Timothy Files

by Lawrence Sanders

  The black Cadillac de Ville is parked in a No Parking zone just north of Broome Street. Standing alongside is one of the biggest guys Cone has ever seen: a young hulk who looks like he’s wearing football pads under his gray whipcord jacket. As Cone goes by on his way to work, the monster steps in front of him.

  “Mr. Timothy Cone?” he asks pleasantly.

  Cone looks up at him. About six feet six, he figures, at least 280, with a neck as wide as the detective’s thigh. He looks as if he’s got the muscle to toss Timothy over to Lafayette Street if the mood takes him.

  “Yeah, I’m Cone. Who are you?”

  His question is ignored. The giant gestures toward the back of the Cadillac. “A gentleman here would like to speak to you for a few minutes.”

  “No, thanks,” Cone says. “Mommy told me never to accept rides from strangers.”

  “We’re not going for a ride,” the young behemoth says. “Just a little talk right here. Come on, Mr. Cone, be nice.”

  “And if I’m not nice?”

  The guy shrugs. “Then I get back in and drive away.” He sounds disappointed.

  But Cone believes him. He bends down to peer in the window. The man sitting back there looks innocent enough. He’s elegantly dressed, with a miniature orchid pinned to the lapel of his taupe gabardine topcoat. He sees Timothy staring through the glass, gives him a sweet smile, and makes little beckoning motions with his fingers.

  “Okay,” Cone says.

  The bodyguard, or chauffeur, or whatever the hell he is, opens the rear door and Cone slides in. He sits far back and crosses his knees so he can get to his ankle holster in a hurry if he has to.

  The man turning sideways to face him has deep, soft eyes, a gentle manner. He’s pushing sixty, Cone reckons, and looks like he has a massage and a manicure every day. He’s wearing a cologne that makes the inside of the Cadillac smell like a cedar chest.

  “Please forgive this unconventional method of meeting you, Mr. Cone,” he says in a quiet voice. “I suppose I could have written you a letter or called your office for an appointment, but it didn’t seem wise.”

  “Why not?” Cone asks.

  No answer to that. “First let me introduce myself.” The man slides a pigskin case from his inside jacket pocket, extracts a plastic ID card, and hands it over.

  The Wall Street dick takes a quick look at it. “This doesn’t mean much,” he says. “I could buy a fake on the street for maybe fifty bucks.”

  “I don’t think so,” the guy says, flashing his sweet smile again. “That particular card has a microchip embedded in it.”

  “Well, well. Will wonders never cease?”

  “No,” the other man says. “They won’t.”

  “And what’s this battle monument commission? I never heard of it.”

  “Not many people have. It’s just another federal bureaucracy.”

  “You promote battle monuments?”

  “Among other things.”

  “J. Roger Gibby,” Cone reads from the card. Then he looks up to stare into those dark, shadowed eyes. “That name rings a bell.” He pauses a moment, then snaps his fingers. “Got it. I’ve been reading books on artificial insemination. They keep mentioning Professor J. Roger Gibby. That’s you—correct?”

  “I was a professor, but not any longer. Just another government employee.”

  “But you did a lot of work on test-tube babies. So the reason we’re having this confab is the Nu-Hope Clinic investigation. Am I right?”

  “Exactly right.”

  “Let me make another wild guess,” Cone says. “You want me to okay the Nu-Hope deal. How’m I doing?”

  “Batting a thousand.”

  “What the hell is Uncle Sam’s interest in Nu-Hope?”

  “They’re doing some excellent original research. The federal government is vitally interested in furthering technology in their area.”

  “Bullshit,” Cone says roughly. “What’s the research you’re interested in—how to get more sperm donors to jack off into empty baby food jars?”

  Gibby gives him a wry look. “You have a colorful way of speaking, Mr. Cone. I’m afraid I can’t be more specific about our interest in Nu-Hope.”

  “Okay,” Cone says. “If that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is. Nice talking to you.”

  He reaches for the door handle, but Gibby puts a light hand on his arm.

  “Just a moment, Mr. Cone. Please. I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to look up your record. Marine Corps. Vietnam. Your medals. You served your country well.”

  “Oh-oh,” Cone says. “Here it comes. Hearts and flowers. Be a patriot. Do what Big Daddy in the White House wants you to do. Is that right?”

  “Not quite. There are others as anxious about Nu-Hope’s research as we are.”

  “Jesus Christ, now it’s help defend America against Godless Communism. You’re really pulling out all the stops.”

  “No,” Gibby says seriously, “I’m not suggesting that at all. I’m sure the Soviets are doing research along similar lines. But that doesn’t concern us at the moment. There are others interested in the same subject.”

  “Others? What others?”

  “That, I’m afraid, is also privileged information.”

  Cone nods. “Glad to have met you,” he says. “As for the US of A, I’ve paid my dues. As for Nu-Hope, I’m going to keep digging. If they’re clean, that’s what I’ll report. And if they’re dirty, likewise.”

  He climbs out of the de Ville. The bruiser, still standing on the sidewalk, glances at him but lets him go. Cone tramps angrily southward on Broadway.

  He’s only an hour late for work, and gets a wrathful look from Samantha when he passes her in the corridor. But he’s in no mood to endure a reaming out for his tardiness, and without even a good morning to her, heads for his office.

  “Grouch!” she calls after him.

  He sits at his battered desk, fishes out a cigarette, and rumbles stuff around in his brain, trying to find some logical pattern: Lester Pingle offers a bribe for an okay on the Nu-Hope deal. Cone tells him to get lost. The next morning, the U.S. Gov’t., in the person of J. Roger Gibby, makes the same pitch.

  Does that mean that Pingle’s bribe money was going to come from the taxpayers? Or is Lester buddy-buddy with the “others” Gibby mentioned? Finally, why is everyone so goddamned interested in Nu-Hope? And why did January and Trumball lie about Harold Besant?

  The whole thing reminds Cone of that nonsense riddle he loved as a child: “If it takes fourteen geese to get down off an elephant, how many Palmolive wrappers does it take to paper a boxcar?” He groans, pulls the phone toward him, and calls Jessie Scotto at the Nu-Hope Fertility Clinic.

  He identifies himself, says he’s coming up to the clinic to speak to several of the employees, and would like to talk to her for a few minutes.

  “I’m very busy,” she says in a voice so low he can hardly hear her.

  He won’t let her get away with that. “Doctor January told me he instructed the staff to be as cooperative as possible. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” she says faintly, “he told us that.”

  “Well, then? It won’t take long.”

  “All right,” she says. “If it’s only for a few minutes.”

  “In the Doctors’ Lounge,” he suggests, “in about an hour. We’ll have a coffee or something. I’m wearing an old parka, but you’ll have to identify yourself.”

  “All right,” she says again, sounding like she hears the tumbrils rolling.

  At the clinic Cone flashes his ID and has no trouble getting into the west wing. He takes the elevator to the fourth floor and is happy to find the Doctors’ Lounge empty. He treats himself to a free cup of black coffee and a wedge of apple pie. It comes with a plastic fork. Pie and fork taste alike.

  He’s on his second cup of coffee when a little nurse scurries into the lounge, looking like she’s pursued by wolves. Cone rises, forces himself to smile, holds out a hand.
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  “Miss Scotto?” he says. “I’m Timothy Cone from Haldering. Thank you for meeting with me.”

  She looks like she’s expecting him to slap her. But she gives him a brief, limp handclasp, then collapses into a metal chair at his table. Detective Galanis was wrong, Cone thinks: Two months haven’t restored Jessie Scotto’s nerves. She looks ready to shatter into a million pieces.

  “Can I bring you a coffee?” he asks.

  She shakes her head, so he sits down again, opposite her, and hunches over the table. He speaks quietly, trying to play the sympathetic daddy. But it’s difficult; she won’t look at him.

  “Just a few questions,” Cone says soothingly. “I know how busy you must be.”

  Like Galanis said: She’s a little mouse. Diminutive, with frizzy hair and pale, watery eyes. She’s not wearing makeup, and swims in a nurse’s uniform too large for her. It’s hard to believe she was living with Harold Besant. She looks like someone’s maiden aunt.

  “How long have you worked at Nu-Hope, Miss Scotto?”

  “Six years.”

  “Like it?”

  A nod.

  “What are your duties?”

  “I prep patients.”

  As they talk, people begin to wander into the lounge and use the vending machines. Cone notices a number of them glance curiously at Jessie and himself. He leans farther across the table, deciding he better cut this short before the place is jammed by the lunchtime crowd.

  “You knew Harold Besant,” he says, more of a statement than a question.

  She looks up at him fearfully.

  “Look, Jessie,” he says, trying to keep his temper under control, “whatever you say is just between you and me. I swear to God I’ll never repeat a word. You and Harold were living together.”

  She nods.

  “Did you know he had a gun?”

  “He didn’t,” she bursts out. “I know he didn’t.”

  “The night he died, did he tell you where he was going?”

  “No. He just said he’d be gone for an hour or so. He said he had to meet someone.”

  “Did he say who?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think he was depressed, like everyone says?”

  “He was—Harold was worried.”

  “About what?”

  “His work.”

  “What was his work, Jessie? What did Harold do in that research laboratory?”

  She looks directly into his eyes, unblinking, and Cone knows she’s going to lie.

  “He never discussed his work with me,” she says. “I know nothing about it.”

  Cone sits back and regards her gravely. “There’s no way I can help you if you won’t let me.”

  She begins weeping, covering her eyes with a palm. “Just leave me alone,” she says in a muffled voice. “Just go away. Please.”

  “All right,” he says, sighing. “Haldering’s phone number is in the book. If you change your mind, you can reach me there.”

  People look at him as he stalks out of the Doctors’ Lounge, leaving Jessie Scotto alone at the table, her eyes covered, thin shoulders bowed and trembling.

  He takes a cab back to John Street, furious with his failure, but not seeing how else he could have handled it. At least he learned that Harold Besant hadn’t owned a gun. Or, if he had, Jessie Scotto wasn’t aware of it. But if she was living with the guy, you’d think she’d know.

  Back in his office, he puts in a call to Detective Nick Galanis. But Galanis has the day off, so Cone leaves a message he called and will call again tomorrow.

  He leans back in his swivel chair and stares at the ceiling. He keeps seeing Jessie’s pinched features and tear-filled eyes. She’s such a defeated little woman, bowed by the heavy load she’s carrying and too frightened to get out from under. A loser.

  “Just like me,” Cone says aloud.

  “Who’s just like you?” Sidney Apicella asks. “Typhoid Mary?”

  The CPA stands in the doorway, gently rubbing his swollen beezer.

  “You don’t look happy, Sid,” Cone says, “but then you never look happy.”

  “How can I be happy when you keep tossing me curve balls? Remember asking me to check Lester Pingle’s financial situation?”

  “Of course I remember. Well?”

  “Pingle Enterprises is in good shape. A nice balance sheet. But Lester is close to being a bankrupt. The guy hasn’t got two kopecks to rub together. How do you like that?”

  “I like it,” the Wall Street dick says.

  The loft phone explodes, and he rouses from a heavy sleep. He pushes himself off the mattress and staggers over to the wall phone in his minuscule kitchen.

  “H’lo?” he says sleepily.

  “Jesus Christ,” Davenport says, “you still snoozing? It’s eight o’clock already.”

  “Big deal,” Cone says, yawning. “What’s this, a wake-up call? To get me to work on time?”

  “No,” the city detective says, “it’s more than that. Jessie Scotto got scragged last night.”

  Silence.

  “Cone? You there?”

  “I’m here,” Timothy says, slumping and wanting to upchuck. “She’s really dead?”

  “As a doornail. Looks like a B and E. Too bad you never got a chance to talk to her.”

  “I did,” Cone says. “I talked to her yesterday morning.”

  “You son of a bitch!” Davenport yells at him. “Why didn’t you tell us about it?”

  “I tried. I left a message for Galanis. Ask him.”

  There’s a moment’s silence, then the cop comes back on. “Yeah,” he says, “sorry. Nick’s got your message on his desk. Anyway, the lady’s dead. We just got it over the wire. Nick and I are going up there to take a look. Want to tag along and inspect the corpus delicious?”

  “I don’t want to,” Cone says, “but I better.”

  “Okay. We’ll pick you up outside your palace in about fifteen minutes. Don’t make us wait.”

  “I’ll be there,” Cone promises.

  They’re in a dusty blue Plymouth, both city detectives in the front seat. Timothy scrambles into the back and is introduced to Nick Galanis, who’s driving. He’s a short, swarthy guy with a thick black mustache.

  “This stinks,” he says wrathfully. “A fake suicide and now Besant’s girlfriend gets chilled. You’re telling me it’s a coincidence? Bullshit!”

  “Calm down, Nick,” Davenport advises. “Your ulcer will be acting up again. Cone, we picked up some black coffee. Here’s yours.”

  He hands over a big cardboard container.

  “Thanks,” Timothy says gratefully. “It’s plasma. When was she killed?”

  “Don’t know,” Davenport says, gulping his coffee. “We got none of the details. Just that a Caucasian female identified as Jessie Scotto was found dead in her apartment on West Seventy-fourth. Homicide suspected. That’s all they put out.”

  “You talked to her yesterday?” Galanis demands angrily. He’s gnawing on his long mustache, reaching up with his bottom teeth.

  “That’s right.”

  “Get anything?”

  “She said that Besant didn’t own a gun.”

  “Goddammit!” Nick says furiously, banging the steering wheel with his palm. “I didn’t even ask her that. I’m a fucking idiot!”

  “She was still shook,” Cone says. “She knew something but wasn’t talking. I pushed it as far as I could, but she started crying and there were a lot of people around, so I split.”

  “What makes you think she knew something?” Davenport asks.

  “She lied to me. She said she knew nothing about Besant’s work at Nu-Hope. A woman lives with a guy and doesn’t know what his job is? Maybe—but I can’t buy it.”

  “Anything else?” Galanis wants to know.

  “Yeah, she said that on the night Harold died, he told her that he was going out for an hour or so to meet someone. She claimed she didn’t know who it was.”

  “Uh-huh,” N
ick says. “She told me that, too. I think the part about him going out to meet someone was the truth. But I think she knew who it was.”

  The brownstone on West Seventy-fourth Street, just east of Amsterdam, is roped off with sawhorses and wide Crime Scene tapes, holding back the usual crowd of rubbernecks. There are three squad cars and a meat wagon double-parked. The morgue attendants are playing gin rummy on the fender of their van. Davenport and Galanis clip their IDs to their jacket pockets.

  “C’mon,” Neal says to Cone. “We’ll get you in. I want to make sure we’re all talking about the same woman.”

  The blue at the door glances at the detectives’ tags, then looks at Cone.

  “Who’s he?” he asks.

  “A witness,” Davenport says, and the three of them push through the door. They tramp up a stairway covered with threadbare carpeting. The place reeks of roach spray. On the third floor, another uniformed officer stands guard before a closed door.

  “A witness,” Davenport repeats, jerking a thumb at Cone. “Keep an eye on him; he’s a dangerous character.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Timothy says.

  The two city detectives disappear inside. Cone waits in the hallway. He and the uniformed cop eye each other warily. After about three minutes, Davenport comes out.

  “What did you have to eat this morning?” he asks.

  “Just the black coffee you gave me.”

  “Try to keep it down,” the city dick says. “I had my shoes shined, and I wouldn’t want to get them splattered. C’mon in.”

  Later, Cone has a confused recollection of a squeezed one-bedroom apartment that’s been thoroughly trashed: rugs torn up, pictures yanked off the walls and smashed, lamps overturned, all the shelves in the kitchen emptied onto the floor, chair and sofa cushions slashed, clothing spilled from bureau drawers.

  All he remembers clearly is the body on the bed.

  Davenport pulls down the bloodied sheet with his fingertips. “This the woman you talked to yesterday?”

  “Yeah,” Cone says, swallowing.

  “What the fuck’s this all about, Neal?” a plainclothes-man says indignantly. “This is my squeal.”

  “Don’t get your balls in an uproar, Harry,” Davenport says. “We’re not moving in on you. This one is all yours. But she was questioned yesterday on another file, and I just wanted to make sure of the ID. What made all those puncture wounds?”