Timothy Files

by Lawrence Sanders

  At home, he gives Cleo fresh water and a wing left over from Saturday’s dinner with Sam. Cleo eats the whole wing: skin, meat, and bones. That cat could eat a steel anchor, Tim figures, and then belch delicately and groom its whiskers.

  Davenport is only twenty minutes late. When Cone lets him in, the detective stands in the doorway and looks around.

  “Be it ever so humble,” he says. “Is this place available for weddings and bar mitzvahs? What’s that thing under the bathtub?”

  “That’s Cleo, my cat.”

  “You’re kidding. It looks like a cheetah to me.”

  Cone gets him seated on one of the plain wooden chairs drawn up to the battered desk.

  “I have white wine, vodka, or beer,” he says. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Pussy,” Davenport says. “But I’ll have vodka on the rocks, providing you don’t have to send out for the ice.”

  They both have heavy Popovs, sipping and talking about the weather, air pollution, the water shortage, traffic jams, and the high cost of a good corned beef sandwich.

  “Enough of this idle chitchat,” Davenport says finally. He’s still wearing his snap-brimmed fedora because there’s no place to put it that would be safe from the prowling Cleo. “Where did you get that license number?”

  “Who’s it registered to?” Cone counters.

  They stare at each other.

  Cone sees a porky guy who can chew Juicy Fruit and drink vodka at the same time. But beneath the suet, he reckons, is hard muscle. Davenport has the face of a dedicated drinker—the spider web of red capillaries and the swollen beezer. But the eyes are clear and shrewd. Cone believes he could take him, if necessary, but he doesn’t want to find out.

  “Look,” he says to the cop, “you and I could play games forever. Why don’t we level with each other? I don’t mean all the way. I’m going to hold back, and you’re going to hold back. We both understand that.”

  “Keep going,” Davenport says. “You’re making sense.”

  “Haldering isn’t in the law-enforcement business,” Cone continues. “We’re not interested in putting anyone in the slammer. We get paid fees by clients who want other people investigated. Should I let this guy buy me out? Is he good for the dough he promises? What about this company that wants to merge? Are they legit? And what about this raider who’s buying up our stock like mad? Is he a gonnif or what? We try to provide the information that lets our clients make their decision. Sometimes we give them bad news, but they go ahead anyway. You understand?”

  “Sure,” Davenport says, “I’m keeping up.”

  “What I’m trying to tell you,” Cone says, “is that you and I aren’t competitors. Most of the stuff I deal with is confidential. It has to be if we want to stay inside SEC regulations. But then a lot of your stuff is confidential, too. Has to be if you want to make a case.”

  “You’re so right,” Davenport says. “How about another shot from the wonderful pot? Keep your booze in the freezer, do you? I do, too.”

  “So,” Cone says, topping off their jelly jars, “I inherited one file from the late G. Edward Griffon. It concerns a planned buyout.”

  Then he describes the proposed deal between Evanchat and Clovis & Clovis. He mentions nothing about Griffon’s DUM note, or that New World Enterprises, Inc., might be a dummy corporation. He just says that in the course of checking out Clovis’ subsidiaries, he inspected New World’s Brooklyn headquarters and got suspicious.

  “Why’s that?” Davenport asks.

  “Because the place is so clean,” Cone says earnestly, avoiding the story of his break-in. “Trucks and bulldozers that have never been used. And no record of their doing any business even though they were organized fourteen months ago for a hefty one-three-five million. So, of course, I staked out the place. And eventually this big, heavy guy drives up in a silver LeBaron. I glom the license plate. And that’s it.”

  The city dick looks at him thoughtfully. “Uh-huh,” he says, “that listens. I think you’re telling me the truth. Not all the truth, but we both agreed we’re going to hold back a little. Since it’s trade-off time, here’s what I’ve got: That LeBaron you saw at New World is registered to Anthony Bonadventure. Ever hear of him?”

  “No, I can’t say that I have.”

  “He’s had some publicity, off and on. None of it good. I can’t say the guy is with the Families. He’s not Sicilian. Not even Italian, for God’s sake. Corsican, as far as we can make out. Anyway, he’s been in this and that. Nothing heavy. I mean it’s not prostitution, armed robbery, hijacking, or anything like that. Our Anthony is too smart. The guy’s a university graduate, got an MBA. What he’s into mostly is fraud, extortion, and misrepresentation with the intent to commit a felony. Like peddling fake oil leases or rigging phony tax shelters.”

  “Those are Federal offenses,” Cone observes.

  “Sure they are,” Davenport agrees, “and the Feds have had him up twice, but they’ve never been able to pin him. I told you, the guy is smart, can afford the best legal eagles.”

  “So what’s the interest of the NYPD? It’s white-collar crime, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, in a way. But some of the scams this Bonadventure has pulled, well, he could never have started them without the cooperation of the Families. I mean, he doesn’t belong to the mob, but when necessary, he works with them. Which means he pays his dues—right? Which brings our Organized Crime unit into the picture.”

  “What kind of scams does he do with the bentnoses?”

  “Well, like for instance, he’s suspected of forging green cards for aliens. Now you know he’s got to be working with the locals to provide a steady stream of immigrants to make that profitable. That’s how the NYPD got interested in him—his local ties. He’s out of the green-card business now—the Feds got too close—and we haven’t heard hide nor hair about him for almost a year. Now you come up with his license plate.”

  “A year?” Cone says, frowning. “New World was incorporated fourteen months ago. That’s interesting.”

  “Yeah,” Davenport says, grinning, “ain’t it? I’ll call you tomorrow and give you his last known address. They’re running it through Records for me. Look, Cone, right now the Department has absolutely nothing we can charge Anthony Bonadventure with. But we’d love to nail that shtarker; it would really put the Feds’ noses out. If you can come up with something, we’d be as happy as hogs in the mud. Why don’t you take a close look at this guy? Maybe he’s up to something.”

  “You’re using me,” the Wall Street dick says.

  “You bet your sweet ass we’re using you. But it’s your job, isn’t it? I mean, you’re working for your client, this Evanchat, aren’t you? So just do your job, and we’ll provide all the cooperation we can, as long as you keep us in the picture. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?”

  “Sure,” Cone says, “that’s fair.”

  Davenport drains off his vodka and rises to leave. “Thanks for the belt. I’ll call you tomorrow with Bonadventure’s home address, and I’ll also try to dig up a mug shot of the guy so you can make him. By the way, he’s known to pack a popgun on occasion, so watch your back. You carry?”

  “Yeah,” Cone says. “A short-barreled Magnum in an ankle holster.”

  Davenport laughs. “You been reading too many detective novels. What are you going to do in a shoot-out—pretend you’re bending down to tie your shoelace?” He pauses at the door for a final look around. “I love this place,” he says. “The Garden of Sleaze. It looks like my old YMCA locker room back in Topeka. Invite me again.”

  “Anytime you can make it,” Cone says. “You’re always welcome.”

  “Oh,” the detective says, “about Griffon’s death. … We got a halfass witness who thinks he saw your buddy pushed. But he can’t be sure, he won’t swear to it, and he doesn’t want to get involved.”

  “What else?” Cone says.

  Davenport doesn’t call the next morning, but he sends over a manila envel
ope, heavily sealed, with Anthony Bonadventure’s last known address, a photo—taken outside, seemingly by surprise; the guy looks startled—and a copy of Bonadventure’s sheet.

  Timothy Cone—a cheapskate, and he knows it—carefully peels off the tape; it’s a good, clean envelope; he can use it again. He puts the sheet away to read later, but he studies Bonadventure’s photograph. It could be the man he saw get out of the LeBaron. Same build, same bulk.

  He’s a heavy guy with grossly handsome features. Plenty of brow and jaw. A massive face that’s going to get jowly with age. Shadowed bedroom eyes and a full mouth: sculpted lips below a strong nose. He’s really attractive in an animal kind of way, and Cone figures he does all right with the ladies.

  He locks up everything and leaves the office. He takes an uptown bus, heading for the Clovis & Clovis press conference. During the trip, he wonders why Davenport has been so generous with the photo, address, copy of Bonadventure’s record. Because the NYPD wants this guy real bad, Cone reckons, or Davenport’s trying to establish an obligation. “I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

  Timothy Cone is wearing his “good” suit. It’s an old, thready Harris Tweed jacket with greasy suede patches on the elbows. The pants are unpressed gray flannel, dark enough—he hopes—to hide the spaghetti stains. When he put on a white button-down shirt that morning, one of the buttons popped, so a flap of his collar swings free. His tie is a knitted black wool with several slubs where Cleo has bitten at it while dragging it across the linoleum, shaking it like a snake.

  The press conference and cocktail party are being held in the mammoth reception room of Clovis & Clovis headquarters on Fifty-seventh Street. There’s a uniformed security guard at the door collecting invitations.

  “Thank you, sir,” he says to Cone in a bored voice. “Please pass down the receiving line. Then the bar’s on your left, buffet on your right.”

  Cone gets on the receiving line and is gratified to see several men as grungy looking as he, and supposes they’re reporters. The file moves swiftly. The one man and two women shaking hands seem to be practiced. They clasp a guest’s hand, give it one firm shake, and gently tug the owner along.

  “Hi! I’m Stanley Clovis,” the host beams, moving Cone to his right.

  “Timothy Cone from Haldering and Company.”

  “So glad you could make it, Mr. Haldering.”

  “Hello. I’m Mrs. Grace Clovis.”

  “Timothy Cone from Haldering and Company.”

  “So glad you could make it, Mr. Timothy.”

  “Good morning! I’m Lucinda Clovis.”

  “Timothy Cone from Haldering and Company.”

  “So glad you could make it, Mr. Company.”

  He turns toward the bar, wondering who the hell he is. He asks the mess-jacketed bartender for a vodka rocks, and gets it with a slab of lime he didn’t order and doesn’t like.

  He takes his drink and moves to a position where he can observe the Clovis family.

  Stanley is a surprisingly small man, lean, dapper, and dark. He’s wearing a raw gray silk suit with a mirror sheen. His wife, Grace, is almost a head taller: a statuesque blonde who looks like she might have been a model or showgirl. She’s weaving slightly and Cone wonders if she might be bombed.

  Lucinda Clovis, the sister, is as short and swarthy as her brother. She looks like a hard one, with a hatchet face and a jerky way of moving. She’s flashing a spray of diamonds on the lapel of her black gabardine suit.

  They make quite a trio, and Timothy Cone studies them, noting their frozen smiles, the smooth way they’re greeting their guests, the public-relations performance they’re putting on. They’ve done it a hundred times, he’s sure, and wonders what happens when their public masks drop and they take off their jewelry and expensive clothes. Private masks?

  But then the receiving line bunches up, and he can’t get a good look at them. He wanders over to the buffet table and asks the toque-topped chef to make him a rare roast beef sandwich on those little slices of cocktail rye. He’s munching on that when he notices a couple standing near the entrance, holding glasses of what appears to be white wine. They’re bending toward each other in whispered conversation.

  The man is Anthony Bonadventure; Cone is sure of it. That big, rugged build, heavy head, porcine features. He’s wearing a pinkie ring that’s got to be good for two or three carats. No doubt about it; the guy has presence. He looks assured, confident, and ready to wrestle the world.

  The woman he’s talking to is small, olive-skinned, poorly dressed: the one Cone saw entering the New World office.

  “Hello there!” he says softly.

  He finishes his tiny sandwich, licks his fingertips, and gets another vodka, without fruit. Then he positions himself where he can observe Bonadventure and his companion. They don’t seem to be arguing, but they’re having a very intense discussion, gesturing like mad.

  The reception room has filled up, the receiving line has dribbled away. Cone, looking around, spots Mrs. Grace Clovis standing alone at the bar, working on what seems to be a beaker of scotch. He pushes his way to her side and gives her a smile.

  “Lovely party,” he says.

  “Is it?” she says, staring at him. “Who you?”

  “Mr. Haldering, Mr. Timothy, or Mr. Company. I’m not sure who I am.”

  “Welcome to the club,” she says indifferently, taking a gulp of her drink. She looks around. “This thing sucks,” she says.

  He’d like to hear more, but Stanley Clovis mounts a small dais and taps a glass with a spoon. Gradually the room quiets.

  “Sorry, folks,” he yells, giving everyone a flash of his California caps, “you got exactly two minutes to replenish your drinks, and then we’re going to close down the bar and buffet for a short presentation. And I promise you it will be short—and exciting! Then, after I make my pitch and answer questions, the bar and buffet will reopen. Okay?”

  Laughter and applause. The guy handles himself well, Cone acknowledges. A real manipulator. As people crowd the bar, Tim moves away in the direction of Anthony Bonadventure and his lady. They seem to be inching closer to the exit. Cone inches right along with them.

  Assistants set up easels, charts, enlarged architectural drawings on the dais. A public address system is plugged in and tested. Stanley Clovis takes his place behind the lectern. Immediately Bonadventure and the olive-skinned woman move to the door. Cone leaves his empty glass on the rug near the exit and follows.

  They ride down together in the same elevator, but it’s crowded and there’s no conversation. If they take the LeBaron, Cone thinks, or hop a cab, I’ve got problems. But no, Bonadventure and the woman walk west on Fifty-seventh Street. The man moves to the outside and takes her arm. A gentleman.

  Cone tails them for two blocks. The sidewalks are jammed; there’s no way they’re going to spot him. He moves closer, and when they go into a corner branch of the Merchants International Bank, he’s right behind them. He stands at one of the glass counters and diddles with a deposit slip and a pen on a chain while he watches them.

  Bonadventure stands aside, leaning negligently against a marble pillar as the woman goes up to one of the tellers’ windows and pushes some papers under the brass gate. She gets a slip of paper and rejoins Bonadventure.

  They leave, Cone on their heels. A cab stops in front of the bank, a woman gets out, and Bonadventure and his partner pop in and are whisked away. Cone gives up.

  Back at Haldering & Co., he goes directly to the office of the chief accountant.

  “You again?” Sidney Apicella says.

  “Yeah, me. Sid, can you get the current bank balance of New World Enterprises? It’s a subsidiary of Clovis and Clovis.”

  “And would you also like the mean temperature of the planet Jupiter during the month of April?”

  “Cut the crap, Sid. This is important. I need to know how much New World has got in the till.”

  “Why do you need to know?”

  “Beca
use New World started out with a capitalization of a hundred and thirty-five million. That was fourteen months ago. Maybe they’ve spent a million or so on their warehouse and equipment. But they’ve done no jobs. There’s no record of income. I’ll bet my left nut that someone is looting that outfit.”

  Apicella sighs. “I’ll see what I can do, Tim. Things like this aren’t easy. But we have our contacts.”

  “Guys we bribe, you mean.”

  “Not exactly,” Sid says, frowning. “We do favors for them, they do favors for us.”

  “You mean one hand washes the other?” Cone says. “That’s an original concept. I’ll be in my office. Let me know as soon as possible, will you? It really is important.”

  He goes back to his desk, digs out the NYPD sheet on Anthony Bonadventure, and starts reading. It’s a long record, and Cone shakes his head in amazement at how many times the guy has been arrested, charged, indicted, tried, and has waltzed away whistling a merry tune.

  He’s still studying the transcript when Apicella comes to the door of his office, carrying a little piece of scratch paper.

  “You said you’d bet your left nut that someone is looting that outfit,” he says, looking down at his notes. “Well, New World Enterprises, Inc., was incorporated fourteen months ago with an initial capitalization of one hundred and thirty-five million provided by Clovis and Clovis.”

  “I told you all that, Sid,” Cone says, sighing. “Get to the bottom line. How much is left?”

  “As of yesterday,” Apicella says, “their bank balance was one hundred and eighty-eight million.”

  “There goes my left nut.”

  2

  HE DOESN’T ENJOY GETTING jerked around, and that’s exactly what he thinks is happening.

  “Look here,” he says angrily to Samantha Whatley, “that outfit has made more than fifty million. And with no record of developing or building, which is what they were set up to do. I tell you something kinky is going down.”