Killerfest (12 page)

CHAPTER 20 - SUNDAY MORNING QUARTERBACKS

“I have to
give Porcelli credit,” Scarne said. “She didn’t faint. Threw up on the back of
my pants. But didn’t faint.”

“Probably not
the first time a woman has done that,” Richard Condon said. “Although I’d bet
it’s usually on the front of your pants.”

Scarne and
Noah Sealth were sitting across from the N.Y.P.D. Commissioner in a conference
room provided by the Bascombe for the use of law enforcement officials. The
remainder of the Killerfest conference had, of course, been canceled and the
hotel was now swarming with police and media. Condon looked at Sealth.

“You are
seriously considering going in business with this walking cluster fuck?”

It was 6 A.M.
and Scarne had been interviewed by every city, state and Federal cop within a
hundred miles of Manhattan.

“I accepted
the job offer before his client was beheaded,” Noah replied.

“Timing is
everything,” Condon said. “I guess this is quite a change from Seattle.”

“Oh, I don’t
know,” Sealth said. “I had to deal with the Vietnamese mobs. Intact bodies were
a rarity.”

A police
captain walked in the room. He looked at Scarne and Sealth.

“We’re from
CNN,” Scarne said.

“Shut up,
Jake,” Condon said. “He thinks he’s funny, Pete. But they’re OK. You can speak
freely.”

“The M.E. says
Quimper was probably dead when she cut his head off, Dick. He was stabbed in
the heart first.”

“There was an
awful lot of blood,” Scarne said.

“Heart
probably kept beating anyway,” the captain said. “Besides, a lot of blood can
drain out of a head.”

Scarne
recalled the pasty white face with the startled eyes, one of which had a
rivulet of blood running from it like an accusing tear.  

“Yeah,” he
said.

“What else do
you have, Pete?”

“There were
blond hairs on the body and the sheets, some obviously pubic. We presume they
came from the killer. Just for the record, she apparently was a natural blond.”

“Semen?”

“Plenty. When
we blue lighted the bed, there were come stains all over it.”

 “Why would
she screw him before killing him,” Sealth asked.

“She’s a pro,”
Scarne said. “Probably wanted to be naked when she offed him, so as not to mess
up her clothes. Quimper was a ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’ kind of guy who
probably jumped her bones soon as she arrived. She went along and showed him
enough tricks to make him ask her to stay long enough to order room service. A
real pro.”

“There’s
something else,” the captain said. “The M.E. is pretty sure she gave him a blow
job before she killed him.”

“Give me a
fucking break,” Condon said. “How the hell would he know that?”

“Said there
were traces of saliva and some small bruises consistent with a bite mark on his
pecker. He’s seen it before apparently.”

“Makes me
wonder about our M.E.,” Condon said.

“She gave him
head before he gave her his head,” Sealth said.

They all
looked at him.

“Hey, I’m just
saying. That’s definitely something we don’t see in Seattle.”

“Thanks,
Pete,” Condon said, and the captain left.

“I guess you
feel pretty shitty about this, Jake,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t know
what else you could have done,” Condon said. “Quimper served himself up on a
silver platter, so to speak.”

He walked over
to a banquet that been set up by the hotel. The hotel manager had made it clear
that whatever the N.Y.P.D. needed, it could have. The Bascombe was in full
damage-control mode. Having one of the world’s most famous authors dismembered
in a luxury suite was not the kind of publicity that a new hotel relished. The
Police Commissioner poured himself a cup of coffee from one of several large
brewers. There were also bottles of orange, apple, grapefruit and tomato juices
set in ice bowls, and carafes of milk, cream and sugar. Donuts, pastries and
bagels, of course. Some of the pastries had come under a large glass dome.
Every time Scarne looked at it he expected to see Quimper staring out at him.

“Have you
heard from Shields yet,” Condon asked.

“No. But I
spoke to his chief of staff, Nigel Blue. Randolph is in Bermuda playing golf
with the Mayor. Or was. They’re flying back.”

“I wonder on
whose plane,” Condon said.

The city’s
billionaire mayor usually jetted off somewhere every weekend on his private
aircraft.

The police
captain named “Pete” came back into the room.

“We may have a
lead on the woman, Dick.”

He picked up a
remote from a ledge under a flat-screen television on the wall behind Condon.

“The hotel
security cameras recorded everyone walking in all the common areas and the
elevator banks,” he said. “We had the Safeguard agents watch the feeds for the
last couple of hours. They’re pretty sure they’ve spotted the woman. We’ve
spliced a few of the best views together. They are from two days.” He turned on
the TV and a moment later their was a video of a blond woman came on. She was
shown walking to and from an elevator, in the lobby, and in the Grand Salon.
“She must have known there would be cameras but it appears that she made no
effort to hide her face.”

“That’s the
woman from the bar, the one I followed outside,” Scarne said. “She didn’t care
if we knew what she looked like. She knew that the guards at the elevator could
come up with a good sketch of her, anyway. She was obviously sure she could get
away.”

The woman they
were looking at was undoubtedly beautiful and confident. At one point she
seemed to be looking directly up at a security camera.

“That’s the
outfit she was wearing when she left Quimper’s room,” the captain said. “That
video was only a few minutes later.”

“Son of a
bitch,” Sealth said. “She’s smiling for the fucking camera.”

“She’s gone,”
Scarne said sourly.

“Probably,”
Condon said. “But circulate her photo at the airports and bus and train
stations”

“Already on
the way, Commissioner. And since nobody on the front desk remembers her we
don’t think she was staying here. We’ll circulate the photo at all the hotels
in the city.”

“It won’t
matter,” Scarne said. “She could be next door. A woman can easily change her
appearance with a wig, some makeup, falsies, whatever. It’s tougher for a man.
Most wigs make them look like Javier Bardem in
No Country for Old Men
.”

“Do it anyway,
Pete.”

“She’s
probably halfway across the country,” Sealth said. “Or the Atlantic.”

***

Noah Sealth
was mistaken. Vendela Noss was in Philadelphia, preparing to board the 8 A.M.
Southwest Airlines flight to Fort Lauderdale, the first leg on her trip to the
Cayman Islands, where she planned to spend a few days scuba diving and relaxation
before heading back to Europe.

She had
checked out her room at the Hilton before heading to the Bascombe for the
assignation with Quimper. She left her luggage with the driver, telling him to
return in two hours and wait. After leaving Quimper’s room, she climbed into
the waiting Town Car and napped during the two hour drive to Philadelphia
International Airport. She was fully asleep in her room at the airport Marriott
by 2 A.M. Her unfortunate driver was now crumpled in the trunk of his Lincoln.
It had been simple enough to plunge the ice pick into the base of his neck when
he bent over to get her luggage. The long-term parking lot was deserted and she
doubted that his body would be discovered in less than a week. Even if the
police figured out what she’d done, which was unlikely, she would be thousands
of miles away. Vendela could never understand all the jokes about Philadelphia.
She liked the city and found it very convenient when covering her trail.  

“The plane is
only half full, Miss Maldanado. Not too many people heading south this time of
year. I think I can upgrade you to first class.”

“Why, that
would be wonderful,” Vendela said, smiling at the woman gate attendant. “This
business travel is a real killer.”

CHAPTER 21 - HEADLINES

Quimper’s
spectacular murder was an international media sensation and, of course, catnip
to tabloid newspapers and magazines. The headline in the
New York Post
on Monday morning achieved instant infamy: QUIMPER ENDS WITH A BANG.

“It’s almost
as good as “HEADLESS BODY IN TOPLESS BAR,” Scarne muttered as he passed the
newspaper across to Noah Sealth.

“What was
that?”

Scarne
explained the classic
Post
headline from the 1980’s.

“Some lunatic
shot a bar owner in the head and then forced a woman hostage, who happened to
be a mortician, to dig the bullet out and then cut off the guy’s head with a
steak knife. He thought it would make it hard to link his gun to the killing.
Then he went on the run with the head in a box.”

“I think I’m
going to like this town,” Sealth said.

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

“What do you
think of the terrorist angle, Noah?”

“I think it’s
bullshit,” Sealth said. “And so do you.”

“Yeah. Too
complicated, too blatant and too perfect. Islamic fanatics don’t use women
except as suicide bombers, and those women usually have a personal grudge.
Someone they want to avenge. A dead son, husband. Where are they going to find
a beautiful blond who speaks almost perfect English and can pass as a cultured
literati? Besides, the Feds have infiltrated most of the terrorist cells and
Dick Condon says nobody has heard of this Arm of Allah group.”

“Juliette said
the same thing. Neither the Sûreté or Interpol have a file on them.”

Juliette
Loudin, a detective with France’s Sûreté Nationale now assigned to the United
Nations, was the woman Sealth had recently moved in with in Manhattan.

“Has Juliette
kept up with her contacts in Interpol?”

“Sure. What
are you thinking?”

“That maybe I
can get a lead on the woman. Her accent most likely places her in Europe. How
many beautiful blond assassins can there be running around?”

“Don’t you
think the Feds will try that angle?”

Scarne saw a
blinking light on his phone console. Evelyn Warr picked up the call. He could
hear her murmured voice.

“Only when
they give up on the terrorist angle, if ever,” Scarne said. “And even if they
do try to find the woman, it will be a half-hearted attempt. I’ve been down
this road before. The last thing they want to do is uncover some deep-cover
assassin who probably has done contract work for the C.I.A. or some other
sister agency.”

Scarne tilted
his chair upright.

“Noah, do you
think Juliette will make a few calls for me?”

Before Sealth
could answer, Evelyn stuck her head in the door.

“That was
Nigel Blue. Randolph Shields wants to see you. He’ll be in his office by noon.”

“Probably
wants to buy me lunch at Le Bernadin.”

“He’s probably
going to have you for lunch,” Sealth said. “Do you still want Juliette to make
those calls?”

“Yeah. I
usually do my best work after Randy fires me. And tell Juliette that if she
hits a dry hole on the woman, to ask around about possible middlemen, the ones
who set up big-time hits. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only one I have.”

“OK. If you
survive your meeting with Shields, come to dinner tonight. Juliette has been
dying to meet you and she should have something by then, if there’s something
to get.”

***

As it turned
out, Scarne didn’t get lunch, but the meeting with Randolph Shields was not
what he expected.

“Much as this
pains me to say it, Scarne,” Shields said, “I don’t hold you responsible for
this fiasco.”

Quimper alive
was an asset to Shields, Scarne reflected. Beheaded, he had become a “fiasco.”
The rich were indeed different.

Randolph was
sitting behind his massive ship captain’s desk in his office, for which the
word “opulent” had probably been invented. Scarne and Nigel Blue sat in chairs
facing him. It was the first time Scarne had been in the inner sanctum. The
desk itself was almost bare, save for a Bloomberg monitor tracking financial
activities in markets around the world, photos of Emma and her brothers and
various paperweights. The shelves and windowsills flanking the corner office,
however, were replete with awards, plaques and photos of politicians and
celebrities. Among the later were a plethora of beautiful women who, Scarne
knew, were rumored to be conquests of the man the tabloids (none of the ones he
owned, however) had dubbed “Randy Shields.” Scarne had already seen the
similar, but smaller, group of trophy photos that graced Randolph’s bedroom on
the
Emerald of the Seas
yacht. In both cases, the women had ranged in
age from the barely legal to the barely mobile.    

“From what I
have been able to gather from the Mayor’s people and Dick Condon,” Randolph
continued, “you did everything possible to secure his safety. That incompetent
security firm dropped the ball. I didn’t expect you to stay awake for 72 hours
straight.”

“I don’t know
what more Safeguard crew could have done,” Scarne said. “They got him to the
hotel in one piece and, considering the throngs of people at the conference and
in the bar afterward, they also did a workmanlike job of protecting him from
everyone but himself. Sebastian was determined to get laid. The assassin wasn’t
wearing a burkha or a turban. She had on a cocktail dress and fuck-me shoes.
One of the Safeguard Security guys even checked her purse to make sure she
didn’t have a gun or a knife.”

“Or a skewer,
I presume,” Blue said.

“When Quimper
ordered the food another guard brought it to them,” Scarne continued. “He would
have had to be clairvoyant to think she would use the utensils to kill
Quimper.”

“You knew
something was up,” Blue interjected.

“That’s why
I’m kicking myself. I’m not letting myself off the hook.”

“Well, what’s
done is done,” Shields said. “Now we have to see if we can salvage the
Albatross deal.”

Scarne and
Blue exchanged looks. Quimper was yesterday’s news.

“Is that
likely,” Scarne asked.

“Probably not,
but we’ll see. Anyway, Scarne, thanks for your efforts. You will get your full
fee, of course, and make sure you give Nigel all your expenses.”

“I don’t want
my damn fee,” Scarne said. “Quimper died on my watch.”

Shields leaned
forward in his chair and turned the Bloomberg machine toward him.

“I once
accused you of trying to milk my family by creating a crazy story when my
brother was killed,” he said, looking at something on the screen. “I was wrong.
But there’s no reason to be noble now. You’ve earned your money. I still think
Quimper, or rather his estate, may want to ask for a refund from Safeguard.”

“I don’t think
Quimper was killed by terrorists,” Scarne said.

That brought
both men up short. Shields ignored the Bloomberg.

“What do you
mean,” Blue said.

“It’s too
pat,” he replied, and explained his thinking.

“If it’s not
terrorists,” Shields said, “who is it?”

“Who benefits
from the financial repercussions of Schuster House losing Quimper?”

Shields turned
to Blue.

“Nigel?”

“Well, there
are people on Wall Street who may make a killing if our merger with Albatross
falls through, as is likely. Short sellers to be sure. We have controlling
interests or major stakes in some companies that are publicly owned. Their
stocks could take a hit if it looks like Shields Inc. might want to sell our
positions to bolster our financial position in the wake of a collapsing deal.”

“We won’t have
to do that,” Randolph protested.

“Of course,”
Blue said. “But someone may start a rumor to that effect.”

“It should be
pretty easy to identify anyone who has been shorting the stocks,” Scarne said,
“particularly with the S.E.C. finally doing its job.”

“There are a
lot of stocks, Jake,” Blue said. “And if you are right about this being a
financial conspiracy rather than a terrorist one, then the short positions
could have been accumulated over time, in dribs and drabs. Most of the
companies we have positions in are in publishing and other slow-growth
industries whose stocks have been fairly moribund, so the risk to short-sellers
would be mitigated. But I’m having a hard time believing that short-sellers or
any other market manipulators are into decapitation as a financial strategy.
Even with Washington’s newfound, and I’m sure, temporary zeal, for regulation,
there are easier ways to steal money on Wall Street.”

“What about
your potential rivals for Albatross? Huber at the
Times
says Bengal
Publishing would probably pick up the pieces.”

Shields looked
dumbfounded.

“You think
Chandra Khan is behind this!”

“I don’t think
anything. But I got a bad vibe when I met him the other day. Especially when I
saw his bodyguard.”

“That ugly
looking fellow always at his side? Boca something?”

“Boga Gulle,”
Blue said. “Chandra brought him over from England. There were rumors of some
kind of scandal. But the man is apparently devoted to his boss.”

“Well, what
about him,” Shields asked.

“I’d like to
know why a respectable publisher needs a stone killer as a bodyguard,” Scarne
said.

“How do you
know he’s a killer,” Shields asked.

Scarne merely
looked at him.

Blue finally
broke the silence.

“Jake knows,”
he said. “And while I’m not buying the idea that Chandra Khan would do
something like this, it’s no crazier a theory than the last one of Jake’s that
we dismissed. To our detriment, if you recall, Randolph. I wouldn’t like to bet
against his instincts. I always thought there was something off about Khan. His
people have already called Albatross with a new offer.”

“I still don’t
believe it!”

“No offense,
boss, but you didn’t believe it about a couple of your rich friends that Jake
proved were killers.”

For a second,
Scarne thought Blue had gone too far. But then Shields merely shrugged.

“What the hell
is going on! Am I the only ethical businessman out there?”

Scarne could
tell that Blue was having as hard a time keeping as straight a face as he was.

“You know
Jake, Randolph. He won’t let this rest. Why not let him pursue this. If Chandra
is in the clear, no harm, no foul. It’s in our best interests to know what
happened.”

“I suppose
you’re right,” Shields said. “I don’t see any downside. At the very least maybe
he’ll dig up some dirt on Chandra we can use in the future.”

“I’m not going
on a goddamn fishing expedition for you, Randolph,” Scarne said calmly. He
wasn’t even angry. Randolph was just being Randolph. “If Khan is in the clear,
that’s all the information you’ll get.”

Shields
accepted the rebuke. It hadn’t cost him anything to try.

“Of course.
Now, how will you find this woman?”

“It won’t be
easy. Hell, it may be impossible. But I may be able to get a lead through some
contacts I have in Interpol. If not to her, then maybe to the middleman who arranges
her contracts. There has to be one. Someone like her doesn’t put an ad on
Craigslist.”

Shields made
up his mind.

“That will
take money. You will probably have to travel. Nigel will keep him on the
payroll until you get to the bottom of this. Now, no argument.”

Shields turned
back to his Bloomberg machine. Scarne and Blue left.

Back in Blue’s
office, they worked out the details of Scarne’s assignment.

“I think I
will go see Khan before I do anything,” Scarne said. “Have a little chat. I’ll
tell him who I really am and that you guys fired me because of incompetence and
because I have this cockamamie idea Quimper wasn’t killed by a terrorist. That
way you’ll be in the clear, no matter how it goes down.”

“Is that
wise?”

“I figure that
my chance of finding the hit woman aren’t all that good. So, if Khan is
involved, it might not hurt to stir things up a bit. Maybe he’ll do something
foolish.”

“When I was a
kid, Jake, I threw a rock at a hornet’s nest. I got stung. You could get
killed.”

“It’s been
tried.”

“Where do you
think this woman is?”

“Probably
Europe,” Scarne replied.

Blue smiled
mischievously.

“I wonder if
Randolph realizes that you will probably be visiting Emma on his dime.”

“You could
have mentioned it, Nige.”

“I just saw
Les
Miserables
. I’m feeling romantic.”