Sullivan's sting

41

Mr. Crockett had become increasingly tetchy of late, and Tony Harker could only conclude the man was under increasing pressure from Washington to show some results. And because the chief was feeling the heat, his lieutenants were, too, and in turn were leaning on their subordinates.

Harker sat on one of those uncomfortable folding chairs in front of Crockett's desk and flipped through a sheaf of messages, telexes, and photographs.

"Here's what we've got so far, sir," he reported. "David Rathbone, using the name Dennis Reynolds-same initials you'll note; so he doesn't have to throw away his monogrammed shirts, I guess-has purchased a home about twenty miles west of Limon in Costa Rica. Our man down there says it's a big ranch-type place with about ten acres of orchards and a vegetable garden. Plus a swimming pool. Right now there's an old couple living there, taking care of things."

"Mortgage?" Crockett asked.

No, sir, he paid cash. Reportedly about a hundred thousand American. And under the name of Reynolds, he has a balance of about twenty thousand in a San Jose bank. We're still looking for Dennis Reynolds bank accounts in the Bahamas and Caymans."

"He's getting ready to run?"

"Not quite yet, sir. I questioned Sullivan, and she says Rathbone has mentioned nothing about leaving the country. I figure he's waiting to make a big kill with his counterfeiting scam and the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund before he skedaddles."

"Tony, what is that Fund?"

"Drug trading," Harker said promptly. "Got to be. What a ballsy idea-to organize a commodity fund that trades only in controlled substances. And then to sell shares to the public to finance the business! If that's not chutzpah, I don't know what is. Anyway, the DEA traced those two cars parked outside Frank Little's office. The Bentley belonged to David Rathbone, as I figured, and he fits the agents' description of the driver. The other car, a Lincoln, is registered in New York to a nephew of Lou Siena. He owns Siena Moving and Storage and is currently under investigation by the Manhattan DA for allegedly running one of the biggest cocaine operations in the city.''

"Interesting," Crockett said, drumming his fingers on his desktop. "You believe that links Rathbone and Little with the drug trade?"

"Definitely. The DEA is getting a court order to tap Little's office and home phones."

The chief frowned. "They're certainly moving swiftly on this, aren't they? I trust they'll remember their agreement to consult with us before making any arrests."

"I think we better keep up with them," Harker said. "Rathbone was seen meeting with a suspected drug dealer. That's additional evidence to justify tapping his home phones, wouldn't you say?"

Crockett nodded.

"And the office of the Fort Knox Fund?"

"All right," Crockett said. "Let's go for broke."

"And can we tape conversations in Rathbone's home?"

The other man stared at.him. "You never give up, do you? How do you propose to do it?"

"At first I thought it would have to be a black-bag job. Our man would break in when no one's home and place mikes and transmitters. But that's too risky. Rathbone lives in a development where there are a lot of people around. If our agent was spotted, the whole operation would go down the drain. I talked to some phone people, and here's what they came up with: It'll be easy to tap incoming and outgoing calls at the central office. But to pick up other conversation inside the apartment, Rathbone's phones will have to be fitted with a special bug. It's a small, sensitive mike that picks up talk within about twenty feet and transmits it over the phone lines. It doesn't interfere with the normal functioning of the phone. In other words, Rathbone's line will be continually open to carry conversation taking place inside the apartment as well as incoming and outgoing calls."

"And how do you suggest we place these bugs?"

Harker grinned. "I'm going to scam the scammer. The phone people can feed interference into Rathbone's lines. All his calls will be jammed with static and crackling. He'll call the phone company to complain, and they'll send a man-our man-out to inspect his phones. That's when they'll be equipped with the bugs. Rathbone's static will clear up, and he'll be none the wiser."

Crockett made an expression of disgust. "I don't like all this," he said. "Whatever happened to privacy in this country? I find the whole concept of bugging and taping repugnant."

"Yes, sir," Tony said, "I agree. But can we go ahead with it?"

Crockett sighed. "Yes, go ahead. I'll have our attorney file for a court order with a friendly judge. And you're not going to tell Sullivan what we're doing?"

"No, sir, I'm not."

"Tony," his boss said in an almost avuncular tone, "I hope you know what you're doing."

"I hope so, too," Harker said, gathered up his papers, and left.

Simon Clark and Manny Suarez were waiting in his office. Tony dropped into his swivel chair and began drumming his fingers on the desktop, just as Crockett had done.

"Fortescue is back in Lakeland," he told the two men, "keeping tabs on the printer. And Ullman is up in Boca playing games with Mike Mulligan. But I didn't want to wait for your weekly reports. Things are beginning to move, and I'm trying to stay on top of them. Clark, what's happening at Sparco's brokerage?"

"The guy's into penny stock fraud up to his eyeballs," the agent said. "At the very least, I've got enough for the SEC to bring civil charges. And with a little more digging, I think we can rack him up on criminal charges, too. This shark and his Denver pals are breaking every securities law on the books and getting rich doing it."

"Yeah?" Suarez said, interested. "How they do that?"

"They've got a dozen gimmicks, but basically what they do is organize a shell company or find some rinky-dink outfit that doesn't have a prayer of success. One of the broker-dealers underwrites a stock offering at maybe a couple of bucks a share. They each buy a block of stock for themselves. Then they get busy high-pressuring suckers, usually by phone, touting the stock at inflated prices. Since it's not listed anywhere, they charge whatever the traffic will bear. When the price is inflated high enough, the promoters sell out to their customers. But if the suckers try to sell, there are no buyers. The most Sparco and his merry band of thieves will do is roll over the suckers' money into another fraudulent investment. And the suckers, hoping to recoup, send in more money. The whole dirty deal is a cash cow."

"We'll hold the penny stock swindle as an ace in the hole," Harker said. "What I really want to do is tie Sparco to the Fort Knox Fund. That outfit was organized to deal drugs. Sparco's brokerage is selling Fort Knox stock, so we've got him on umpteen conspiracy charges."

"Plus mail fraud and wire fraud," Clark added.

"Right. What I think will happen when we collar all these crooks is that one of them will cut a deal. Take my word for it, these are not standup guys."

"Which one do you think will rat?"

Harker thought a moment. "My guess would be James Bartlett. He's already done time for bank fraud, and an ex-con will sell his mother to keep from going back into stir. Manny, what's going on at Sid Coe's boiler room?"

Suarez shrugged. "We're still pushing shares in the Fort Knox Fund, but now Coe has added postage stamps. We tell the mooches they can make a killing on commemoratives."

Clark laughed. "No way," he said. "Most commemoratives of the last thirty years are selling for less than face value. The only way to break even is to stick them on letters."

"All I know," Suarez said, "is that I pitch stamps, and the moaney keeps rolling in."

"One thing I've been thinking about," Harker said, "is that when we eventually get these villains in court, we'll score a lot of points with the jury if we can enter as evidence a thick file of complaints from mooches who have been taken by Coe and Sparco. Manny, can you get me a copy of Coe's sucker list? Then I'll contact all of them with a form letter asking for details of their dealings. That should touch off a flood of weeping and wailing."

"No chance," Suarez said. "Coe treats the sucker lists like moaney in the bank. He says he pays a guy in Chicago big bucks for those names. He gives you the list when you get to work. When you leave, you turn it in. And he's right there to make sure you do. I guess he don' wanna yak to swipe a list and start freelancing."

"Could you call me from work and give me names and addresses on the phone?"

Manny shook his head. "Coe walks that boiler room like a tiger. Always leaning over our shoulder, listening to our spiel. If he ever heard me giving out his sucker list over the phone, he'd try to kill me. I mean it. The man is mean."

Harker pondered a moment. Then: "Do you ever go out to lunch?"

"Sometimes. Or to grab a beer."

"How about this. . You go out for lunch or a beer and take the sucker list with you. I'm parked nearby with a photographer. We photograph every page on the list. It shouldn't take too long. Then you go back to work and turn in the list as usual when you leave."

"I guess," Suarez said slowly. "Maybe it'll work if he don' notice the list is gone while I'm out. Hokay, I'll take the chance."

"Good," Harker said. "I'll line up a photographer and let you know when this little con is scheduled. Are you still clipping Coe for Mort Sparco?"

"Oh sure," Manny said. "At least a coupla big sales a week."

Simon Clark straightened up in his chair. "What's that all about?" he asked. "Sparco is clipping Sid

Coe?"

Harker laughed and told him the details of how the discount broker had turned several of Coe's yaks and was taking the boiler room operator for a hundred grand a month.

"That's what friends are for," Tony said.

Clark's smile was chilly. "An interesting story," he said.