The aggrieved wife will be very happy. And very rich.”

***

The Defense Clandestine Service was a fairly new department set up by the Pentagon to monitor foreign threats. Scarne personally believed that there were too damn many intelligence operations being run by the Government. In fact, he had long argued that the Department of Homeland Security was an unnecessary bureaucracy created in panic after 9/11 to give cover to the incredible incompetence and outright dereliction of duty of existing Government agencies, when a general housecleaning would have been more productive. No heads rolled after the debacle, which, he believed, was one of the main reasons that heads continued to roll in the Middle East, compliments of  the murderous thugs of I.S.I.S.

But he was glad, at least, that the D.C.S. was not as hidebound as other agencies. It had good agents, and Anne Rasmussen was one of the best. And unlike most people in the agencies with all the letters, she was always quick to answer his calls.

“You ready to sign on with us, Jake?”

That was how Rasmussen always started their conversations. She, and her bosses, had been impressed with Scarne on the Viron case, and constantly tried to recruit him. They dangled the possibility that his time in the Marine Corps could be tacked onto any new Government service for purposes of advancement and retirement.

“I haven’t said no, Annie, but now is not the time.”

“Do you string all your girls along this way?”

“You bet.”

They chatted for a while. Finally, she said, “This isn’t purely a social call, is it?”

“I need a favor?”

“Is it legal?”

“I don’t know, Annie. You tell me. If I give you a couple of passport names can you find out if they’ve left the country, and where they might be?”

“You must be joking? I could probably tell you what they had for breakfast today. Hell, and I think it’s legal. Give me the names.”

Scarne did.

“By the way, the passports are phony.”

“This have anything to do with national security.”

“No. Just run-of-the-mill crime.”

“Believe it or not, I find that refreshing.”

“If it helps, they may have traveled to Martinique.”

“I’ll call you back. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Thanks, Annie. I owe you.”

“I think you have the owesies backwards.”

Next, Scarne called Vincent Anastasia.

“Alana is alive and I’m pretty sure I can locate her.”

“Where?”

“The Caribbean, possibly Martinique. And, as we suspected, I believe she is there of her own volition.”

“Tell me.”

Scarne spent a quarter of an hour explaining what he’d done. When he finished, Anastasia said, “Where does a two-bit college teacher get the balls to snatch one of his students? And what the fuck are they teaching at these schools now? Drugs and forgery?”

“I don’t know, Vinnie, but the kidnapper must have a past. The guy who helped him out with both the drugs and passports said Willet was not the teacher’s real name. It was Brandeford, which is what he used on the fake passports.”

What followed was such a long silence that Scarne thought he might have lost the call.

“Vinnie? You still there?”

“Did you say Brandeford? Lucas Brandeford?”

“I didn’t say Lucas, but, yes, that’s the name. I guess he kept his first name. I don’t know where the Willet came from.”

“Lucas Fucking Brandeford,” Anastasia rasped. “Sweet Jesus.”

“You know him?”

Another long silence.

“Scarne, when you find him let me know.”

“I think I should tell Maura.”

“No! Leave that to me. Just find the son-of-a-bitch!”

The line went dead. Scarne stared at his phone. What the hell?

***

A half hour later, Anne Rasmussen called back.

“Those bogus passports must have been pretty good. Lucas and Alana Brandeford flew out of Miami and are in Sint Maarten, not Martinique. And there is no record of them leaving the island. It’s the Dutch part of the island of Saint Martin. The French side is Saint-Martin, with a hyphen. The French love hyphens. Don’t ask me why. But I hear each side has its own charm. Do you want me to notify the locals? Or our passport folks?”

“God, no. I have to take care of this myself.”

“A little fun in the sun?”

“Somehow, I don’t think so. Thanks, Annie. Next time I’m in D.C., I’ll buy you the best dinner in town.”

“Promises, promises.”

Scarne had no intention of scouring an entire Caribbean island for Alana Dallas, even in the off-season when there were presumably fewer people. The permanent population, according to a Google search, was still in the vicinity of 80,000. He was not even sure on which half of the island she and Brandeford might be. He walked over to Sealth’s office and filled him in.

“Noah, do you think Juliette could call some of her old pals in the Sûreté and find me a reputable private investigator on the French side of St Martin’s Island? Someone who can keep his mouth buttoned?”

An hour later, Scarne had a name and phone number of a former French police detective who had retired to Saint-Martin and ran a small investigative service in Marigot, the main town and capital on the French side of the Caribbean island.

“Juliette says he is very discreet. Does a lot of work all over the Caribbean tracking down Americans running from financial frauds and lawsuits. Made a fortune after the market crash.”

“Does he know the Dutch side of the island?”

“Yes. Has contacts in all the casinos and real estate offices. Not to mention the government, both of them.” 

Scarne called the man, whose name was Farron Bastian. Leaving out the reason he wanted Alana Dallas and Brandeford found, but providing just enough information about scuba diving and diamonds to give him something to go on, he stressed the need for both discretion and speed.

“You have not asked my rates, Mr. Scarne.”

“I don’t want to know your rates. I will pay you $5,000 if you can find them within a week. I will wire you half the money now and Fax you some photos. I don’t want receipts or written reports. Do you understand?”

“Oui. Assurément.”

“I’ll be on a plane tomorrow,” Scarne said.