and
funerals, St. Christopher’s held a personal significance. It was Kate
Ellenson’s favorite church – and where they had planned to marry. He looked
toward the altar. If it hadn’t been for the war…
He
rose abruptly, disgusted at his mawkishness. He spotted a man staring at him,
caught unawares. The man quickly bent down to look at some missals in the slots
on the back of the pew in front of him. He hadn’t been in the church when
Scarne walked in. As Scarne passed him he noted that the man’s ski hat. It was
the same color as the one worn by the man he bumped into outside the club. The
one Mosely had stared away. He wasn’t sure about the jacket. Blonde hair stuck
out under the back of the cap.
Scarne
loitered in the vestibule. The old woman was gone. He put a $20 bill in the poor
box, hoping it would get to the poor. The Church had enough real estate, not to
mention all those pedophile lawsuits to settle. He immediately regretted that
facile condemnation, recalling the sturdy Hispanic priests of his youth, who
taught him much about life, including how to throw a wicked slider. Out of the
corner of his eye he spotted the man in the ski hat glance his way before
turning around.
Scarne
darted through a side door. Once outside, he peeked around the corner of the
building, his face hidden by his open Tote. A moment later “ski hat” ran out of
the front of the church, looking both ways.
“They
are giving a class in Surveillance 101 at the New School,” Scarne said as he
walked towards the man. “You might think about it.”
Ski
cap was not into witty repartee. He bolted down Park at a respectable clip,
considering the traction. Scarne was taken by surprise. He gave chase but the
man’s sneakers easily trumped tasseled loafers. Running with an umbrella made
Scarne feel ridiculous and he closed it. After half a block he assumed a
shooter’s stance, put the umbrella across the crook of his left arm and sighted
on the back of the fleeing figure.
“Bang,”
he said as the runner turned the corner, where a man who appeared to be
studying a map fell over. Momentarily disoriented, Scarne actually thought he
had plugged someone with his Tote. Then he realized his quarry had knocked the
man off his feet. The downed man started yelling in French.
“Man,
you know better than to shoot a loaded umbrella into a crowd.”
A
hatless vagrant with a toothless grin stood next to him. They both started
toward the corner where the sputtering man was already being helped to his
feet. The vagrant picked up a small brightly-wrapped parcel and handed it to
the tourist. He turned to walk away, water beading on his scruffy beard.
Scarne
handed him the Tote.
“Be
careful with it,” he said. “It’s got a hair trigger.”
***
It
was 4 PM when Scarne got back to his office. Evelyn was paying bills.
“Any
calls?”
“Just
Dudley. He wanted to know about Sunday dinner.”
Scarne
motioned Evelyn into his office and filled her in on the lunch and the incident
at the church. She took notes to be transcribed later onto a computer and
copied to a flash drive, a routine followed for both legal and billing reasons.
But Scarne also wanted to leave a trail, especially for Dudley, should
something happen to him. Evelyn wasn’t happy about the church thing.
“Do
you think it had something to do with you and Shields?”
“I
don’t know. It’s a stretch, unless someone knew I was meeting him, and that
would have had to come from him. I’ll check it out. It could also be a hangover
from an old case, or something else I’m working on now.”
Evelyn’s
mouth turned down slightly.
“I
don’t suppose it was an angry husband. He didn’t shoot you, after all.”
“Book
me a flight into Miami Tuesday or Wednesday. Then go home. It’s turned nasty
out there.”
“It
has?” She smiled sweetly. “I didn’t notice.”
After
Evelyn left, Scarne dialed Dudley Mack’s cell. Got a message. He called another
number. A husky
funerals, St. Christopher’s held a personal significance. It was Kate
Ellenson’s favorite church – and where they had planned to marry. He looked
toward the altar. If it hadn’t been for the war…
He
rose abruptly, disgusted at his mawkishness. He spotted a man staring at him,
caught unawares. The man quickly bent down to look at some missals in the slots
on the back of the pew in front of him. He hadn’t been in the church when
Scarne walked in. As Scarne passed him he noted that the man’s ski hat. It was
the same color as the one worn by the man he bumped into outside the club. The
one Mosely had stared away. He wasn’t sure about the jacket. Blonde hair stuck
out under the back of the cap.
Scarne
loitered in the vestibule. The old woman was gone. He put a $20 bill in the poor
box, hoping it would get to the poor. The Church had enough real estate, not to
mention all those pedophile lawsuits to settle. He immediately regretted that
facile condemnation, recalling the sturdy Hispanic priests of his youth, who
taught him much about life, including how to throw a wicked slider. Out of the
corner of his eye he spotted the man in the ski hat glance his way before
turning around.
Scarne
darted through a side door. Once outside, he peeked around the corner of the
building, his face hidden by his open Tote. A moment later “ski hat” ran out of
the front of the church, looking both ways.
“They
are giving a class in Surveillance 101 at the New School,” Scarne said as he
walked towards the man. “You might think about it.”
Ski
cap was not into witty repartee. He bolted down Park at a respectable clip,
considering the traction. Scarne was taken by surprise. He gave chase but the
man’s sneakers easily trumped tasseled loafers. Running with an umbrella made
Scarne feel ridiculous and he closed it. After half a block he assumed a
shooter’s stance, put the umbrella across the crook of his left arm and sighted
on the back of the fleeing figure.
“Bang,”
he said as the runner turned the corner, where a man who appeared to be
studying a map fell over. Momentarily disoriented, Scarne actually thought he
had plugged someone with his Tote. Then he realized his quarry had knocked the
man off his feet. The downed man started yelling in French.
“Man,
you know better than to shoot a loaded umbrella into a crowd.”
A
hatless vagrant with a toothless grin stood next to him. They both started
toward the corner where the sputtering man was already being helped to his
feet. The vagrant picked up a small brightly-wrapped parcel and handed it to
the tourist. He turned to walk away, water beading on his scruffy beard.
Scarne
handed him the Tote.
“Be
careful with it,” he said. “It’s got a hair trigger.”
***
It
was 4 PM when Scarne got back to his office. Evelyn was paying bills.
“Any
calls?”
“Just
Dudley. He wanted to know about Sunday dinner.”
Scarne
motioned Evelyn into his office and filled her in on the lunch and the incident
at the church. She took notes to be transcribed later onto a computer and
copied to a flash drive, a routine followed for both legal and billing reasons.
But Scarne also wanted to leave a trail, especially for Dudley, should
something happen to him. Evelyn wasn’t happy about the church thing.
“Do
you think it had something to do with you and Shields?”
“I
don’t know. It’s a stretch, unless someone knew I was meeting him, and that
would have had to come from him. I’ll check it out. It could also be a hangover
from an old case, or something else I’m working on now.”
Evelyn’s
mouth turned down slightly.
“I
don’t suppose it was an angry husband. He didn’t shoot you, after all.”
“Book
me a flight into Miami Tuesday or Wednesday. Then go home. It’s turned nasty
out there.”
“It
has?” She smiled sweetly. “I didn’t notice.”
After
Evelyn left, Scarne dialed Dudley Mack’s cell. Got a message. He called another
number. A husky
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