Timothy's Game (19 page)

“I admire your foresight,” he says with an unctuous smile.

“Oh,” she says, snapping her fingers, “one more thing: Mr. Twiggs urgently recommends that we request the problem be handled by one of your investigators—Timothy Cone. Is that his name?”

“Timothy Cone,” Hiram Haldering repeats, smile fading. “Yes, we do employ an investigator by that name. But unfortunately, Mr. Cone is busy with several other cases at the moment. However, we have a number of other investigators who are fully qualified to—”

She interrupts him. “No Cone, no deal,” she says.

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “As you wish,” he says. “Perhaps I should warn you that Timothy Cone is—”

“Mr. Twiggs described him,” she says impatiently. “I know what to expect. If he can do the job, it doesn’t matter.” She rises, holds out her hand. “Nice doing business with you, Mr. Haldering. I’m depending on your shop to make sense out of this whole awful affair. Monstrous!”

He starts to thank her for her trust and confidence, but she is out the door, leaving behind a taped accordion file bulging with documents. H.H. picks up his phone and punches the intraoffice extension of Samantha Whatley.

“Sam?” he says. “Come into my office, please. At once. And if Cone isn’t sleeping or beering it up, drag his scruffy ass in here.”

Cone lumps up Broadway, that humongous accordion file clamped under his right arm. It’s heavy enough so that he lists to starboard, and occasionally has to pause and get a fresh grip.

“Don’t you dare take that file out of the office,” Sam had warned.

“Sure, boss,” he replied. “I’m not about to carry that blivet home with me.”

“What’s a blivet?”

“Eight pounds of shit in a four-pound bag.”

“You’re disgusting!” she yelled at him.

“Yeah,” he said, “I know.”

So now he’s plodding home to his loft, lugging the blivet and wondering what he and Cleo might have for dinner. He decides hot Italian sausage might be nice, fried up with canned potatoes. Maybe a charlotte russe for dessert. That sounds like a well-balanced meal.

He stops at local shops for the makings, not forgetting a cold six-pack and a jug of pepper-flavored vodka—something he’s been wanting to try for a long time. Thus laden, he trudges up the six flights of iron steps to his loft.

The meal turns out to be okay, but that pepper vodka is sparkly enough to make Cone’s scalp sweat. He’s afraid to light a cigarette, figuring a single belch might ignite and, like a flame thrower, incinerate the joint.

He switches to cold beer to soothe his scorched palate and settles at his desk, feet up, to dig through the contents of that Dempster-Torrey file.

The first thing he finds is three pages stapled together that list names, addresses, and phone numbers of people connected with John J. Dempster and his corporation. Included, Cone sees, are the names of his widow, three young sons, his brother, his parents, his deceased bodyguard and chauffeur, and the top rank of Dempster-Torrey execs, the Board of Directors, attorneys, and bankers.

Also on the list, Cone notes with some bemusement, are the names of Dempster’s tailor, masseur, physician, dentist, physical fitness instructor, servants, golf pro, pilot, and proctologist.

“Some people know how to live,” Cone calls to Cleo. But the tom, sleeping off the Italian sausages under the bathtub, pays no heed.

He starts flipping swiftly through the documents on the attacks that have bedeviled Dempster-Torrey, Inc., for the past six months. There are eighteen reports, all signed by Theodore Brodsky, Chief of Security. They include arson, sabotage, vandalism, product tampering, and similar crimes, all apparently designed to erode the profits and tarnish the public image of Dempster-Torrey. Cone can understand why John J. thought there was a plot against him and his conglomerate; the guy wasn’t just being paranoid.

He pops another beer and starts reading the reports again, slower this time, wondering if there’s a pattern or link everyone else had missed. He’s halfway through and hasn’t found a damned thing when his wall phone shrills. He carries his beer into the cramped kitchenette.

“Yeah?” he says.

“You putz!” screams Neal K. Davenport. “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Cone says. “What’s this—”

“The Dempster kill!” the NYPD detective shouts at him. “Why are you sticking your nose into that?”

“Come on,” Cone says, “don’t get your balls in an uproar. Who told you Haldering is involved in it?”

“Eve Bookerman, that’s who. She’s been running the outfit since Dempster got chilled. She told us that she hired Haldering.”

“Then she must have told you that all we’re doing is investigating industrial sabotage in their plants. Look, Neal, we don’t do windows and we don’t do homicides. That job is all yours; Hiram Haldering made it plain to Bookerman. You know about the accidents they’ve been having?”

“Yeah,” the city bull says grudgingly, “they told us.”

“You think there’s a connection with Dempster’s murder?”

“We can’t see it.”

“So where’s the conflict? The Department is after the guys on the motorcycle. We’re after the people who are trashing Dempster-Torrey’s property. Listen, what’s your interest in this? Are you handling the file?”

“Shit, no! I caught the original squeal. I got there right after the blues. But it’s too big to leave to little old me. They think I’m only good for busting pickpockets and flashers.”

“Tough titty,” Cone says. “So who’s in charge?”

“Some wet-brained lieutenant who’s got a rabbi in the Department with a lot of clout. The guy’s a real cowboy. He’s riding off madly in all directions. Well, I can’t really blame him. This is an important one, and he wants to cover his ass. The first case of terrorism in the Wall Street district.”

“The hell it was,” Cone says. “A few years ago Fraunces Tavern was bombed by revolutionaries, and long before that a guy drove a horse-drawn cart down Wall Street and set off a bunch of bombs in the wagon. They called them anarchists in those days. Anyway, the explosion blew the hell out of the horses. You can still see the scars on some of the buildings if you look for them.”

“Jesus,” Davenport says, “you’re a veritable gold mine of useless information. Well, regardless of past history, this is still a big case, and everyone wants a piece of it. Not only the Department, but the Manhattan DA, the Federal DA, the FBI, New York State, and the CIA. It’s as fucked up as a Chinese fire drill.”

“The CIA? What’s their interest?”

“They’re investigating those wackos, the Liberty Tomorrow gang, to see if it’s a terrorist organization with pals overseas, like in Germany, France, or the Middle East.”

“Lots of luck,” Timothy says. “So everyone is walking up everyone else’s heels and fighting for interviews on the TV talk shows. Where do you fit into this mishmash?”

“Christ!” the city cop says. “You know what they’ve got me doing? A couple of witnesses swear the driver of the motorcycle was wearing a steel-toed boot. So I’m supposed to check out every joint in the city that puts steel tips on shoes and boots. That’s like looking for a needle in a keg of nails.”

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

“If we could handle it as a simple dusting,” Davenport goes on, “an ordinary, run-of-the-mill homicide, things would be a lot easier. But all the people involved are real nobs—or think they are. I mean Dempster-Torrey is a powerhouse in local politics. Charitable contributions, campaign donations, and all that shit. So the heat is on. I get pushed every hour on the hour, and when I heard you were joining the pack, I blew my cork. Sorry I yelled at you.”

“That’s okay,” Cone says. “I can understand how you feel. But believe me, Haldering and Company has no interest in getting involved in Dempster’s death. All I’m supposed to do is find out who’s torching their factories.”

“And you don’t think it has anything to do with the murder?”

“Hey, I’ve just started on this thing. I was reading the file when you called. But you said yourself that you can’t see a connection.”

“That’s right. But that’s today. Maybe tomorrow you’ll trip over something. You’ll let me know?”

“Hell, yes. I’m no glory hound; you know that. If I find anything that sets off bells, you’ll be the first to know. You can have the headlines.”

“I don’t know why I trust you,” Davenport says. “You’re such a flake.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t ever bollixed you up, have I?”

“Not lately you haven’t,” the NYPD man says, considerably mollified. “Okay, go back to your boozing; you sound half in the bag already. Every time I think of a wild card like you rampaging around in something like this, my ulcer starts acting up. Keep in touch, will you?”

“Depend on it,” Timothy says.

He goes back to his desk, back to reading the Dempster-Torrey reports, back to pepper vodka—which now seems mild, light, dry, sparkling, and guaranteed to dull the senses and make life seem interesting and even meaningful.

Finished with the documents, he tosses them aside, parks his feet on the desk, dunks a charlotte russe in the vodka, and ruminates.

As far as finding a link between the eighteen crimes—zero, zip, and zilch. But the lack of a pattern might have significance. It’s unlikely one guy is racing around the country setting fires, dumping rice in gas tanks, blowing up warehouses, and slipping cyanide into sealed bottles of diet pills made by Dempster-Torrey’s drug subsidiary.

Those sophisticated techniques were devised by someone with a lot of criminal know-how. That makes Cone think it’s a gang, bossed by a villain who knows exactly what he’s doing and what he wants to accomplish. But what does he want to accomplish? Revenge?

That would point the finger at a fired or disgruntled employee. Or maybe the former owner of some small and profitable company that John J. Dempster gobbled up on his march to power. God knows Dempster must have made enough enemies to last him a lifetime—which didn’t, after all, last very long at all.

The Wall Street dick pours another small vodka, swearing to himself it will be a nightcap and knowing it won’t because his mind is churning, and he’ll be able to sleep only with high-proof oblivion.

He’s halfway through that snort when his peppered brain spits out an idea that’s so elegant he feels like shouting. It’s a neat solution: an organization controlled, or hired, by a tough, determined, brainy guy who knows exactly what he wants and how to get it. Cone walks around his brilliant inspiration, and the more he inspects it from all angles, questions it, analyzes it, the stronger it seems.

And the motive? That’s the best part!

“I do believe …” he says aloud, and Cleo comes slinking out from under the bathtub to yawn and stretch.

Later, lying in his skivvies on the floor mattress, lights out, his last conscious thoughts are of Neal K. Davenport, and how rancorous the detective must feel at being relegated to a minor role in a big case he thinks of as his own.

Cleo pads up to curl into the bend of his knees.

“He wants praise, kiddo,” Cone says, reaching down to scratch the cat’s torn ears. “Or maybe justification. He wants recognition that he’s doing important work in this screwed-up world. Do you want praise, justification, and recognition, Cleo? The hell you do. I don’t either. We’ve got a roof over our heads and all the hot sausage we can eat. What more do we need?”

Cleo growls agreement.

T
HE 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.