Sullivan's sting

by Lawrence Sanders

  His wife began to take close-ups of Rita while the two men moved away to a corner of the littered shop.

  "Yesterday a man came in," Gevalt started. "He is wearing Florida clothes, but he talks like the Midwest. Hard and fast. A big-city man. He asks if I have a first edition McGuffey. I ask him what edition does he want? Is he looking for a reader, speller, or primer? He begins to hem and haw, and it is obvious to me he knows nothing about rare books. Finally he says he has heard I can provide identification papers. He needs a birth certificate and Social Security card and is willing to pay any price."

  "You ever see this guy before?" Rathbone asked.

  "No. Never."

  "It's possible one of your clients talked, and this man overheard and really did need paper."

  Gevalt shook his head. "If any of my clients talk, they wouldn't be my clients. I am very choosy, David; you know that. No, this man was law; I am convinced of it. Something about him: a clumsy arrogance."

  "What did you say to him?"

  "I became very angry. Told him I was a legitimate businessman making a living selling rare books, and I would never do anything illegal, and he should leave my shop immediately. He left, but it still bothers me. It is the first time anything like that has happened. David, do you feel I am in danger?"

  "Of course not," Rathbone said. "Even if the guy was a cop-and you're not sure he was-it was just a fishing expedition. You handled it exactly right. If the law had anything on you, you'd be out of business already. You have nothing to worry about, believe me."

  The old man looked at him, and his rheumy eyes filled. "Worry?" he said. "That's all I do-worry.

  About that stupid man with his first edition McGuffey. About one of my motels which is losing money because the manager is dishonest. Dishonest, David! And also I fear my wife has a lover. Oh yes, I have seen him lurking around. A muscular young man and he has- oh God, David, I hate to mention it but he has a tattoo on his right bicep. And you tell me not to worry!"

  Rathbone put a hand lightly on Gevalt's shoulder. "It will all work out," he said soothingly. "The important thing is to think positively. I always do. Who can remember last year's problems? Everything will turn out all right, you'll see."

  The old man took out a disgraceful handkerchief and blew his nose. "You're right, David," he said, snuffling. "I must think positively."

  On the drive back home, Rita asked, "What were you and Gevalt talking about while I was having my picture taken?"

  Rathbone laughed. "The poor old man thinks his wife has a boyfriend. A hulk with a tattoo."

  "Can't say I blame her. What would you do if you found out I had a boyfriend?"

  "Couldn't happen," David said. "If I can't trust you, who can I trust?"

  56

  The previous day's tapes were delivered to Anthony Harker's motel every morning at about seven a.m. He listened to the first run-through while he was shaving. He found he was listening to but not hearing the personal portions, much as one might look at something without seeing it. He closed his mind to the intimate murmurs and cries; they had, he kept assuring himself, nothing to do with him. He was interested only in names, dates, hard facts.

  On Saturday morning, January 27, he heard Rita and David discussing a visit to Gevalt. Then Rathbone joked about not informing his clients before he decamped, and Birdie Winslow was mentioned. That rang a bell with Harker; Rita had given him that name weeks ago, but he had never followed up on it.

  He made himself a cup of instant coffee and chewed on a stale bagel. Then he went to the office, planning to put in a full day. Work was the only relief he could find from brooding on what was tearing him apart: those murmurs and cries that had nothing to do with him.

  He found a note on his desk from the night duty officer. It was a message from Henry Ullman in Boca: Please call him ASAP. Harker popped an antihistamine capsule, and phoned.

  "It's on," Ullman reported. "Bartlett called Mulligan last night. He's going to make a deposit at the bank on Friday, February second, at noon. Got that?"

  "Got it," Tony said. "Next Friday morning at noon. Hank, you handle the collar. I'll get some warm bods to you early on Friday to help out. Two men be enough?"

  "Plenty," Ullman said. "I don't expect Bartlett to turn mean. What about the other bank officers involved?"

  "We'll scoop them up later. I'm hoping Bartlett will make a deal with us. Then we'll have corroborative evidence for Mulligan's confession. How's the little man acting?"

  "Believe it or not, I think he's excited. It's probably the most dramatic thing that's ever happened to him."

  "Except for those Saturday night parties."

  "Yeah," Ullman said, laughing. "The Great Toilet Tank Capers. He'll never forget those."

  Harker now had a date and a time, D day and H hour, and could begin firming up the destruction of the Palace gang. But before he got to work on schedules and personnel deployment, there was something he wanted to do first: He looked up Birdie Winslow in various telephone directories and finally found her in Pompano Beach. He was startled to discover she lived less than a half-mile from him.

  Before he called, he pondered on his best approach. If he told Winslow the truth about her "financial planner," she'd probably scream bloody murder, demand all her funds back from Rathbone, and tip off the shark that the law was closing in. Harker decided to play it cool.

  "Birdie Winslow?" he asked.

  "Yes. Who is this?"

  "My name is Anthony Harker. I hate to bother you, but I've been considering employing a money manager, and David Rathbone is one of the possibilities on my list. Mr. Rathbone has provided me with a list of his clients so I can check his track record. I was hoping you'd be kind enough to spare me a few moments. I'm in your neighborhood, and I promise not to keep you long."

  "Well," she said, "I planned to go shopping today, but I guess I can spare a little time. How soon can you be here?"

  "Twenty minutes," Harker said. "Thank you very much-uh-is it Miss or Mrs. Winslow?"

  "Mrs.," Birdie said. "And your name is Harder?"

  "Harker. Anthony Harker. I'm on my way, Mrs. Winslow, and thank you."

  She turned out to be a buxom matron, a bit blowsy in Harker's opinion. She was wearing a black gabardine suit, and both jacket and skirt were too snug. Like many overweight women, she had legs which were exceptionally shapely, the ankles slender. But the scarlet patent leather pumps didn't help.

  She was pleasant enough, got him seated in an armchair, and offered him a drink which he declined. She sat on the couch, but even at that distance he could smell her perfume, a musky scent he thought much too heavy for this woman and this climate.

  Her apartment was as overstuffed as she, with too much of everything in lurid colors and clashing styles. Near the door, he noted, was a stack of matched luggage, so new that the manufacturer's tags were still tied to the handles.

  "Mrs. Winslow," he started, "I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice, and I'll try to make this as brief as possible. As I told you on the phone, I'm planning to hire someone to handle my investments, and naturally I want to learn as much as I can about the person I select. If I ask questions you'd rather not answer, please tell me and I'll understand. Believe me, I have no wish to pry into your financial affairs. I'd just like to know whether or not you can recommend David Rathbone as an asset manager."

  "Oh, ask anything you like," she said blithely.

  "Could you tell me how you happened to meet him and become his client?"

  She thought a moment. "Why, I believe it was Ellen St. Martin who introduced us. Ellen is the real estate agent who found this apartment for me, and she suggested David was the perfect man to take care of my finances. After my husband died, I just couldn't handle all the investments he had made. And then I had the insurance money, of course. Ralph left me very well fixed, I'll say that for him. Then I met David and was quite impressed with him."

  "You investigated his record?"

  "Oh yes. I
spoke to several of his clients, and they all were very enthusiastic about what he had done for them. Why, he had increased their investment income forty or fifty percent a year."

  "And has he done as well for you?"

  "He certainly has! I think my net worth has increased at least that much since I've been with him, and that's been less than six months."

  "Remarkable," Harker said. "Do you receive monthly statements from Mr. Rathbone?"

  "I surely do."

  "And monthly statements from the brokers he deals with? Confirmation slips on your trades?"

  "Oh no," she said gaily, "none of that. David said it's just unnecessary paper. After all, everything's included on his monthly statements."

  "Uh-huh," Tony said. "When you started with Mr. Rathbone, I suppose he had you sign some documents. A full power of attorney perhaps, or a management contract."

  "I know I signed some papers, but David said they weren't important, and I could get my money back from him whenever I liked."

  "You didn't ask if Mr. Rathbone is registered with the Securities and Exchange Commission or the Florida Department of Securities?"

  "No, but I'm sure that if he's supposed to be registered, then he is. You could ask him."

  "Of course, I'll do that. Did he ever mention if there was an insurance policy in effect to protect your account from fraud or theft?"

  "No, the subject never came up. But as long as David will return my money whenever I ask, there's no need for an insurance policy, is there?"

  "No," Harker said, realizing this woman was hopelessly naive, "no need. Mrs. Winslow, would it be too much if I asked to see your most recent statement from Mr. Rathbone? I'd like to get some idea of the type of investments he prefers."

  "I don't see why not," Birdie said, rising. "You'll see that David is making me lots of money."

  The statement she brought him was, he noted, a computer printout. But that didn't mean a thing. It was a perfect example of GIGO: Garbage In, Garbage Out. The statement listed several Certificates of Deposit at Texas and California banks Harker had never heard of. All were allegedly paying over thirty percent. But the bulk of Mrs. Winslow's wealth appearedto be invested in the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund.

  "This Fort Knox Fund," Tony said. "What is that?"

  "Oh, that's something David heard about through close friends on Wall Street. He got me in on the ground floor, and it's just made oodles of money."

  "But what exactly is it?"

  "I'm not sure, but I think they buy and sell things. You know, like wheat and corn."

  Harker nodded and stood up. "Thank you very much, Mrs. Winslow. You've been a big help, and I appreciate it."

  "I hope I've convinced you that David is really the best in the business. Everyone says so."

  "Well, he's certainly high on my list," Harker said. "I expect to be having a long talk with him very soon." He started to leave, then paused at the stack of new luggage. "Planning a trip, Mrs. Winslow?" he asked, smiling.

  Unexpectedly she giggled like a schoolgirl. "Well, if you promise not to tell anyone, I'm taking a long vacation in about six months-with David!"

  Harker kept the smile frozen on his face. "That sounds like fun," he said. "Seems to me that you and Mr. Rathbone have more than a business relationship."

  "He's a divine man," she said breathlessly. "Just divine V'

  Tony nodded and got out of there, not knowing whether to laugh, curse, or weep.

  The moment the door closed behind him, Birdie Winslow picked up the phone and called David Rathbone.

  57

  On Monday, January 29, Suarez and Fortescue had lunch at the Tex-Mex place Manny had discovered. They ate cheese enchiladas, rice, refried beans, tortillas, guacamole salad, tacos, nachos, plenty of hot sauce, and two beers each. As they devoured this stupendous feast, they had their notebooks open on the table and exchanged skinny on Ernie the bartender.

  "Full name Ernest K. Hohlman," Suarez reported. "Claims to be forty-four. Divorced. Got a young daughter. They live in a condo up at Lighthouse Point. Ernie was on the force in Manhattan. He came down here about five years ago and went to work at the Palace Lounge. When I called the NYPD, they said he resigned, but I finally got hold of a landsman who was willing to hablilla for a while. He says Ernie was allowed to resign quote for personal reasons unquote after he was caught shaking down crack dealers."

  "Pension?" Fortescue asked.

  "Nada. But he owns his condo, drives a white Toyota Cressida, and has almost fifty Gs of CDs in the bank. Neat for an ex-cop and bartender."

  "You have a gift for understatement," Roger said. "Well, I talked to all my snitches and my snitches' snitches, and I've got a pretty good idea where Ernie's gelt is coming from. The guy is a world-class hustler.

  I mean he's into everything: books bets and peddles pot, coke, stolen credit cards, and merchandise that 'fell off the truck.' Also, he pimps for a young call girl, a real looker. His daughter."

  "That's not nice," Manny said.

  "No, it's not," Fortescue agreed. "I think that maybe after we finish this heartburn banquet we should go visit Ernie and point out the evil of his ways."

  "How we gonna handle it? You wanna try the good cop-bad cop routine?"

  "Nah," Roger said. "He was a cop once himself; he'd recognize the plot. Let's both just be nasty."

  "Hokay," Suarez said. "I can do nasty."

  They drove over to the Grand Palace in Manny's Ford Escort. It was then almost three o'clock, and there was only one parking valet on duty. He was a young black who looked like he could slam-dunk without jumping.

  "Let me talk to him alone for a few minutes," Fortescue said, and Suarez nodded.

  They waited until the Escort was parked, and the valet came trotting back. Roger drew him aside.

  "A moment of your time, bro," the agent said, and showed his ID.

  The youth raised his palms outward. "I'm guilty," he said. "Whatever it was, I did it."

  Fortescue smiled, took a morgue Polaroid of Termite Tommy out of his jacket pocket, held it up.

  "You do this?" he asked.

  "Jesus!" the valet said. "He looks dead."

  "If he isn't," Roger said, "he must be cold as hell in that icebox. Ever see him before?"

  The boy studied the grisly photo with fearful fascination. "What happened to him?" he asked.

  "He died," the officer said patiently and repeated, "Ever see him before?"

  "Yeah, he was around a few times. Drove an old beat-up truck. We called him El Cheapo because he always parked his heap himself."

  "That's the guy. Did you work on New Year's Day?"

  "Nope. There was only one valet on duty that day. A1 Seymour. I was home and I can prove it."

  "That's good," Fortescue said. "Now I won't have to goose you with a cattle prod."

  The youth was horrified. "You don't really do that, do you?"

  "All the time," Roger said, motioning to Suarez. "This job has a lot of fringe benefits."

  They entered the Palace Lounge through the side door. There were three men drinking beer at one table, and a middle-aged couple working on whiskey sours at another. The only other person in the room was the man behind the bar. He was reading a supermarket tabloid. He put it aside when Roger and Manny swung onto barstools.

  "Yessir, gents," he said, "what's your pleasure?"

  "Mine's pussy," Suarez said, and turned to his partner. "What's yours?"

  "A boneless pork loin with yams," Fortescue said, and displayed his ID.

  "The sheriff's office?" the bartender said. "I know some of the guys there. They stop by occasionally. What division you in?"

  "Community relations," Roger said. "This is my partner, Manuel Suarez. Your name is Ernest Hohl-man?"

  "That's right. Everyone calls me Ernie." "Uh-huh. Did you work here on New Year's Day, Ernie?"

  The bartender stalled a beat. "Sure I did," he said finally. "Got paid triple-time because of the holiday."

  The
agent placed the morgue photo of Termite Tommy on the bar. "Know this guy?"

  Ernie glanced at it. "Nope. Never saw him before in my life."

  "That was queek," Suarez said. "Wasn't that queek, Roger?"

  "Quick?" Fortescue said. "Sheet, it was fuckin' instantaneous. Take another look, Ernie. A nice long look."

  The bartender stared. "Dead?" he asked.

  "Couldn't be deader," Manny said cheerfully. "Ever see him when he was alive and kicking?"

  "No, I don't make him. Listen, this is a busy bar. Maybe he stopped by once for a drink. You can't expect me to remember every customer.''

  "Did he stop by on New Year's Day?" Suarez said.

  "I don't recall him being here."

  "That's odd," Fortescue said. "The parking valet on duty that day, A1 Seymour, says this guy was here."

  "Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. I can't swear to it either way. You men want a drink? On the house?"

  "No, thanks," Fortescue said. "We never drink on duty, do we, Manny?"

  "Never," Suarez said. "Against regulations."

  "David Rathbone a customer of yours?" Roger asked suddenly. "One of your regulars?"

  "Mr. Rathbone?" Ernie said cautiously. "Yeah, he stops by occasionally. Hey, what's this all about? If you could tell me, I'll be happy to help you any way I can. I used to be a cop myself. In New York."

  "Yeah, we heard about that," Suarez said. "I wouldn't want to be a cop in New York with all those crack dealers running around with Uzis. How come you left the NYPD, Ernie?"

  "I just got tired of the cold weather up there."

  "Cold?" Manny said. "I thought maybe it was because it was too hot. So David Rathbone was in here on New Year's Day?"

  "He could have been. I really don't remember. Hey, those guys are signaling for another round of beers. I gotta go wait on the customers."

  "Go ahead," Fortescue said, "but don't try to make a run for it. The place is surrounded."

  "Very funny," Ernie said.

  By the time he returned behind the bar, the two officers had decided to lean a little harder.

  "We're going to level with you, Ernie," Fortescue said. "After all, you used to be a cop so we know you'll cooperate."