Madman's Thirst (9 page)

“Why do you ask?”

“Just something I heard.”

 “If you are implying that his
position on that could have led to a murder, well, I don’t see it. There was an
initial burst of enthusiasm for the project, but that has waned, to say the
least. Bob asked the same questions as everyone else. If anything, he was less
strident on the subject than some civic leaders.”

The editor’s phone rang. He picked
it up and listened for a moment.

“Thank you, Peggy. Tell them I’ll
be right there.” With that, he stood up and came around the desk. Scarne rose.
“I’m sorry I can’t spare any more time, Mr. Scarne. I have an editorial meeting
in five minutes. Have you gone to the police with your theory?”

“Not yet. But I will. Can you
think of anyone on your staff who might be helpful? Perhaps the reporters who
worked on the NASCAR story.”

“Chris Tighe and Sandy Doyle did
the NASCAR legwork for Bob. They wrote most of the early stories, but they’re
not here anymore. I don’t even believe they are on Staten Island. And nobody is
actively working the story now. If something comes up, we just pass it along to
whoever is free. We’re short of staff and haven’t even replaced Bob yet.”

“I may want to speak to them.”

“Human resources might have their
current positions. If you have a problem, tell them to call me. And Ev Harvey,
our police reporter, was close to Bob. As was Madeline Quinn, at reception.
She’s been here forever. Knows more about the paper than most of my editors.
She can give you Ev’s number. You can talk to anyone you want, but they’re your
best bets. I’ll ask someone on the city desk to sniff around. But it all sounds
so unlikely. Monstrous really. I hope you will let me know if you come up with
anything.”

“And vice versa?”

“Of course.”

Both men knew they were lying when
they shook hands goodbye. Newspaper editors and private investigators use many
of the same methods but rarely share what they uncover. That was fine with
Scarne. He hadn’t expected to get much information from Popp, especially since
he was unwilling to reveal his own source. But Popp would start making
inquiries. The word would get out that the Pearsall case was alive. That might
frighten some people. The more the better. Frightened people make mistakes.

Scarne went by Human Resources and
then on the way out of the building stopped by Madeline Quinn’s desk. Another
woman was sitting in her chair.

“Madeline went to the yuck truck
for a cup of coffee,” the woman told him. “It’s around back by the loading
docks.”

Scarne found Mrs. Quinn standing
in line talking to other employees. He offered to buy her coffee.

“And perhaps one of those cheese
Danishes?” she said. “My doctor would have a coronary if he knew. He’s one of
those health nuts. Just got him. My old doctor died last year. Was 78. Probably
not enough Danishes. We can sit in the shade on that wall over there.”

Five minutes later Mrs. Quinn was
happily munching on one of the largest pastries Scarne had ever seen. She
insisted he have half.  

“I don’t know how much help you
got from Beldon, but if you want to find out something about the murder or Bob,
then he’s right,  you should talk to Ev Harvey. They were very close. He was
there when they found that poor girl, too. If Bob confided in anyone, it would
have been Everett.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the latest
iPhone, which she handled like a teen-ager. “Here’s his cell number. He doesn’t
come into the paper much. Usually at one of the precincts, or the courts.”

Scarne spent another 10 minutes
chatting with Mrs. Quinn. Finally she looked at her watch.

“Look at the time. I told Gladys
to hold the fort for a few minutes. She’s probably ready to send out the
cavalry. Whenever I’m a few minutes late they assume I’ve croaked. But let me
walk you to your car.”

“That’s not necessary, Mrs.
Quinn.”

He didn’t relish the thought of
this spry octogenarian finding out that he’d parked in a handicap spot. With a low-slung
sports car, no less!

“Nonsense.” She started walking
away briskly. “I could use the exercise.”

When they got to his car there was
a ticket on the windshield.

“Still up to your old tricks, I
see,” Mrs. Quinn laughed. “Not that I blame you. Half the handicap stickers are
bogus. Bad luck about the summons, though. Paper just ran a story on some
corrupt cops. Payback time.”

Scarne sighed and pocketed the
ticket.

“Good luck,” Mrs. Quinn said. “I
really mean it. Just between you, me and the wallpaper, Jake Scarne, I think
there is something very fishy about Elizabeth’s murder.” Not much got by this
old lady, Scarne realized. She should be working in the newsroom, not on the
reception desk. Scarne gave her a kiss on the cheek. “If you talk to Bob, tell
him we still love him and wish he would come back. Although I guess that’s not
likely. Now run along.”

She poked him in the stomach.

“And go easy on the Danishes.”   

CHAPTER 12 –  PERPETUAL MOTION

Scarne tried Everett Harvey’s cell
phone and got a recorded message. So he left one of his own. He then called the
120
^th
Precinct and asked to speak to the detectives working on the
Pearsall homicide.

A few moments later, a man said,
“Detective Scullen, how can I help you?”

Scarne explained who he was and
what he was doing, and asked if he could stop by.

“Do you have new information?”

Scarne was prepared for the
question.

“Maybe. I also thought you might
be able to bring me up to speed. And I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes, so
I thought I’d let you know I’m around.”

“What do you mean ‘maybe’?”

“I mean I may have something you’d
want to hear. Not over the phone.”

“Who did you say you’re working
for?”

“I didn’t.” He could feel
Detective Scullen chewing on that. But the cop would see him, he knew, because
he was getting nowhere on the case. Moreover, anyone calling in on a homicide
is automatically a suspect. “Can you come in now?”

“No, I’m on the road and have a
few stops. How does 2 o’clock sound?”

Scarne next called the District
Attorney’s Office.

***

The town of St. George, on the
north shore of Staten Island, was the gateway to Staten Island from Manhattan.
In addition to being a ferry and commuter rail hub, it contained a diffuse
administrative complex that included the Supreme Court system, the District
Attorney’s Office and Borough Hall. Various other borough, state and city
offices – everything from the Veterans Administration to the local Parole Board
– could be found within a five-block radius. Also within this
city-within-a-city were many charitable and cultural non-profit organizations
that relied on governmental largesse.

Under the latest revision of the
New York City Charter, borough presidents were stripped of much of their power,
and most of their staffs. In the other four boroughs, the BP’s had thus been
reduced to mere ceremonial figureheads. On Staten Island, however, the local
political machine of the incumbent was so powerful – and so feared – that the
Borough President was able to place scores of his supporters in jobs at these
non-profits, in return for his funneling city and state money to them. The
non-profits, of course, contributed heavily to the BP and his party. In effect,
they were government-sponsored slush funds. (It’s the perfect scam,” Dudley
Mack explained to Scarne. “And, quite possibly, the long-sought perpetual
motion machine.”)

Scarne spent a fruitless 15
minutes looking for a parking spot near the government complex. Most of the
metered spots were taken by cars sporting official decals or signs identifying
the driver as a government worker of some sort. He knew from Dudley that the
merchants in the area were resentful, since shoppers could get nowhere near
their stores. They, like Scarne, would have to park at the far end of the
commuter parking lot and walk a quarter mile, uphill. Most potential customers would
rather drive to a nearby strip mall. But the merchants were mostly immigrants
of color, and could not afford to complain to the very police that were
supposed to protect them. Those that did were soon hit with a blizzard of
building and sanitary violations.  

After leaving his car, Scarne
headed toward the ornate Borough Hall, which sat on a hill overlooking the
ferry terminal. There was a small parking lot just to the side of the building
with five spots. The one nearest the stairs contained a black Lincoln Town Car
with an “Office of the Borough President” license plate. Three adjacent spots
also contained vehicles identifying them as official.

He was walking past the last spot,
which was vacant, when he was startled by the blast of a horn from a vehicle
turning into it. He backed off to let a white Lexus SUV with “M.D.” license
plates pull in to the spot, which had a large brass “RESERVED” plaque at its
head. Since Scarne was the only person walking by, and there were no other cars
on the one-way street, it occurred to him that whoever was behind the wheel
could have waited a second to let him pass. He looked back as the car door
opened and the driver lumbered out.

The first thing Scarne noticed was
the man’s feet, encased in huge brown loafers that could have doubled as
gondolas. The rest of the man was equally enormous. He was dressed in a white linen
suit that must have given his tailor quite a challenge, because it somehow fit
wonderfully. His thick neck looked like it was bursting from his pink shirt’s
collar. A striped pink and blue tie completed the bizarre arrangement. As he
shut the door, he caught Scarne staring at him. His pig-like eyes, set in an
incongruously small head, traveled over Scarne, as if trying to categorize or
place him. When he couldn’t, he turned and trudged slowly up the stairs leading
up to the building’s entrance. At the top stood a police officer, who was
looking over everyone who entered. He greeted the fat man with a tight smile
and a nod and opened one of the massive doors for him. But the cop aimed a
baleful look at his back when he passed. Curious, Scarne walked up to the cop.
He noted that no one else was getting help with the door.

“Excuse me, officer, who was that
who just walked in? Big guy, white suit.” Except for street directions, cops,
in general, don’t like to give out information, so Scarne added, “He waved to
me, but Ill be damned if I can remember his name.”

“That’s Dr. Bimm.”

“Medical Examiner?”

The cop laughed.

“Only thing he ever examined were
tits and asses. Was a plastic surgeon. Had clinics all over the place. Now he’s
some sort of special advisor to the B.P. Always around. Like fly shit.”

“He has his own parking spot?”

“What can I say? Guy is so fat,
we’re lucky he doesn’t take two spots.” 

“Not bad,” Scarne said. “I had to
park in Kansas.”

“You’re not in Kansas anymore,
Toto.”

Scarne headed over to the adjacent
building where, after clearing security,  he was greeted warmly by Mary
McCallister, District Attorney Daniel O’Connor’s administrative assistant.
Scarne knew that McAllister had served O’Connor’s predecessor for many years, and
he was surprised to see her in the same job. He’d heard, from Dudley Mack, that
the new administration fired or transferred anyone they could and filled their
jobs with party hacks. She insisted on getting him a cup of coffee and rolled
her wheelchair over to the pot. After chatting for a minute, she buzzed him
into O’Connor’s office.

The D.A. got up from his chair,
smiling broadly. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his tie loosened. A blue
suit jacket was hanging on a rack in the corner.

“Jake, how are you?” They shook
hands. O’Connor pointed to a pair of chairs in front of his desk and sat in
one. Scarne took the other.  “I see Mary’s already got your coffee.”

“I was a little surprised to see
her still here. I thought the new B.P. cleaned house.”

 “Blovardi and I are in the same political
church, different pews. I shook up this place, sure. Too many of the old A.D.A.’s
spent their time in local gin mills. They’re in private practice now. I kept a
few of the best. Some of the detectives. And Mary.”

Scarne and O’Connor had never been
close. But the man was basically decent. He and his predecessors, of both
political parties, did a capable job of keeping the borough free from violent
street crime. O’Connor was a thin man, much shorter than Scarne, with a
pleasant, if rather bland, Irish face, wispy blond hair and skin that needed to
avoid the sun. But his complexion was good. Scarne knew he neither drank nor
smoked.

“Like you, Jake, I’ve known the
McCallisters since high school. One of the borough hall crowd came over and
told me to ditch Mary. His niece needed a job. I told him Mary had overcome
incredible hurdles to get ahead and was also the sole support of a widowed
mother. He called me a bleeding heart. I threw the prick out bodily. I also let
it be known that this office would look closely at any cases of disabled
employees forced out in other agencies.”

“Jeez, you’re restoring my faith
in the human race.”

“What can I do for you, Jake.”

Scarne knew he had to be careful.

“Anything new on the murder of
Bobby Pearsall’s daughter? That one must stick in your craw.”

“You bet it does, Jake. That kind
of thing never happens out here. And I aim to make sure it doesn’t again.” He
looked generally pained. “I was there, you know, right after it happened. Got
the call and went right over. I can’t wait to get the bastard who did it. And
we will get him. But what’s your interest?”

“Been asked to look into it.”

“By who?”

“A friend.”

“Who’s the friend?”

“Sorry, Dan. I can’t tell you. And
it really doesn’t matter. But I understand the cops are working under the
theory that it was a home invasion gone bad. Anyone consider the possibility
that it wasn’t that random? Maybe she was a target. Or maybe her father?”

O’Connor leaned back in his chair
and crossed his legs.

“What are you getting at, Jake?
Somebody had it in for her, or Bob Pearsall? Makes no sense. There was loot
piled up in the hallway, ready to go. Saw it myself.”

“What about a contract hit? Maybe
Pearsall was working on a story that would ruffle some feathers. He’d won a
Pulitzer
.
Might raise too may questions if he died under mysterious circumstances. But
his daughter?”

“Who would be that twisted?”

“There’s a lot of money heading
south in this borough, Dan. Serious money since the bridge was built and the
Island became prime real estate. Is it possible the cops are too committed to
one version of the crime?”

O’Connor bridled at the implied
criticism.

“Listen, Jake, I’m sure you have
the best intentions. But I can tell you the police are very touchy about anyone
meddling in their ongoing investigation of a homicide. I am, too. I can’t let
our personal relationship influence how I run this office. I’m sure you
understand that.”

Scarne wanted to point out that
they weren’t really pals. Instead, he said, “I do understand. But this is
something I have to do.”

“Well, you’re wasting your time,”
O’Connor said, looking at his watch and standing up. “We have our best people
on this. If you go around with a crazy theory about a vengeance murder or a
contract hit, it may detract from the search for the girl’s killer. I’m telling
you that as a friend. I don’t know who hired you, but did you ever stop to
think that somebody is jerking your chain? Crackpots are coming out of the
woodwork now. Psychics, mental cases. Couple of bozos even confessed until we
provided them with ironclad alibis. Happens in all high-profile cases.”

The friend thing again. Pretty
soon I’ll be on his Christmas list. Scarne knew it was time to drop a hammer.
He’d already worked out the lie. 

“You’re probably right, Dan. Maybe
it was just a crank call. But I have to run it down.”

“Crank call? To who?”

“My friend. Anonymous.
Untraceable. From a disposable cell. Guy said Elizabeth Pearsall was killed by
two pros who set it up to look like a burglary. What can I do? Got to follow
the string now.”

There was consternation on
O’Connor’s face.

***

Scarne had one more official
beehive to kick. He left O’Connor’s office and walked down to Bay Street, where
a previously magnificent view of New York Harbor was partially blocked by a new
minor league stadium that was home to the Staten Island Yankees, a single-A
farm club of the famous dynasty. He entered the 120 precinct house just before
2 P.M. and was directed to the detectives’ squad room. There Detective Francis
Scullen gave him a perfunctory handshake and waved him to a seat.

“I.D.?”

Scarne pulled his out and showed
it to Scullen, who looked at it and flipped it dismissively back across the
desk.

“Before you say anything, Shamus,”
the cop said, “I just want to get one thing straight. I don’t need some
hot-shot private dick from the city coming here screwing up my investigation.
This is my town.”

Before Scarne could think up a
reply to that, Scullen laughed.

“I’m fuckin’ with you. Always
wanted to say that. I think I read it in a Spenser novel. I made some calls. Spoke
to some guys you used to work with when you were on the job in Manhattan. Said
anyone who tried to drop a city councilman off a balcony can’t be all bad.”

“That story has been exaggerated.
And it was a terrible career move. He’s President of the City Council now.
Probably going to be mayor some day.”

“So, that’s why you’re private,”
Scullen laughed. “Want coffee?”

Scarne smiled and looked around the
dilapidated and nearly empty squad room. It looked like a set from
Detective
Story
, the gritty 1951 film noir that ended with an obsessive cop played by
Kirk Douglas shot by a prisoner. He decided to skip the coffee.

“You sure?” Scullen said, pointing
to a 10-cup spouted container from Dunkin’ Donuts sitting on a nearby desk.
Next to it was a promising box of donuts.

“Well, why not?”

Scullen walked over and came back
with two cups, black. The coffee was hot, and good. Scarne studied the cop.
Late 40’s. Dirty blonde hair running a little long for his age. Red veins
around his nose and in his cheeks. Clothes too loose. The fingers gripping his
cup were cigarette-tinged. Slight tremor.

“When I was younger I got pulled
in here a couple of times,” Scarne said. “I see they haven’t repainted.”

“The city is short of money.
Barely had enough to finish that $68 million ball park across the street.
Priorities, you know. This is my last stop. They ran out of boroughs to send
me. Now, enough chit chat. You got something for me on the Pearsall homicide?”