Sullivan's sting

by Lawrence Sanders

  "You live alone?"

  "I have a houseman and a cook-housekeeper. Theodore and Blanche. Jamaicans. Nice people. But they don't live in."

  The vaulted living room was all white, beige, gold.

  There was a forty-one-inch rear projection TV. The kitchen was white with black plastic panels on the appliances. A restaurant range, microwave, overhead rack of coppered pots and pans.

  "You know how to live," Rita said.

  "Everyone knows how to live," he said. "There's no trick to it. All you need is money. Want to stick to the stingers?"

  "Please."

  "I'll have one, too."

  They took their drinks into the living room, sat on the couch, kicked off their shoes.

  "What do you do to afford all this?" Rita asked. "Rob banks?"

  "No," he said with a tight smile. "I manage O.P.M.-Other People's Money. I'm an investment adviser."

  "I'd say you're doing all right," she said, looking around.

  He shrugged. "I work hard. And I've been lucky. Luck is very important."

  "It's been in short supply with me lately."

  "Married? Separated? Divorced? Or widowed?"

  "No, no, no, and no," she said. "Just a single lady. Disappointed?"

  "Of course not."

  "What about you?"

  "Married," he said. "Once. And now divorced. Thank God."

  "And never again-is that what you're saying?"

  "That's what I'm saying. Today. Tomorrow I might feel differently."

  "You might," she said, "but I doubt it. You know, if I was a man, I'd never get married. What for? Sex?

  Companionship? A nurse if you get sick? A housekeeper when you get old? You can buy all that."

  "If you've got the money," he reminded her. "You have a very cynical outlook, Rita."

  "Not cynical, just realistic. Am I going to spend the night?"

  "I want you to, but it's your decision."

  "The bedrooms are upstairs?"

  "Yes."

  "Mix us another and let's take them upstairs."

  "Wise decision," he said.

  "You want me out of here tomorrow morning before your servants show up?"

  "That's the first dumb thing you've said tonight."

  Upstairs, she looked around the master bedroom and whistled. "I like everything about it except for the engraving over the bed. Who the hell is that-your grandfather?"

  Rathbone laughed. "Big Jim Fisk. I'll tell you about him someday. A romantic story. He was murdered at the age of thirty-eight."

  "Oh? How old are you, David?"

  "Thirty-eight."

  "Whoops!" she said. "Can I use the john?"

  She did, and then he did. When he came out, she was lying naked atop the silver coverlet, black hair spread over the pillows. He stood looking down at her long body, dusky, with raspberry nipples.

  "Ah, Jesus," he breathed.

  She watched him undress. "You really are a golden boy," she said. "Where did you get that allover tan?"

  "Show you tomorrow," he said, and joined her.

  He was very good. She was better.

  The morning sun was hot, bright. She roused slowly, staring at the ceiling, wondering where she was. Then Rathbone was at the bedside, looking down at her without smiling. He tossed a yellow terry robe onto the coverlet.

  "Breakfast on the terrace in fifteen minutes," he said, no laughter in his voice now.

  She came out into the sunlight, wearing the robe, toweling her hair.

  "Glorious day," she said.

  "It may be," he said. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt of cotton gauze, pale linen slacks belted with a neck tie, espadrilles.

  She glanced around the terrace. Glass-top table and chairs of verdigrised cast iron. Canvas slings. Two redwood lounges with flowered mattresses.

  "Now I know where you get your allover glow," she said.

  "Right. The only ones who can see you are helicopter pilots."

  Theodore served freshly squeezed grapefruit juice, honey dew melon with wedges of lime, hot miniature croissants with sweet butter and mango jam, black coffee laced with chicory.

  "You eat like this every morning?" she asked.

  "Uh-huh. Why do you carry a gun?"

  She continued buttering her croissant. "Self-defense," she said. "Everyone in Florida carries a gun."

  "Maybe everyone in Florida has a gun," he corrected. "I do. But not everyone carries a gun."

  "Since you obviously tossed my bag," she said, looking at him directly, "you probably found the newspaper clipping, too. Why the search?"

  "You know what Barnum said?" "There's a sucker born every minute?"

  "And two to take him. I prefer being a taker rather than a takee. I like to know the people I deal with. And you're no schoolteacher."

  "So now you know: I pack a popgun and I was charged with shoplifting. You want me gone?"

  "No, I don't want you gone," he said. "Do you want to move in?"

  She was astonished. "For how long?"

  "Until I want you gone."

  She took that. "What do I do for walking-around money?"

  He took out his gold clip, extracted five hundred in fifties, handed them across the table.

  She took the bills, then looked at him with a crooked grin. "What's this for?" she said. "Fun and games?"

  "Check out of your hotel," he told her. "You can take the guest bedroom. Then go buy some clothes and lingerie. That stuff you're wearing is a disgrace. Get things that are simple and elegant-whites and beiges, blacks and grays. Forget about the wild colors. Tone down."

  "Yes, boss," she said. "You wouldn't be putting a hustle on me, would you?"

  Then he smiled for the first time that morning, displaying his sharp white teeth. "Call it love at first sight."

  "The L-word?"

  "You got it," he said.

  5

  The meeting ended precisely as 2:45 p.m. (Lester T. Crockett ran a tight ship), and the staff filed out carrying case folders and notebooks. The air was still fumy with cigarette smoke and the odors of hamburgers and french fries they had ordered in for lunch. Crockett switched his window air conditioner to Exhaust and turned back to his desk. Anthony Harker was still sitting in a folding metal chair.

  "Fifteen minutes, chief?" he asked.

  "Can't you put it in a memo?" Crockett said.

  "No, sir."

  "All right. Ten minutes."

  Harker hunched forward. "Sullivan called yesterday and left a message on my machine. She's made contact with David Rathbone."

  "Made contact?" Crockett said. "What does that mean?"

  "She's moved in with him."

  The chief laced fingers across his vest and stared up at the ceiling. "Yes," he said, "I would call that making contact. What else did she say?"

  "Not much. He was in a unisex beauty salon getting his hair trimmed and styled, plus a shampoo, facial, manicure, and pedicure."

  Crockett grunted a laugh. "He lives well."

  "Anyway, Rita left him there while she did some shopping with money he gave her. That's when she made her call."

  "So? What's your problem?"

  "Communications. Chief, there were a lot of questions I wanted to ask, but she had to leave her message on my machine. I want to give her permission to call me here anytime during the day."

  Crockett frowned. "Including from Rathbone's home?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Chancy. She might be overheard. No, she's too smart for that. But he might notice the higher phone bills and ask for itemization of local calls. That could blow the whole thing."

  "I realize that," Harker said. "What I'd like is an unlisted phone in my office for Sullivan's use only. We'd arrange with the phone company that all incoming calls on that line would be billed to us. That way she could call me here during the day and, in case of emergency, my motel at night."

  "All right," Crockett said, "set it up." He unlaced his fingers, leaned forward over the desk. "Someth
ing else bothering you?"

  "Chief, Rathbone and his pals are not tough guys. I mean they don't go around knocking people on the head or robbing gas stations. They live relatively normal lives; they're just nine-to-five crooks."

  "Get to the point."

  "Admittedly Rathbone isn't Billy the Kid, but if he finds out Rita is a plant, he might turn vicious."

  "He might. But you spelled out the deal to her, didn't you? And she didn't back off. She's a cop, and a good one." "Still. ."

  "Listen, Harker, you're accustomed to stock swindles and inside trading. White-collar crime. Sullivan's expertise is drug smuggling, homicide, and rape. So don't tell me she won't be able to handle a flimflam artist like Rathbone if he turns nasty." He paused a moment, then: "Worried about her, are you?"

  "Yeah."

  "Want to pull her off the case and go at Rathbone from a different angle?"

  "No."

  "Then stop worrying. If anything happens to Sullivan, I'll take the rap, not you."

  Harker stood up. "This is the first time I've asked a woman to put out to help me make a case. I don't like this business."

  "You'll get used to it," Crockett said.

  6

  The door to David Rathbone's office was equipped with a Medeco lock and a dead bolt. Only Blanche was allowed in once a week to clean, and then Rathbone was always present.

  It was an austere chamber with a tiled floor: black and white in a checkerboard pattern. The desk, chairs, file cabinets, coat tree, and glass-fronted bookcases were all oak. Even the Apple Macintosh Plus was fitted into an oak housing. The room was dominated by an old-fashioned safe, a behemoth on casters, with a handle and single dial, painted an olive green and decorated with a splendid American eagle.

  Rathbone sat in his high-backed swivel chair, an antique that had been reupholstered in black leather with brass studding. He stared at the sealed white envelope Termite Tommy had given him, containing the thousand-dollar check.

  He had known from the start that he'd never be able to wait the week Tommy had requested; he couldn't endure unsolved riddles, puzzles, mysteries. He took a sterling silver letter opener from his top desk drawer and slit the flap. He peered inside.

  The check had disappeared. In its place was a fluff of white confetti, no piece larger than a quarter-inch square.

  "Son of a bitch," Rathbone said aloud.

  He dumped the confetti onto his palm. It felt slightly oily and smelled oily, too. That wasn't important. What counted was that a thousand-dollar check had disintegrated. That old German forger had developed a paper that self-dissolved into worthless chaff. Except, as Termite Tommy had said, if handled right, it could be a ticket to paradise.

  He spun the dial of the big safe: 15 left, 5 right, 25 left. He heaved up on the handle and the heavy door swung silently open. He put the white envelope and confetti inside, closed the door, spun the dial. Then he left the office, locked up, went out onto the terrace.

  Rita Sullivan was lying naked on one of the lounges, hair bound up in a yellow towel. On the deck alongside her were a bottle of suntan oil, a thermos and plastic tumbler of iced tea. Rathbone pulled a chair close 'to the lounge.

  "You know how to live," he told her.

  "I'm learning," she murmured.

  "I have to go pick up my tickets," he said. "I'm flying to London tomorrow, then on to France, Germany, and eventually to Spain. I have clients over there and have to discuss their investments."

  She raised up on an elbow, back arched, and he caught his breath.

  "How long will you be gone?" she asked.

  "Three days. I'll fly back from Madrid."

  "Can I go?"

  He smiled and handed her the tumbler of iced tea. "Not this time. Maybe next trip. I go four or five times a year. Clients need stroking."

  "What airport are you leaving from?"

  "Miami. Will you drive me down?"

  "Of course."

  She put the tumbler aside and lay prone again.

  "More oil?" he asked.

  "Please," she said. "My legs."

  He loved it, and she knew it: smoothing the oil onto her hard, muscled thighs, onto the dark satin behind her knees, her smooth calves.

  "Will you be faithful while I'm gone?" he said in a low voice.

  "Uh-huh."

  "I know you will be. Or I'll find out about it. My spies are everywhere. I thought we'd drive up to Boca tonight for dinner. Then meet some people at the Palace for a few laughs."

  "Sounds good."

  "Happy?" he asked her.

  "If I was any happier I'd be unconscious."

  He laughed, slapped her oiled rump lightly, and left to pick up his tickets.

  That night, at a Spanish restaurant in Boca Raton, they had a pan of paella in the classic version, made with chicken, rabbit, and snails. And they shared a bottle of flinty muscadet. Then they drove back to Fort Lauderdale singing "I Can't Give You Anything But Love." They both had good voices.

  The Lounge at the Grand Palace was bouncing: tables filled, the bar two-deep, and waitresses hustling drinks. David's friends were already at the big table, and Rita Sullivan was introduced around. No chair was available for her, but Frank Little offered his lap, and she accepted with great aplomb.

  Rathbone excused himself and went over to the bar. He waited patiently and was finally able to grab Ernie's arm.

  "That man I was talking to the other night," he said. "The one dressed in black. If he comes in, tell him I'll meet him here Tuesday night. Got it?"

  "Got it, Mr. Rathbone," the bartender said. "Tuesday night."

  Rathbone slipped him a fin and went back to the gang. After he took his chair at the head of the table, Rita came and sat on his lap. She was drinking vodka gimlets now: the way David liked them, with a lime wedge and just a drop or two of Triple Sec.

  After a while Ellen St. Martin waved goodnight and departed. Rita took her chair, sitting between Frank Little and Mortimer Sparco. She asked how long they had all known each other.

  "Too long," Sparco said, laughing. "Years and years."

  "We're a troop," Little proclaimed, "and David is our scoutmaster. Watch out for him, sweetie; he has merit badges for loving and leaving."

  She listened to the idle chatter at the table for a while, then excused herself to go to the ladies' room. She made her phone call from there.

  She returned to the big table, finished her gimlet, ordered another. She listened to the bright talk, marveling at how nonchalantly these people spoke of their swindles: of mooches taken, the naive conned, the gullible defrauded and plucked clean. David and his friends dressed nicely, drove Jaguars, and rarely used profanity. But they were a bestiary of thugs.

  The gathering broke up shortly after midnight. Rita and David drove back to his town house, laughing at the new business card Frank Little had distributed. It read: "FL Sports Equipment, Inc. Baseball, Football,

  Basketball, Soccer, Softball, Volleyball." And at the bottom: "We have the balls for it."

  Rathbone took a chilled bottle of Asti Spumante and two flutes from the fridge.

  "Oh my," she said, "are you trying to get us drunk?"

  "No," he said. "Just keep the glow."

  They went up to the terrace. The moon was not full, but it was fat enough. A few shreds of clouds. A balmy easterly wind. Scent of salt sea and bloomy things.

  "Be back in a minute," David said. "Don't go away.''

  He returned with a portable recorder, inserted a cassette, switched it on.

  "I swiped this off a radio station that plays Golden Oldies," he told her. "I was born too late. I should have been around in the 1920s and '30s. Cole Porter. Fred Astaire. Gershwin."

  They drank a little wine. They danced to "You're the Top." They drank a little wine. They danced to "I Get a Kick Out of You." They drank a little wine. They danced to "Let's Fall in Love." They drank a little wine. They danced to "Anything Goes," and stopped.

  They went to his bedroom. The sheets we
re silk, and he couldn't get enough of her.

  7

  Anthony Harker was living on the second floor of a motel on A1A in Pompano Beach. It was on the west side of the highway, but his suite was in the rear so most of the traffic noise was muted.

  Rita Sullivan showed up a little after nine p.m. She was wearing a pink linen jumpsuit, her long hair tied back with a dime-store bandanna. There was a chunky silver bracelet on her right wrist.

  4'I hope you didn't drive his Bentley," Harker said. "Someone might spot it parked outside."

  "No," she said. "He bought me a Chevy Corsica. White."

  "Oh?" Tony said, looking at her. "Generous scut, isn't he?"

  "Yes," she said, "he is. I hope his flight to London got off okay. If not, and he calls home and I'm not there, I'm in deep shit."

  "He took off," Harker said, "but he's not flying to England. I had a CIA tracker standing by at the airport. But Rathbone went to Nassau in the Bahamas. And from there he's going to the Cayman Islands, then on to Limon in Costa Rica, and returning home from there. We checked his ticket after he left, but it was too late to set up a tail."

  Rita sighed and looked around. "Got anything to drink in this dump?" she asked.

  "Some cold Bud."

  "That'll do me fine. How're the allergy and nervous stomach?"

  "I'm surviving. Mind drinking out of the can?"

  "That's fine," she said. "Pop it for me, will you? The government can't afford better digs for you than this shithouse?"

  "It suits me," he said. "I'm only on loan for a year. Then back to New York. I can stand it for a year."

  "If you say so. Got a tape recorder?"

  "Sure."

  "Let me put my report on tape. Then we can talk."

  Twenty minutes later she finished dictating the names and descriptions of Rathbone's friends, plus what little she had learned of their activities.

  Harker switched off the recorder. "Nice job," he said. "Let's take them one by one. First, have you any glimmer of what Rathbone is up to?"

  "Nope. He keeps his office double-locked. He claimed he had to go stroke clients in England, France, Germany, and Spain."

  "Uh-huh. But he's heading for places where it's easy to hide money if you pay off the right people. Well, I'll start a search in Nassau, the Caymans, and Costa Rica, but he's probably using a fake name and phony IDs. What about this Ellen St. Martin?"