Theodore and Blanche had left a light on downstairs. They had also left the air conditioning turned so low that the town house felt like a meat locker. David switched off the air and opened the French doors.
"I'm going upstairs and change," Rita said.
"Go ahead," Rathbone said. "I'll pour us a nightcap, and then I have to make a phone call."
He brought two small snifters of cognac from the kitchen and placed them on the glass-topped cocktail table. Then he settled down in one corner of the big couch and used the white phone on the end table. He took the scrap of paper from his pocket and punched out the number.
"Ernie?" he said. "This is David Rathbone."
"Hiya, Mr. Rathbone. Where you calling from?"
"From my home. Why?"
"I just didn't want you to call from the Palace. The phone there may be tapped. My own phone probably is. I'm not home now. I'm staying with a friend."
"Ernie, what's all this about? Why should the Palace phones be tapped? Or yours?"
"Listen, Mr. Rathbone, two cops from the sheriff's office came to see me at the Lounge on Monday. I thought at first they were a couple of clowns wanting to put the arm on me for a contribution-if you know what I mean. But it was more than that. They showed me a picture of a dead guy they said went by the name of Termite Tommy. The picture had been taken in the morgue. This Termite Tommy had been wasted. Someone stuck an ice pick in his ear.''
Rathbone leaned forward and picked up one of the brandy snifters. He took a deep swallow, then held the glass tightly.
"They wanted to know if this guy had been in the Lounge on New Year's Day. I told them I didn't remember. But they said they knew he had been there; one of the parking valets had seen him. Then they asked if you had been there at the same time, Mr. Rathbone."
David finished the cognac, put the empty glass on the table, picked up the other one.
"I tried to cover for you, Mr. Rathbone, really I did. But they knew all about your passing out and how I had to call Rita to come get you. Now how in hell did they know that?"
"I have no idea," Rathbone said hoarsely.
"Well, they knew, all right. They kept asking if you had talked to that Termite Tommy, if the two of you had a drink together. Mr. Rathbone, you've always treated me decent so I got to level with you. Those jokers knew all about my little sidelines, so I'm talking a deal with them. Or rather my lawyer is. I'm sorry, Mr. Rathbone, but my ass is on the line. If they want to throw the book at me, I'm liable to end up doing heavy time. I've got to cooperate with them. You can understand that, can't you, Mr. Rathbone?"
David gulped down half of the second brandy. It caught in his throat and for a moment he was afraid he might spew it up. He swallowed frantically again and again. Finally it went down, burning his stomach. Then:
"What did you tell them, Ernie?"
"Just that you were there at the same time as Termite Tommy. That the two of you had a drink together and talked awhile. That's all, Mr. Rathbone, I swear it. Oh, I also told them about those two bums who were having a beer at the other table while you and Termite Tommy were talking. Remember those guys? The cops want me to go through the mug books and see if I can make them. Maybe they're the skels who used the ice pick."
"Maybe," Rathbone said.
"Anyway, I wanted you to know what's going on. Ordinarily, I wouldn't gab about any of my customers- you know that-but my balls are in the wringer and I've got to make the best deal I can. You can appreciate that, can't you, Mr. Rathbone?"
"Sure, Ernie. It's okay. No great harm done."
"I'm glad to hear that. I just didn't want you to think I was a rat. I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Rathbone."
"Thanks, Ernie," David said. "The same to you."
He hung up and finished the second cognac. He took the empty glasses back to the kitchen and started to pour new drinks. He stopped suddenly, remembering. At least Ernie hadn't mentioned his passing a white envelope to Termite Tommy or how he, Rathbone, had gone into the men's room and had been joined there by one of the thugs.
Perhaps Ernie hadn't seen either incident. Or had witnessed them but just didn't recall. Or did recall them and hadn't told the cops. Or had told the cops and wasn't admitting how much he had blabbed.
But it really didn't matter, Rathbone concluded. The important fact was that he had been seen in the company of a homicide victim shortly before the murder. Sooner or later, he knew, the cops would come looking for him.
First Gevalt, then Birdie, and now this. . For one brief instant he thought it might be smart to run at once, that night. But he immediately recognized it as stupid panic. Even if the cops came around in the morning, he could stall them for a day or two. He could tell them he had met Termite Tommy quite by accident in the Palace Lounge on New Year's Day. They had been casual acquaintances. They had a drink together, wished each other Happy New Year, Tommy left, and that was that.
The cops might not buy the story, but it would take time and a lot more digging before they discovered Rathbone was holding out on them. And by the time they tied him to the Corcoran brothers-if they ever did-he'd be long gone.
His need to stall the fuzz, even for a short while, was obvious: He couldn't run until Bartlett's deposit on Friday was a done deal. Jimmy would take his forty percent, and David would pocket a cool $120,000. Screw Herman Weisrotte! If that drunken Kraut wanted to sue in Costa Rica for his fifteen-percent cut, lots of luck! But there was no way Rathbone was going to run before he made that marvelous score.
He carried the fresh drinks into the living room, feeling up again. Rita was coming down the stairs barefoot, wearing the yellow terry robe he had given her the first morning she awoke in his bed.
"You okay, honey?" she asked, looking at him closely. "You look like something the cat dragged in."
"I was a little shook," he admitted, "but I'm better now. That phone call-an old friend of mine up north just died."
"Ah, too bad. What did he die from?"
"Cancer," David said. "Sit down and drink your drink. There's a lot I want to talk to you about."
She curled up alongside him on the couch, and he put an arm about her shoulders.
"How soon can you be ready to leave?" he asked her. "I mean leave the country for good."
"I told you," she said. "Give me twenty minutes."
He laughed and hugged her. "You're a wonder, you are," he said. "It won't be until after this Friday. It all depends on when I can book a flight for us. But let's figure early next week-okay? Now listen carefully: I'm driving up to Lakeland tomorrow and may not be back until late in the evening. I'll leave you two grand in cash, and I want you to go out to Gevalt and pick up your passport. Got that?"
She nodded.
"Now on Friday afternoon, you and I are going shopping. I have charge accounts at Burdines, Jordan Marsh, Lord and Taylor, Macy's, Saks, and Neiman-Marcus. Make out a list of everything you want. We're going to charge up a storm at all those stores."
She turned her head to look at him. "And we'll be gone before the bills come in-right?"
"Right! So forget about the cost. Just buy everything you want."
"But what'll I need-fur coats or bikinis? Where are we going?"
"Costa Rica," he said. "A climate a lot like Florida's. Even better. I have a ranch down there you're going to love. It's out in the country, but not too far from the beach or the city. Plenty to do, plenty to see. And you already habla Spanish."
"Oh God," she said, "it sounds great. I'll bet they have wonderful plantains."
"And fantastic melons," he said. "The place is a paradise."
He picked up her drink and led her upstairs to the bedroom. She took off her robe, sat on the edge of the bed, watched him undress.
He knelt on the floor at her feet. He pressed her bare knees together and leaned his chin on them, his eyes turned upward to her face.
"I've got to tell you something, Rita. I've been a grifter all my life, and loving you is maybe the first strai
ght thing I've ever done. It's a super feeling."
She clasped his face, lifted his head gently.
"Come to mommy," she said.
60
On Thursday morning, February 1, Anthony Harker listened to the previous day's tapes in his motel room. Then he packed all the reels in a battered briefcase and lugged it to the office. He finally decided Crockett had to know. He wasn't going to dump the problem in his lap, just present the evidence and tell Crockett what he planned to do. He owed the chief that much,
Crockett was already behind his desk, as trim as ever in his vested suit with a neatly knotted polka-dotted bow tie. He listened closely as Harker ran through the checklist on his clipboard.
"Roger Fortescue will drive up to Lakeland tomorrow morning in time to be there by noon. He'll arrest Herman Weisrotte. Two Secret Service men will provide backup.
"Henry Ullman will collar Bartlett at the Crescent Bank in Boca at noon. He'll be assisted by FBI special agents.
"Manuel Suarez will take Sidney Coe. Manny will lead a squad from the Fort Lauderdale police. In addition to Coe, all the yaks will be booked.
"I figured Simon Clark would bust Mortimer Sparco's brokerage, but Clark asked if he could pick up Irving Donald Gevalt instead. That's okay with me, so I arranged for an SEC team to hit the brokerage. They know what to look for.
"The DEA will coordinate their raid on Frank Little's warehouse. At the same time they arrest Little, they'll grab all his customers they've been able to identify.
"I'll lead a team from the Broward County Sheriff's Office against David Rathbone's town house. The warrants authorize his arrest and seizing whatever records we can find in his private office.
"Ernest Hohlman, the bartender at the Palace Lounge, picked out two ex-cons from the mug books who might be involved in the murder of Termite Tommy. They're Brian and Thomas Corcoran, brothers, with rap sheets as long as your arm. Heavy stuff like armed robbery and felonious assault. There's a warrant out for both of them right now.
"I should warn you, sir, that some if not all of the assisting agencies are sure to rush to the newspapers and TV cameras as soon as the operation goes down."
"That's all right," Crockett said. "There'll be enough glory to go around, and we don't want any for this organization. We may need the cooperation of those people in the future, so let them get their headlines. Have you been able to keep a lid on all this?"
"I think so," Harker said. "There have been no leaks that I know of."
Lester Crockett leaned over his desk, clasped his hands, looked directly at the other man.
"Tony," he said, "you haven't mentioned Rita Sullivan. What part have you planned for her?"
Harker hoisted his briefcase onto Crockett's desk. "Sir," he said, "I've been providing you with abstracts of the tapes from David Rathbone's home. Now I think you better listen to the complete tapes. I know what must be done, but you should be aware of my reasons."
Crockett nodded. "If you feel it's that important, I'll do it now. Is there a machine available?"
"Yes, sir. In the bullpen. I'll have it brought in here."
He wasn't summoned back to Crockett's office until late in the afternoon. The reels were stacked on the chief's desk. He motioned Harker to a chair and stared at him.
"You should have told me sooner, Tony," he said quietly.
"I wasn't sure. Not absolutely sure. She could have been playing her role."
Crockett shook his head. "I was afraid of something like this. And so were you."
"No! I didn't expect anything like that to happen."
"I think you did," Crockett said, "but perhaps you wouldn't admit it to yourself. If you were sure of her, you would have told her about the taps on Rathbone's phones and the bugs inside the house."
Harker was silent.
"I'm sorry, Tony," Crockett said. "People do turn sour, you know. And sometimes the best. Will you handle it?"
"Yes, sir. Before noon tomorrow. What's the most we can offer her?"
"Immediate resignation for reasons of health. Nothing on her record, but never another job in law enforcement. Oh God, what a fool!"
"Rita?" Tony said. "Or me?"
Crockett looked at him sadly. "Both of you," he said. "But perhaps 'fool' isn't the right word. 'Victim' is more accurate."
"Mooches," Harker said bitterly.
61
Friday morning, February 2.
It was a squally day, no sign of the sun, ripped clouds scudding before a northeast wind. There were spatters of rain, an occasional zipper of lightning, thunder rumbling in the distance like an artillery barrage.
It must have poured during the night; streets on the way to the office were flooded, and a royal palm was down across Federal Highway. Tony Harker splashed through puddles to a coffee shop, but his stomach was churning and he ordered a glass of milk and dry rye toast.
He wondered why he felt no exultation. He was bringing a complex investigation to a successful end, but he had no sense of satisfaction. In fact, this final day was almost anticlimactic. He saw it as cleaning up after a wild party: a mess of cold cigarette butts, empty bottles, stale food, and broken glass. Nothing left to do but throw out the garbage.
His first call was to the sheriff's office, requesting that two plainclothesmen be sent in an unmarked car to stake out David Rathbone's town house. They were to collar Rathbone at noon if Harker hadn't shown up.
He spoke to Manuel Suarez and Simon Clark, and gave them final orders. He called Henry Ullman in Boca to make certain there was no last-minute hitch in their plans. There was no way to reach Roger Fortescue; Harker assumed he was on the road en route to Lakeland. He called his contact at the DEA and was assured everything was on schedule.
Finally, at 9:10 a.m., he called the office of the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. He was connected to an answering machine, and hung up. He called every ten minutes after that with the same result. He had resolved that if he couldn't contact Rita at the office by eleven o'clock, he'd call her at the town house and run the risk of Rathbone's answering the phone.
But at 10:20, she answered the office phone. "The Fort Knox Fund," she said perkily. "Good morning."
"Harker here," he said. "You alone?"
"Yes."
"I've got to see you right away. It's important."
Silence for a beat or two. "Will it take long?" she asked finally. "We're supposed to go shopping this afternoon."
"No, not long. An hour at the most."
"All right. Where?"
"My motel," he said. "I'm leaving now."
He hadn't devised any scenario or even decided in what order to say the things that had to be said. So he'd have to wing it, and he wasn't much good at improvising.
She came into his motel apartment wearing a clear plastic slicker over a peach-colored jumpsuit. Her wind-tossed hair was glistening with mist, and she was laughing because the flowered umbrella she carried had turned inside out. She tossed it into a corner and stripped off her raincoat.
"Let's move to south Florida," she said, "where the sun shines every day. Got a cold beer for me?"
"No," Harker said, and she whipped her head around to look at him. "Sit down," he told her. "I'll make this as brief as possible."
She sat, crossed her legs, took out a pack of Win-stons. She slowly went through the ceremony of shaking out a cigarette, lighting it, inhaling.
"What's up?" she asked quietly.
He was standing behind an armchair, gripping the top. But he found his knees were beginning to tremble, so he paced a few steps back and forth.
"I promised to tell you before we moved on Rathbone. I'm telling you now. We're taking him today."
"Oh?" she said, inspecting the burning tip of her cigarette. "When?"
"Noon."
"Thanks for giving me so much advance notice," she said, making no effort to hide the sarcasm. "Who's going to arrest him?"
"I am. With men from the sheriff's office. The town house is stake
d out right now. Did Rathbone ever tell you where he might go if he left the country?"
"No, he never said."
Harker laughed, a harsh sound that sounded phony even to him. "Not a word about his ranch in Costa Rica? Close to the beach and city? The two of you leaving early next week? But first let's go shopping and charge up a storm."
She reacted as if he had struck her across the face. Her head flung back, tanned skin went sallow; she stared at him with widened eyes, trying to comprehend.
"Bugs!" she finally spat out. "The place was bugged!"
"And the phones tapped," Harker said.
"And you never told me?" she cried. "You prick!"
He sat down heavily in the armchair, suddenly saddened because despite what she had done, her first reaction was to accuse him.
"It's all a can of worms, isn't it?" he said. "I've learned that logic doesn't always work with human beings."
"What makes you think you're a human being?"
"Oh, I'm human," he said. "I'm just as fucked-up as everyone else."
But she wouldn't let it go at that. "No," she said, shaking her head, "you're vindictive, malicious. You're getting your jollies out of busting David, aren't you? Big deal! That guy's just a con artist who's ripped off a few rich people, and you've gone after him like he's a serial killer. He'll never spend a day behind bars, and you know it. He'll get himself a sharp lawyer. He'll make full restitution-and he's got the money to do it. He'll promise to straighten up and fly right, and he'll get off with a wrist tap. You'll see."
"I told you a dozen times," Harker said, "and you wouldn't listen. Rathbone's been doing more than stealing pencils from blind men. In addition to a dozen financial felonies, we've got him on drug dealing. What did you think the Fort Knox Fund was trading? Their commodities were cocaine, heroin, and marijuana. And we've got him on counterfeiting and bank fraud. Why do you think he made all those trips to Lakeland? It was to pick up packages of the queer printed by an ex-con up there. And we also want him on suspicion of being an accessory to murder. When he got drunk in the Palace Lounge on New Year's Day, he had just fingered a guy who was later found dead in a canal. Someone had stuck an ice pick in his ear. So much for your poor, misunderstood con artist who's going to make
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