Timothy's game

Seven

It turns out to be a real nothing morning. The summer sky is somber, and there are rumblings of thunder over New Jersey. The stuffed air smells of turps; there’s an ugly ocherous glow over everything.

Grousing, Cone shambles down to John Street, convinced that a day starting so dismally can only end in disaster. He stops at the local deli for black coffee and a bagel with a schmear. He takes his breakfast up to the office, exchanging silent glares with the ancient receptionist. It’s that kind of day.

He hasn’t slept well, but he doesn’t blame the junk food he pigged on the previous night. He’s eaten salami, anchovies, and chocolate pudding before, and the mixture never depressed him. But this morning engenders thoughts of making out a will and investing in a cemetery plot.

When his phone rings, he stares at it balefully, convinced it’s going to bring him news that he’s overdrawn at the bank or the IRS has found another flaw in their annual audit of his return. He finally picks it up.

“Yeah?”

“Tim? This is Jeremy Bigelow. Tell me something: Do you always fall in an outhouse and come up with a box lunch?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The SEC investigator is bubbling with excitement. “Those ten companies you gave me-Research says that eight of them had very, very high short positions on the dates you mentioned. We got a computer sharpie who loves puzzles like that, and he did some back-checking. He claims that in the month before your dates, the total of shares sold short more than tripled in all eight companies. What in God’s name is going on?”

Cone sighs. This time he knows he is right, but he feels no elation. “It’s a ripoff,” he tells Bigelow. “A beautiful swindle that might be funny, but people have been dusted-and there’s nothing ha-ha about that. Jerry, I think you better bring the Federal DA in on this one.”

“The SEC can handle it.”

“No, you can’t,” Cone says. “This isn’t just a civil matter. If it pans out, there are going to be criminal indictments. You got a pet in the DA’s office?”

“A pet?”

“A contact. Someone you’ve worked with before. Preferably someone who owes you.”

“There’s an ADA named Hamish McDonnell. I’ve had some dealings with him.”

“Hamish McDonnell? Italian, of course.”

“No,” Bigelow says seriously, “I think he’s a Scotsman. He’s a hardnose, but he gets things done. You think I should call him?”

“It would be the smart thing to do. Cover your ass. Tell him what I gave you and what your computers came up with. Give him my number. If he wants more skinny, he can give me a call.”

“Well, all right,” the SEC man says hesitantly. “I’ll do it, but don’t cut me out of this, Tim.”

“Don’t worry,” Cone says. “You’ll see your name in print again.”

He hangs up and waits, smoking a cigarette, feet up on his desk. Samantha Whatley, coming along the corridor, stops and looks in.

“Working?” she asks.

“Yes, I’m working,” he says irritably. “What the hell do you think I’m doing-fluffing my duff?”

“What a lovely mood you’re in,” she says. “No wonder the whole office calls you Mr. Congeniality.”

“The whole office can go hump,” he says angrily. “You think I-”

But she walks away, leaving him with his sour thoughts. He hears the grumble of thunder outside-“The angels are bowling,” his mother used to say-and he supposes it’ll start pouring any minute now. Or maybe it’ll hold off until he goes out for lunch. That’ll be nice. When his corduroy suit gets wet, it smells like a Percheron’s jockstrap.

His phone shrills, and he lets it ring seven times before he picks it up. Sheer perversity.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Timothy Cone?” A man’s voice: sharp, brisk, demanding.

“That’s right.”

“This is Hamish McDonnell, Assistant DA, Federal. Jeremy Bigelow called, said you had something to talk about.”

“He told you about the short sales?”

“He told me,” McDonnell says, “but I have to know more about it before I set the wheels in motion. I’ve got a very busy schedule today, but if you can be at my office at three-thirty this afternoon, I’ll give you a half-hour.”

That’s all Cone needs. “Forget it,” he says.

“What?”

“Forget it. Unless you want to drag your ass over to my office within an hour, I’ll take it to the FBI. I’ve got a pal there who loves headlines.”

“Now wait just a-”

But Cone hangs up. He gives the guy three minutes to get back to him, but the phone rings again in less than a minute.

“Yeah?”

“Hamish McDonnell here. Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Not me,” Cone says, “I know the drill: hay foot, straw foot, hay foot, straw foot.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Not important. You interested or aren’t you?”

“You really think something is going down with those short sales?”

“Oh, yeah. There’s frigging in the rigging.”

“All right,” the ADA says, “I’ll get someone to fill in for me over here, and I’ll be at your place in an hour. Now are you happy?”

“Creaming,” Cone says.

He’s there in a little more than an hour, his rubberized raincoat streaming and his red hair plastered to his skull. “Aw,” Cone says, “did you get caught in the rain?” McDonnell stares at him. “You’re a real comedian, aren’t you?”

He’s a young guy, broad and beefy. He looks as if he might have been a hotshot in college football but didn’t have the moves or speed to make pro. But he’s still in good shape: flat belly, hard shoulders, a jaw like a knee, and hands just slightly smaller than picnic hams.

“Where can I hang my raincoat?” he asks.

“Throw it on the floor,” Cone says. “That’s what I do.”

But the ADA sits down in the armchair in his wet coat. He pulls out a clean white handkerchief and swabs his dripping hair. “All right,” he says, “let’s stop playing games. What’ve you got?”

Cone takes him through the whole thing: How Haldering was hired to investigate sabotage at Dempster-Torrey factories; how he, Cone, decided the motive was to bring down the price of the common stock so short-sellers could profit; how he suspects that David Dempster might be the knave behind the manipulation.

“David Dempster?” McDonnell says sharply. “The brother of the guy who got scragged?”

“That’s right.”

“You think he had anything to do with John Dempster’s death?”

“How the hell would I know?” Cone says. “I’m just a lousy private eye interested in industrial sabotage.”

“What have you got on David Dempster?”

“He runs a two-bit PR operation from a small office on Cedar Street, but his net worth is like four mil. That’s got to tell you something-right?”

“Unless he inherited it.”

“That I doubt. But you can check it out.”

McDonnell looks at him a long time, eyes like wet coal. “It stinks,” he says finally.

“Sure it does,” Cone agrees. “A dirty way of making a buck.”

“That’s not what I mean,” the ADA says. “I mean your story stinks.”

The Wall Street dick jerks a thumb toward the door. “Then take a walk,” he says. “Sorry to have wasted your time.”

“Jesus, what a hard-on you are! Can you blame me for doubting you? What the hell have you given me? A lot of numbers on a computer tape. Those short sales could have been lucky guesses and you know it. All you’ve said is that you ‘suspect’ David Dempster might be finagling it. Where’s your hard evidence?”

Cone shrugs. “Take it for what you think it’s worth. It’s your decision.”

McDonnell leans forward to slam a meaty palm down on the desk. “Goddamn it!” he cries. “You’re holding out on me and I know it. You want to be charged with obstruction of justice?”

“Be my guest,” Cone says. “I’ll be delighted to see you make a fucking idiot out of yourself-if you’re not one already.”

They lock eyeballs, both infuriated. It’s Hamish McDonnell who blinks first. “Can’t you give me anything to go on?” he says hotly. “Anything at all that will make me think you’re just not blowing smoke.”

“Yeah,” Cone says, “I can give you something. Three names. Two guys and a company. They’re all hotshot financial advisers, with pension and trust funds to diddle. They’re the weasels who are financing this scam. There may be others, but these three are in it up to their pipiks.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t. You want the names or not?”

The ADA groans. “Give me the goddamned names,” he says.

It turns out that Cone’s ballpoint pen has run dry and he can’t find a clean piece of paper to write on. So his triumph is somewhat diminished by having to borrow McDonnell’s pen and a sheet torn from his pocket notebook.

“You’re a winner, you are,” the ADA says. “How do you get across the street-with a Boy Scout?”

Cone jots down the three names provided by Neal Davenport. “You won’t have any trouble getting addresses,” he tells McDonnell. “They’re all well-known operators on Wall Street. And listen, do me a favor and do yourself a favor, get moving on this fast. These bums are planning another trick. It’s going down right now.”

“Yeah? And how do you know that?”

“You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“Seems to me I’m taking your word for a helluva lot.”

“What do you want-a list of personal references?”

“This is going to take a lot of work, and if-”

“Bullshit,” Cone says. “You pick up these chiselers, sweat them a little, tell them you’ve got all the facts and figures on their smelly deals with David Dempster, and I guarantee at least one of them is going to crack. He’ll spill his guts to wangle a lesser charge. Wall Street villains are not stand-up guys; you know that.”

“If you’re scamming me on all this, Cone, I’m going to come back to this shithouse and personally take you apart. And believe me, I can do it.”

“Maybe,” Timothy says.

Hamish McDonnell rises and buttons his raincoat. He makes no effort to shake hands, and neither does Cone.

“And don’t call me,” the ADA says. “I’ll call you when and if I’ve got something.”

Cone leans back and lights a cigarette. He figures McDonnell for a tough nut who’s not afraid to use the muscle of his office to get the job done. That’s okay; the pinstriped types will find themselves confronted by a heavyweight with none of the deference of their golf club pros or private nutritionists.

He pulls on his leather cap and leaves the office. He discovers the rain has stopped. But the sky is still leaden with drizzle. He curses his stupidity for not having driven to work that morning. He tries to find an empty cab and fails. Damning the weepy day, he starts the long hike back to his loft, convinced there’s no productive work to be done in the office.

It’s true that he persuades other people to do his job for him. Neal Davenport, Jeremy Bigelow, and now Hamish McDonnell-all cooperate, but only because they believe it’s to their own profit. Everyone acts out of self-interest-right? Because self-interest is the First Law of Nature. You could even make out a case that a guy who devotes his whole life to unselfish service-like spooning mulligatawny into hopeless derelicts or converting the heathen-is doing it for the virtuous high it gives him.

But even assuming that no one acts without an ego boost, there’s a very practical problem Cone has in farming out his investigative chores. Once he’s done it, all that’s left for him is twiddling his thumbs-or anything else within reach. No use leaning on his helpers; that would just make them sore and earn him static. So there’s nothing for him to do but be quietly patient-which is akin to asking a cannibal to become a vegetarian.

These rank musings occupy his mind during his sodden toddle back to his cave. There he finds that Cleo, apparently surfeited with garlic salami, has upchucked all over the linoleum.

He spends the remainder of that day futzing around the loft, smoking too many cigarettes and drinking too much vodka. He goes over the caper a dozen times in his mind, looking for holes in the solution. No holes. Then he wonders if another meet with Dorothy Blenke or Eve Bookerman would yield anything of value. He decides not.

In the evening, warned by what happened to Cleo, he shuns the salami and opens a can of pork and beans.

“Beans, beans, the musical fruit,” he sings to the cat. “The more you eat, the more you toot.”

He finishes the can (eaten cold), leaving just a smidgen for the neutered tom, figuring to give the poor creature’s stomach a rest. Then he gets caught up on his financial newspapers and magazines, devouring them with the avidity of a baseball maven reading box scores. Wall Street is his world, and he’s long since given up trying to analyze his love-hate feelings about it.

On Wednesday morning, he calls Samantha Whatley at the office.

“I won’t be in for a couple of days,” he tells her. “I’m sick.”

“Oh?” she says. “Don’t tell me it’s the fantods and megrims again. You pulled that one on me once before.”

“No,” he says, “this time I think I got coryza and phthisis. With maybe a touch of biliary calculus.”

“I’ll tell you what you’ve got, son,” she says. “More crap than a Christmas goose. Hiram was asking about you. He hasn’t seen you around lately and wanted to know if you still worked here.”

“Tell fatso to stuff it,” Cone says angrily. “I’m working the Dempster-Torrey file and he knows it.”

“How you coming on that?”

“Okay.”

She sighs. “I should have known better than to ask. Will you be in tomorrow?”

“Probably not.”

“Friday?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s payday, you know.”

“Well, if I don’t make it, will you pick up my check?”

“No,” she says. “If you want it, do us the honor of stopping by.”

“Now you’re acting like a shithead.”

“Asshole!” she says and hangs up.

He goes out to buy cigarettes, food, cat litter, newspapers, and to replenish his liquid assets. The low-pressure area is still hanging over the city, and the denizens are beginning to snarl at each other. That’s all right with Cone; at least it’s better than everyone giving him a toothy “Have a nice day.”

If it wasn’t for the Dempster-Torrey case, he would have enjoyed that solitary day in the loft. The phone never rings-not even a wrong number-and Cleo snoozes away the hours under the bathtub. Cone rations his drinks carefully, just keeping a nice, gentle buzz as he reads his newspapers, takes a couple of short naps, showers with his stiff brushing and cornstarch treatment, and changes his underwear and socks.

Several times he’s tempted to call Davenport and McDonnell, but resists. He just hopes to God they’re doing their jobs. If not, it’ll take him weeks, maybe months, to bring down David Dempster and put that gonzo behind bars.

Late that night, stripped to his briefs, he’s ready to sack out. He’s got a little high-intensity lamp he uses for horizontal activities. He’s also got his copy of Silas Marner, which he’s been reading for four years now. He’s already up to page 23, and has discovered it’s a better somnifacient than any flurazepam he can buy on the street.

He reads another half-page and has just enough strength left to put the book aside and turn off his lamp.

Thursday starts in the same lethargic pattern. But then, close to noon, Detective Neal K. Davenport calls, and things start jumping.

“Hiya, sherlock,” Neal says breezily. “I called your office but they said you were home sick. I figured that was horseshit, and you’re just fucking off.”

“You got it,” Cone says. “What’s doing?”

“Everything’s coming up roses. Today is D-Day and H-hour is three o’clock. That’s when we’re going to raid Paddy’s Pig. Sam Shipkin’s done a great job. He found the motorcycle, and guess where they’ve been keeping it.”

“In the john?”

“Close but no cigar. There’s another building behind the tavern. Like a big shed. Sam says it looks like a department store-everything from condoms to cassettes. All hot. The cycle is the same make, model, and color used in the Dempster kill.”

“But you don’t know if it’s the actual bike?”

“Of course not. But it’ll do as corroborative evidence. The icing on the cake is that it’s owned by the Ryan brothers, a couple of no-goodniks who got their start as smash-and-grabbers when they were in their teens. They’ve both done time for strongarm stuff and have sheets that don’t end. They fit the witnesses’ description of the guys on the motorcycle when Dempster was put down. And to top that, Shipkin says that when he met them, they were both wearing steel-toed boots. How does that grab you?”

“Sounds okay,” Cone says cautiously, “but I wouldn’t call it an airtight case. Any two-bit shyster could get them off in five minutes if all you’ve got is a similar motorcycle, descriptions by eyewitnesses, and the boots.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Davenport says indignantly. “That’s why Sam Shipkin made a big drug buy from Louie about an hour ago with marked bills. So we got him cold, and we can lean on him. I figure he’ll make a deal and sing. Anyway, we’re going to give it the old college try. Listen, the raid on Paddy’s Pig is going to be what you’d call a media event. We’ve tipped the newspapers and TV stations, so it should be a circus. I figured you might want to be there.”

“Yeah,” Cone says. “Sure. Neal, there’s a guy named Hamish McDonnell in the Federal DA’s office. I think you should call him and invite him to the bust.”

“No way!” the NYPD man says. “This is our party, and we’re not sharing the headlines with the Feds or anyone else.”

“Now look,” Timothy says, “right now you got peanuts. If this Louie is afraid of the Westies and decides to clam up and take his lumps, then where the hell are you? The Ryan brothers waltz away and you guys are left looking like idiots. Is that the kind of headlines you want?”

Silence. Then: “Well, yeah, that could happen. But what’s this Hamish McDonnell got to do with the price of tea in China?”

“He’s coming at David Dempster from a different angle. Dempster was the brain behind all the industrial sabotage I was assigned to investigate. If McDonnell pins him on that-and I think he will-you’ll have insurance in case Louie decides to keep his mouth shut. David Dempster will take a fall either way-or both.”

“Goddamn it!” Davenport yells. “Why the fuck couldn’t you have told me all this from the start?”

“Because it’s outside your jurisdiction,” Cone explains patiently. “Granted that the dusting of those three guys on Wall Street is local. And the Department deserves the credit for breaking it. But there’s more to it than just those homicides; there’s arson, sabotage, bribery, and maybe conspiracy to commit murder. I think David Dempster is up to his ass in all that shit, but they’re federal raps, Neal. Like crossing state lines to commit a felony. I really think you should invite Hamish McDonnell on the Paddy’s Pig raid. You’ll make a friend-which might prove a benefit. And you’ll have a fallback if you can’t nail the Ryan brothers on a homicide charge.”

“Well … maybe,” the city bull says reluctantly. “I’ll have to get an okay from the brass. What kind of a guy is this McDonnell?”

“He thinks he’s hard-boiled,” Cone says, “but I think he’s half-baked. But that’s neither here nor there. Come on, Neal, once you guys get this thing wrapped up and tied with a ribbon, there’ll be enough glory to go around. The Department will get their headlines, and the Feds will get theirs, and everyone will live happily ever after. Will you call McDonnell?”

“I don’t like it,” Davenport says grumpily. “This is our baby, and I don’t want people thinking we can’t clean up the garbage in our own gutters. But like you say, it could be insurance for getting an indictment. Okay, I’ll see what the higher-ups think about it. If they say go ahead, I’ll give the Feds a call. And next time, for Christ’s sake, will you try to be a little more open so I know what’s going on?”

“I certainly will,” Cone says warmly. “See you at three.”

But Davenport has already hung up. Cone replaces the wall phone slowly, and his hand is still on it when it rings again. He picks up, wondering if the city dick has already changed his mind.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Tim? This is Jeremy Bigelow. You really sick?”

“Slightly indisposed. What’s with you?”

“I got some good news. I went to my boss with the story of the short traders, and he got the Commission to issue a formal order of investigation. That means we can get subpoenas and question the guys who were selling short so heavily before the dates you gave me.”

Cone takes a deep breath. “Jerry,” he says, “why did you do that? I thought you turned the whole deal over to the Federal DA. You contacted Hamish McDonnell-remember?”

“Well … yeah,” Bigelow says, “but why should they get all the credit? It was the SEC that uncovered it-right?”

Cone doesn’t comment on that. “You’ll get your share of the credit,” he tells the investigator, and then repeats what he said to Neal Davenport: “There’ll be enough glory to go around. Take my advice, Jerry, and give McDonnell a call before you go ahead with your subpoenas. Otherwise you’re going to find there are two identical investigations going on, with everyone walking up everyone else’s heels, and bad blood between you and the Feds.”

“You really think so?” Bigelow says worriedly.

“I really think so. Be smart and play it cool. Call McDonnell and tell him the SEC has launched a formal investigation and can issue subpoenas, but you don’t want to do it if it’ll interfere with what he’s doing. Be nice and you’ll score brownie points. And meanwhile, call your favorite reporters and leak just enough to get their juices flowing. Tell them it’s going to be the biggest Wall Street scandal since Boesky. They’ll jump at it.”

“Yeah,” Bigelow says happily, “I could do that.”

“Just make sure they spell your name right,” Cone says.

He hangs up, shaking his head in bemusement. He can’t understand all these headline-hungry guys. Cone couldn’t care less about personal aggrandizement, and he doesn’t give a tinker’s dam about the reputation of Haldering amp; Co. In a hundred years, who’ll remember all this shit?

But meanwhile it’s fun. By three o’clock he’s tooled his Ford Escort up to 45th Street. He finds a parking space around the block and walks back to join the small crowd of rubbernecks that’s appeared out of nowhere to watch the police raid on Paddy’s Pig.

There’s not much to see. No excitement. No wild-and-woolly shoot-outs. The tavern is blocked off by a jam of official and unmarked cop cars. There’s also an NYPD truck pulled up in front, flanked by a mobile TV van. Cone edges into the mob and watches.

There’s a parade of sweating cops going into Paddy’s Pig empty-handed and coming out lugging cartons, crates, unpacked television sets and VCRs. Then two come out wheeling a black motorcycle, and that’s hoisted into the truck.

Louie is brought out, cuffed, held firmly between two uniformed mastodons. He’s thrust into a squad car. A younger guy, similarly cuffed, is treated the same way. He’s grinning like a maniac. One of the Ryan brothers, Cone assumes. Finally Detective Davenport and ADA Hamish McDonnell exit from Paddy’s Pig and stand on the sidewalk, talking rapidly and gesturing.

The vehicles begin to pull away, the rubbernecks disperse. A non-event, Cone figures, and wonders why he bothered to show up. He’s about to leave when Hamish McDonnell spots him, yells, “Hey, Cone!” and beckons. Davenport gives him a wise-ass grin and goes back inside the bar.

“You sonofabitch,” McDonnell says furiously, “why the hell didn’t you tell me the NYPD was after David Dempster for the homicides?”

“Hey,” Cone says, “don’t get your balls in an uproar. First of all, you had no need to know. Those killings are a Department squeal-correct? I work with the locals just the way I work with you. Everyone gets a piece of the pie.”

McDonnell gives him a close look. “I gotta admit you didn’t shaft me. Those names you gave me are panning out. All we had to do with one guy was mention the name David Dempster, and he broke. Started blubbering. You know what worries him most? That we’ll take his vintage Daimler away from him. How d’ya like that?”

“Beautiful,” Cone says. “You got enough on the short-selling and sabotage?”

“We’re getting it,” the ADA says. “All these guys are going to do time. Maybe not a lot, but some.” Suddenly he becomes Mr. Nice. “Listen, Cone,” he says, “I’m sorry if I came on heavy. I apologize.”

“That’s okay. You’re entitled. You didn’t know me from Adam and probably figured I was handing you a crock.”

“Yeah, something like that. Tell me, how did you get onto David Dempster?”

“It was easy,” the Wall Street dick says. “I didn’t have anyone else.”

McDonnell laughs. “And what are you getting out of it?”

“I’ll get my reward in heaven.”

“Loser!” McDonnell jeers. Then: “Look, I owe you one. We’re taking David Dempster tomorrow at four o’clock at his office. Davenport will be there. You want to be in on the kill?”

“I got nothing better to do,” Timothy says.

Neal Davenport is waiting in the overchilled lobby of David Dempster’s steel and glass office building on Friday afternoon when Cone shows up. They waste no time in greetings.

“How you doing with Louie?” Timothy wants to know.

“We’re not ready to dance the fandango yet,” the NYPD man says, “but his lawyer sounds like he wants to make a deal. I think we’ll nail the Ryan brothers on the kills.”

“What about the sabotage?”

“My guess is that David Dempster was directing the whole operation, and paying for it. He gave the orders to Louie, and that shmegegi sent the Westies into action. It was a sweet setup. Louie was Dempster’s cutout; he never met the mugs who were doing his dirty work. So naturally they can’t finger him.”

“Yeah, that’s how I see it. But if Louie doesn’t talk, Dempster walks away from the homicide rap?”

“Maybe. But McDonnell will get him on the sabotage and conspiracy-to-defraud charges.”

“Big deal,” Cone says disgustedly. “He’ll squirm out of that with a slap on the wrist.”

“Don’t worry it,” Davenport advises. “Louie is going to spill, take my word for it. He’s never done time before, and we’ve been telling him how wonderful Attica is and what a prize his fat ass will be up there.”

“You tell him that in front of his lawyer?”

“Of course not. But right now he’s being held without bail, and his cellmate is doing us a favor.”

“Good,” Cone says. “Let the bastard sweat a little.”

Then Hamish McDonnell comes marching into the lobby, carrying a scuffed attache case. He’s flanked by two U.S. marshals, both as big as he.

“You three guys look like a half-ton of beef on the hoof,” Davenport says to the ADA. “Did you get your warrant?”

“Signed and sealed,” McDonnell says, patting his case. “Now we deliver.”

“You going to cuff him?”

“Oh, hell yes. You’d be surprised at the psychological effect handcuffs have on these Ivy League types. Takes all the starch out of their boxer shorts.” He turns to Cone. “You been up to his office?”

“Yeah. It’s a small place; I’m not sure we’ll all fit in. There’s this little reception room. A secretary at a desk. One door that leads to Dempster’s private office.”

“Sounds good. Let’s go.”

They all jam into a high-speed elevator. They exit on the twenty-seventh floor, tramp down the hallway to Dempster’s office in a phalanx. The plump secretary looks up from her magazine in amazement when they come crowding in.

“What-” she starts.

“Don’t bother announcing us,” McDonnell says. “It’s a surprise party.”

He strides to the inner door, jerks it open. The five men go charging in. David Dempster, crisply clad, is seated behind his desk, talking on the phone. He hangs up slowly, rises slowly, looks slowly from face to face. One of the marshals glides to his left, the other to his right, as if they’ve performed this ballet a hundred times.

“David Dempster?” McDonnell asks.

“Yes. And who, may I ask, are you?”

“Hamish McDonnell, Assistant District Attorney, Federal.” The ADA flaps his ID at Dempster. “I believe you’ve met Mr. Cone. This gentleman is Detective Neal K. Davenport of the New York Police Department. These two men are United States marshals. I have a warrant for your arrest.”

“Warrant?” Dempster says, the plummy voice suddenly dry and strained. “Arrest? For what?”

“Mr. Dempster,” McDonnell says, “the charges against you would fill a windowshade. Will you waive the reading of your rights?”

“Now wait a minute …”

“No, Mr. Dempster, you wait a minute. You can waste our time or you can make it easy on us and yourself and just come along quietly. Cooperate-okay?”

David Dempster manages a smarmy grin. “You don’t mind if I fill a pipe first, do you?” he asks and, without waiting for a reply, opens a side desk drawer and reaches in.

Surprisingly, it’s Davenport who reacts first. The portly detective moves so fast that Cone can’t believe it. He launches himself across the desk, grabs Dempster’s wrist in both hands, twists in opposite directions. There’s a howl of pain, and Neal plucks a nickeled pistol from Dempster’s nerveless fingers.

“Nice pipe,” the city cop says. “What’re you smoking these days-thirty-twos?”

“Cuff him,” McDonnell orders, and the marshals bend Dempster’s arms behind his back, not gently, and click the steel links on his wrists. They clamp their big mitts on his upper arms.

“Not smart, Mr. Dempster,” the ADA says. “What were you going to do, kill all five of us? Or just wave your popgun and make a run for it? It’s tough getting a cab on Fridays.”

“I wish to speak to my attorney,” Dempster says stiffly.

“You’ll get your chance,” McDonnell says. “Let’s go.”

Cone stands aside to let the entourage file by. David Dempster pauses a moment, pulling back against the marshals’ grip. He stares at Cone.

“You?” he says. “You did this?”

The Wall Street dick nods.

Dempster takes in the rumpled corduroy suit, grayed T-shirt, yellow work shoes.

“But you’re a bum!” he says in outraged tones.

“Yeah,” Cone says, “I know.”

He lets them all go ahead. He dawdles a moment in the reception room where the hennaed secretary has her back pressed against the wall, a knuckle between her teeth.

“I think you can close up now,” Cone tells her gently.

“He’s not coming back?” she asks.

“Not for a while.”

“Shit!” she says unexpectedly. “Best job I ever had.”

By the time Cone gets down to the street, the others have disappeared. He glances at the clock over the entrance and figures that if he hurries, he can get back to Haldering amp; Co. in time to pick up his paycheck. But hurrying anywhere in that heat is not a boss idea.

“Ahh, screw it,” he says aloud, causing passersby to look at him nervously and detour around him.

Stripped to their skivvies, they’re lazing around the loft on a late Saturday afternoon. The front windows are open, and Cone’s antique electric fan is doing its whirry best, but it’s still bloody hot.

“When the hell are you going to spring for an air conditioner?” Samantha Whatley demands.

“One of these days,” Cone says.

“That’s a lot of bull,” she says. “You’re such a skinflint you’d rather suffer.”

It’s the truth, and he knows it. Tightwadism is his philosophy, if not his religion, and the thought of shelling out hundreds of dollars for a decent window unit is more than he can bear.

“It’s not so bad,” he says defensively. “And they say it’s going to cool down tonight.”

“Yeah,” she says, “maybe to eighty. What are we eating?”

“I got nothing in the house. I figured I’d run out to the deli. What do you feel like?”

“Anything as long as it’s cold.”

“How about a canned ham, potato salad, some tomatoes and stuff?”

“I can live with that,” she says. “And see if they’ve got any Heavenly Hash.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Ice cream, you asshole. What world do you live in?”

They’re drinking jug chablis poured over ice cubes, and working on a can of honey-roasted peanuts. Occasionally they flip a peanut to Cleo, who’d rather cuff it and chase it than eat it.

“So?” Sam says. “How you doing on the Dempster-Torrey file?”

“Oh, that,” he says casually. “It’s over. All cleared up. Finis.”

Her feet hit the floor with a thump. She bends across the table and glares at him. “You crapping me?”

He raises a palm. “Scout’s honor. I’ll write up the final report next week.”

“Next week sucks,” she says wrathfully. “I want to know right now. Who did it-the butler?”

“Nah,” he says. “David Dempster.”

She draws a deep breath. “David Dempster? The brother?”

He nods, pours them more wine. “Listen, you know what it means when you sell short?”

“Vaguely. It means you sell something you don’t own.”

“That’s about it, kiddo. When you sell a stock short, you don’t own it. But it’s perfectly legit.”

“So how do you sell it if you don’t own it? And what’s the point?”

“Let’s say that the stock of XYZ Corporation is selling at a hundred dollars a share. You don’t own any XYZ but you think, for whatever reason, that the stock is going to take a nosedive. So you borrow a hundred shares of XYZ and sell them. You get ten thousand bucks-right? Disregarding the broker’s commission. Follow?”

“Sure. But who do you borrow the stock from?”

“Your brokerage house-or anyone else willing to lend the shares to you. Anyway, say the shares of XYZ Corporation do just what you figured and go down to eighty. Then you buy. Those hundred shares cost you eight thousand. You return the borrowed shares, and you’ve made yourself two grand.”

“Beautiful,” Sam says. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since Eve shorted the apple to Adam.”

“But what if the stock goes up?”

“Then you slit your wrists and do a swan from your penthouse terrace. Nah, I’m kidding. Selling stock short isn’t much chancier than buying it long because you expect it to go up.”

“And that’s what David Dempster was doing-selling short?”

“I doubt it,” Cone says. “He doesn’t strike me as being much of a plunger. But he figured out a handy-dandy scheme for the heavyweight short-sellers on Wall Street. I think it started about three years ago. He knew what an emotional, irrational world the Street is. It’s really a loony bin. The silliest rumor or statement by some high-muck-a-muck can send the Dow up or down. So the way I figure it, David Dempster worked out a way to depress the price of particular stocks. Maybe he began by just starting rumors. God knows he had the contacts in his PR business to do that. Or perhaps the Tylenol scare in Chicago gave him the idea. He probably reckoned he could sink the value of shares in a drug or food company just by phoning the cops and newspapers anonymously and claiming he had poisoned the product. Then there’s a lot of publicity, products are pulled off the shelves-just to be on the safe side-and the manufacturer’s stock takes a tumble.”

“Jesus,” Samantha says, “what a perverted mind to think of that.”

“Sure, but it worked. Because Dempster realized that even if the stock slid just a couple of points, you can make a bundle if you’re trading thousands of shares. A guy who sold short ten thousand shares of XYZ Corporation at a hundred simoleons a share would receive a million bucks-correct? Then, after a product-tampering scare or some other disaster to the company, the stock falls to ninety dollars a share. He buys his ten thousand shares at that price and nets a cool hundred thousand smackers. Nice? Now figure what the profit would have been if he had traded a half-million shares!”

“Disgusting,” she says. “You’re telling me that David Dempster devised ways to make certain that stocks went down?”

“You better believe it. And from anonymous phone calls and product tampering he soon began organizing real sabotage like arson and vandalism-and corrupting key personnel. Anything he could do to damage the company, depress the stock price, and benefit his short-selling clients. The Bela Lugosi of Wall Street.”

“And they paid him for the service?”

“Sure. Either a fee or percentage of the take. How do you think he rolled up a personal net worth of four million? He probably had a small list of very greedy customers. Mostly guys who managed OPM-Other People’s Money-in pensions and trusts. They’d get together in his townhouse, decide on a victim, and Dempster would get to work. He didn’t do the dirty stuff himself, of course; he paid a gang of hoods called the Westies to do that.”

“My God,” Sam says, “the things people will do for the almighty buck. You think David Dempster arranged his brother’s murder?”

“Hell, yes,” Timothy says. “He engineered it, even to the extent of using Teresa Dempster to find out when her husband was leaving on a trip so he could set up that Wall Street ambush. And just like he figured, after his brother died the price of Dempster-Torrey stock took a bath, and all his short-selling clients made a bundle.”

They sit silently then, sipping their chilled wine and watching Cleo stalk a peanut across the linoleum. Maybe it really is cooling off, a little, but they have no desire for an aerobics session-at least not the vertical variety.

“Tim,” Samantha says in a low voice, “he really had his brother put down? His brother, Tim?”

“Oh, yes, he did it.”

“But why? Just for the money?”

“That was part of it, sure. But I told you that none of us acts from a single motive. People aren’t that simple. Yeah, David killed his brother for money. But also he did it because John put the horns on him by enjoying fun and games with Dorothy, David’s wife. And you’ve got to figure there was a lot of sibling rivalry as Neal Davenport, of all people, suggested. Listen, just because two guys are brothers doesn’t mean they think alike or have the same personalities and temperaments. Ask any horse trainer. Or even people who breed dogs or cats. They’ll tell you that every animal in a litter is different, with its own traits and characteristics. John J. Dempster may have played hardball in his business and personal life, but he was genuine. David Dempster is a small, mean, hypocritical bastard.”

Sam holds up her palms in protest. “Enough already!” she pleads. “I’ll read all about it in your report. Right now I don’t want to hear any more about money, greed, and fratricide. It’s all too depressing. I just want to think nice thoughts. Give me a couple of more ice cubes and pour me some wine.”

The loft is dimming, and a blessed breeze comes sneaking in the front windows. Cone turns off the fan, and that helps. The traffic noises seem muted and far away.

“How you coming with your nice thoughts?” Cone asks.

“Getting there,” Samantha says.

“You be nice to me, I’ll be nice to you.”

“Best offer I’ve had all day. Did you change the sheets?”

“Of course. It’s the last Saturday of the month, isn’t it?”

“My hero,” she says. She stands, ambles over to the mattress. She peels off bra and panties. Still standing, a pale wraith in the darkling, she begins unpinning her long, auburn hair.

“Maybe I should go get the ham first,” Timothy says.

“Screw the ham!” she says, then pauses, arms still raised, tresses half unbound. She looks at him thoughtfully. “You know who I feel sorry for in that whole Dempster mess?”

“Who?”

“Teresa. She sounds like such a nice, nutty lady. But she was married to a rakehell. And then he gets killed, and it turns out her brother-in-law, who’s been a real pal, was involved in the murder. My God, what that woman’s been through.”

“Yeah, well, she’s coping. I went up to see her this morning. She’s thinking of going to Japan for a while.”

“What for?”

“To study Zen. Says she wants to be closer to the cosmos-whatever that means. She told me she thinks everything happens for the best.”

Hair swinging free, Sam comes over to stand close in front of him. He bows his head to kiss her pipik.

“But not you,” she says, stroking his bristly hair. “You think everything happens for the worst.”

“Not everything,” Cone says.