Sullivan's sting

2

His name was Lester T. Crockett, and he was an austere man: vested, bow-tied, thin hair parted in the middle. He raised his eyes from the open file on his desk, looked at the woman sitting across from him.

"Rita Angela Sullivan," he said. "Unusual name. Spanish and Irish, isn't it?"

"You've got it," she said. "Puerto Rico and County Cork."

He nodded. "That was a fine operation in Tampa," he said.

"I didn't get much credit for it."

"Not in the newspapers," he agreed with a frosty smile. "You can blame me for that. I didn't want your name or picture used. I wanted you down here for an undercover job."

"But it was me who roped the banker," she argued. "Without him, they'd have no case at all."

"I agree completely," he said patiently, "but I assure you that your work did not go unnoticed. That's why you're here."

"And where the hell is here?" she demanded. "All I know is that my boss in Tallahassee put me on a plane for Fort Lauderdale and told me to report to you. What kind of an outfit is this?"

He sat back, twined fingers over his vest, stared at her. "Let me give you some background. About a year ago it became obvious that the war against so-called 'white-collar crime' in Florida was being mishandled. I'm speaking now not of the drug trade but money laundering, boiler room scams, stock swindles, and tax frauds. There are a lot of elderly people in Florida, rich elderly people, and along with the retirees came the sharks."

"So what else is new," she said flippantly, but he ignored it.

"The Department of Justice sent me down to study the problem and make recommendations. I found that it wasn't so much a lack of money or a lack of manpower that was hurting law enforcement in this area, it was the number of agencies involved, overlapping jurisdictions, and a competitiveness that frequently led to inefficiencies and rancorous dispute."

"Everyone hunting headlines?" she suggested. "Big egos?"

"Those were certainly factors," he acknowledged. "The FBI, SEC, State Attorney's Office, IRS, and local police, to name just a few, were all involved. Investigators from those agencies were walking up each other's heels, withholding evidence from each other, and planning sting and undercover operations with absolutely no coordination whatsoever."

"I believe it," she said. "I heard of a case in Jacksonville where a local undercover narc set up a big coke buy. Only the seller turned out to be an undercover FBI narc."

"Happens more often than you think," Crockett said, not smiling. "My recommendation was to set up an independent supra-agency that would draw personnel from all the others, as needed, and work with absolutely no publicity or even acknowledgment that such an agency existed. My recommendation was approved with the proviso that such an organization would be allowed to function for only two years. At the end of that time, an evaluation would be made of the results, if any, and it would then be determined whether or not to allow the supra-agency to continue to exist. I was appointed to direct the agency's activities in south Florida."

"Lucky you," Rita Sullivan said. "What's the name of this agency?"

"It has no name. The theory is that if it's nameless it is less likely to attract attention."

"Maybe," she said doubtfully. "And where do I fit in?"

"You'll be working with a man named Anthony Har-ker. He's on loan from the Securities and Exchange Commission."

"A New Yorker?" she asked.

"Yes."

"That's one strike against him," she said. "He's my boss?"

Crockett gave her his wintry smile. "I prefer the word 'associate.' He's waiting in his office, down the hall. He'll brief you."

"If I don't like the setup, can I go back to Tallahassee?"

"Of course."

"But it'll go in my jacket that I bugged out. Right?"

"Right," Lester T. Crockett said, rising to shake her hand.

Instead of names painted on the doors, there were business cards taped to the frosted glass. She found one that read Anthony C. Harker and went in. The man

seated behind the steel desk had an inhaler plugged up one nostril. He looked at her, blinked once, pocketed the inhaler.

"For an allergy," he said. "You might have knocked."

"Sorry."

"You're Rita Angela Sullivan?"

"That's right. Anthony C. Harker?"

"Yes." Then, stiffly, "You can call me Tony if you like."

"I'll think about it," she said and, unbidden, slid into the armchair alongside his desk.

"When did you get in?" he asked.

"Last night."

"Where you staying?"

"The Howard Johnson in Pompano Beach."

"Using your real name?"

"Yes."

"Good. What address did you give when you registered?"

"My mother's home in Tallahassee."

"That's okay. When you check out, pay cash. No credit cards."

"When am I going to check out?"

"We'll get to that. Have you got wheels?"

"No."

"Rent something small and cheap. By the way, I heard about the bust in Tampa. Nice work."

"Thanks."

"They were flying the stuff in from the Bahamas?"

"That's right. Using an old abandoned landing strip out in the boondocks."

"How did you get the banker to sing?"

She lifted her chin. "I persuaded him," she said.

Harker nodded. "This thing we're on isn't drugs. At least not the smuggling or dealing."

"Money laundering?"

"That may be part of it. The key suspect is a guy named David Rathbone. No relation to Basil."

"Who's Basil?"

"Forget it," he said. "You're too young. This David Rathbone is a wrongo. No hard stuff, but he's a con man, swindler, shark, and world-class nogoodnik. You hungry?"

"What?" she said, startled. "Yeah, I could eat something."

"Here's the subject's file. Read it. Meanwhile I'll go get us some lunch. Pizza and a beer?"

"Sounds good. Pepperoni and a Bud for me, please."

He was gone for almost a half-hour. When he returned, they spread their lunch on his desktop.

"No pepperoni for you?" she asked.

"No, just cheese. I've got a nervous stomach."

"I read the file on Rathbone," Sullivan said. "A sweet lad. Where did you get that photo? He's beautiful."

* "From his ex-wife. If she had her druthers, she'd have given us his balls, too."

"What's he into right now?"

"He's set himself up as an investment adviser or financial planner-whatever you want to call it. I estimate-and it's just a guess-that's he's got at least fifteen mooches on his list, and he's handling maybe twenty million dollars."

"Oh-oh. Who are all these lucky victims?"

"Widows and divorcees plus a choice selection of

doctors and airline pilots-the biggest suckers in the world when it comes to investments."

"What's his con?"

"He gets them to sign a full power of attorney plus a management contract. Then he's home free. His fee, he tells them, is three percent annually. If he's handling twenty mil like I figure, it would give him a yearly take of six hundred thousand. But I don't think he's satisfied with that. A greedy little bugger, our Mr. Rathbone. And with his record, he's got to be dipping in the till. But he sends out monthly statements, and no one has filed a complaint yet. About two months ago I convinced one of his clients, a divorcee, to demand all her money back from Rathbone, including the profits he claimed he had made for her. She got a teller's check for the entire amount the next day. She was so ashamed of doubting Rathbone that she returned the check and told him to keep managing her money.''

"If Rathbone is looting the assets, how was he able to return the divorcee's funds?"

"Easy. The old Ponzi scam. He used other investors' money to pay off. He came out of it smelling like roses, and it made me look like a shmuck. Why are you staring at me like that?"

"How long have you been in south Florida?" Sullivan asked.

"Almost eight months now."

"How come you're so pale? Don't you ever hit the beach?"

"I'd like to but can't. I get sun poisoning."

"Allergy, nervous stomach, and sun poisoning," she said. "You're in great shape."

"I'm surviving," Harker said. "You look like you toast your buns every day.''

"Not me," she said. "This is my natural hide. I can get a deeper tan just b r walking a block or two in the sunshine."

"Count your blessings," he said. "Now let's get back to business. Rathbone hangs out with a crowd of wise-guys who are just as slimy as he is. I've only been able to make one of them: an ex-con named Sidney Coe, who did time for a boiler room operation in Kansas City. I don't know what the others are into, but you can bet it's illegal, illicit, and immoral. They all meet in the bar of a restaurant on Commercial Boulevard in Lauderdale. It's called the Grand Palace."

"Great," she said. "Now let me guess. You want me to start hanging out at the Grand Palace and try to cozy up to this gang of villains."

"That's about it," he agreed. "Especially David Rathbone. I'm the guy who racked him up on that insider trading charge in New York. But he waltzed away from that with a slap on the wrist. That's one thing to remember about this man: He's been charged three times, to my knowledge, and never spent a day in chokey. You know why?"

"He cut a deal?" Rita suggested.

"Right. By ratting on his pals. This is not a standup guy. The other thing to remember about him is that he's a womanizer. It helps him hook those female mooches, but he also plays around when there's no profit involved."

She stared at him a long moment. Finally: "I'm beginning to get the picture. You expect me to ball this

guy."

Harker slammed a palm down on the desktop. "I expect you to do your job," he said angrily. "How you do it is up to you. I want to know how he's rolling his victims and I want to know what his buddies at the Grand Palace are up to. You want out?"

She considered for two beats. "Not yet. Let me make a few moves and see what happens. Do I call you here?"

"No," he said. "And don't come back to this building again. These people we're dealing with are bums but they're not stupes. You could be tailed. Here's a number you can call, day or night. Leave a message if I'm not in. One other thing: What are you carrying?"

"Thirty-eight Smith and Wesson. Short barrel."

"A cop's gun," he said, holding out his palm. "Let me have it."

She hesitated, then took the handgun from her shoulder bag and handed it over. Harker put it in his desk drawer and gave her a nickel-plated Colt.25 pistol. She examined it.

"What am I supposed to do with this peashooter?" she asked.

"Carry it," he said. "It's more in character. And leave your ID and shield with Mr. Crockett's secretary on your way out. Here's something else."

He withdrew a worn, folded newspaper clipping from his wallet and passed it to her. It was a two-paragraph story about Rita Angela Sullivan being arrested in a Tallahassee specialty shop for shoplifting. According to the clipping, charges were dropped for lack of evidence.

She read the story twice, then looked up at him. "How much did it cost to have this thing printed up?" she asked.

"Plenty," he said. "It looks like the real thing, doesn't it? Don't lose it. It might come in handy."

"How do you figure that?"

"If Rathbone goes through your purse, he'll find your dinky little gun and this clipping. It'll help you con the con man."

"Uh-huh," she said. "Pretty sure of me, weren't you?"

"I was hoping," Harker said.

She tucked pistol and clipping into her shoulder bag and stood up.

"Thanks for the lunch," she said.

"My pleasure."

She paused at the door. "You can call me Rita if you like," she said.

"I'll think about it," he said.