Timothy's Game (24 page)

“Nah,” Timothy says, reaching out to pat the little man’s shoulder. “You’re not obsolete, and you’re not going to resign. I need your help.”

“Yes?” Trale says, looking up. “What can I do?”

“You have contacts on Wall Street?”

“Of course. A lot of them. … Oh, I understand. You want me to find out if there are any rumors about an attempted takeover of Dempster-Torrey.”

“Right,” Cone says approvingly. “I’ve got a few snitches myself, but nothing like what a man in your position must have.”

It buoys Trale, and he straightens up in his chair, squares his shoulders. “Yes,” he says, “I can do that. I have a number of chits out on the Street, and I’ll call them in.”

“Just what I was hoping you’d say. How long do you think it’ll take?”

“Not long. Probably by tomorrow.”

“Good enough. You’ll let me know?”

“Of course. As soon as I have anything definite—for or against.”

“Thanks,” Cone says. “Now I’ve got a couple of more short questions and then I’ll let you off the hook. You told me that John Dempster loved his wife, and I accept that. As a matter of fact, Teresa told me they had a happy marriage. But I also heard that he was playing around.”

“What does that have to do with industrial sabotage?”

“Probably nothing,” Cone admits. “But I just like to know as much as I can about the people involved. Was John Dempster a tomcat, Mr. Trale?” And then, knowing when to lie, Timothy adds, “Several people have told me he was.”

“What people told you that?”

Cone sighs. “You’re stalling, Mr. Trale. If you don’t want to answer, tell me and I’ll accept it. And go on believing what I’ve heard.”

The CFO hesitates a long moment. “It can do no harm now,” he says finally. “And besides, too many people know to try to keep it a secret. It’s true, Mr. Cone: Dempster was a womanizer. It was almost a carryover from his business methods. When he saw something he wanted, he went after it, regardless of the cost, the risk, or how long it might take. He was that way in his pursuit of women as well. But he always went back to Teresa. I know that for a fact.”

“Uh-huh,” Cone says, figuring the Security Chief, Theodore Brodsky, was probably right on the button when he implied Dempster and Eve Bookerman were having an affair. “Thanks for the talk; it’s been a help. I’ll wait for your call on takeover rumors.”

They rise, shake hands, start out. But Timothy pauses at the door. “One final question, Mr. Trale: Do you know David Dempster?”

“I’ve met him,” the other man says.

“Do you happen to know if he’s married?”

“Divorced. About five years ago, as I recall.”

“Has he remarried?”

“I don’t know. Why are you interested in David Dempster?”

“I’m trying to figure out the guy,” Cone says, leaving the Chief Financial Officer to wonder what that meant.

He slouches into Samantha Whatley’s office, and she looks up.

“I’m busy,” she says.

“So am I,” he says. “Puddling around in this heat, doing God’s work. I need a couple of things.”

She tosses her pen onto the desk and sighs. “Make it short and sweet.”

“That’s not what you said the other night.”

She looks around nervously. “Keep your voice down.” She still believes their co-workers are unaware of their relationship, but he thinks a few of the other dicks guess what’s going on.

“I need a rental car,” he says. “This Dempster-Torrey thing is spreading out, and I’ve got to get around. Tell H.H. the client will okay the expense.”

“How do you know—did you ask them?”

“No, I didn’t ask them. Come on, don’t bust my balls, just get me some wheels.”

“I’ll try. That’s it?”

“No, that isn’t it. I want you to pull a telephone scam for me. I’d do it myself, but it needs a woman’s voice.”

“I don’t know,” she says doubtfully. “Is it important?”

“It’s not my main lead, it’s sort of a fallback position. You know what that is, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” she says in a low voice. “I fall back and you jump my bones. All right, what’s the scoop?”

He explains: She is to call the office of David Dempster Associates, Inc., and speak only to the secretary. If Dempster answers, hang up. She is to tell the secretary that she’s an old friend of Mrs. Dempster but hasn’t seen her for years. Now she’s in town for a few days and would love to chat with her old school chum. But she understands Mrs. Dempster has been divorced, and she doesn’t have her new address and phone number or even the last name she’s using now. Could the secretary help her out?”

“What’s Mrs. Dempster’s first name?” Sam asks.

“Don’t know.”

“Shithead!” she says wrathfully. “How can I claim to be the woman’s old school chum if I don’t know her first name?”

“You can finagle it. At least it’s worth a try.”

He gives her the number and she dials.

“Hello, there!” she carols. “Is this the office of David Dempster? Well, my name is Irma Plotnick, and I’m an old friend of Mrs. Dempster—school pals, you know. I’m in town for a few days—South Bend, Indiana, is my home—and I was hoping to get together with Mrs. Dempster. Well, a mutual friend tells me she’s divorced now. I tried her at the number I have for her, but she’s no longer there. So I guess she didn’t get the apartment as part of the settlement—right, dear? Well, goodness, I don’t even know what name she’s using now, let alone where she’s living. Anyway, dear, I was hoping you’d be able to give me the name she’s using, her address—and the phone number if you have it. I so want to get together with her and talk about old times. … You do? Oh, that’s great! Now just wait half-a-mo until I get a pen. All right, I’m all set now. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I’ve got it. Thank you so much, dear. You’ve been a love and I’ll certainly tell her when I see her. ’Bye now!”

Whatley hangs up and skids the scratch paper she’s been scribbling on across the desk. “Name, address, and phone number,” she says triumphantly. “How did you like that performance?”

“Not bad,” Cone says grudgingly. “But long-winded. When you’re pulling a telephone con, keep it as brief as you can. The best lies are short ones.”

“I should have known better than to expect thanks from you,” Sam says. “Now take off and let me get some work done.”

“One final question that’s been bothering me,” he says. “If a guy who plays around a lot is called a womanizer, what do you call a woman who does the same thing—a manizer?”

Sam points at the door. “Out!” she says.

I
T RAINS HARD THAT
night, breaking the back of the heat wave. When Cone slogs down Broadway to work—only a half-hour late this time—the air is breathable and the sky is clear.

The new receptionist at Haldering & Co. hands him a telephone message on a pink slip:
Call Simon Trale at Dempster-Torrey, Inc.
Cone carries the message and his brown-bagged breakfast into his office. He has a chomp of buttered bialy and a gulp of black coffee before he phones Trale.

“Good morning, Mr. Cone.”

“’Morning. I hope you have good news.”

“Good news for us, but I’m afraid you will be disappointed. I spoke to a half-dozen of my most knowledgeable contacts. None has heard a word about anyone planning a raid on Dempster-Torrey. To be quite frank, they thought the idea implausible. The way we’re structured would make any pirate think twice before he made a run at us.”

“All right,” Cone says, “I’ll accept that. Thanks for your help, Mr. Trale. I’ll be in touch if I get another brainstorm.”

He hangs up, lights his third cigarette of the day, finishes his breakfast. So now he’s back to square one. That’s okay; he’s been there before.

But the big question remains: Who would benefit from the death of John J. Dempster? Could his wife have learned of his infidelities and hired a couple of punks to ace him? Unlikely. If she knew about his dedicated search for the perfect bang, she probably didn’t give a damn; she had her bonsai—and all the money in the world.

Ditto the underlings at Dempster-Torrey. They might think their boss was a double-dyed bastard, but they had high-paying jobs and weren’t about to scratch the fount from whom all blessings flowed. The one exception might be Eve Bookerman: an energetic and brainy lady who was sleeping with J.J. Maybe he threatened to dump her for a younger twist, or maybe she coveted his job. Either one would be motive enough for her to take out a contract on the Chairman and CEO.

A discharged or disgruntled employee? Another possibility. But as Brodsky said, that would narrow the list of suspects to ten thousand. Where do you start digging into something like that?

And then there’s David Dempster, that prig. But what reason could he have for putting his brother down? Unless he was hurting for cash and needed an inheritance.

At that moment, as if reading his mind, Sid Apicella comes into his office. He’s gripping a sheet of scratch paper.

“You and your lousy ‘one phone call,’” he says grumpily. “It took me four calls and almost half a day to get any info on David Dempster. How the hell do you get other people to do your job for you?”

“Boyish charm,” Cone says.

“You’ve got about as much charm as my wife’s old poodle—and that monster farts, has fleas, and a breath that would knock your socks off. Anyway, David Dempster Associates, Inc., is a legit outfit that’s been in business about twelve years. They do corporate publicity and public relations, and seem to be doing just great. Good cash flow and some heavy clients.”

“
Bull
shit!”
the Wall Street dick says angrily. “I was up at their place, and it’s practically a hole-in-the-wall. Dempster’s private office is not much bigger than this latrine.”

“So? What do you need in the publicity business? A telephone and a lot of good contacts—right?”

“Maybe. But with all the high-powered PR outfits on the Street, I can’t see Dempster attracting any blue-chip clients. How much money they got?”

“The corporation? They keep a minimum hundred-thousand balance. When it gets over that, Dempster pays himself a bonus.”

“A sweet setup. And what’s he worth?”

“Personally?” the CPA says, consulting his notes. “About four mil, give or take. How does that grab you?”

“It doesn’t,” Cone says. “You just blew another of my half-assed ideas out of the water. The second time that’s happened in the last hour. What a great morning this is. But thanks anyway, Sid; that’s one I owe you.”

“One?”
Apicella shouts, rubbing his rosy schnoz furiously. “You owe me so much I’ll never get even.”

He stomps out after tossing his scrawled notes onto the desk. Cone leans forward to read them, then sits back and lights another Camel. So David Dempster has a personal net worth of four million. That doesn’t sound like a man who’d have his brother chilled just to inherit a few more bucks—unless the guy is suffering from terminal greed.

But something smells. Cone well knows that public relations outfits deal with images and perceptions. It’s a way of life that carries over into the way the flacks do business: impressive offices, flashy secretaries, a hyperactive staff, and autographed photos on the walls of the boss posing with important people. Dempster has a telephone booth office, one pleasant but plain secretary, and a picture on the wall of his dead hound.

And from this mom-and-pop bodega the cash flow has enabled him to amass a fortune? That just doesn’t add up.

He chews it over for a while. Then, groaning, he gets to his feet and wanders down the corridor to the office of Fred Burgess, another Haldering & Co. investigator. Fred is on the phone, but when he sees Cone standing there, he motions him in, points to the armchair alongside his littered desk.

“Marcia,” he’s saying, “I’ve already apologized twice, but if you want, I’ll do it again. You’re the one who picked the Japanese restaurant. I’m not blaming you, but it was the combination of the sashimi and sake that did it. How the hell can you know how much you’re drinking when they serve it in thimbles? It didn’t hit me until we got up to your place. All that raw fish and rice wine. … Marcia, I’ve already explained I couldn’t make it to the bathroom. So your aquarium seemed the best bet. I know it killed all your guppies, but I’ll buy you more guppies. Marcia? Marcia?”

He replaces the phone. “She hung up,” he says gloomily.

“Have a pleasant evening?” Cone asks.

“Go to hell,” Burgess says. “It took me weeks to get this date. She’s gorgeous, got a great job on the Street, and beautiful digs up around Gramercy Park. I thought sure last night was going to be
the
night. Then I have to vomit into her goddamned fish tank and kill all her goddamned guppies. I guess I’m on her shit list now.”

“Good detecting,” Cone says. “Look, I didn’t come in here to discuss your love life. You still got that collection of business cards?”

Burgess, a youngish, fattish, liverish guy, stares at him suspiciously. “Yeah, I still got it. And I’m going to keep it.”

“One card,” Timothy says. “Just one. On loan.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll tell you how to bring Marcia around.”

“Deal. How do I do it?”

“Buy her the most expensive tropical fish you can afford. Something really exotic with big fins. Like a Veiltail Angelfish. Have it delivered to her apartment with a simple, heartfelt note like, ‘I’m sorry I puked in your aquarium.’”

“Yeah,” Fred says, “that might work. What do you need?”

“The business card of a writer.”

“Writers don’t have business cards. But I got one from a magazine editor. Will that do?”

“It’ll have to.”

Burgess pulls out a long file of business cards he’s collected over the years at cocktail parties, conventions, and press conferences. He thumbs through them, pulls one out, hands it over.

“Waldo Sperling,” Cone reads. “Feature Editor,
Zebu Magazine.
What the hell does Zebu mean?”

“If you did crossword puzzles, you’d know. It’s an Asian ox. But don’t worry about it; the magazine is out of business and it can mean anything you want it to.”

“Okay,” Cone says, rising, “I’ll give it a try. Do I look like a Waldo to you?”

“To me,” says Burgess, “you look like a schmuck.”