Killerfest (5 page)

CHAPTER 7
–
HARVEY CEDARS

The Killerfest
conference, which would be held over four days in Manhattan’s newest hotel, the
Bascombe, was set for the last week of the month. Scarne had ample time to
prepare, but he wanted to set the parameters for working with the company
Sebastian Quimper hired to protect him. Its name was Safeguard Security Inc.,
located in Falls Church, Virginia. Its proximity to Washington, D.C., all but
ensured Government ties.

 Scarne asked
Evelyn Warr to do some research on the company.

“Well, you
will be greatly relieved that it doesn’t use “SS” initials anywhere in its
marketing materials,” she said, handing him a folder with the information she
had gathered in just under an hour. “Let me know if you want me to dig deeper.”

After Evelyn
went back to her desk, Scarne started reading and quickly knew he didn’t need
anything else. The Internet was a wonderful resource, but his office manager’s
ability to gather relevant information quickly was still stunning. The fact
that she was also stunning made for an even better working relationship. He
often wondered if that would change if they were ever between lovers at the
same time. He even mentioned that thought to Evelyn once when they shared a
drink at a nearby pub.

“I’m
occasionally between relationships,” she had said. “You on the other hand are
frequently among relationships. There is a difference, and not only
grammatically.”

Scarne began
reading the material in the folder. Safeguard’s employees appeared to be a professional
bunch, many, as he had guessed, ex-military. The company’s senior management
included a couple of retired Army and Marine Corps generals, which didn’t
impress Scarne. They could be window dressing. More impressive were some of the
middle management executives, including men and women who had extensive F.B.I.
and Secret Service experience. That bode well for the caliber of the more
junior ground troops, since their immediate superiors probably hired people cut
from similar cloth. The corporate materials listed no “satisfied customers,”
but Scarne made no judgment. A good security outfit would be secretive. But the
descriptions of the intelligence and protective services that Safeguard offered
was comprehensive.

Still, Scarne
called Richard Condon.

“What now?”

“Sorry, I must
have hit the wrong speed dial. I was trying to reach the Police Commissioner of
the City of New York. We’re old friends. I occasionally help him out when he
gets overwhelmed.”

The Police
Commissioner laughed.

“Sorry. How
are you Jake? In fact, I am a bit overwhelmed today.”

“I can be
there in 10 minutes to straighten everything out for you. Five minutes if you
pay for a cab.”

“I said
overwhelmed, not desperate. So, what’s up?”

“You ever hear
of an outfit called Safeguard Security?”

“The one in
Falls Church?”

There wasn’t
much related to police work that got by Dick Condon.

“That’s the
one. Any opinion?”

“They
recruiting you?”

“No.”

“More’s the
pity. I like the thought of you in another state. So, why the inquiry?”

Condon came up
as a street cop. Asking questions was in his DNA. Scarne told him about
Quimper.

“Yeah. We know
about the threats. And the guy who got killed. We’re going to keep an eye on
the hotel. Some extra cars in the neighborhood, some plainclothes roaming
around. But nothing too obvious. The conference coordinators don’t want to
scare away the crowds. As for Safeguard, they’re pretty solid. Beltway heavy
with ex-Feds. But they did recruit a couple of good cops away from us. And some
of our retired guys wound up there. Quimper probably couldn’t have done
better.”

“Until me, of
course.”

“They must be
averaging down. Keep me in the loop.”

Scarne next
asked Evelyn to set up a meeting in Washington with the Safeguard team handling
Quimper’s security detail for the conference.

***

Scarne drove
down to New Jersey’s Long Beach Island to see how Dudley Mack was faring with
the rebuilding of his vacation home. It was the first really warm day in June
and he put the top down on his lovingly restored 1974 MGB roadster.

Like many of
the structures along the beach front in Harvey Cedars the Mack dwelling had
been devastated by Superstorm Sandy the previous October. Scarne had an
emotional attachment to the house, where he had spent many a summer, and where,
more recently, he recuperated, both mentally and physically, from trauma
suffered during previous cases. L.B.I., as it is universally known, is a
barrier island, and although it avoided a direct hit from Sandy the storm surge
was strong enough to cut the island in two in several places. Scarne had
already made several trips to help with the cleanup of the Mack home and
others.

Much of the
wreckage from the devastation Scarne saw in the immediate aftermath of the
storm had been removed, and it appeared that many businesses were up and
running for the approaching summer season. But there were still swaths of
vacant lots where homes and stores had been washed into the bay. A couple of
his favorite restaurants appeared to be gone. Despite its heroic comeback,
L.B.I. was still wounded.

He found
Dudley Mack deep in conversation with one of the contractors working on the new
house, which was now on massive stilts. Judging by the sweat stains on his
shirt and the dirt on his hands, Mack had been working as hard as anyone. Huge
trucks were dumping sand on a beach that had been drastically narrowed by the
storm surge. A barge just offshore was dredging more sand from the ocean floor
for later relocation all along the island.

“Didn’t expect
to see you for a while, Jake,” Mack said. “Thought you had a hot client.”

“I’m on my way
to D.C. Wanted to stop by to see how it’s going. The beach looks like it’s
coming back.”

“Yeah, slow
but sure. We were in better shape than most because of the jetties.”

 The stretch
of beach front on which the Mack house sat was bordered by two long rock
jetties that helped the area retain at least some sand. They also provided
ideal habitat for striped bass, many of which eventually ended up on Mack’s
dinner table.

“Come on,
let’s get some lunch,” Mack said. He turned to the contractor and peeled off
some bills from a roll in his pocket. “Tell everyone to take a break. There’s a
deli down the street. Buy them anything they want.”

He grabbed
Scarne’s arm.

“You drive.
Bobo has the car.”

“Where is he?”

The hulking
Bobo Sambucca was Mack’s, friend, driver and frequent bodyguard.

“I sent him
down to A.C. to talk to some guys.”

Scarne knew
that if Bobo was in Atlantic City, the guys he was talking to probably owed
Mack money. But not for long.

“Oh, Jesus, I
forgot you still drive this green teacup,” Mack said when they got to Scarne’s
car.

“British
Racing Green teacup, if you don’t mind,” Scarne said. “Paint job cost a bloody
fortune.”

The truth was,
Scarne had been thinking about getting a new car. He loved the nimble two-seater
but finding parts for it was becoming more difficult. He also suspected he was
nearing that point in his life where practicality and dignity trumped
nostalgia. That didn’t make him particularly happy. But since the drive to D.C.
might be the MGB’s last hurrah, he was determined to enjoy it.

“You’re even
talking like a Limey. Get a grip.”

Mack groaned
as he gingerly squirmed into the passenger seat.

“We’re getting
too old for this, Cochise. Damn, it’s been a while since I hefted lumber. I
wish my dick was as stiff as my back is right now.”

***

“You have to
protect Sebastian Quimper from Islamic terrorists?”

Scarne and
Mack were sitting in a booth in Kubel’s, the venerable tavern near Barnegat
Light on the north end of Long Beach Island. Kubel’s, reportedly the
inspiration for the seafarer’s tavern in the movie,
The Perfect Storm
,
had survived Sandy basically intact. They were sharing a pitcher of beer and a
bucket of steamers.

“Just for the
conference.”

Mack shook his
head.

“How do you
get these cases? Put an ad in the paper saying you want to get blown up?”

“I doubt if it
will come to that. There will be plenty of security. In fact, that’s why I’m
going to D.C.”

Scarne told
him about Safeguard Security.

“Cowboys,”
Mack said. “Make sure a couple of them are standing between you and the suicide
bomber. I can’t believe you’re working for Randolph Shields. He wanted your
head on a platter not too long ago.”

“Strictly
business. Besides, he listens to Emma.”

“And you saved
her life.”

“That helped.”

“Tell me about
Quimper. What kind of guy is he?”

Scarne told
him about the meeting at the author’s house.

“From Here
to Tehranity
? You must be joking.”

 “Wish I was.”

“And he porked
his assistant in the middle of the meeting?”

“Apparently.”

“Even I’ve
never done that.”

“I’m so
proud.”

Their main
course arrived. It was the start of the bluefish season in the northeast and
they had both ordered the “catch of the day,” broiled. Mack and Scarne had been
friends a long time and at various times had saved each other’s lives, but one
of the reasons Mack said he kept Scarne around was because he also liked
bluefish, an acquired taste that can be oily in larger specimens. It was early
in the bluefish runs, so the juvenile one-pounders they were served hadn’t yet
gorged on the schools of menhaden that sometimes colored their flesh. They were
delicious and the men clinked their beer mugs in appreciation.  

“I read a
couple of Quimper’s books,” Mack said. “Want to know what I think? If they
really want to fuck up this country, the towel heads should make sure nothing
ever happens to him.”

That was the
last of the literary discussion. They spent the rest of the meal comparing the
women they had been involved with during their college days in Providence. It
was a conversation dominated by Mack, who claimed to have majored in
“intercourse, with a minor in blow jobs.”

After lunch,
Scarne drove his friend back to Harvey Cedars, listening happily to more
complaints about the MGB’s cramped interior and unyielding suspension, designed,
Mack said, “by somebody with an investment in chiropractic clinics.”

They found
Bobo having lunch with some of the workers.

“How’d it go,”
Mack asked.

“They weren’t
thrilled,” Bobo replied, giving Scarne a bear hug, “but nobody died. And it
won’t happen again.”

After bidding
his friends goodbye, Scarne headed to Washington. He made good time and was in
his hotel, an Embassy Suites in Crystal City, by 7 P.M. After a couple of
bourbons and a decent steak in the hotel’s grill room, he watched a Nationals
game in his room, falling asleep in the sixth inning during a pitching
change.  

CHAPTER 8
–
SAFEGUARD SECURITY

From Crystal
City, it was a 15-minute drive out Arlington Boulevard to the Safeguard
Security headquarters on Lee Highway. The building itself was a nondescript
three-story brick and glass structure that resembled a middle school. Upon
entering, Scarne was greeted by a single receptionist at a small desk in the
lobby. He was expected, and the schoolmarmish woman at the desk efficiently
checked his identification, entered his arrival in a computer log and gave him
a clip-on “Visitor” tag. With minimal directions, he was allowed to find the
department where his meeting was scheduled on his own. There was no palm or
retina scanning, cavity search or blindfolding involved. That bode well for his
visit. In Scarne’s previous visits to Beltway or near-Beltway security firms,
he often found them trying to impress clients and visitors by out-spooking the
C.I.A.

Scarne’s 10
A.M. meeting was with a man named William Albracht, who occupied a small corner
office on the third floor. They had spoken on the phone. Albracht rose to shake
hands when Scarne entered. He was a big man, broad across the chest, with a
wide, flat face, jutting jaw and white hair being encroached by his forehead.
Nose slightly bent. Probably college football. Scarne, who played rugby at
Providence College and also had his nose get in the way of various forearms and
knees, felt a kinship. This was a tough, capable man.  

“Pull up a
chair, Mr. Scarne. Coffee?”

“Sure. Black.”

“Be right
back.”

The man got
his own coffee. Another good sign, in Scarne’s book. He looked around the
office. Solid, but not over-the-top, furniture. Family photos of a pretty
dark-haired woman and a couple of high-school-aged kids on the desk. Another
photo on the window ledge of four soldiers with their arms around each other,
Albracht, much taller than the others, on one end. On the wall behind the desk,
flanked by two Holiday Inn-quality paintings, was a team photo of the Holy
Cross football team. Scarne couldn’t make out Albracht.

“Here you go,”
Albracht said when he came back, putting a steaming mug in front of his guest.
The mug said “United States Secret Service.” He took a sip of his own coffee
from a similar mug and looked surprised.

“Not bad,” he
said. “Usually our coffee can peel paint.” He smiled. “Now, what can I do for
you?”

“As I said on
the phone, Randolph Shields hired me to protect Sebastian Quimper during the
Killerfest writers’ conference in New York. Quimper isn’t happy about that, so
it’s shaping up to be a hair ball of an assignment. I’m not interested in it
becoming more complicated than it is so I thought I’d come down and figure out
how we can work together. I’m also not interested in stepping on anyone’s toes,
or usurping anyone’s prerogatives. It’s Safeguard’s show. But I’d like to know
who the players are on your side, so we don’t shoot each other.”

Albracht held
up his hand.

“You’re
preaching to the choir, my friend. I personally will take all the help I can
get on this one. Sebastian can be a royal pain in the ass. He wants to be safe,
but he also wants freedom of action where the ladies are concerned. There will
apparently be good hunting at the conference in that regard, with all the
literary agents and wannabee writers who want to, how shall I put it, suck up
to him. We’ve done this before with him, although not with such a threat
hanging over his head.”

“Do you think
it’s credible.”

“Somebody killed
Arhaut.”

“How many
people on your side?”

“In addition
to a team leader, five.”

“That’s you?”

“No. Desk duty
on this one. We decided to go with a woman. Thought she might blend in better,
since the majority of attendees are women. You’ll meet her in a minute. She’s
former Secret Service, like me. Recruited her myself. I have to warn you she
may have a bit of a chip on her shoulder about you, since you are someone who
doesn’t have to report to her. But she’s a pro. I don’t envision any major
problems.”

Scarne
reserved judgment on that.

“The basic
problem we have is that Quimper wants us to be unnoticeable. Says he can’t ‘be
himself’ with armed guards hovering around him. What he means is that he can’t
run a line of bullshit on some literary groupie in a crowd.”

There was
knock on the door jamb. Both men stood as a woman walked into Albracht’s
office.

“You wanted to
see me, Bill,” she said.

“Yes. Karen,
this is Jake Scarne, the man I told you about. Jake, Karen Porcelli will be
heading up our security for the Killerfest.”

Scarne and the
woman shook hands. Her handshake was a bit too firm; she was overcompensating
for being a woman in what is still a predominantly male business. A
sharp-featured woman in her mid 30’s, more handsome than traditionally beautiful,
she was dressed for business and wearing little makeup. If she wanted to be
beautiful, Scarne assumed, she could easily arrange that, and, when the
occasion arose, probably did. Her smile was sincere, but fleeting. She was used
to sizing up people quickly, a necessity in protection work. She was, after
all, former Secret Service.

Scarne let
Albracht take the lead. He was her boss.

“Karen, Mr.
Scarne is going to help out during the Killerfest. As I told you, Randolph
Shields is adamant on that point. Scarne knows that we have the lead and came
down here to make sure nobody trips over anyone else. I copied you on our
report about him, so you know it’s not his first rodeo.”

Scarne wasn’t
surprised that Safeguard had checked him out. These were careful people. But he
never liked finding out someone had opened another file on him. He mentally
shrugged. Google, Yahoo, Facebook  and a score of marketing companies probably
had more on him than than Ian Fleming’s SMERSH had on James Bond.

“Have you put
together your team yet,” Scarne asked.

“No. I”ll
probably draw a couple of agents from the group working at Quimper’s home in
Greenwich and bring two with me from here. The Greenwich people will get him to
the hotel and then we’ll all be there for the duration.”

“How long will
he be at the conference?”

“He arrives
Saturday and leaves the next day.”

“He’s staying
in Manhattan overnight?”

That was news
to Scarne, who had assumed Quimper would commute from Connecticut, probably by
helicopter.

“Yes. Right at
the Bascombe.” Karen Porcelli’s mouth turned down. “Quimper apparently assumes
he will get lucky with one of his adoring fans. I understand he usually does.
Actually, it works to our advantage. The less time he spends traveling back and
forth the better. I hope he picks someone up right after his last appearance
Saturday and spends all night with her.”

“You could
always arrange for that to happen,” Scarne said.

“What do you
mean,” Albracht said.

“He means we
could hire a hooker to entertain Quimper. Don’t look so shocked, Bill. I
already thought of that.”

“For a couple
of thousand bucks,” Scarne said, “you could get a high-end call girl to play
the part of a devoted fan. Have her read one of his books. That might cost you
extra, though.”

“I’m not sure
I could do that,” Porcelli said, smiling, “even to a hooker.”

“You two are
serious, for Christ’s sake!”

“Don’t worry,
I already ditched the idea,” Porcelli said. “If the word got out, and it
probably would, that Quimper was sneaking call girls into his room, there would
be hell to pay. He’d be on Oprah. Nobody would believe that he didn’t know
about it.”

Very sharp
lady, Scarne thought.

“What about
room security,” he asked. 

 “He’s staying
in a suite on the penthouse level. There are only two suites on that floor, and
we’ll have the other one. Whenever he’s in his room, he should be secure
enough. You need a special electronic key to access his floor and we will
always have someone at the elevator. The real danger is when he’s socializing
or giving a speech. I spoke to the Killerfest’s organizers and they pointed out
that it’s traditional for attendees, writers and agents to hobnob at one of the
hotel bars after all the meetings, book signings and seminars are over for the
afternoon. This is the first year the conference is at the Bascombe, which has
several bars and lounges. We’re going to see which one is the easiest to secure
and, hopefully, arrange to have that one become the prime watering hole.”

“How are you
going to do that,” Albracht asked.

“I haven’t
figured that out yet,” Porcelli admitted. “We don’t want to make the security
arrangements too obtrusive and scare away attendees.”

“I may be able
to help with that,” Scarne said. “I can probably get Schuster House to provide
each attendee a ticket for a free drink or two at whatever bar you choose for
every night of the conference.”

“That’s not
bad, Mr. Scarne,” Porcelli said.

“OK, great,”
Albracht said, obviously relieved that Scarne and Porcelli seemed to hit it
off. “We’re off to a good start. Karen, why don’t you take Jake back to your
office and iron out some more details? I have that Saudi contract I’m working
on.”

Porcelli led
Scarne back to her small, windowless office on the opposite end of the floor.
She waved him to a seat.

“OK,” he said.
“Let’s have the speech.”

“What speech?”

“The one where
you tell me who’s in charge and you don’t need some hot-dog private eye mucking
up your assignment.”

She smiled.

“Would it do
any good? I read your file. The hot dog part is dead on. Corpses seem to follow
you around, and you have an over-sized opinion of yourself.”

“Aw, shucks.
You saw my TV ad. The one with the cheerleaders.”

Karen Porcelli
sighed.

“You remind me
of my ex-husband. He was juvenile, too.”

“He also must
have lousy eyesight.”

She smiled at
the compliment.

“I also made a
couple of calls, to some Fed and N.Y.P.D. friends in New York. The general
consensus was that you can back up your play, and I could do a lot worse.”

“Well, enough
foreplay,” Scarne said. “Did you find out anything about the Arhaut killing?”

“Only what we
read in the paper.” She looked embarrassed. “Safeguard’s mission is protection.
We’re not geared for much investigative work.”

He could tell
that didn’t make her happy. It didn’t make him particularly happy, either. It
meant more legwork.

“The Bascombe
must have a huge staff,” he said.

“We’ll vet the
staff. The N.Y.P.D. is helping out with that. And we’re going to profile like
hell. And I don’t mean we’re looking for someone on a camel. Anyone looking
Middle Eastern or out of place will be braced. The waiters for any event
Quimper will attend will be hand-picked, as will bartenders and the like.”

“How many
attendees will there be?”

“It’s a
sell-out. Probably 700, plus another 100 or so agents, name authors, PR people,
sponsors and speakers.”

“Daunting.What
about a bomb?”

Karen Porcelli
shrugged.

“We’ll do what
we can. So will the hotel security people. Check packages. Look for nervous
types. But there’s only so much we can do. Many of the attendees will be women,
with large bags. Then there’s the so-called ‘goodie bags’ and promotional
material. Slipping in a bomb or wearing one around the waist would be no
problem for a nutcase. But that goes for any large gathering. It’s the world we
live in. The Arhaut hit was low-tech. A fucking skewer. Up close and personal.
We think any attack will be dramatic, designed to make sure everyone knows
Quimper was the target.”

They exchanged
cell phone numbers and agreed to meet when Quimper first got to the Bascombe,
so Scarne could familiarize himself with the Safeguard team.