Timothy Files

by Lawrence Sanders

  But … but … Cone begins to wonder if he might be engineering a monumental balls-up. The arrest of one Laboris cousin will surely spook the rest of the clan. Groaning, he gets on the horn and tries to locate Petey Alvarez. No luck; the narc is not available, and no one knows where he is. Beginning to sweat, Cone calls Davenport and almost sobs with relief when the detective answers.

  “Hey, sherlock,” the cop says breezily, “I hear Petey Alvarez had himself quite a time last night.”

  “Did he?” Cone says.

  “You weren’t along for the ride, were you?”

  “Not me,” Cone says. “I went to bed early last night. Slept like a baby.”

  “I know what that means,” Davenport says. “You woke up crying every two hours.”

  “Listen, I’ve been trying to locate Alvarez. Do you know where he is?”

  “Not at the moment. He’s busy organizing the Shoot-out at the O.K. Corral. We’re going to raid the Laboris warehouse tonight and really tear the place apart. I’m going to grab every Laboris cousin in sight and lean on them. Maybe I really can clear that Sidney Leonidas homicide.”

  Cone takes a deep breath. “You can’t do that,” he says. Silence. Then: “Why can’t I do that?”

  “Not you,” Cone says. “The raid on the warehouse—it can’t go down tonight.”

  “No?” Davenport says coldly. “Why not?”

  “There’s something I didn’t tell you.”

  “I knew it, I knew it!” the city bull screams at him. “Oh, you tight-mouthed idiot! I knew you were holding out on me. All right, all right, what is it?”

  Cone tells him about the sting he and MacEver have planned for the Laboris Gallery. And how they’re going to pull the plug on Erica Laboris the following afternoon. If the Laboris Importers’ warehouse is raided that night, and a covey of cousins picked up, it’ll send Erica running.

  “You can see that, can’t you?” Cone says. “She’ll close up shop and get out of town. You know she will.”

  “And you couldn’t have told me all this before?” Davenport demands.

  “Look,” Cone says, “it was MacEver’s deal, and I didn’t want to queer it. I’m just as tight-lipped when you and I work together.”

  “Yeah?” the NYPD man says. “Well … maybe. But now we got a world-class fuckup on our hands.”

  “Not necessarily,” Cone says. “Get hold of Alvarez, explain the situation, and get him to postpone the warehouse raid until tomorrow afternoon. Then call Terry MacEver and fix it so the warehouse and the art gallery are hit at the same time. That way none of the birds will fly away.”

  “Mmm,” Davenport says thoughtfully. “It might work.”

  “Sure it’ll work,” Cone says. “You manage the whole thing. You’ll direct two important busts and probably close the Leonidas file. You’ll make lieutenant out of this.”

  “You really know the way to a man’s heart, don’t you?” Neal Davenport says. “You lunatic! Where were you when God passed out brains—at the end of the line? I’ll give you a call if I can straighten out this mess.”

  He hangs up.

  Cone is satisfied that he’s done all he can. From now on it’s up to the Department to run the show. He’s convinced they’ll find enough evidence in the warehouse to justify the raid. And if Sergeant MacEver is right about the antique sword being offered by Erica Laboris, that cousin will take a fall, too.

  That leaves only Ingmar Laboris.

  When he goes out for lunch, he’s still thinking about Ingmar and what that pascudnyak might be up to. He wanders about lower Manhattan, head bowed, shoving his way through the lunchtime throng. He buys a gyro and a cherry cola from a sidewalk vendor and continues his hike, eating and drinking as he walks.

  He figures that if the coordinated busts of the Laboris warehouse and art gallery go down as planned, Ingmar might decide to make a fast exit. But Cone doesn’t think so. The guy has bank accounts he’ll want to clean out first. And he’ll need to make cash transfers to someplace that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the US, and where government officials are not insulted by the offer of a small pourboire.

  He drags himself back to Haldering, wondering how he’s going to spend the afternoon while waiting for Davenport to phone and report a go or no-go. But his first call, after taking off parka and cap, is from Hiram Haldering himself.

  “Cone,” he says in his chief executive officer voice, “I want to see you in my office right now. Immediately. Is that clear?”

  “Shit!” the Wall Street dick says—but only after he’s hung up the phone.

  H. H. is sunk in the high-backed swivel chair behind his desk. His muttony face is flushed with either anger or a three-martini lunch. Plump fingers are clamped across his vested belly. His balding pate gleams dully in winter light leaking through corner windows.

  Alongside his desk, Mrs. Martha T. Hepplewaite sits grimly in an armchair. She’s leaning forward like a figurehead, propping herself on the heavy cane. Her raddled features are as purplish as Haldering’s, and all the wattles and dewlaps are quivering with fury. They glare at Cone.

  “Hi, folks,” he says, and since no one asks him to sit down, he slouches limply and wonders if he’ll be offered a final cigarette and blindfold before the execution.

  “Cone,” the boss says—a high-pitched bark—“how long have you been on the Laboris Investments case?”

  “Oh … I don’t know. Two weeks or so, I guess.”

  “And what, exactly, have you discovered?”

  “Nothing much. Little bits of this and that.”

  “But you have no evidence that Laboris is a fraud?”

  “Nope,” Cone says. “No hard evidence.”

  “Then why,” Mrs. Hepplewaite says, almost strangling on her wrath, “why did you see fit to advise my daughter to tell her fiancé to withdraw his investment?”

  “Oh, she told you that, did she?” Cone says. “It was a judgment call. I think Ingmar Laboris is a crook. Right now I can’t prove it. But I thought it best to tell your daughter about how I felt. She and her fiancé decided to bail out.”

  The harridan bangs her cane on the floor—two loud thumps. “Why didn’t you tell me first?” she demands. “I am the client. I am paying the bills. You went behind my back.”

  The Wall Street dick doesn’t like being hollered at. “I’ll tell you why I didn’t go to you first,” he says. “I called you a mean biddy, and you are—in spades. If I had told you I think Laboris Investments is probably a fraud, you might not have passed the news along to your daughter.”

  “Cone,” Hiram Haldering says, shocked, “you’re talking to a valued client.”

  “Big deal,” Cone says. “She’s a conniving old lady who wants to keep her daughter unmarried and at home, slaving as a cook, secretary, housekeeper, servant, scullion, and all-around Cinderella. She’s vindictive enough so that, if I said I think Ingmar Laboris is a gonnif, she might not tell Lucinda. She might keep her mouth shut and let the investment of her daughter’s fiancé go down the drain. Then maybe they couldn’t get married. Then maybe she could keep Lucinda cleaning up slops and winding clocks in their mausoleum for the rest of her life. Then maybe she could keep repeating, ‘I told you so,’ at least once a day until she died.”

  Mrs. Hepplewaite collapses back into her chair. The hand holding the cane begins to tremble. “You’re a dreadful man,” she says in a hoarse whisper. “Dreadful.”

  “Sure I am,” Cone says cheerfully. “And you don’t do so bad in that department yourself. My advice to you, ma’am—unsolicited, and you can tell me to go to hell if it’ll make you feel better—my advice to you is to make peace with your daughter, give her your blessings, and wish her the best. That lady has more gumption than you give her credit for. She’s going to marry her Francis, and maybe they’ll have a kid or two. You told me he was a pediatrician, didn’t you? Then he should know how it’s done. If you turn her out, you’ll never get to see your grandchildren. Is that what
you want?”

  She stares at him with widening eyes, and he thinks he sees the beginning of tears, but can’t be sure.

  “Snotty,” she says in a low voice. “The snottiest man I’ve ever met.”

  “Dreadful and snotty all in one afternoon,” he says. “My my, this is my lucky day. If all goes well, your daughter’s fiancé has recovered his original investment plus a nice profit. Lucinda will be married. Doesn’t that bring the roses to your cheeks?”

  She growls, tapping her cane angrily on the floor. The three are silent a moment. Then Hiram Haldering, unwilling to grant his employee a complete triumph, clears his throat.

  “About these expense accounts you’ve submitted on your investigation,” he says sternly. “Two teak Buddhas and two statuettes of the goddess Kali. What is that all about?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Hepplewaite says, raising her head and regaining her confidence. “And all those bills for cab fares. Do you live in a taxi, you disgusting man?”

  “All legitimate expenses,” Cone says blithely. “You’re also going to pay for a bottle of cognac for a banker who helped me out. I knew you were a shrew, Mrs. Hepplewaite, but I never figured you for a cheapski. Pay the tab and think of the joy you’ll feel when your first grandchild pees in your lap.”

  And he stalks out, wondering if he’ll have a job in the morning and not much caring.

  He gets back to his office feeling pretty good. He laid it on the line to H. H. and the client, and kept his dignity reasonably intact. He lights a Camel and sits chain-smoking for almost an hour, reviewing what might be going down the next day, but unable to drag his mind away from the part Ingmar Laboris could be playing in this mishmash. A puzzlement …

  When his phone rings, he stares at it for a moment, wondering whether he really wants to talk to anyone and maybe get leaned on again. Finally, sighing, he picks it up.

  “Yeah?” he says.

  “Davenport,” the city detective says. “All right, I’ve cleaned up your mess. Everything’s coordinated. We’re hitting the art gallery and warehouse at eleven-thirty tomorrow morning.”

  “So early?” Cone says.

  “It’s New Year’s Eve, you schmuck,” the NYPD man says. “You want us to wait until late in the afternoon when everyone’s gone home?”

  “Oh, yeah, I didn’t think about that.”

  “There’s a lot you didn’t think about, Sherlock. MacEver says you’re going with him.”

  “That’s right. We’re supposed to be brothers-in-law.”

  “God forbid,” Davenport says. “Better he should have Godzilla for a relative. Anyway, he says to meet him fifteen minutes early across the street from the art gallery. Think you can remember that?”

  “I’ll remember,” Cone says. “You’re sore at me, aren’t you?”

  “Goddamn right I’m sore. I’ve had to spend all day on this Laboris thing. And it’s not the only turnip on my plate, you know. But I had to push everything else aside while I got it organized.”

  “No one could have done it but you.”

  Davenport has to laugh. “What a bullshit artist you are!” he says. “Nah, I’m not sore at you. But next time be a little more up-front with me, will you?”

  “Sure I will,” Cone says. “Absolutely.”

  “Yeah,” the city dick says, “I should live so long.” And he hangs up.

  Cone walks home through the violet twilight, still playing games occasionally to make sure he’s not being tailed. He stops at a liquor store to pick up two bottles of Chianti Classico, figuring he’ll buy the pizza on his way to Sam’s place so it’ll still be warm when he arrives.

  Back in the loft, he feeds Cleo—some leftover breaded chicken nuggets he finds in the fridge. The omnivorous cat cleans up the plate, then sets to work grooming its whiskers. Cone strips and takes his ritual brush treatment under a hot shower, lacerating his skin with stiff bristles and rubbing on cornstarch after he’s dried off.

  He calls Samantha. She’s home and waiting for him. So he dresses, checks his armament, and leaves the loft, not forgetting to take the wine. He feels excited and scary, like he’s heading for the first date with a new woman. Nice feeling. Being young again.

  It seems like a long time since they’ve been together, and seeing each other now is a little tight, stiff, confused. It takes them awhile to adjust—about two minutes. Then they slide into their comfortable roles, sit on the floor to chomp pizza and drink wine. Sam tells him everything that happened during her visit home, and he nods, smiling, stuffing his mouth, and realizing, as if for the first time, how complete she is.

  She’s wearing her long auburn hair up and pinned, and her sharp-featured face is devoid of makeup, washed and gleaming. Lots of jaw there, and steady blue-green eyes. Much woman, he thinks, and can see that stretched body under the jeans and turtleneck. He doesn’t even want to imagine how empty his life would be without her. But, of course, he doesn’t tell her that.

  They demolish the pizza, clean up the mess, and open the second bottle of wine. They look at each other, and with no invitation from either, accepted or rejected, begin undressing lazily, still chattering about Samantha’s trip and Cleo’s new habit of sleeping under the kitchen sink.

  It’s only when their naked bodies are pressed does their gossip falter.

  “Ah, Jesus,” Sam says, sighing. “I thought of this a lot. Did you?”

  “Yeah,” Cone says.

  “Do you know what I want to do right now?” she asks.

  “What?”

  She whispers in his ear.

  “Well …” he says, “if you insist. If I don’t enjoy it, I’ll fake it.”

  “You louse!” she says, and sets to work.

  They’re possessed by demons that night, trying to make up for time lost. Their hard bodies are jangled with need, and sensation is not the answer. Neither knows what is, but they rend each other in a frantic effort to find relief. Not physical, for that is a mosquito bite compared to the hunger that gnaws at them.

  Both prideful, they will not let go, unwilling to acknowledge that victory might lie in surrender. So they play their skin games, unable to yield to the heart’s want, and settling for the satisfaction of greedy glands. Their lives are half-wins; they know it but cannot make the sacrifice total triumph demands. They show their naked bodies to each other, but will not present themselves flayed.

  When their horizontal aerobics are concluded, they lie awhile, insensate and numb. Then Samantha stirs groggily to fetch the remainder of the chianti and their glasses. The wine, sipped slowly, revives them, and they look at each other with sappy smiles as if they had climbed Everest and returned intact.

  And it is while they are in that loopy mood that Timothy Cone makes his Great Discovery.

  “Where’s Izzy?” Samantha demands. “You still have it, don’t you?”

  “Oh, sure. In the loft. I’d have brought it over tonight, but I had too much to carry. You can pick it up tomorrow night. You’re coming over, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” she says. “It’s New Year’s Eve, isn’t it? What are we eating?”

  “I thought I’d pick up a roasted chicken and some odds and ends. And I suppose we’ll have to drink champagne.”

  “What else? And do me a favor, will you: Change the sheets on that lumpy mattress of yours.”

  “Sure,” he says equably. “I’ll pick up my laundry tomorrow.”

  “Oh, boy,” she says, “fresh laundry. A great way to start the New Year. Tim, why are you looking at me like that? Your face is all twisty.”

  “Laundry,” he says wonderingly. “Jesus Christ, what a fucking moron I am!”

  “So what else is new?” Samantha Whatley says.

  He figures there’s no point in going into the office at all on New Year’s Eve. There will be a party. Guys will be nuzzling their secretaries, the secretaries will be goosing their bosses, and everyone will be drinking some lousy punch spiked with rotgut and decorated with slices of kiwi. Worst o
f all will be the forced jollity that Cone cannot endure.

  So he spends the morning doing chores. Changes Cleo’s litter. Goes out and picks up those bundles of laundry. Goes out again and returns with two bottles of Korbel champagne and puts them in the refrigerator. Goes out again to buy the largest roasted chicken he can find, some frozen yams in syrup, and salad stuff. Also a frozen apple pie and a package of sliced cheddar.

  On one of his trips back to the loft, the phone shrills just as he’s about to go out again. It’s Samantha at the office.

  “Why aren’t you here?” she demands.

  “I’m working,” he says. “On the Laboris case.”

  “Bullshit,” she says. “Are you going to show up at all today?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re going to miss one hell of an office party.”

  “Darn it,” he says.

  “Another thing,” she says, “why didn’t you tell me you had a hassle with H. H. about your expense account?”

  “Oh, that,” he says. “I left it on your desk, figuring you’d clean it up when you got back. But I guess he picked it up. Besides, it wasn’t exactly a hassle. I explained every item.”

  “Oh, sure,” she says. “He’s still boiling.”

  “See you tonight,” he says, and hangs up.

  By 10:45 he’s finished all his donkeywork. He tosses Cleo the tip of a chicken wing to gnaw on, checks his ankle holster, and heads uptown.

  He finds Terry MacEver standing across Madison Avenue from the Laboris Gallery and about a block north. The sergeant, wearing his black bowler, has two plain-clothesmen with him, a couple of Neanderthals who look like they dine on haunches of mammoth every night.

  MacEver greets Cone with a grin. “Things almost got screwed up, didn’t they?” he says.

  “Almost doesn’t count,” the Wall Street dick says. “Everything’s copacetic now.”

  “It is indeed,” the sergeant agrees. “Here’s the deal: My appointment with Erica Laboris is for eleven-thirty. You go in with me. That won’t spook her. After all, I’m supposed to be your brother-in-law. When I get in the gallery, I take off my lid. Then she shows us the sword. Meanwhile, these two men have moved to the sidewalk in front of the gallery and are scoping the action through the window. If the sword is the real thing, I put my hat back on, and they come into the gallery like Gangbusters—just in case we have any problems with Erica. If the blade offered is junk, I keep my hat off and we leave the gallery with no harm done. How does that sound?”