Timothy's game

Two

The secretary is a middle-aged woman, with a glazed ceramic complexion and wiry gray hair up in a tight bun. She gazes at the world through hard eyes. He figures it would take a helluva lot to surprise her-and nothing would shock her.

“Timothy Cone from Haldering and Company,” he says. “To see Miss Bookerman. My appointment’s for ten-thirty.”

She glances down at a watch pinned to her bodice. She doesn’t have to tell him he’s late; her look is accusation enough.

“I’ll tell her you’re here, Mr. Cone. Please be seated.”

But he remains standing, eyeballing the place. Nothing lavish, but everything crisp, airy, and looking as if it was waxed five minutes ago. The carpet has the Dempster-Torrey corporate insignia woven into it. A nice touch. Reminds Cone of the linoleum in his loft. That bears his insignia: cracked, worn, with the brown backing showing through in patches.

“Ms. Bookerman will see you now,” the secretary says, replacing her phone. “Through that door and down the hall to your left.”

“Right,” he says.

“No,” she says, “left.”

He looks at her and sees a glint of amusement in her steady eyes.

“How about tonight?” he whispers. “Same time, same place. I’ll bring the herring.”

That cracks her up. “I’ll be there,” she promises.

He had called that morning from the loft. Eve Bookerman could see him at 10:30. Precisely. For a half-hour. Precisely. Cone said that was fine, and he’d also like to talk to Theodore Brodsky, Chief of Security. Bookerman said she’d arrange it. Her voice was low, throaty, stirring. Cone liked that voice.

He figured that if he had a 10:30 appointment, there was no point in going into the office first. So he spent an hour drinking black coffee, smoking Camels, and finishing the last charlotte russe. He was a mite hung over, but nothing serious. Just that his stomach was queasy, and he was afraid of what might happen if he yawned.

So he plodded all the way down to Wall Street. A hot July day, steamy, with a milky skim over a mild blue sky. By the time he arrived at the Dempster-Torrey Building, he was pooped; the air conditioning was plasma.

Now, scuffing down the inside corridor to his left, he passes a succession of doors with chaste brass name plates: JOHN J. DEMPSTER, SIMON TRALE, THEODORE BRODSKY and, finally, EVE BOOKERMAN. He wonders if, having taken over the murdered man’s duties, even temporarily, she has moved into the CEO’s office. But when he raps on the gleaming pine door, he hears a shouted “Come in!” and enters slowly, leather cap in hand.

She stands and comes forward to greet him. He is startled. From her voice and determined manner on the phone, he had expected a tigress; he sees a tabby. A short woman, almost chubby, with a great mass of frizzy strawberry-blond curls. She’s trying to smile, but it doesn’t work.

“Glad to meet you,” she says. “Mr. Twiggs has told me so much about you.”

“Yeah?” he says. “That’s nice.”

She’s wearing a seersucker suit with a frilly blouse, a wide ribbon bow-tied at the neck. She looks clunky, but she moves well and there’s strength in her handshake. Her eyes are great, Cone decides: big, dark, luminous. And she’s got impressive lungs. Even with the blouse and suit he can see that.

She gets him seated in an armchair, not alongside her desk but facing her. Then she slides into an enormous, high-backed leather swivel chair. It swallows her, makes her look like a cub.

“Do you smoke?” she asks.

“Thanks,” he says gratefully, reaching into his jacket pocket for his pack.

“Please don’t,” she says sharply. “I can’t stand cigarette smoke. Atrocious!”

“Okay,” he says equably, “I can live with that.”

She sits on the edge of her chair, leans forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped: a position of prayer. Her fingers, Cone notes, are unexpectedly long and slender.

“Did you read the material I left with Mr. Haldering?” she demands.

“Yep.”

“I hope you realize those reports are confidential. I wouldn’t care to have them leaked to the media.”

“I don’t blab,” he tells her.

“And do you have any questions?”

“A lot of them,” he says. “Here’s one for starters: What’s the difference between a Chief Executive Officer-that was Dempster-and a Chief Operating Officer-that’s you?”

“It varies from company to company,” she says. “At Dempster-Torrey, J.J. made the big decisions and I made the small ones. He got the ulcers and I got the headaches.”

“He had ulcers?”

“Of course not. It was just a figure of speech. What I’m trying to say is that he set policy and I carried it out. Expedited things. Found the people he needed and liaised with bankers, attorneys, accountants.”

Cone stares at her. “Made his dreams come true?” he suggests.

“Yes,” she says with that forced smile, “something like that. But the dreams were his.”

“You’ve been with Dempster-Torrey-how long?”

“Almost eight years.”

“Started out as Chief Operating Officer?”

“God, no! I was an MBA fresh out of Harvard. I started in the Planning Section, practically a gofer. I didn’t get to be Operating Officer until three years ago.”

“And then you worked closely with Mr. Dempster?”

“Yes.”

“He made a lot of enemies?”

“Not a lot, but some, certainly. Any man in his position would.”

“Any hot-blooded enemies? The type that’ll say, ‘I’ll get you, you dirty dog. No matter how long it takes, I’ll ruin you’?”

“None like that I know of. You think it’s an old enemy who’s engineering all our trouble?”

“I don’t think much of anything,” Cone says. “I’m just getting started. Trying to collect stuff. Maybe it would help if you could tell me what kind of a man he was.”

“Very strong,” she says promptly. “He couldn’t stand to be denied anything he wanted for the company. Couldn’t endure defeat. A very forceful personality. Goal oriented. An overachiever. He knew what he wanted and went after it.”

“For himself? Or for Dempster-Torrey?”

“Mr. Cone, he was Dempster-Torrey. You cannot separate the man from the company he built. They were one. It wasn’t just an ego trip. He wanted to make us an international conglomerate, bigger than IBM, General Motors, or the Vatican. And if he had lived, he would have done it. Absolutely!”

“Doesn’t sound like the easiest guy in the world to work for.”

She slumps back in her big swivel chair, begins curling a strand of hair around a slim forefinger. Those dark eyes glimmer, and Cone wonders if she’s trying not to cry. For the first time he sees a wad of cotton batting stuck in her right ear.

“Got a bad ear?” he asks, trying to get her mind off Dempster’s death.

She shakes her head impatiently. “A mild infection,” she says. “I think I picked it up in the pool at the health club I go to. It’s getting better. Look, Mr. Cone, I’ve tried to describe J.J.’s business personality. Yes, in his business dealings he was hard, demanding, occasionally even ruthless. He believed that was the way he had to be to build Dempster-Torrey. But away from the office, when he could temporarily forget about takeovers and mergers, he was the kindest, sweetest man who ever lived. He was tender, sympathetic, understanding. That’s the John J. Dempster you never read about in The Wall Street Journal or Fortune. The press was just interested in the tycoon. But the man himself was more than just a money and power-grubber; he was a mensch. You know what a mensch is, Mr. Cone?”

“I know.”

“Well, J.J. was a mensch. In his personal life, a man of honor and integrity. I’m trying to be as cooperative as I can. I’m sure that as you get deeper into this thing and talk to more people, you’ll hear a lot of bad things about Mr. Dempster. I just want to make sure you understand how I felt about him. I thought he was a marvelous man. Marvelous!”

“Uh-huh,” Cone says. “I appreciate that. And how are things going since he died?”

“Lousy,” she says with a short, bitter laugh. “It’s disaster time, folks. You saw what happened to our stock?”

“I saw.”

“All the way down. Because Wall Street knew J.J. was Dempster-Torrey. And with him gone, what’s going to happen? The market hates uncertainty more than anything else, so the heavy investors and big institutions are dumping shares. Can’t say I blame them, but it hurts.”

“Sure,” Cone says, “it would. But you’ve still got the factories, the farms, the warehouses, the railroad, the airline, the work force, the management organization. The assets are still there.”

“But he’s dead,” she says darkly. “He was our biggest asset. And the Street knows it.”

She peers at a man’s digital watch strapped to her wrist.

“Your time’s up,” she announces. “I’ve got Ted Brodsky standing by. You want me to bring him in here?”

“No,” Cone says. “I’ll go to his office.”

“Whatever you want,” she says, shrugging. “I know you’re going to be talking to a lot of people. Just don’t believe everything you hear.”

“I never do,” he assures her. “Thanks for your time. I may be back with more questions.”

“Of course. Whenever you like. Just call first. I’m up to my eyeballs until the Board elects another CEO. But I want to help you any way I can.”

“Sure,” the Wall Street dick says.

Theodore Brodsky’s office is small, cramped, and jumbled with file folders, reports, and manuals. There’s a national map framed on the wall, studded with pushpins. An American flag on a wooden staff is held erect in a cast-iron base. The room reeks of cigar smoke.

The Chief of Security clears off a two-cushion leather couch, and that’s where they sit, half-turned to face each other.

“She wouldn’t let you smoke, would she?” Brodsky says with a knowing grin.

“Eve Bookerman? Nah, but that’s okay; she’s entitled.”

“Go ahead, light up. That’s why I chain-smoke stogies-to keep her out of here. She can’t stand the stink. Says it gets in her hair.”

Cone lights a Camel, watching as the other man puts a kitchen match to what’s left of a half-smoked and chomped cigar.

“I gotta tell you right out,” Brodsky says, “I wasn’t in favor of Dempster bringing in outside people to investigate what’s been happening at our plants. It’s a reflection on me. Right?”

Cone shrugs. “Sometimes it helps to get a fresh angle.”

“I don’t need any fresh angle. When Dempster said he was going to Haldering, I raised holy hell-for all the good it did me. That guy got an idea in his head, you couldn’t blast it out with nitro. Anyway, I checked you out with Neal Davenport, and he says you’re okay, so I guess we can get along.”

“Oh? You and Neal are friends?”

“Haven’t seen much of him lately, but him and me go back a long way. Did a tour together in the Two-one Precinct. Then I took early retirement and got this job. Listen, I don’t figure you’re out to cut my balls off. I mean, you’ve got a job to do; I can understand that.”

“Uh-huh,” Cone says. “And I’m not out to make the evening news on TV.”

“Sure,” Brodsky says. “And if you fall into anything, you’ll let me know first-am I right?”

“Absolutely,” says Timothy, an old hand at skillful lying.

“Then we can work together,” Brodsky says, sitting back and chewing on his cigar. “Like they say, one hand washes the other.”

“That’s what they say. Suits me fine.”

“As I get it, you’re just assigned to the industrial accidents-am I right? No interest in the homicide?”

“Nope. I’ll leave that to the uniforms.”

“Yeah, that’s the best thing to do.”

Mention of Dempster’s murder makes him scowl. He leans forward to drop his cigar in a smeared glass ashtray that already contains three dead butts. Then he rises, begins to pace around the room, jacket open, hands in his pants pockets. He’s got a gut, and his belt is buckled low, under the bulge.

If you had called Central Casting, Cone thinks, and said you wanted a middle-aged flatfoot, they’d have sent Theodore Brodsky, and he’d have gotten the part. A big-headed guy with heavy shoulders and that pillowy pot. A trundling gait and a truculent way of thrusting out his face. It’s a boozer’s face, puffy and florid, with a nose like a fat knuckle.

“My name is shit around here as it is,” Brodsky says morosely. “After all, I’m supposed to be Chief of Security, and my A-Number-One job was to protect the boss-am I right? Look, I did what he let me do. I’m the one who talked him into hiring a bodyguard. Tim was an ex-Green Beret, and he’d never dog it. Ditto the chauffeur, Bernie. He used to be a deputy sheriff out in Kansas or someplace. Both those guys were carrying and would have drawn their pieces if they had a chance. But what can you do against a couple of nuts with an Uzi?”

“Not much,” Cone says. “And you can’t stop a guy with a long gun on a roof across the street. It was just bad luck, so don’t worry it.”

“I gotta worry it,” Brodsky says angrily. “It may mean my ass. I know that Bookerman dame would like me out.”

“How come Dempster’s limousine didn’t have bulletproof glass?”

“You think I didn’t think of that? I been after him for months to spring for a custom BMW. It goes for about three hundred Gs, and it’s got bulletproof glass, armored body steel and gas tank, remote control ignition, bomb detectors-the whole schmear. He finally agreed, and that car’s on order. But it’ll take a couple of months to get it. Too late. But the new CEO can use it.”

“Who’s that going to be-Eve Bookerman?”

“Bite your tongue,” Brodsky cries. “If she gets the job, I’m long gone. That lady and me just don’t see eye-to-eye.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Chemistry,” the other man says, and Cone lets it go at that.

“Look, Brodsky,” he says, “when we first started talking, you said you didn’t need any fresh angles on the sabotage. Does that mean you’ve got an idea of who’s behind it?”

“That’s exactly what it means.”

“There was nothing in your reports even hinting at who’s been pulling this stuff and what their motive is.”

“Because I didn’t have any proof,” the Chief of Security says grimly. “But I’m getting it, I’m getting it.” He pauses to consider a moment. Then: “I guess there’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell you. It’s the labor unions.”

Timothy stares at him.

“Yep,” Brodsky says, nodding, “that’s who it is. The unions that Dempster-Torrey deals with have got together and are causing all the trouble as bargaining chips to get better terms when their contracts come up for renewal.”

“I gotta level with you,” Cone says. “I think that idea sucks.”

Brodsky flares up. “What are you,” he demands, “a wisenheimer? What the fuck do you know about it?”

Cone stands, walks over to the framed map on the wall. He jerks a thumb at it. “All those pins show the location of Dempster-Torrey facilities in this country-correct? There’s gotta be over a hundred of them.”

“Hundred and fifty-nine.”

“So how many local and national unions does Dempster-Torrey deal with? Ten? Twenty? Probably more like fifty, at least. And you’re trying to tell me all those unions have joined in some grand conspiracy to damage the company they work for so they’ll get better terms on their next contract? Bullshit! It just doesn’t listen. First of all, you’d never get that many unions to agree on anything. Second of all, I’d guess that their contracts come up for renewal at different times. Maybe some next month, some in three years. And finally, what the hell’s the point in burning down the place where you work? Manufacturing jobs are too hard to come by these days. No union in its right mind is going to trash a factory where its members earn a living. It’s not labor that’s causing all the trouble.”

“Then who the hell is it?” Brodsky yells.

Cone spreads his hands. “Hey, give me a break. This is my first day on the job. I can’t pull a rabbit out of a hat.”

“I still think it’s the unions,” Brodsky says stubbornly. “Who else could it be? Some of those labor guys are out-and-out Commies. Maybe they’re doing it for political reasons.”

“To destroy American capitalism? I don’t know what kind of cigars you smoke, but you better change your brand. You’re way off in the wild blue yonder.”

“Yeah? Well, you go your way, and I’ll go mine. I’m still going to work the union angle.”

Cone shrugs. Then, figuring he’s gone as far as he can, he collects his cap and starts for the door. But he pauses.

“It might help,” he says, “if you could tell me what kind of a man this John J. Dempster was.”

Brodsky finds a fresh cigar in the mess on his desk. He bites off the tip, spits it into the overflowing ashtray. He moves the cigar around in his mouth to juice it up.

“They say you should only speak good of the dead,” he says, “but in his case I’ll make an exception. The guy was a dyed-in-the-wool bastard. A real ball-breaker. When Wall Street heard someone had offed him, the list of suspects was narrowed to ten thousand. He didn’t let anyone get in his way, and if you tried, he squashed you. He was just a mean bugger. And he didn’t have to be; he had all the money in the world-am I right?”

“You ever have any run-ins with him?”

“Plenty. And so did practically everyone else who works here. His Bible was the riot act. Used to read it all the time.”

“Yeah,” Cone says, “I know what you mean.”

He starts out again, but Brodsky calls, “Hey, Cone,” and he turns back.

“I bet what I told you about Dempster doesn’t jibe with what Eve Bookerman told you.”

“You’re right; it doesn’t.”

Brodsky holds up a hand, middle finger tightly crossed over forefinger. “Dempster and Bookerman,” he says with a lickerish grin. “That’s Dempster on top.”

“Thanks,” Timothy Cone says.

He figures plodding back to John Street in that heat will totally wipe him out. So he cabs uptown, but before he goes to the office he stops at the local deli and buys a cream cheese and lox on bagel, with a thick slice of Bermuda onion atop the smoked salmon. He also gets a kosher dill and two cans of cold Bud.

Sitting at his desk, scoffing his lunch while still wearing his leather cap, he reflects that there is no way he can separate an investigation of the industrial sabotage at Dempster-Torrey plants from an inquiry into the assassination of John J.

Despite what Hiram Haldering said, and regardless of what he himself told Neal Davenport, Bookerman, and Brodsky, Cone suspects the sabotage and homicide are connected. Also, there’s a practical matter involved. To limit his detecting to the sabotage, he’d have to travel to eighteen different localities and try to pick up cold trails on cases that had been thoroughly investigated when fresh by local cops and Brodsky’s security people, with no results.

All Cone’s got to work with is the murdered man’s family and friends, his acquaintances, employees, and business associates. Cone pulls out that list of personae that Eve Bookerman provided, from his inside jacket pocket. He looks up the address and phone number of the widow, Teresa Dempster, and dials.

It rings seven times at the other end before it’s picked up.

“The Dempster residence.” A woman’s voice. Chirpy.

“Could I speak to Mrs. Teresa Dempster, please.”

“Just a moment.”

Long wait. Then:

“This is David Dempster. To whom am I speaking?”

“John J. Dempster was your brother?”

“He was.”

“Well, this is Timothy Cone. I’m with Haldering and Company. We’re investigating a series of industrial accidents at Dempster-Torrey plants, and I was hoping to talk to Mrs. Dempster for a few minutes. And you’re on my list, too.”

“Eve Bookerman informed us you’d probably be calling. I must tell you in all honesty, Mr. Cone, that neither Teresa nor I know the slightest thing about Dempster-Torrey operations. But naturally we’ll be happy to cooperate in any way we can.”

He shouldn’t have said “in all honesty.” Every time Cone hears that, he gets itchy. Also, Dempster has the plummy voice of a priest who’s been unfrocked for waving his dork out a vestry window. Cone wonders what the guy does for a living. His business address on the list is David Dempster Associates, Inc., on Cedar Street.

“Can I see Mrs. Dempster?” he asks.

“As long as you’re not a reporter or policeman,” the other man says. “I rather think she’s had her fill of those.”

“I could be up there in a half-hour.”

“Come ahead then; I’ll tell her to expect you. I’m afraid I’ll be gone by the time you arrive, but you’ll be able to reach me at my office whenever you wish to see me. You have the address and phone number?”

“Yeah, I’ve got them. I’ll probably get to you tomorrow if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course. And, Mr. Cone, please make your meeting with Teresa as brief as possible. She’s been through a great deal in the past week. She’s bearing up well, but we don’t want her unduly disturbed, do we?”

“I won’t disturb her,” Cone promises. “Just a few questions. Won’t take long.”

But before he starts out, he stops at the office of Sidney Apicella, chief of Haldering’s CPAs. As usual, Sid is massaging his nose. The poor guy suffers from rosacea of the beezer. It’s big, magenta, and swollen, and he can’t leave it alone.

He looks up as Cone enters. “Whatever you want,” he says, “I can’t do it. I’m too busy.”

“Come on, Sid; this’ll only take one phone call.”

“The last time you told me that it took four days’ work.”

“One phone call, I swear. I’d do it myself, but you’ve got the contacts. There’s this guy named David Dempster. He’s the brother of that pooh-bah who got blasted on Wall Street last week. Anyway, this brother has a business, David Dempster Associates, on Cedar Street. All I want to know is what kind of a business it is, assets, liabilities, cash flow, and all that financial shit.”

Apicella groans. “And you think I can get that with one phone call? You’re demented!”

“Give it the old college try, Sid. I’ll make sure you get special mention in my final report.”

“Thanks for nothing,” the CPA says. “When are you going to buy yourself a new suit?”

“What’s wrong with this one? Sleaze is in this year-didn’t you know?”

Figuring an outfit as big as Dempster-Torrey isn’t going to quibble about expenses, he takes a taxi up to the Dempster residence on East 64th between Third and Lex. The place is practically a mansion and, scoping it from across the street, Cone figures it was probably originally two five-story brownstones. But now, with an expensive face-lift, it’s red brick with wide plate glass windows.

The old stoops have been removed, and entrance is via a street-level doorway protected with a wrought-iron gate. There’s a uniformed policeman leaning against the gate, eye-balling all the young ginch passing by.

Cone crosses over and gives the cop what he thinks is an innocent smile. It doesn’t work. The blue takes a long look at his black leather cap, cruddy corduroy suit, and yellow work shoes, and says, “Beat it, bum.”

“Hey,” Cone says, hurt, “watch your language. I’m Timothy Cone from Haldering and Company. I’ve got an appointment with Mrs. Dempster.”

“Yeah? Let’s see your ID.”

Cone digs out his Haldering amp; Co. card with his picture attached. Samantha Whatley claims that photo should be on a post office wall with the warning: This man wanted for molesting children.

The officer takes the card, steps inside, and calls on the intercom. Then he opens the gate, returns the ID to Cone, and unlocks the heavy oak door.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

“No sweat,” Cone says. “You guys on twenty-four hours?”

“Yeah,” the cop says. “About as exciting as watching paint dry.”

There’s a young, uniformed maid waiting for him in the foyer, and he follows her up a wide marble staircase to the second floor. Cone tries to keep his eyes on the stairs, with scant success. Down a carpeted hallway to the rear of the townhouse he gets a quick impression of high ceilings, light, airy rooms, plenty of bright graphics, polished wood, and green plants everywhere.

He is ushered into a greenhouse extending from the back of the building. Wide panes of glass are set in a verdigrised copper framework. The whole faces south and east, and sunlight floods in through glass walls and domed roof. A system of bamboo shades has been designed to mute the bright light, but air conditioning keeps the place comfortable.

The greenhouse is crowded with rough wooden tables, bags of potting soil, fertilizer, crushed shell, sand, and gardening tools. On the waist-high tables, in neat rows, is arranged an impressive assortment of bonsai, each dwarf tree in a splendidly proportioned pot of brown, cream, or dark blue glaze. Other pots are decorated, and a few are set on lacquered wood pedestals.

The woman who comes forward, brass watering can in her hands, is tall, reedy, and wearing a long, flowing dress that billows as she moves. The gown is voluminous, made of some thin, diaphanous stuff the color of vanilla ice cream. But no paler than the woman herself.

“Mrs. Teresa Dempster?” Cone asks.

She nods vaguely, looking around at her plants. “And you’re Mr. Timothy?”

“Cone,” he says. “Timothy Cone.”

“Of course,” she says.

“Thank you for seeing me. I hate to intrude in your time of trial.”

At last she looks at him directly. “‘Time of trial,’” she repeats. “What a nice, old-fashioned expression. Are you an old-fashioned man, Mr. Timothy?”

He gives up on the name. “I guess I am,” he says uncomfortably. “About some things. Beautiful plants you have here, Mrs. Dempster.”

“Trees,” she corrects him. “All my babies. But such old babies. This one, for instance, is said to be forty-five years old. It’s a Japanese red maple. Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Real pretty.”

She puts down the watering can, picks up the little red maple and thrusts it at him. “Then take it,” she says. “It’s yours.”

He moves a startled step backward. “Oh, I couldn’t do that,” he protests. “It’s probably valuable.”

“No, no,” she says. “If you promise to love it, I want you to have it.”

Getting a glimmer of what he’s up against here, he says earnestly, “Look, Mrs. Dempster, I appreciate your offer. It’s very kind of you. But where I live, there’s no sunlight at all. And I’ve got a nasty cat who’d demolish that thing in two seconds flat. It really wouldn’t be fair to the tree for me to take it.”

She looks so hurt that he’s afraid she might start weeping.

“Tell you what,” he says. “Why don’t I accept the gift in the spirit in which it’s given. But you keep it for me and take care of it. But it’ll be my tree.”

She gives him a smile as simple and charming as a child’s. “I think that’s a wonderful idea!” she says. “I’ll tell everyone it’s Mr. Timothy’s tree, and you can visit it whenever you like. Do you want to name it?”

“Name it?”

“Of course. Most of my trees have names. This juniper is Ralph. That Norfolk pine is Matilda. Would you like your Japanese red maple to have a name?”

“How about Irving?” he suggests, willing to play her game-if game it is.

“How lovely,” she says with such evident enjoyment that he stares at her, wary and perplexed.

Everything about her is long: face, limbs, hands, feet. She looks like a tree herself, but not a bonsai. More like a full-grown willow, soft and drooping. There is an ineffable languor, she seems to float, her gestures are flutters. The big azure eyes are more innocent than any eyes have a right to be, and the unbound hair streaming down her back is flaxen and wispy.

Something ethereal there, something unworldly, and Cone has a vision of her galloping through the heather and caroling, “Heathcliff! Heathcliff!” He shakes his head to clear his mind of such nonsense and, to see if she is completely bonkers, asks:

“And what are the names of your boys?”

She looks up into the air as if striving to recall. “Edward,” she says. “He’s the oldest. And then there’s Robert, and then Duane.”

“They live here with you?”

“Usually they’re away at school. But this summer they’re all on a bicycle tour through Europe. They’re having tons of fun.”

“Did they come back for their father’s funeral?”

“No,” she says, “they didn’t. By the time we got in touch with them, it was too late. Besides, there was no point in their returning, was there?”

Cone has his own idea about that, but doesn’t voice it. “Your husband’s death must have been a tremendous shock to you, Mrs. Dempster.”

“Oh, Jack didn’t die,” she says, almost gaily. “He just passed over. Nobody and nothing ever dies, Mr. Timothy. Just assumes another form. But everything is immortal: you, me, these trees, the world about us.”

Oh, God, he thinks despairingly, she’s one of those. And he resolves to wind up this interview as speedily as possible, figuring it a total loss. But suddenly Teresa Dempster becomes talkative. He thinks at first she’s swaying as she speaks, but then realizes she’s standing in the blast of an air-conditioning vent set into the interior brick wall, and the draft is moving her insubstantial gown.

“David, my brother-in-law, was such a help,” she says. “He just took care of everything. I know people wanted to be kind, but why did they have to cut down all those flowers? Jack was buried near Schroon Lake. We have a summer home up there, you know, and a family plot in the dearest, sweetest cemetery you ever did see. Mom and daddy are there, and now Jack, and there’s a place for me.”

The idea seems to enchant her, and she pauses to smile fondly.

“Of course,” she goes on, “he’s not really there; just the envelope he temporarily inhabited. Because he came to me last night. Yes, he did. ‘Terry,’ he said. He always called me that. ‘Terry, I’m very happy here. I’ve crossed over, and it’s beautiful. I’m waiting for you, Terry.’ That’s what he said to me last night.”

The Wall Street dick can’t take much more of this.

“Mrs. Dempster,” he says sternly, “did your husband ever mention any enemies he had? Anyone who had threatened him or sworn revenge for one reason or another?”

“So many people have asked me that,” she says, and seems genuinely puzzled. “Of course Jack didn’t have any enemies. How could he-he was such a good man. I’ve been so fortunate, Mr. Timothy. He was certainly the best husband in the whole wide world. He was away so much-traveling, you know-doing whatever it was he did, but I could understand that; men are so busy. But when he returned, he always brought me a gift. Always! Sometimes it was just a funny little thing like a hand puppet. But he never forgot to bring me something. Never!”

“My sympathy on your loss,” Cone mumbles. Then, louder: “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Dempster. I appreciate it.”

“You’re going away now?” she says, sounding disappointed.

“Yeah, I’ve got to. Another appointment.”

“I suppose I should have offered you a drink or something.”

“That’s okay. You gave me a tree. Irving.”

“And you’ll come visit him, Mr. Timothy?”

“I certainly will,” he says, and then tries one last time. “The name is Cone. Timothy Cone.”

“Oh,” she says. “Well, it’s not important, is it?”

“Not important at all,” he assures her.

He’s hoping the lissome maid is lurking around to show him out, but there’s no one in sight. He makes his way along the hallway, down the staircase, and out into the hot afternoon sunlight. The same uniformed officer is still on duty at the gate. Cone pauses to light a cigarette.

“You ever talk to Mrs. Dempster?” he asks.

“No,” the cop says, “I never have.”

“You’re lucky,” Cone tells him.

“Maybe it was her husband’s death that made her flip out,” Samantha Whatley suggests. “Maybe she was a perfectly normal woman, but then that awful, bloody murder pushed her over the edge.”

“I don’t think so,” Cone says. “I’m guessing she’s been that way all her life. She’s not a wetbrain, you understand, but her gears have slipped a little; they don’t quite mesh. Not bad enough to have her committed, but the lady is balmy, no doubt about it.”

They’re sprawled on an oval rag rug in Sam’s tiny apartment in the East Village. She’s prepared a mess of chicken wings cooked in an Italian sauce with onions and small potatoes thrown in. The big cast-iron pot rests on a trivet between them, and they fill their plates with a ladle. There is also a salad of Bibb lettuce and cherry tomatoes.

“Good grub,” Cone says, sucking the meat from a wing. “Maybe a little more pepper and garlic next time.”

“Now you’re a cordon-bleu? If you stopped smoking, you’d be able to taste food the way it’s supposed to taste. So you got nothing from the widow?”

“Nah, nothing important. Except that I’m immortal. That makes me feel swell. Maybe I’ll do better with David Dempster, the brother. I called him and set up a meet for tomorrow. I’m also seeing Simon Trale, the Chief Financial Officer of Dempster-Torrey.”

“What do you expect to get from him?”

“Nothing, really. I’m just fishing.”

She looks at him suspiciously. “When you get that dopey look on your puss I know there’s something going on in that tiny, tiny brain of yours. What are you up to, buster?”

“Me?” he says innocently. “I’m not up to anything, boss. Except maybe illicit sex. But I better tell you: I don’t think you can separate the industrial sabotage from the murder. I think they’re connected. Scratching the Chairman and CEO was just the ultimate act of sabotage. To damage Dempster-Torrey.”

“Why? What for?”

“Beats the hell out of me. What’s for dessert?”

“Tapioca pudding.”

“I’ll pass,” he says. “You eat the fish eyes and I’ll take my portion home to Cleo. That cat’ll eat anything.”

“Thanks for the compliment. Coffee?”

“Sure,” he says. “And I brought a bottle of Spanish brandy. How about a noggin of that?”

“I’m game,” she says. “And later do you intend to work your evil way with me?”

“It had occurred to me,” he admits.

They watch the nth return of The Honeymooners on TV while still lounging on the floor, sipping their brandies. It’s a nice, lazy evening, but when the show is over, Timothy stirs restlessly.

“What’s with you?” Sam demands.

“I don’t know,” he says fretfully. “I think I’m mellowing out. Look at us: curled up on a rug, watching TV and inhaling brandy. It’s all so domestic and comfy I can’t stand it.”

“The trouble with you is-” she starts, then stops.

“Go ahead,” he says, “finish it. What’s the trouble with me?”

“You can’t endure being happy,” she tells him. “You don’t know how to handle joy. The moment you start feeling good, you pull back and ask, ‘What’s the catch?’ You just can’t believe that occasionally-not always, but now and then-it’s perfectly normal to be content.”

“Yeah, well, you may be right. I know I don’t go around grinning. So I admit I get a little antsy when things seem to be okay, but only because I haven’t had the experience. Being happy is like a foreign language. I can’t understand it, so naturally I get itchy and think someone is setting me up for a fall.”

“You think I’m playing you for a patsy?”

“Oh, Christ, no. I’m talking about God.”

“Since when have you been religious?”

“I believe in God,” he protests. “He looks a lot like my drill instructor at Parris Island. A mean sonofabitch who kept kicking our ass and telling us it was for our own good. Like my pa walloping me with his belt and telling me it hurt him more than it did me. God always has a catch. Maybe not right away, but sooner or later. You pay for your pleasure in this world, kiddo.”

“I’m willing,” Samantha says. “Fly now, pay later.”

Ten minutes later they’re in bed together.

Both would be shocked if someone had suggested anything admirable in their allegiance to each other. Not only their sexual fidelity but their constancy for more years than most of their acquaintances have been married. Each is a half-filled glass, needing the other for topping off. Alone, each is half-empty.

But no such dreary soul-searching for them; all they know, or want to know, is sweat and rut: a gorgeous game of shouted oaths and wailing cries. And in slick slide and fevered grasp they are oblivious to all else. Not even aware that the TV screen has gone blank after the closing rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”