Timothy Files

by Lawrence Sanders

  “I guess,” Cone says, then slams the top of his desk angrily. “Goddammit, I know Griffon was tailing someone involved in the Clovis-Evanchat deal because he found that Clovis’s dummy corporation was up to its ass in banks.”

  “Someone mention banks?” Sidney Apicella asks, standing in the doorway and rubbing his big schnozzola furiously. “I’ll tell you about banks!”

  He seems so distraught, they look up at him in astonishment. His face is flushed, and his swollen nose is flashing like a lighthouse.

  “Those three other subsidiaries of Clovis,” he says. “They’re all headquartered in New York, and they were all banking here up to about a year ago. Then they switched to Newark, Chicago, and San Diego.”

  “Oh, boy,” Cone says.

  “Yeah—oh, boy,” Apicella says. “I’m no detective, but even I can see that a month or two after New World Enterprises was organized the other Clovis subsidiaries switched their banks. Coincidence?”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you, Sid?” Cone asks.

  “Of course I don’t believe it. Three New York corporations suddenly switching to out-of-state banks—there’s something going on there that’s not kosher. You going to follow up on this, Tim?”

  “Sure.”

  “Anything I can do to help? I okayed the deal in my PIE, and I don’t enjoy being played for a patsy.”

  “Yeah,” Joe Washington says, standing up. “You can help. I’ll go back to your office with you, and you can give me the names of your contacts at the credit agencies.”

  “What for?”

  Cone answers: “We’re trying to find out if Clovis or any of its subsidiaries tried to open a new account at a bank in the Union Square area.”

  Apicella nods gloomily. “Where Griffon was killed. Come on, Joe; I’ll give you what I’ve got, but don’t expect too much. Those guys are closemouthed. You ask them how they’re feeling and they want to know why you’re asking.”

  Alone in his office, Cone opens a fresh pack of cigarettes, forgetting his morning resolution. He blows a plume of smoke at the dingy ceiling and reflects ruefully that’s what he’s good at—blowing smoke. When the phone rings, he lets it shrill five times before he picks it up.

  “Yeah?” he says.

  “Must you say, ‘Yeah’?” Samantha Whatley barks. “Can’t you say, Timothy Cone’s office’ or something halfway respectable?”

  “I’m not a respectable guy,” he says. “You know that. What’s got you in a snit? You sound ready to chew spikes.”

  “Get your ass in here,” she commands.

  “Oh-oh,” he says. “Bad news?”

  She doesn’t answer; just slams down the phone. So he shambles along the corridor to her office. She’s sitting erect behind her desk and gives him what he once called her top-sergeant stare: cold, stony, and completely without mercy.

  “What’s up?” he asks.

  “Close the door and sit down,” she orders, and he does.

  “You’re off the Clovis-Evanchat deal,” she says.

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Because there is no deal. Isaac Evanchat got a registered letter this morning; Clovis and Clovis have decided not to go ahead with the buyout. So Evanchat called Haldering and told him to drop the investigation.”

  “Good,” Cone says.

  “Good?” Samantha cries. “Good? We lose a profitable client, and all you can say is good?”

  “Bonadventure traced the Honda, like I told you he would. So he knows he’s being tailed. Also, they’re nervous about a guy named Javert who’s been asking too many questions.”

  She glares at him. “You son of a bitch, that was you.”

  “It was me,” he admits. “Don’t you see what’s happening? We’re getting close to the jugular, and Clovis figures the best thing to do is pull out of the deal. So we stop poking into their private affairs.”

  “Well, they’ve succeeded,” Sam says. “H. H. told me to drop the whole thing and reassign personnel.”

  “And you’re going to do it?”

  “Tim, for God’s sake, it’s my neck if I don’t do as he says. So just forget it.”

  They stare at each other, knowing something important is happening. Not so much about the Clovis-Evanchat deal as between themselves.

  “I’m not going to forget it,” Cone says. “If you want to can me, then can me. I couldn’t care less. But Griffon got wasted, and he was a guy who tried to be a friend. And he worked for this outfit; that counts for something. So I’m going to push it. On my own if I have to.”

  “Jesus,” she says, groaning, “what a hard-on you are.”

  “Not so much,” he says. “But I know what’s right. I’m going to keep digging. Am I bounced?”

  She takes a deep breath, blows it out. Swings back and forth in her swivel chair. Fiddles with a ballpoint pen on her desk. Rubs her forehead worriedly. Pulls at her jaw. Scratches her scalp. Finally she looks up at him.

  “The Honda is leased until the end of the month,” she says. “That gives you another ten days. I can cover that. And I can diddle the reports to give you some wiggle room. Can you clear it up in a week?”

  “I’ll try,” he says. “No guarantees.”

  “If you blow it, we’re both out on our ass.”

  “I know. Do I still get the ticket to the house tour?”

  She takes another deep breath. “All right, idiot boy,” she says, “you’ll get it. I’ll scam it—somehow. But I’ll have to start Joe on some new assignments. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay,” she says, “you’ve got a week. Then it’s back to the salt mines for you, sonny.”

  “I’ve been there before,” he says.

  “I like the way you express appreciation for what I’m doing for you,” she says. “Get the hell out of here. You’re disgusting.”

  “First I’m a hard-on and now I’m disgusting. This is my lucky day.”

  “Out!” she says, jerking a thumb toward the door.

  He goes back to his office and calls Davenport. The city detective is out, so Cone leaves a message. He works on his weekly report—a great work of fiction—for almost an hour before Davenport calls back.

  “I hear Haldering is out of the picture,” the NYPD man says. “The Clovis-Evanchat deal is kaput.”

  “My God,” Cone says, “bad news travels fast. Yeah, the buyout has been canceled. But that doesn’t change anything as far as I’m concerned.”

  “This is a goddamned crusade with you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Cone says. “I think we better meet. I’ve got some things for you.”

  “And you want something from me?”

  “That’s right. Why don’t we stop playing games? I’ve only got a week to clear this.”

  “A hotshot like you should be able to do it in a day or two. How’s about I drop by your palace around eight o’clock?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “This is my week for scotch,” Davenport says. “Pick up a jug, will you? I’ll pay for it.”

  “I can afford it,” Cone says. “You want soda with it?”

  “Are you out of your frigging mind?” the detective says.

  He buys a bottle of Chivas Regal, drives home, feeds Cleo, and eats some cold leftover lasagna. He sits at his desk and stares at that scrap of paper Ed Griffon left in his file: DUM?

  “That’s what I am,” Cone tells Cleo. “Dumb.”

  Davenport arrives, wearing a clear plastic raincoat and a plastic cover on his fedora. Both are sparkling with raindrops.

  “It’s raining?” Timothy asks.

  “No,” the city detective says, “I ran under an open hydrant. Of course it’s raining. Where the hell have you been for the last two hours?”

  “Sitting here.”

  “You never look out the window?”

  “What for?”

  “Good answer,” Davenport says. “My God. Chivas Regal! Are you trying to bri
be an officer of the law? If you are, you’re succeeding.”

  They sit at the crippled desk, feet up, and sip from jelly jars filled with the scotch whiskey.

  “I got to get home,” the city dick says, unwrapping a fresh stick of Juicy Fruit, “or the wife will kill me. So let’s make it fast. Why did Clovis cancel the deal?”

  “Because they’re running scared,” Cone says.

  Then he tells Davenport about his confrontation with Anthony Bonadventure. About Apicella’s report on the out-of-state banks. About Joe Washington’s failure to examine applications for new bank accounts in the Union Square area.

  “That’s where you come in,” he says. “Griffon was down there on something connected with the Clovis-Evan-chat deal; I’m convinced of it. But I’m getting nowhere. I want you to check the area and see if anyone from Clovis applied for a new account the day Griffon was killed.”

  “What’s so important about the banks?” he wants to know. “You don’t think they’re being cased for holdups, do you?”

  “Nah, nothing like that. These people aren’t shoot-’em-up types; they wear white collars. But whatever the con is, it’s got something to do with their banks.”

  “Okay,” the NYPD man says equably, “I’ll give it the old college try. We’re getting nowhere on the Griffon kill. Our witness can’t remember another goddamned thing.”

  “But he still thinks it was a woman who pushed Ed?”

  “He thinks it was, but the guy’s a flake. No way are we even going to get an indictment on his testimony. We need more.”

  Cone ponders a moment. “You got a buddy at the local IRS office?” he asks finally.

  “Maybe,” Davenport says cautiously. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’m not sure. But I thought it might be interesting if you could get a look at the returns of all the Clovis people involved.”

  “That would take a month of Sundays,” the detective says. “But I can ask my pal if any of them are under audit and for what. It’s Bonadventure we’re interested in most.”

  “If push comes to shove,” Cone says, “I think you can lean on Grace Clovis. That lady is ready to shatter into a million pieces. I think she’ll admit Anthony is supplying her with nose candy. Then you can hit on him, and God knows he’s no Rock of Gibraltar. Maybe he’ll work a deal and sing like a birdie.”

  “Do you also believe in the tooth fairy?” Davenport drains his Chivas in two deep gulps and smacks his lips. “That stuff’s really sippin’ whiskey, but I haven’t got the time. I’ll check out those Union Square banks for you. What’ll you do for me?”

  “I’m getting into the Clovis apartment on a charity house-tour. Maybe I can come up with something.”

  “What are you smoking these days?” Davenport asks. “I’d like to try some of it.”

  “I’m going to break this thing,” Cone says. “You’ll see.”

  The detective stands and makes the sign of the cross in the air. “Bless you, my son,” he says.

  Two days later (both spent tailing Constance Figlia), Cone drives the Honda up to East Seventy-seventh Street, to the headquarters of the charity sponsoring the house tour. He is wearing his raggedy tweed jacket, a plaid shirt open at the neck and showing a T-shirt beneath, and his stained flannel slacks. It is, he believes, a costume suitable for visiting the homes of the rich and the famous.

  The charity is located in a townhouse inhabited by what appear to be similar organizations: Society for this and Association for that. The one Cone seeks is apparently devoted to the welfare of an American Indian tribe he’s never heard of, but he assumes needs all the help it can get.

  The tour is assembling on the sidewalk, next to a small chartered bus. A young woman and young man, both pale, long-haired, and earnest, continually count their flock, checking off each new arrival against a clipboard list.

  “Timothy Cone,” he reports to the young woman. “From Haldering and Company.”

  “Splendid,” she says brightly, ticking off his name. “You’re the last. Now we can get this show on the road. Horace,” she calls, “everyone present and accounted for.”

  “Splendid,” he says, and then in a louder voice: “May I please have your attention, ladies. And gentleman,” he adds, with a bob of his head in Cone’s direction. “Today we’re going to visit six absolutely splendid homes. We will spend approximately thirty minutes in each house. In most cases the owners will be present to conduct the visit and answer your questions. Please, I entreat you, stay together and do not wander. Remember, you are invited guests, and I know you will conduct yourselves as you would expect guests to act in your home.”

  They all pile into the bus: twenty-two women—mostly middle-aged matrons with blue hair and white gloves—and Timothy Cone. He maneuvers to get a seat next to Horace.

  “When do we get to the Clovis apartment?” he asks.

  Horace consults his clipboard. “Third on the schedule,” he reports. “Why? Is it of particular interest to you?”

  “I hear it’s a classy joint.”

  “It’s splendid!” Horace enthuses. “A triplex with divinely proportioned rooms. And wait’ll you see their collections of African masks and pre-Columbian sculpture.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Cone says.

  The first home is a nine-room apartment on East Seventy-ninth Street, decorated in what the owner calls “New York Victorian.”

  “The real stuff,” he says proudly. He’s a stubby man, in his sixties, chewing on an unlighted cigar.

  The living room walls are covered with flocked paper in a hellish design of mythical beasts. There are swagged velvet drapes and more gilt-framed oil paintings of dead fish than Cone has seen outside of Manny’s Restaurant on the San Francisco wharf. There are also antimacassars, and a polished brass gaboon on a rubber mat. The only piece of furniture Cone admires is an armchair made of deer antlers. It looks like a sitting-down version of the iron maiden.

  The second home on the tour is a Park Avenue duplex decorated in a style the gushy resident terms “French Provincial, with just a wee touch of your English manor house.” This one is a little more attractive, with a lot of flowered fabrics on furniture, walls of Oriental paper, and carpeting with a pile so deep it could swallow a hundred contact lenses.

  Finally the bus pulls up in front of the Clovis building on Third and Eighty-fifth. It takes two elevators to get the tour group up to the triplex. Waiting to greet them are Stanley and Lucinda, both wearing silvery jumpsuits, and if they don’t exactly match, they’re close enough to make Cone think of a song-and-dance team.

  The main floor of the apartment is really something. The foyer is as large as Cone’s loft, and the living room stretches away like a basketball court. A handsome copper staircase rises to the upper floors, although Stanley assures his awestruck visitors that there’s a small private elevator to the terrace, swimming pool, and sauna.

  Brother and sister chatter on, often completing each other’s sentences. They name the Brazilian who designed the custom-made leather furniture, the Italian who did the marble fireplace, the Frenchman who painted the walls, and the Austrian who etched the glass for the doors.

  “And who designed le tout ensemble?” one of the blue-haired matrons asks. “The overall creative concept?”

  “We did,” Stanley and Lucinda say in unison, with such an expression of satisfaction that Cone can hardly stand it. He turns and stares at a fiendishly baroque nineteenth-century grand piano, hand-carved with painted cupids, curlicues, leaping harts, crouching hares, and a wealth of other excrescences devised by a demented woodcarver.

  What interests the Wall Street dick is that on the closed lid of this monstrosity are files of standing photographs framed in silver, leather, shell, aluminum, or dark wood. Cone moves sideways behind the tour group to get a closer look. It appears to be a collection of family photos: grandparents, children, relatives, friends. And one row of Stanley and Lucinda, from the time they were toddlers to their present stat
e of physical and spiritual perfection.

  “And now,” Stanley says, “before we show you the upstairs—”

  “—we’d like you to see our collection of pre-Columbian art,” Lucinda finishes.

  “Including some really rare and amusing artifacts,” Stanley says. “You won’t see anything like it anywhere else.”

  “We hope you won’t be shocked,” Lucinda adds, and brother and sister giggle.

  The group moves to the end of the living room, where the art collection is housed in lighted glass cases recessed into the wall. With everyone’s back turned, Cone steps swiftly to the piano and scans the photographs more closely.

  In the front is a four-by-five color shot of Stanley, Grace, and Lucinda Clovis, Anthony Bonadventure, and Constance Figlia. The photo is framed in blue leather. It was obviously taken on a beach somewhere. The five, wearing bathing suits, are standing in a row, arms about each other’s waists, laughing at the camera.

  Cone looks up to make certain he’s unobserved, then swipes the framed photograph. He slides it inside his jacket, holding it clamped under his left arm. He rejoins the tour group, troops upstairs with the others to inspect the master bedroom, dominated by a “genuine Chinese opium couch.”

  When the visit is finished, he goes down to the street with everyone else but doesn’t board the bus. Instead, he walks rapidly westward, the purloined photograph still concealed under his jacket. He doesn’t take another look at it until he’s back in the parked Honda on East Seventy-seventh Street.

  There they all are—a grinning group, holding each other and squinting against the bright sunlight. Grace Clovis is wearing the world’s tiniest bikini. Lucinda is wearing a skimpy maillot with the legs cut up to her waist. Constance Figlia is swaddled in something with a ruffled skirt. The two men are wearing conventional swimming trunks. All look healthy, happy, and maybe just a little drunk or stoned.

  The photograph infuriates Cone because it refutes the scenario he had imagined, which goes like this:

  Grace Clovis somehow gets evidence of her husband’s incestuous relationship with his sister. In a coked-up state, Grace delivers the evidence to Anthony Bonadventure. That bandito, realizing he’s onto a good thing, confronts Stanley and Lucinda and in return for his silence lures the brother and sister into some kind of a bank scam, with Constance Figlia doing the donkeywork on that computer at New World Enterprises.