Free Killerfest by Lawrence de Maria Page A

indication of becoming a cold case. Unless, of course, there is another
murder and somebody screws up.”
    “I’m not
rooting for that.”
    “No, I guess
not.”
    “Does this
look like terrorists to you? Killing their own assassin.”
    “No. More like
a pro. If the terrorists had a man to lose, they could have used a suicide vest
or something.”
    “Not if they
wanted to make a specific point. Send a specific message.”
    “What are you
getting at, Scarne?”
    “Maybe the
terrorists hired a pro. Or, like you said, it’s not terrorists.”
    “You’re not
exactly narrowing the suspect pool.”
    “Never my
strong point.”
             

 
    CHAPTER 10 – NOAH
     
    Scarne got up
early the next morning feeling cranky and creaky. He hadn’t slept well. He
loved driving and didn’t regret his visits of the previous day, but sitting in
a car for hours on end had stiffened him up. He felt annoying twinges and
actually heard faint but noticeable crackling sounds from one of his knees when
he slid out of bed. A sign of age? Or was it just that some of the wounds his
body had accumulated over the years were rebelling.
    He padded into
the bathroom and stood naked in front of the mirror. Several scars aside, he
was still a young man, with a full head of hair and a flat stomach. Not a
washboard to be sure, but he could do a hundred sit ups when he wanted. But
Scarne didn’t want to, right then. He had to loosen up first. He decided to
walk to his office. He packed a small gym bag and after exchanging local gossip
and pleasantries with the concierge and doorman of his apartment building on
8th Street headed uptown just as the sun came up. He would shower in the new
health club that had opened in the basement of his office building at
Rockefeller Center.
    It was cool
out and the walk, just under three miles, was pleasant. By the time Scarne
reached the gym, he had loosened up. He then spent a vigorous hour on the
Universal machines and, just to spite his earlier creaky self, ripped off a
hundred sit ups. Then he showered and dressed, and went to a small coffee shop
in the lobby. The picture of the granola and yogurt parfait on the glossy
plastic menu looked tempting.
    “What can I
get you,” the waitress asked.
    “Orange juice,
fried egg sandwich on a hard roll and coffee, two creams,” Scarne said. “Why
waste a hundred sit ups.”
    “You’d be
crazy to,” she replied.
    Scarne walked
into his office at 9 A.M. sharp.
     “My, aren’t
we chipper this morning,” Evelyn said. Only then did he realize he was
whistling. “But really, Jake, “The Marine Corps Hymn?”
    Scarne laughed
and went into his office. He stood by his window looking down at the famous ice
rink 20 stories below. There were, of course, no skaters at this time of year.
The rink was covered with umbrellas, under which tables were set up for outdoor
dining. His office phone buzzed. It was Evelyn.   
    “Noah Sealth
called while you were away. He’s in town. Wants to know when you’re free for
dinner. Left his cell number.”
    Scarne smiled.
Sealth was a Seattle homicide cop that he’d met when investigating the murder
of Joshua Shields, Emma’s favorite cousin and the son of Sheldon Shields,
Randolph’s brother. They’d crossed swords at first but eventually found common
ground and a friendship. Sealth was helpful in keeping Scarne out of the hands
of both Federal and Florida state prosecutors when the dust, and bodies, had
settled in the Ballantrae case.
    “I hope he’s
available tonight,” Scarne said. “Starting tomorrow I’ll be tied up with
Quimper.”
    *** 
    “Where will
you live?”
    Noah Sealth
had just told Scarne that he had retired from Seattle Homicide after 20 years
and was moving to New York. They were sitting at the famous ‘Bar 21’ in The 21
Club on 52nd Street waiting for their table. Above them, hanging from the
ceilings, were hundreds of toys and model airplanes, ships and cars donated by
the corporate