Sullivan's sting

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.