Sullivan's sting

by Lawrence Sanders

  There was a receptionist's desk at the open doorway to a spacious room in which several men sat at littered desks equipped with computer terminals. Most of the brokers, Clark noted, were on the phone or busily writing on order pads. The place seemed prosperous enough, but so did betting shops and boiler rooms.

  "May I speak to the manager, please," Clark asked the middle-aged receptionist. "I'd like to open an account."

  "Just a moment, please, sir," she added, and spoke into her phone.

  The man who came forward a few moments later was tall, stooped, and had a neatly trimmed beard so black and glossy that Clark figured it had to be dyed and oiled.

  "I'm Mortimer Sparco," he said, smiling and holding out his hand. "How may I be of service?"

  "Simon Clark," the attorney said, gripping the proffered hand briefly. "I'm in the process of moving to Fort Lauderdale from Chicago and thought I'd open a brokerage account."

  "You're too young for retirement," Sparco said, still smiling. "Your company transfer you down here?"

  "Not exactly. My parents live in Lauderdale, and I thought it would be nice to be closer to them. I'm a freelance writer for how-to magazines-you know, like Home Mechanics-and you can do that from anywhere."

  "Fascinating," Sparco said. "Why don't you come back to my office and talk about your investment aims."

  "My aim is to make money," Clark said.

  "You've come to the right place," Sparco said. "This way, please."

  The office was all leather, chrome, and glass, and smelled of cigar smoke. The entire rear wall was covered with a mural: a Florida beach scene with sand, palm trees, sailboats on the ocean, pelicans in the sky. The painted sun looked like a toasted English muffin.

  The two men sat at either end of a tawny leather couch and turned to face each other.

  "I'll be honest with you, Mr. Sparco," Clark said. "I've never bought a share of stock in my life. I know zilch about the market. But I've become dissatisfied with the rates I'm getting on my savings account and CDs."

  "Completely understandable," the broker said.

  "I've been doing some reading on stock investing and learned that discount brokers may charge as little as half the commissions of the big brokerage houses, but they don't provide a full range of services."

  "Generally that's true. But at Sparco, while our fees are competitive with those of other discount brokers, we pride ourselves on offering services the others don't. Most of them are merely order-takers. But at Sparco we believe in personalized service, tailored to our clients' needs. Tell me, Mr. Clark, how much were you thinking of investing?"

  "Well, I thought I'd start slow, sort of dip my toes in the water. I'm sure you'll think it's chicken feed, but I'd like to begin with ten thousand dollars."

  The broker leaned forward, very earnest. "Let me tell you something: At Sparco we treat a client with ten thousand exactly the same way we treat one with ten million. We take our responsibility to all our clients very seriously, and provide the most up-to-date information and the best advice we possibly can. You say you are dissatisfied with the current rates on your CDs. Does that mean you're willing to assume a limited amount of risk to increase your yields?''

  "Well. . not too much risk."

  "Of course not. Sparco wouldn't put you in anything where the risk-benefit ratio is not in your favor. But occasionally we learn of special situations that demand fast decisions. I would advise you to open a discretionary account with us. That will authorize Sparco to buy and sell in your name, on your behalf. It relieves you of the need to watch your portfolio every day. After all, you're just interested in results. Am I correct?"

  "That's right."

  "And, with your approval, we can trade on margin in your account. That will give you a lot more leverage; your ten thousand can have the clout of fifteen or even more."

  "Sounds good to me," Clark said.

  Mortimer Sparco leaned closer and lowered his voice. "In addition," he said, almost whispering, "we help make the market in certain specialized stocks that are not listed on the exchanges. They customarily sell for less than a dollar a share and represent ownership in new companies with an enormous potential for growth. Sparco has a select group of clients who have done very well with these little-known equities. I think you'd be amazed at how fast your money can double, even triple, with stocks that most investors never even heard of."

  "With no risk?" the attorney asked.

  "There is risk in every investment, even government bonds. But in this case the risk is minimal and the possible profits simply unbelievable."

  "Then let's do it."

  "You're making a wise decision, Mr. Clark. Now if you'll just step over to my desk, there are a few documents I'd like you to sign."

  17

  She loved to drive the Bentley.

  "It's so solid," she said. "And it even smells of money."

  So she was at the wheel as they headed up A1A to Boca Raton. Traffic was surprisingly light going northward, but out-of-state cars, jammed with vacationers, were flocking south.

  Rathbone sat relaxed, smoking his first cigarette of the day.

  "After you finish at the bank," he said, "let's have lunch in Boca, maybe do some shopping. We'll get back in time to catch some sun on the terrace."

  "Sounds good to me."

  "Nervous?" he said.

  "Nah. You said it will be a piece of cake."

  "Sure it will," he said. "Just sail in, pick up the money, and sail out. You'll do fine."

  They parked in front of the bank. Rita got out, and David slid over behind the wheel.

  "I'll be right here," he told her. "I'm not going anyplace."

  She nodded and marched into the bank. Rathbone spent the next twenty minutes making "air bets," declaiming them aloud: "I'll bet fifty that the next woman to come out of the bank will be wearing blue.

  "I'll bet a hundred that the next man to come around the corner will have a mustache.

  "I'll bet a thousand that the next car to park will be a white two-door."

  And so on.

  By the time Rita returned, he was two hundred dollars ahead, which he took as a good omen.

  She opened the door on the passenger side, slid onto the leather seat. She tossed a fat manila envelope into his lap. "Bingo!" she said.

  He smiled and leaned to kiss her lips. "Any problems?" he asked.

  "Nope. They wanted to give me a bank check, but I told them I was flying home to San Antonio tonight and needed the cash. So they came across."

  "Beautiful," he said.

  He took a thousand in hundred-dollar bills from the envelope and handed them to her.

  "Invest it wisely," he said.

  "With you?"

  "You could do worse," he said. "Now let's go eat. I know a place that makes a great chef's salad."

  "Can I have a hamburger instead?"

  "You can have anything you want," he said, and kissed her again. "Partner," he said.

  They had a nice, relaxed lunch, did a little shopping at the Town Center, then headed home.

  "Can we pull that bank dodge again?" she asked him.

  "Oh-ho," he said. "Getting ambitious, are you?"

  "It's so easy," she said.

  "Sure it is. The problem is whether or not to use the

  Gloria Ramirez ID again, and if we do, hit another Boca bank or try somewhere else. I'll have to think about it."

  "Who printed up that queer check?" she asked idly, staring out the side window.

  "A genius," he said, and she didn't push it.

  An hour later they were lying naked on the terrace lounges. The sun was behind a scrim of high cloud cover, but it was strong enough to cast shadows and hot enough to make them sweat. They drank iced tea from a thermos.

  "I'm going to have to change my plans," he said.

  "What plans?"

  "A schedule I had mapped out. I was going to give it maybe another six months and then retire, get out of the game."

  S
he raised her head to look at him. "What about me?"

  "Not to worry," he said. "I'll take care of you; you know that. But this check scam changes things. The possibilities are tremendous if it's handled right. Also, something else came up the other night that could be a gold mine. So I think I'll stick around for a while."

  "Where were you going?"

  "Oh. . there are a lot of places in this world I haven't seen yet."

  "When you decide to go, can I go with you?"

  "We'll see. Let's take another half-hour of sun and then go shower."

  "And then what?"

  "You know what," he said.

  That night they dined at an Italian restaurant on Atlantic Boulevard, and David ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon to celebrate their triumph at the Crescent

  Bank. Then they drove to the Grand Palace and found the gang already assembled at the big table in the Lounge. Rita sat in one of the mate's chairs and watched as Rathbone beckoned James Bartlett over to the bar. The two men stood close together, talking with lowered heads.

  "Jimmy, have you given any more thought to what I suggested on poker night?"

  "The commodity trading fund? Yes, I've talked to several clients about it. You know, David, these guys are shrewd. They've got all the street smarts in the world, but they don't understand options and futures. Finally, I stopped trying to explain, and just told them it would mean money in their pockets. That, they could understand. Four of them definitely will sign contracts for delivery in three, six, nine, and twelve months at preset prices."

  "They'll trust you?"

  "On the first delivery. If I welsh, I'm dead; you know that."

  "So actually we have three problems. One is to analyze the market for the coming year and determine prices that'll yield a profit. The second is to make sure funds are available to take delivery. And finally, we've got to line up markets and sign contracts with buyers."

  "You've got it."

  "Jimmy, I think now is the time to bring Sparco, Coe, and Little in on this. It's too big for the two of us to swing alone."

  "I agree."

  "Then let's talk to them. I think they'll go for it."

  "They'd be idiots not to."

  "Who were the four clients who agreed to play?"

  "Three Colombians and one American. These are not men you'd want to introduce to your wife, David- if you had a wife."

  "Hard cases?"

  Bartlett rolled his eyes. "Last year one of the Colombians murdered his younger brother because the kid lost a shipment to the Coast Guard. You know how he killed him?"

  "No, and I don't want to know. Let's get back to the table."

  "Rita is looking especially sexy tonight, David. She's not beautiful, but she's striking."

  "I know."

  "You serious about her?"

  "I don't know how I feel about her. All I know is that she's got me seeing pinwheels."

  "That sounds serious. Does she know what you do?"

  "I'm letting her in on it, little by little. It doesn't turn her off. I think she likes it. Maybe it's the risk, the danger."

  "Uh-huh," Jimmy said, staring at him. "And maybe it's fear. With some women fear can be an aphrodisiac."

  Rathbone laughed. "And what's an aphrodisiac to men?"

  "Guilt," Bartlett said.

  18

  "Mr. Harker," the secretary said on the phone, "will you come to Mr. Crockett's office, please."

  Tony pulled on his jacket, straightened his tie, walked down the hall. There was a somber man seated alongside the chief's desk. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles with lenses so thick they made him look pop-eyed.

  "Tony," Crockett said, "this is Fred Rabin from the Federal Reserve. Mr. Rabin, this is Anthony Harker, who spoke to your office."

  Rabin didn't stand up or offer to shake hands, but at least he nodded. Tony nodded back. No one asked him to sit down, so he remained standing, looking down at the two men.

  "Mr. Rabin," Crockett said, "will you please repeat what you told me."

  The Federal Reserve man stared at Tony through those thick glasses. "You asked us to put a trace on a U.S. Treasury check in the amount of $27,341.46, issued to a Gloria Ramirez and deposited at the Crescent Bank in Boca Raton. Is that correct?"

  "Yes."

  "Why did you ask for a trace?"

  "Because I had good reason to believe the check was counterfeit. Allowing it to clear the Crescent Bank and then recovering it would give me hard evidence of bank fraud. Did you find the check?"

  "Oh, we found it," Rabin said. "Would you like to see it?"

  He took a long glassine envelope from an attache case and held it up for Harker to inspect. It appeared to be filled with greenish-blue confetti.

  "What the hell is that?" Tony said, bewildered.

  "That's the check you wanted."

  "What happened? Did it get chopped up in a canceling machine?"

  Rabin sighed. "The intact check was retrieved in Atlanta, on its way to Treasury. It was put aside to be mailed to you the next morning. But in the morning, this was all that was left of it. It just shredded away, disintegrated. We have our lab working on it now."

  Harker turned to Crockett. "There goes our case," he said.

  "Your case may be important," Rabin said, "but not as important as finding the source of this paper that self-destructs. Do you realize what this could do to the banking system? Chaos! We are now in the process of preparing a letter of warning to every bank and savings and loan in the country."

  "Mr. Rabin wants the Secret Service to take over the whole investigation," Crockett said, lacing his fingers across his vest. "He feels they have more manpower and resources than we have."

  "We already have a Secret Service man working on it," Harker said. "Henry Ullman, a good investigator."

  Rabin shook his head. "One man is hardly sufficient to assign to a problem of this magnitude. I must ask that you turn over to us all the information you have in your possession, such as how you knew the check was forged, who deposited it, and any other evidence you may possess bearing on the case."

  Silence in the room. Finally, Crockett shook his head.

  "No, Mr. Rabin," the chief said, "I don't think so. I am sure you'll go over my head and your request with my superiors. If they order me to turn the case over to you, then I have no choice. But at the moment I do have a choice, and I choose to have this organization retain control of the investigation."

  Rabin looked at them, eyes blinking furiously. "I shall certainly inform Washington of your refusal to cooperate. You are making a very, very serious error of judgment."

  He stood, gathered up hat and attache case, stalked out. He didn't exactly slam the door behind him, but he didn't close it gently either.

  "Thank you, sir," Tony said.

  Crockett shrugged. "Calculated risk. I have some chits in Washington I'll have to call in on this, but I think we're safe for a time. I'll ask for six months. Can you do it?"

  Harker drew a deep breath. "Sure," he said. He left the office and went directly to the bullpen. He found Henry Ullman at his desk, writing on a yellow legal pad.

  "I know," Ullman said, looking up. "You want my report. You'll have it this afternoon."

  "No, Hank," Tony said, "it's something else. Will you come to my office, please."

  There he told the investigator about the disintegrating check.

  "Son of a bitch," Ullman said. "That's a new one. Going to pick up Rathbone?"

  "What for? The evidence is destroyed. And I want to give our plant a chance to track the source of the paper. Rathbone isn't the forger; he's the pusher, once removed. And I still want to know what part Mike Mulligan is playing. He was Rathbone's contact at the Crescent Bank. What have you got on him?"

  "Apparently a fine, upstanding citizen. No rap sheet. He's clean with the IRS. Been with the bank almost thirty years. Divorced. No children. Lives in a one-bedroom condo in a plush development. Drives a two-year-old Buick. Goes to church. Nothing in
his lifestyle to indicate he's on the take."

  "What kind of a guy is he?"

  "You'd think, wouldn't you, that with a moniker like Mike Mulligan he'd be a big, brawny, red-faced Irishman. Actually, he's a scrawny little guy, a real Caspar Milquetoast. Elderly. White-haired. Wears hornrimmed cheaters and carries an umbrella on cloudy days. He's got a schedule during the week that never varies. People say they can set their watches by him. For instance, every working day he leaves the bank at precisely five o'clock, walks three blocks to a bar called the Navigator, Mulligan sits in a back booth by himself and has two extra-dry gin martinis straight up, no more, no less. Then he goes home by cab. I got most of this personal stuff from the barmaid, a mouthy broad. She says she's never seen him drunk or with a woman."

  "Have you been able to make contact?"

  "Not yet. I've been hanging out at the Navigator, so now I'm considered a regular. But the guy sits by himself way in the back and doesn't talk to anyone. I'm afraid a direct approach might spook him. I've got a way to get to him, but I'll need a partner. You have anyone I can borrow for an afternoon?"

  "Sorry," Harker said, "all my guys are out. What's your idea?"

  Ullman described it to him. "It's a neat scam," he finished. "A variation of the good cop-bad cop routine. I've used it before, and it works. But I need someone who can put on an act."

  "I think I could do it," Tony said.

  "You sure?" Hank said. "If you blow it, I never will be able to get close to the guy."

  "I won't blow it," Harker said. "Come on, let's do it today."

  "Okay," Ullman said. "We both better take our cars because if this thing goes down, we won't be coming back together."

  They discussed the details, and the Secret Service man drilled Tony on the role he was to play. Then they went out for hamburgers and fries before heading up Federal Highway.

  They got to Boca Raton about three-thirty, Ullman leading the way in his dusty Plymouth. He pulled up in front of the Navigator Bar amp; Grill, signaled by waving an arm out the window, then drove away. Harker parked nearby, locked up, and walked back to the bar.