FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6) (7 page)

CHAPTER
8
– SECOND THOUGHTS

The morning after Scarne took the Alana Dallas case, a nervous Luke Willet sat in the outer office of Columbia University’s Department of English and Comparative Literature in Philosophy Hall on Amsterdam Avenue. He was there to see Joshua Swartzberg, the dean of the department.

Willet, who was sweating profusely despite the fact that the weather outside was abnormally chilly for the time of year and the office was not much warmer, tried not to show his irritation at the treatment he’d received from Swartzberg’s secretary, a middle-aged tyrant named Mary Mulgready.  Although it was only 10 AM, Swartzberg’s waiting room was already full of students who had appointments. Willet, an adjunct, did not, and was rudely put in his place by the officious secretary when he asked to buck the line.

“Dr. Swartzberg is a very busy man,” she said, barely looking up at Willet. “He only sees students by appointment.”

Mulgready was a big women. Her massive bosom strained against a formless black dress. Her steel-gray hair was tied in a tight bun behind a square face that radiated contempt.

“Do I look like a student? I teach one of the courses in his curriculum.”

“I know all the professors in the department,” she said, taking off her horn-rim eyeglasses. “Are you new?”

The glasses were on a chain. The chain disappeared into the folds on her neck. The glasses did not need a chain to keep them from falling to the desk. Her breasts would have stopped them. Willet could feel the eyes of the students nearest the desk on him. He thought he heard a snicker.

“I’m not a full professor. I’m an adjunct.”

“Oh, that explains it,” she huffed. “Is it important, Mr. Billet?”

“It’s Willet. It concerns one of my students.”

The grotesque woman stared at Willet for some time. I should have said I was a maintenance man here to fix a light bulb in Swartzberg’s office, he fumed. But it would not do to make too much of a scene.

“As soon as Dr. Swartzberg is finished with his current appointment,” Mulgready finally said, “I’ll try to fit you in. Although, as I noted, he is very busy. Take a seat.”

Willet, who knew just how easy the life of a top-tier academic was, especially a Dean, swallowed a sarcastic response. If he antagonized the Irish bitch, he’d probably be stuck there until graduation. He sat, trying not to make eye contact with the students, who by now were all amused.

Twenty minutes later the door to the Dean’s office opened and a young man came out. Mary Mulgready looked at Willet and sighed, and then heaved her considerable weight out of her chair and went into her boss’s office. A moment later she emerged and crooked a finger at the adjunct.

“Dr. Swartzberg can spare five minutes.”

He got up and quickly walked past her, shutting the door behind him. Swartzberg was sitting behind his huge captain’s desk, writing something on a yellow legal pad. He looked up and smiled.  

“Luke, how nice to see you. You shaved off your beard and mustache. I hardly recognized you.”

Willet was surprised that Swartzberg remembered his first name.

“I thought it would be too hot for the summer,” he said.

And, he thought to himself, if anyone remembered a bearded man picking up a girl on Riverside Drive, that man no longer existed. Nor did the maroon Camry, which he had repainted black the day after the kidnapping. Willet knew his students would be astounded at how good he was with spray painters and other power tools, the result of years of bouncing around at odd jobs before he resumed teaching. Alana Dallas discovered how fine his work was when she made her obligatory attempts to break out of her prison. She was barely able to scratch the edges around the door and bolted window in her room. She gave up after a few tries and Willet did not even punish her for the initiative. He would have expected no less from her. His magnanimity in that regard was an even more powerful deterrent than abuse, since it convinced the girl of the hopelessness of her situation.

“Probably a good idea. Well, Luke, what did you want to see me about? Mary said something about a student.”

Again, the first name, Willet thought. As if I was an equal and not someone who had to wait outside his office like a goddamn freshman.

“Well, Joshua,” he said, thinking that two could play the name game, “I am concerned about one of them.”

“Please, call me Josh. Everyone else does. We’re colleagues, after all.”

But not good enough to be invited to a faculty party, Willet fumed. He pulled a slip of paper from his jacket pocket and glanced at it, to make it appear as if he wasn’t sure of the name. “Her name is Dallas, first initial A.” (That was a nice touch, he thought.) “She’s matriculating at Barnard but taking some courses here at Columbia. She is in my English Lit class but has not shown up in weeks. One of the other students said he thought she was seriously ill. Finals are coming up. I wouldn’t flunk a sick kid. And I wonder if even an ‘Incomplete’ is justified. Her work has been first-rate.”

“Oh, yes, Alana Dallas. Know all about it. Sorry the word hasn’t gotten down to you. Should have. Fell between the cracks, I guess. You know how it is in a busy university.”

Willet wanted to point out that nothing could fall “between the cracks”; they could only fall into the cracks. But he merely nodded. Swartzberg was a typical Jew; knows everything. Jews and wops, Willet thought, the bane of my existence. Well, soon I’ll have enough money to laugh at all of them.

“Heard from Dean Russell over at Barnard,” Swartzberg continued. “Apparently, the girl caught a bug on her Spring Break. Mono, they said. The kissing disease, right? Well, if you’re going to get a disease on Spring Break, I suppose there are worse ones. STD’s come to mind.” He gave Willet a man-to-man look. “Or something for which a dose of penicillin is necessary.”

Willet smiled back. Just two guys. Until his five minutes were up, of course.

“I hope she will be OK.”

“I’m sure she will be. You say she’s a good student. And Regina, I mean Dean Russell, said they are very high on her over there. Do you have any problem letting her mid-term marks stand up if she doesn’t finish her classes here this semester?”

Willet suddenly had an inspiration.

“None at all. But I’d feel better if she, perhaps, wrote an essay for me. I could use that as her final, if she is up to it, of course.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Luke. Why don’t you suggest it to her? If she can do it, fine. If not, let’s cut her a break.”

“I’ll need her home address and phone number.”

Swartzberg pressed a button on his phone.

“Mary, please come in here.”

Mulgready waddled in.

“There are several students waiting to see you, Doctor,” she said, looking directly at Willet.

“Yes, I know. Luke was just leaving. But will you please give him all the contact information we can get for a student named Alana Dallas. Dean Russell over at Barnard will have it.” He looked at Willet. “Well, I guess that should do it.”

“Yes, thank you,” Willet said, getting up. Then he added, because he knew it would anger Mulgready, “Great to see you again, Josh.”

Mary Mulgready was not happy, but she was efficient. When Willet left, he had a phone number different from the one he’d found on Alana’s cell, and a home address. With more avenues to contact the family, he could muddy the waters. He probably could have pried the numbers out of the girl herself, but he might have had to rough her up. He could if he had to, but it was unpleasant work.

And he was becoming quite fond of her. Or, at least, her wonderfully taut young body. He had refrained from doing anything sexually overt, other than bathing her. That, he insisted on. There was something wildly erotic about stroking her when she was naked, her hands in cuffs. At first she resisted, but now just endured the humiliation. He even washed her hair and provided her with the deodorant and Kate Spade perfume he found in her bag. He shaved her legs and under her arms. Her pudendum was almost bare of pubic hair and he asked her if she wanted him to continue trimming it. Apparently that was the fashion among girls her age. At first, she looked horrified and shook her head. But now she allowed it. The only time she was out of restraints was when she needed to use the toilet. That much privacy he allowed. But he had made sure there was nothing in the bathroom she could use as a weapon, either to harm him or herself. But he was beginning to think that he could allow her more freedom, at least while he was awake. She had become more docile.

Willet was very satisfied with himself. The visit to the Dean’s office was the last hurdle. It established that he was a concerned teacher. It would have been suspicious if he had not commented on Alana’s absence. And it confirmed that the Dallassio family had followed his instructions and not gone to the police. Because if they had, Swartzberg would have known the truth by now. 

But Willet knew he was not home free. The ransom drop would be tricky. That was when kidnappers were usually the most vulnerable. He was not even sure how much to ask for, or what form the ransom should take. He simply did not have enough time to think everything through. 

And then there was the girl. She could identify him. He had thought that one through. But now he was having second thoughts.

CHAPTER
9
– DUDLEY MACK

At approximately the same time Luke Willet was arguing with the annoying Mary Mulgready outside Dr. Schwartzberg’s office at Columbia, Jake Scarne was waiting for Emmanuel Moliere to remove the tarp from Scarne’s silver Ford Fusion hybrid. He planned to drive Noah Sealth to Newark International for his Alaska Air flight to Seattle.

Moliere was one of the attendants in the garage next to Scarne’s Greenwich Village apartment at Fifth Avenue and 8th Street. He treated Scarne’s car as if it were his own, washing and occasionally polishing it when he had free time. Moliere was Haitian and, despite Scarne’s repeated insistence that the man owed him nothing, never forgot that Scarne helped some of Moliere’s family escape the horrors of the earthquake that devastated Haiti years earlier.

As Scarne got in the Fusion, Moliere handed him a magazine. Scarne noted that it was the most recent issue of
Car and Driver
.

“Page 22 might interest you, Mr. Scarne,” Moliere said slyly.

Scarne sat behind the wheel, turned to the page and laughed. It was a review of Mazda’s new MX-5 Miata convertible, entitled, “Another Home Run: The Best Roadster Money Can Buy”. Scarne immediately fell in love with the pictures. He looked up at the grinning Moliere.

“You never give up, do you Manny?”

“You too young to be old, Mr. Scarne. Fusion is a nice ride, but you want something sexy, no?”

It was the same friendly debate they always had. Moliere said he missed Scarne’s old cars, the classic 1974 MGB Roadster, and before that, a 2009 Mazda MX-5 Grand Touring hardtop, both convertibles.

“I think it was time to grow up,” Scarne said. He looked at the magazine. “Probably has some good articles. Do you mind if I keep this for a day or so?”

“Thought you might,” Moliere said, happily.

***

Sealth and Juliette no longer lived in a fourth-floor walk-up on 79th Street near the Museum of Natural History. They’d found a small two-bedroom in a more modern building on Second Avenue and 61st Street. While they were now on the seventh floor, the building had an elevator, an important consideration for a woman soon to have a baby.

Sealth was waiting outside the building when Scarne pulled up. He threw his bag in the back seat and picked up the
Car and Driver
. As Scarne pulled into traffic, he started thumbing through the magazine.

“You see this article on the new Mazda,” Sealth said. “Hot-looking car.”

Must be a conspiracy, Scarne thought.

Forty minutes later they approached the American Airlines terminal at Newark International. Sealth was singing softly.

“All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go.

I'm standin' here outside your door. I hate to wake you up to say goodbye.

But the dawn is breakin', it's early morn.

The taxi's waitin', he's blowin' his horn.

Already I'm so lonesome, I could die.”

“Good Lord, Noah,
Leaving on a Jet Plane
?”

“So?

“Peter, Paul and Mary? You're a Suquamish Indian and a homicide cop for crissakes.”

“Loved them. Mary was hot.”

“Did you see what she looked like in her later years?”

“Who looks good in their later years? She was hot when she sang it.”

Scarne shook his head.

“It’s a John Denver song by the way,” Sealth said. “Love him, too.”

They reached the terminal.

“I spoke to my old partner in Homicide,” Sealth said. “He said he’ll reach out to the O.C. guys to see if they’ve heard of anyone who might have it out for the Dallassios.”

“Won’t he be curious as to why you are interested?”

“Sure. But he was my partner. If I tell him not to be too curious, he’ll go along with it. And he’ll make sure the O.C. guys aren’t too curious, either. We’ve done this dance before. Then I’ll head to Frisco and talk to some guys I know. Same deal.”

“You’re private, now, Noah.”

“I know. But I’ve saved up a lot of chits. Never thought I’d get to collect them.”

Scarne handed Sealth a piece of paper.

“While you are out there, you might as well check out these names.”

“Who are they,” Sealth said, scanning the list.

“Maura Dallas’s lovers since she moved back to San Francisco. All local. She doesn’t think any of them are involved, mainly because they are all successful and she’s on good terms with them.”

“Or they are afraid of her,” Sealth commented.

“Same thing, I guess. Anyway, check them out.”

“There are a couple of women on this list, Jake.”

“It’s San Francisco, isn’t it?” 

Sealth laughed and got out of the car.

“Say hello to Dudley for me,” he said before closing the door.

After leaving the airport, Scarne decided to drive to Staten Island by way of Bayonne. A huge container ship heading up the Kill van Kull between New Jersey and the Island was passing under the Bayonne Bridge as he drove across. It looked close enough to touch. The steel-arch bridge itself was an architectural marvel when it was built in 1931, but was now obsolete. The Port Authority had authorized a $750 million project to raise the bridge roadbed to accommodate the latest generation of ships that would soon be transiting the newly widened Panama Canal. The bridge remained open during the work, with temporary beams supporting the existing roadway while the new one was constructed.

“A catastrophe waiting to happen,” Dudley called it.

Despite that, Scarne took his chances, willing to do anything to avoid the traffic on the Goethals Bridge and the Staten Island Expressway.  

***

Dudley Mack’s house sat on a one-acre parcel on Howard Avenue in Grymes Hill, just down the street from both Wagner College and the Staten Island campus of St. John’s University. From the street, it looked like an unremarkable, if sprawling, brick ranch. In fact, the property sloped down a heavily forested hill to Van Duzer Street 100 feet below, and the house was three levels deep in the back.

Bobo Sambuca, Mack’s driver and bodyguard — and soon-to-be brother-in-law — answered the door. As usual, the massive Bobo gave Scarne a huge hug and a slap on the back. And, as usual, Scarne was happy to survive both. They walked through the house to the 40-by-80-foot deck at the rear of the third, or top, floor, which was supported by 30-foot steel beams that jutted out from the hillside. The view from the deck was one of the best in New York City, stretching from Coney Island up the Narrows to the Statue of Liberty and Manhattan.

Dudley Mack was fiddling with a massive gas grill. It looked twice as big as the grill Scarne had seen on his last visit. Mack gave them a wave of the spatula in his right hand and continued to press a red button with his right.

“Be right with you,” Mack said. “Damn starter isn’t working.”

In addition to the repetitive, and ominous, clacking sound from the igniter, there was a pervasive smell of gas on the deck, even though there was a light breeze.

“Where did you get that thing, Deadley? NASA have a garage sale?”

“Fuckin’ piece of shit costs me a thousand bucks. And it won’t light.”

“What was wrong with the other grill?”

“Too hard to light.”

“You should have Bobo video this, Duds. Might come in handy for an arson defense.”

“I’ll get it going.”

“I know you will. That’s why Bobo and I are standing way over here. I’ve been with you before when you’ve tried to light a grill.”

As if on cue, there was a loud bang, followed by a whoosh. Mack reeled backwards.

“There,” Mack said. “All set.” He headed toward a bar where Bobo was filling an ice bucket. “You ready for a drink?”

Before Scarne could answer, he heard his name being called.

“Hey, Jake, how’s it hanging?”

He looked over the railing to a cabana and an in-ground pool set on rock ledge set away from the house. Alice Mack, Dudley’s youngest sister and Bobo’s future wife, waved at him from the lounge on which she was sunning herself.

“Fine, Alice. Getting a head start on L.B.I.?”

The Mack clan traditionally spent much of the summer down the Jersey Shore, where Dudley had completely restored a large oceanfront home in Harvey Cedars, a privileged enclave devastated when Hurricane Sandy tore through Long Beach Island. It was a favorite refuge for Scarne in the off-season, particularly when he was recuperating from misadventures caused by his profession.

“Never too early, Jake. I hate going down there looking like an albino flounder.”

Alice rolled over and put on sunglasses. She was topless. There were no neighbors who could see her through the foliage, but Scarne knew that didn’t matter. Alice Mack was a free spirit.

“Bobo is gonna have his hands full with her,” Dudley said, walking over to Scarne and handing him a drink. “And I’m not talking about her boobs. Although they are spectacular.”

“For God’s sake, Duds, she’s your sister.”

“Yeah, and I’ve seen her flash those two snow cones at guys since they were bee bites.” They clinked glasses. “How’s the bourbon?”

“Damn good. But it’s not Maker’s Mark.”

“Thought I’d broaden our horizon. It’s Buffalo Trace. Friend of mine at JFK gave me a case from a shipment that got misplaced. Let’s sit down and chat while the venison steaks get to room temperature.”

“Venison? In May?”

Mack liked to hunt and usually brought home deer meat in the fall and winter, when the animals were in season.

“There is a deer herd on Staten Island now,” Mack said. “Probably started by a couple of them that swam the Kill van Kull from Jersey a few years ago. Now they estimate a population of more than a thousand. Lots of them get hit by cars on the Expressway. A real danger.”

“We’re eating roadkill?”

Mack laughed.

“Nah. Some of my guys who live on the South Shore are, how do you say, culling the herd. Informally, of course.”

“What do the cops say?”

“Not much, especially the ones I give venison steaks. I also point out that it keeps my guys from shooting other things. The meat is excellent, especially after you marinate it in port wine and rosemary. You’re gonna love it.”

They took seats at a small table. Bobo Sambuca, holding a bottle of beer, joined them, putting down a bowl of mixed nuts. Mack started going through the nuts, looking for cashews.

“Be simpler if you just put out cashews, Duds,” Scarne said.

“More fun this way. I like the competition. Now, what did you want to talk about?”

Scarne told him, in detail. When he finished, Dudley Mack said, “Is Maura Dallas as hot as I’ve heard?”

“I can always count on you to see the big picture, Duds,” Scarne said. 

“Whatever. So, she doesn’t want to go to the cops?”

“No,” Scarne said.

“And it’s been, what, almost a month?”

“Yes.”

Mack got up and brought over the bourbon, ice and another beer for Bobo.

“Noah is good, Jake, but it would be a miracle if he finds out anything. I’m sure the Dallassios are turning over every rock out there.”

“I know. But I want to cover all the bases. I thought maybe you can check with some of your contacts here to see if they’ve heard anything.”

“It’s not something anyone is likely to blab about.”

“No. Obviously you can’t go around asking who kidnapped the kid, but anything out of the ordinary could be helpful.”

Mack shrugged.

“Sure. You gonna tell your pal Condon what’s going on?”

“Haven’t decided. Maura Dallas said no cops, and I’m pretty certain that means the New York City Police Commissioner.”

“Dick might not be too happy with you withholding knowledge of a kidnapping. He may take away your gun permit and Dick Tracy badge.”

“I’m not sure it’s a crime in this state not to report a felony. The law varies from state to state.”

“What about the Feds? Oh, fuck it. What am I talking about? You don’t care about that crap, anyway.”

“I can always claim client privilege.”

Mack roared.

“Bobo, you gotta love it! Our buddy here is going to claim he’s keeping a confidence of one of the country’s biggest mob families.”

He turned serious.

“Kid’s dead, you know.”

“Probably.”

“Whoever did it, I hope they catch the son-of-a-bitch. I hate people who fuck with kids. And if you catch him and don’t know what to do, give me a call. They closed our landfill, but I know plenty of others.”

“I think Vincent Anastasia will have first dibs.”

“Yeah. I heard about Anastasia. Wouldn’t want him mad at me.”

“Who is mad at you, Dudley?”

It was Alice, up from the pool and thankfully no longer topless, although her bikini did not leave much to the imagination.