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
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
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