Timothy's Game (22 page)

“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
n
th 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.”

A
MIDSUMMER HEAT WAVE
has Manhattan by the throat. The air is humid, so supersaturated that one drinks rather than breathes it. Clothing clings, feet swell, hair uncurls, and even paper money feels greasy, as if all those engraved presidents are sweating.

Cone shuffles slowly down to Cedar Street, carrying his cap and jacket. He tries to keep to the shady side of streets, but there’s no escape. It is the kind of day, as Sydney Smith said, that makes you want to take off your skin and walk around in your bones.

David Dempster Associates, Inc., is located in a building of stainless steel and tinted glass. The lobby is blessedly chilled by air conditioning turned down so low that sides of beef might be hung on the walls without fear of spoilage. Cone just stands there for almost five minutes until his blood stops bubbling. Then he consults the lobby directory and takes a high-speed elevator to the twenty-seventh floor, donning his jacket en route.

The anteroom is small: desk, typewriter on a stand, file cabinet, wastebasket, and a plump, hennaed secretary reading a copy of
Elle.
She looks up as Cone enters and gives him a saucy smile. “Hot enough for you?” she asks.

“It’s not the heat,” he says solemnly, “it’s the humidity.” And having completed the New York catechism, he gets down to business. “Timothy Cone from Haldering and Company to see Mr. Dempster. I have an appointment.”

“Sure,” she says blithely. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

She pops through an inner door and is out again in a moment. “This way, please, Mr. Cone. Would you like to leave your cap out here?”

“Nah,” he says. “Someone might steal it.”

“I doubt that,” she says. “Very much.”

David Dempster’s office is large, but only in comparison to the reception room. Actually, it’s a modest chamber, skimpily furnished: executive-type desk with leatherbound accessories and two telephones, swivel chair and two armchairs, steel file cabinet and small bookcase. And that’s about it. The only wall decoration is a large color photograph of a golden retriever, with an award and blue ribbon affixed to the frame.

The man standing smiling behind the desk is tall and stalwart. He’s wearing a vested glen plaid tropical worsted, and the suit is snug across shoulders and chest. Cone figures that if he doesn’t pump iron, he does something equally disgusting—like exercise regularly. His handshake is a bonecrusher, as if he’s ready to arm wrestle right then and there.

But he’s affable enough: gets his visitor seated in one of the armchairs, holds a gold Dunhill to light Cone’s Camel and his own Benson & Hedges (filtered). He asks, with a boomy laugh, if it’s hot enough for Cone, and the Wall Street dick gives the proper reply. They’re like lodge brothers exchanging the secret code.

They settle back, sucking greedily on their cigarettes and regarding each other with cautious ease.

“Teresa informed me you were up to see her,” Dempster says. “She was quite embarrassed that she continued to address you as Mr. Timothy.”

“That’s okay. She said it wasn’t important, and it’s not.”

“What did you think of her?” the other man asks suddenly. “Tell me, what was your initial impression?”

Cone shrugs. “She’s different.”

Dempster smiles; more fangs than teeth. “Teresa is her own woman. Many people, meeting her for the first time, are put off by her manner. But I assure you, she is not as simple-minded as she might appear. When it is necessary, she can be quite practical and quick-witted. She has handled the tragedy of Jack’s death remarkably well.”

“He didn’t die,” Cone can’t resist saying, “he passed over.”

Dempster becomes serious. “Yes, well, that’s what she believes—sincerely believes. And it does no harm to anyone, does it?”

“Not a bit. I asked if her husband had any enemies, and she said no. Now I’ll ask you the same thing.”

“So have all the police and reporters,” Dempster says ruefully. “You must realize, Mr. Cone, that my sister-in-law was not totally aware of her husband’s business activities. Or even what Jack did for a living. Not that he ever attempted to conceal anything from her, but she simply wasn’t all that interested. She had her sons, her homes, her bonsai, and she was content. As for your question to me: Did Jack have any enemies? Of course he did. He was a ruthless and, at times I fear, a brutal CEO. He built an enormous conglomerate from a small machine shop in Quincy, Massachusetts. You don’t do that without making enemies along the way. But no one, to my knowledge, hated him enough to murder him. That is what I have told the police, and it is the truth as I know it.”

“Mr. Dempster, I’m not involved in the homicide investigation. I’m supposed to be looking into all the industrial accidents Dempster-Torrey has had lately. You know about those?”

“Vaguely. Jack mentioned them one night at dinner.”

“Any idea of who might be pulling that stuff?”

“Discharged or disgruntled employees would be my guess.”

Then they are silent. Cone lights another cigarette, but this time David Dempster takes a handsome silver-banded brier from his desk drawer and fills it from a silken pouch. He tamps the tobacco down slowly with a blunt forefinger. Then he lights the pipe carefully, using a wax match from a tiny box. He sits back, puffing contentedly.

Lord of the manor, Cone thinks. With a picture of his favorite hound on the wall.

Dempster has a big face, long and craggy. Big nose, big teeth, and biggest of all, a mustache trimmed in a guardsman’s style. It spreads squarely from cheek to cheek, brown with reddish glints. And he has a thick head of hair in the same hues, so bountiful that it makes Cone’s spiky crew cut look like a cactus. Dempster’s only small feature are his eyes; they’re dark aggies.

“What kind of a man was your brother?” Cone asks.

“You know, you’re the first investigator who’s asked me that. Odd, isn’t it? You’d think that would be the first thing the police would want to know. Well, Jack was an enormously driven man. With tremendous energy. And enough ambition for ten. Not for money or power, you understand. He had enough of both to last him two lifetimes. But Jack was a builder. He wanted Dempster-Torrey to become the biggest, richest international business entity in the world. He was intensely competitive. I think business was really a game to him. He played squash, golf, poker, and was a devil at three-cushion billiards. And he always played to win. He couldn’t endure losing.”

“Did he ever cut any corners to make sure he won?”

Dempster laughs, flashing the fangs again. “Of course he did! But he rarely got caught. And when he did, he would admit it, grin, and people would forgive him. Because he had so much charm. He was the most charming man I’ve ever known. And I’m not saying that just because he was my brother.”

“And his opponents in business deals—did they forgive him when he cut corners?”

“That I doubt. I told you he made enemies. But of course I can’t speak firsthand. I never had any business dealings with Jack. We went our separate ways.”

“What kind of business are you in, Mr. Dempster?”

“You didn’t know?” the other man says, surprised. “Corporate public relations. Not a great number of clients because I prefer to keep this a one-man operation. I am not an empire builder the way Jack was. None of my clients are what you might call giants of industry, but they stick with me and pay their bills promptly. That’s all I ask.”

“What sort of things do you do?” Cone asks. “Turn out press releases? Plant photos and bios of clients? Sit in on planning sessions for new products?”

“Ah,” Dempster says, relighting his pipe, “I see you know the business. Yes, I do all that, but I suppose my most important function is keeping my clients’ names
out
of the newspapers after they’ve pulled some exceptionally stupid stunt or gotten fouled up in their personal lives.”

“Yeah,” Cone says, “there’s a lot of that going around these days. How well did you and your brother get along?”

Dempster sets his pipe down carefully. “We weren’t as close as we might have been, I suppose. We had such a small family. Our parents are dead, and our few aunts, uncles, and cousins are all out in South Dakota. We should have been closer. And now Jack is gone. I’d say our relationship was cordial but cool. We didn’t socialize much. An occasional dinner when he could make it; he was an extremely busy man. And I’d spend a weekend up at their summer place now and then.”

“You ever do any public relations for Dempster-Torrey?”

“No, and I never made a pitch for that account. I didn’t want anyone accusing Jack of nepotism. And besides, Dempster-Torrey has a very effective in-house PR department. So it was better all around if I stayed away from my brother’s business.”

“Uh-huh,” Cone says. “Well, you promised to cooperate, and you have. Thanks for your time.”

“If there’s anything else I can do to help, don’t hesitate to give me a call.”

“I’ll do that. Nice dog you’ve got there.”

Dempster turns to stare at the picture on the wall.
“Had,”
he says in a stony voice. “He was hit and killed last year by a drunken driver who came over the curb while I was walking King along Central Park South.”

“Jesus,” Cone says, “that’s tough.”

“I dragged the guy out of his car,” David Dempster goes on, “and kicked the shit out of the bastard.”