Timothy's Game

by Lawrence Sanders

  Several times he’s tempted to call Davenport and McDonnell, but resists. He just hopes to God they’re doing their jobs. If not, it’ll take him weeks, maybe months, to bring down David Dempster and put that gonzo behind bars.

  Late that night, stripped to his briefs, he’s ready to sack out. He’s got a little high-intensity lamp he uses for horizontal activities. He’s also got his copy of Silas Marner, which he’s been reading for four years now. He’s already up to page 23, and has discovered it’s a better somnifacient than any flurazepam he can buy on the street.

  He reads another half-page and has just enough strength left to put the book aside and turn off his lamp.

  Thursday starts in the same lethargic pattern. But then, close to noon, Detective Neal K. Davenport calls, and things start jumping.

  “Hiya, sherlock,” Neal says breezily. “I called your office but they said you were home sick. I figured that was horseshit, and you’re just fucking off.”

  “You got it,” Cone says. “What’s doing?”

  “Everything’s coming up roses. Today is D-Day and H-hour is three o’clock. That’s when we’re going to raid Paddy’s Pig. Sam Shipkin’s done a great job. He found the motorcycle, and guess where they’ve been keeping it.”

  “In the john?”

  “Close but no cigar. There’s another building behind the tavern. Like a big shed. Sam says it looks like a department store—everything from condoms to cassettes. All hot. The cycle is the same make, model, and color used in the Dempster kill.”

  “But you don’t know if it’s the actual bike?”

  “Of course not. But it’ll do as corroborative evidence. The icing on the cake is that it’s owned by the Ryan brothers, a couple of no-goodniks who got their start as smash-and-grabbers when they were in their teens. They’ve both done time for strongarm stuff and have sheets that don’t end. They fit the witnesses’ description of the guys on the motorcycle when Dempster was put down. And to top that, Shipkin says that when he met them, they were both wearing steel-toed boots. How does that grab you?”

  “Sounds okay,” Cone says cautiously, “but I wouldn’t call it an airtight case. Any two-bit shyster could get them off in five minutes if all you’ve got is a similar motorcycle, descriptions by eyewitnesses, and the boots.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Davenport says indignantly. “That’s why Sam Shipkin made a big drug buy from Louie about an hour ago with marked bills. So we got him cold, and we can lean on him. I figure he’ll make a deal and sing. Anyway, we’re going to give it the old college try. Listen, the raid on Paddy’s Pig is going to be what you’d call a media event. We’ve tipped the newspapers and TV stations, so it should be a circus. I figured you might want to be there.”

  “Yeah,” Cone says. “Sure. Neal, there’s a guy named Hamish McDonnell in the Federal DA’s office. I think you should call him and invite him to the bust.”

  “No way!” the NYPD man says. “This is our party, and we’re not sharing the headlines with the Feds or anyone else.”

  “Now look,” Timothy says, “right now you got peanuts. If this Louie is afraid of the Westies and decides to clam up and take his lumps, then where the hell are you? The Ryan brothers waltz away and you guys are left looking like idiots. Is that the kind of headlines you want?”

  Silence. Then: “Well, yeah, that could happen. But what’s this Hamish McDonnell got to do with the price of tea in China?”

  “He’s coming at David Dempster from a different angle. Dempster was the brain behind all the industrial sabotage I was assigned to investigate. If McDonnell pins him on that—and I think he will—you’ll have insurance in case Louie decides to keep his mouth shut. David Dempster will take a fall either way—or both.”

  “Goddamn it!” Davenport yells. “Why the fuck couldn’t you have told me all this from the start?”

  “Because it’s outside your jurisdiction,” Cone explains patiently. “Granted that the dusting of those three guys on Wall Street is local. And the Department deserves the credit for breaking it. But there’s more to it than just those homicides; there’s arson, sabotage, bribery, and maybe conspiracy to commit murder. I think David Dempster is up to his ass in all that shit, but they’re federal raps, Neal. Like crossing state lines to commit a felony. I really think you should invite Hamish McDonnell on the Paddy’s Pig raid. You’ll make a friend—which might prove a benefit. And you’ll have a fallback if you can’t nail the Ryan brothers on a homicide charge.”

  “Well … maybe,” the city bull says reluctantly. “I’ll have to get an okay from the brass. What kind of a guy is this McDonnell?”

  “He thinks he’s hard-boiled,” Cone says, “but I think he’s half-baked. But that’s neither here nor there. Come on, Neal, once you guys get this thing wrapped up and tied with a ribbon, there’ll be enough glory to go around. The Department will get their headlines, and the Feds will get theirs, and everyone will live happily ever after. Will you call McDonnell?”

  “I don’t like it,” Davenport says grumpily. “This is our baby, and I don’t want people thinking we can’t clean up the garbage in our own gutters. But like you say, it could be insurance for getting an indictment. Okay, I’ll see what the higher-ups think about it. If they say go ahead, I’ll give the Feds a call. And next time, for Christ’s sake, will you try to be a little more open so I know what’s going on?”

  “I certainly will,” Cone says warmly. “See you at three.”

  But Davenport has already hung up. Cone replaces the wall phone slowly, and his hand is still on it when it rings again. He picks up, wondering if the city dick has already changed his mind.

  “Yeah?” he says.

  “Tim? This is Jeremy Bigelow. You really sick?”

  “Slightly indisposed. What’s with you?”

  “I got some good news. I went to my boss with the story of the short traders, and he got the Commission to issue a formal order of investigation. That means we can get subpoenas and question the guys who were selling short so heavily before the dates you gave me.”

  Cone takes a deep breath. “Jerry,” he says, “why did you do that? I thought you turned the whole deal over to the Federal DA. You contacted Hamish McDonnell—remember?”

  “Well … yeah,” Bigelow says, “but why should they get all the credit? It was the SEC that uncovered it—right?”

  Cone doesn’t comment on that. “You’ll get your share of the credit,” he tells the investigator, and then repeats what he said to Neal Davenport: “There’ll be enough glory to go around. Take my advice, Jerry, and give McDonnell a call before you go ahead with your subpoenas. Otherwise you’re going to find there are two identical investigations going on, with everyone walking up everyone else’s heels, and bad blood between you and the Feds.”

  “You really think so?” Bigelow says worriedly.

  “I really think so. Be smart and play it cool. Call McDonnell and tell him the SEC has launched a formal investigation and can issue subpoenas, but you don’t want to do it if it’ll interfere with what he’s doing. Be nice and you’ll score brownie points. And meanwhile, call your favorite reporters and leak just enough to get their juices flowing. Tell them it’s going to be the biggest Wall Street scandal since Boesky. They’ll jump at it.”

  “Yeah,” Bigelow says happily, “I could do that.”

  “Just make sure they spell your name right,” Cone says.

  He hangs up, shaking his head in bemusement. He can’t understand all these headline-hungry guys. Cone couldn’t care less about personal aggrandizement, and he doesn’t give a tinker’s dam about the reputation of Haldering & Co. In a hundred years, who’ll remember all this shit?

  But meanwhile it’s fun. By three o’clock he’s tooled his Ford Escort up to 45th Street. He finds a parking space around the block and walks back to join the small crowd of rubbernecks that’s appeared out of nowhere to watch the police raid on Paddy’s Pig.

  There’s not much to see. No exc
itement. No wild-and-woolly shoot-outs. The tavern is blocked off by a jam of official and unmarked cop cars. There’s also an NYPD truck pulled up in front, flanked by a mobile TV van. Cone edges into the mob and watches.

  There’s a parade of sweating cops going into Paddy’s Pig empty-handed and coming out lugging cartons, crates, unpacked television sets and VCRs. Then two come out wheeling a black motorcycle, and that’s hoisted into the truck.

  Louie is brought out, cuffed, held firmly between two uniformed mastodons. He’s thrust into a squad car. A younger guy, similarly cuffed, is treated the same way. He’s grinning like a maniac. One of the Ryan brothers, Cone assumes. Finally Detective Davenport and ADA Hamish McDonnell exit from Paddy’s Pig and stand on the sidewalk, talking rapidly and gesturing.

  The vehicles begin to pull away, the rubbernecks disperse. A non-event, Cone figures, and wonders why he bothered to show up. He’s about to leave when Hamish McDonnell spots him, yells, “Hey, Cone!” and beckons. Davenport gives him a wise-ass grin and goes back inside the bar.

  “You sonofabitch,” McDonnell says furiously, “why the hell didn’t you tell me the NYPD was after David Dempster for the homicides?”

  “Hey,” Cone says, “don’t get your balls in an uproar. First of all, you had no need to know. Those killings are a Department squeal—correct? I work with the locals just the way I work with you. Everyone gets a piece of the pie.”

  McDonnell gives him a close look. “I gotta admit you didn’t shaft me. Those names you gave me are panning out. All we had to do with one guy was mention the name David Dempster, and he broke. Started blubbering. You know what worries him most? That we’ll take his vintage Daimler away from him. How d’ya like that?”

  “Beautiful,” Cone says. “You got enough on the short-selling and sabotage?”

  “We’re getting it,” the ADA says. “All these guys are going to do time. Maybe not a lot, but some.” Suddenly he becomes Mr. Nice. “Listen, Cone,” he says, “I’m sorry if I came on heavy. I apologize.”

  “That’s okay. You’re entitled. You didn’t know me from Adam and probably figured I was handing you a crock.”

  “Yeah, something like that. Tell me, how did you get onto David Dempster?”

  “It was easy,” the Wall Street dick says. “I didn’t have anyone else.”

  McDonnell laughs. “And what are you getting out of it?”

  “I’ll get my reward in heaven.”

  “Loser!” McDonnell jeers. Then: “Look, I owe you one. We’re taking David Dempster tomorrow at four o’clock at his office. Davenport will be there. You want to be in on the kill?”

  “I got nothing better to do,” Timothy says.

  Neal Davenport is waiting in the overchilled lobby of David Dempster’s steel and glass office building on Friday afternoon when Cone shows up. They waste no time in greetings.

  “How you doing with Louie?” Timothy wants to know.

  “We’re not ready to dance the fandango yet,” the NYPD man says, “but his lawyer sounds like he wants to make a deal. I think we’ll nail the Ryan brothers on the kills.”

  “What about the sabotage?”

  “My guess is that David Dempster was directing the whole operation, and paying for it. He gave the orders to Louie, and that shmegegi sent the Westies into action. It was a sweet setup. Louie was Dempster’s cutout; he never met the mugs who were doing his dirty work. So naturally they can’t finger him.”

  “Yeah, that’s how I see it. But if Louie doesn’t talk, Dempster walks away from the homicide rap?”

  “Maybe. But McDonnell will get him on the sabotage and conspiracy-to-defraud charges.”

  “Big deal,” Cone says disgustedly. “He’ll squirm out of that with a slap on the wrist.”

  “Don’t worry it,” Davenport advises. “Louie is going to spill, take my word for it. He’s never done time before, and we’ve been telling him how wonderful Attica is and what a prize his fat ass will be up there.”

  “You tell him that in front of his lawyer?”

  “Of course not. But right now he’s being held without bail, and his cellmate is doing us a favor.”

  “Good,” Cone says. “Let the bastard sweat a little.”

  Then Hamish McDonnell comes marching into the lobby, carrying a scuffed attaché case. He’s flanked by two U.S. marshals, both as big as he.

  “You three guys look like a half-ton of beef on the hoof,” Davenport says to the ADA. “Did you get your warrant?”

  “Signed and sealed,” McDonnell says, patting his case. “Now we deliver.”

  “You going to cuff him?”

  “Oh, hell yes. You’d be surprised at the psychological effect handcuffs have on these Ivy League types. Takes all the starch out of their boxer shorts.” He turns to Cone. “You been up to his office?”

  “Yeah. It’s a small place; I’m not sure we’ll all fit in. There’s this little reception room. A secretary at a desk. One door that leads to Dempster’s private office.”

  “Sounds good. Let’s go.”

  They all jam into a high-speed elevator. They exit on the twenty-seventh floor, tramp down the hallway to Dempster’s office in a phalanx. The plump secretary looks up from her magazine in amazement when they come crowding in.

  “What—” she starts.

  “Don’t bother announcing us,” McDonnell says. “It’s a surprise party.”

  He strides to the inner door, jerks it open. The five men go charging in. David Dempster, crisply clad, is seated behind his desk, talking on the phone. He hangs up slowly, rises slowly, looks slowly from face to face. One of the marshals glides to his left, the other to his right, as if they’ve performed this ballet a hundred times.

  “David Dempster?” McDonnell asks.

  “Yes. And who, may I ask, are you?”

  “Hamish McDonnell, Assistant District Attorney, Federal.” The ADA flaps his ID at Dempster. “I believe you’ve met Mr. Cone. This gentleman is Detective Neal K. Davenport of the New York Police Department. These two men are United States marshals. I have a warrant for your arrest.”

  “Warrant?” Dempster says, the plummy voice suddenly dry and strained. “Arrest? For what?”

  “Mr. Dempster,” McDonnell says, “the charges against you would fill a windowshade. Will you waive the reading of your rights?”

  “Now wait a minute …”

  “No, Mr. Dempster, you wait a minute. You can waste our time or you can make it easy on us and yourself and just come along quietly. Cooperate—okay?”

  David Dempster manages a smarmy grin. “You don’t mind if I fill a pipe first, do you?” he asks and, without waiting for a reply, opens a side desk drawer and reaches in.

  Surprisingly, it’s Davenport who reacts first. The portly detective moves so fast that Cone can’t believe it. He launches himself across the desk, grabs Dempster’s wrist in both hands, twists in opposite directions. There’s a howl of pain, and Neal plucks a nickeled pistol from Dempster’s nerveless fingers.

  “Nice pipe,” the city cop says. “What’re you smoking these days—thirty-twos?”

  “Cuff him,” McDonnell orders, and the marshals bend Dempster’s arms behind his back, not gently, and click the steel links on his wrists. They clamp their big mitts on his upper arms.

  “Not smart, Mr. Dempster,” the ADA says. “What were you going to do, kill all five of us? Or just wave your popgun and make a run for it? It’s tough getting a cab on Fridays.”

  “I wish to speak to my attorney,” Dempster says stiffly.

  “You’ll get your chance,” McDonnell says. “Let’s go.”

  Cone stands aside to let the entourage file by. David Dempster pauses a moment, pulling back against the marshals’ grip. He stares at Cone.

  “You?” he says. “You did this?”

  The Wall Street dick nods.

  Dempster takes in the rumpled corduroy suit, grayed T-shirt, yellow work shoes.

  “But you’re a bum!” he says in outraged
tones.

  “Yeah,” Cone says, “I know.”

  He lets them all go ahead. He dawdles a moment in the reception room where the hennaed secretary has her back pressed against the wall, a knuckle between her teeth.

  “I think you can close up now,” Cone tells her gently.

  “He’s not coming back?” she asks.

  “Not for a while.”

  “Shit!” she says unexpectedly. “Best job I ever had.”

  By the time Cone gets down to the street, the others have disappeared. He glances at the clock over the entrance and figures that if he hurries, he can get back to Haldering & Co. in time to pick up his paycheck. But hurrying anywhere in that heat is not a boss idea.

  “Ahh, screw it,” he says aloud, causing passersby to look at him nervously and detour around him.

  Stripped to their skivvies, they’re lazing around the loft on a late Saturday afternoon. The front windows are open, and Cone’s antique electric fan is doing its whirry best, but it’s still bloody hot.

  “When the hell are you going to spring for an air conditioner?” Samantha Whatley demands.

  “One of these days,” Cone says.

  “That’s a lot of bull,” she says. “You’re such a skinflint you’d rather suffer.”

  It’s the truth, and he knows it. Tightwadism is his philosophy, if not his religion, and the thought of shelling out hundreds of dollars for a decent window unit is more than he can bear.

  “It’s not so bad,” he says defensively. “And they say it’s going to cool down tonight.”

  “Yeah,” she says, “maybe to eighty. What are we eating?”

  “I got nothing in the house. I figured I’d run out to the deli. What do you feel like?”

  “Anything as long as it’s cold.”

  “How about a canned ham, potato salad, some tomatoes and stuff?”