Timothy's Game (29 page)

“Yeah, that’d help. I want to move on this as fast as I can, Mr. Trale, but I’m not promising anything.”

“I understand that. I’ll call immediately.”

Cone hangs up, satisfied he’s started things rolling. Now he’s got to wait for Davenport and the insurance broker to get back to him. He could do it all himself, but it would take weeks, maybe months, of donkeywork. And he has the feeling that something is going down that better be squelched in a hurry.

Having done a morning’s labor for Haldering & Co. with two phone calls, he feels no great obligation to occupy his desk at the office. So he has a whore’s bath, shaves, and dresses at a languid pace, pausing to make a small aluminum foil ball for Cleo to chase. He even has time for a morning beer to excite the palate and cleanse the nasal passages.

He ambles downtown, frowning at a summer sun that beams back at him. It’s a brilliant day, and he might glory in it if he was not a man of a naturally morose nature, a grump still studying joy and how to achieve it. The brimful day is an indignity; he still prefers sleet and wet socks.

The snarly Haldering receptionist gives him a glare for his tardiness, and his cramped office is no great solace. There’s a chilly memo from Samantha Whatley on his desk: “Your progress reports for the past three weeks are overdue. Ditto expense account vouchers. Please remit ASAP.”

He folds the memo into a paper airplane and sails it up. It flutters, falls. Just like his mood. He wonders if he might not improve his lot in life by learning how to slice Nova thin in a high-class deli. He could force that career switch by marching in and slamming Hiram Haldering in the snout. Attractive thought.

He knows why he is suddenly afflicted with a galloping case of the glooms. Having set the wheels in motion on the Dempster file, there’s not a damned thing he can do until Neal Davenport and Simon Trale respond to his requests. The inaction chafes, and he hopes to God his second brainstorm isn’t going to prove as big a blunder as his first.

He grimly sets to work on those accursed progress reports, trying not to think of the possibility of another balls-up on the Dempster case. But when his phone rings about 11:30, he reaches for it cautiously as if it might bring news of disaster.

“Yeah?” he says warily.

“Davenport. You got pencil and paper? I got names to go with those license plates you gave me.”

“Jeez, that’s quick work,” Cone says. “I didn’t expect you to get back to me so soon.”

“Well, you said it might have something to do with Dempster. You know how to jerk my chain. I’ll give you the names, but I also got addresses if needed. Ready? Samuel Folger is the first. The second is Jerome K. Waltz. That’s W-a-l-t-z. Like the dance. The third plate is a company car registered to an outfit named Simon and Butterfield, Incorporated. Got all that? Now never say I don’t deliver.”

“Yeah,” Cone says, “thanks.”

“Those names mean anything to you?”

“They’re all Wall Street guys. They call themselves investment advisers or financial consultants or whatever. But what they really are is money managers—other people’s money.”

“They’re legit?”

Cone doesn’t answer directly. “They’re all heavyweights,” he goes on. “Mostly in trust and pension funds. I mean we’re talking about billions of dollars.”

“So what’s the connection with the Dempster homicide?”

“Well, uh, it’s iffy right now.”

“You bastard!” Davenport shouts. “I knock myself out getting this stuff, and you clam up on me. You got nothing to trade? What kind of horseshit is that?”

“Calm down, Neal,” the Wall Street dick says. “I got something to trade. You ever hear of a scabby joint over on the West Side called Paddy’s Pig?”

Silence. It goes on for so long that Cone says, “Hey, are you there?”

“I’m here. You said Paddy’s Pig?”

“That’s right.”

“You think it might be tied to the Dempster kill?”

“Yeah.”

“You and I better have a meet,” the city detective says.

C
ONE PROVIDES THE LUNCH
. He’s standing outside the office with a shopping bag when Davenport drives up. He double-parks his unmarked blue Plymouth and props up a “Police Officer on Duty” card inside the windshield. Timothy climbs in with the bag.

“Hey, sherlock,” Davenport says, “that smells good. What’d you get?”

“Rare burgers on soft buns with a slice of onion—just like you ordered. Also, French fries, a couple of dills, and a cold six-pack of Bud.”

“Sounds good,” the NYPD man says, tossing a chewed wad of Juicy Fruit out the window. “You can diddle your expense account?”

“No problem.”

“Then let’s get at it.”

They open up the smaller bags, pop two beers, divide the paper napkins, and start gorging.

“There’s mustard and ketchup in those little packs,” Cone says.

“I’ll skip,” the city bull says. “I’m on a diet. Listen, I haven’t got much time, so I’ll give you the background fast. There’s a gang up in Hell’s Kitchen—only it’s Clinton now—called the Westies. Mostly Irish, and a meaner bunch of villains you never want to meet. I mean they make the outlaws in Murder, Inc., look like Girl Scouts. There’s a story that one of the Westies walked into a bar up there carrying the head of a guy he had just popped.”

“And the bar was Paddy’s Pig?”

“You got it. That’s where the Westies hung out. They were mostly into gambling and loan-sharking on the piers. But when the West Side docks dried up, the Westies went into everything else—drugs, prostitution, porn—you name it. Then, about ten years ago, they got into contract killings, including some for one of the Mafia families. We figure they pulled off at least thirty homicides. Most of the victims were chopped up. One guy had his head put in a steel vise, and it was tightened until his skull cracked open like a ripe melon.”

“Beautiful. Have some more fries before I eat them all.”

They start on their second burgers.

“These onions are hot,” Davenport says. “Just the way I like them. But I’ll be grepsing all day. Anyway, about three years ago the Department organized a strike force—us and state and federal people. It worked out real good. About a dozen of the Westies were sent up, including some of the bosses, and the rest laid low. Paddy’s Pig was closed down for a while, but it reopened with a new owner. And lately our snitches have claimed the gang is back in business again. Now you tell me there’s a tie-up between Paddy’s Pig and the Dempster homicide. In the first place, what were you doing in that joint?”

Cone wipes his mouth with a paper napkin and opens another beer. “I tailed David Dempster up there.”

The NYPD man turns to stare at him. “You shittin’ me again?”

“I shit you not,” Cone says. “That’s where he went, and had a confab with the owner, a fat slob named Louie. Listen, when the Dempster investigation began, did you run everyone involved through Records?”

“Whaddya think? Of course we checked them out. David Dempster’s got a sheet—but not much of one. A charge of battery for beating up a drunk driver in Central Park who, Dempster said, killed his dog. And two arrests for assault. Nothing ever came to trial.”

“My, my,” Cone says. “So the wimp’s got a streak of the crude, has he? That figures.”

Davenport rattles the windows with a reverberant belch, then unwraps a fresh stick of Juicy Fruit. “It doesn’t figure to me,” he says. “So David Dempster went slumming and was observed talking to the owner of Paddy’s Pig. What does that prove?”

“When I talked to Louie after Dempster left, he tried to push dope. When I wasn’t interested, he switched to merchandise that fell off the truck. I told him a buddy of mine was looking to buy a motorcycle. He said sure, send him around.”

The two detectives stare at each other.

“Thin stuff,” Davenport says.

“You got anything thicker?”

“No,” Davenport admits. “We got a lot of doughnuts that are all hole. Look, could you go back to this Louie and see if he can get you a black Kawasaki, Model 650?”

“Well, ah, that might be a problem. To tell you the truth, I got in a slight disagreement with a guy who may be hanging out there.”

“A
slight
disagreement? With you that’s like being slightly pregnant. Okay, I’ll do it myself.”

“Neal,” Cone says gently, “don’t do that. They’ll make you for a cop the minute you walk in the place.”

Davenport looks down at his stained, off-the-rack brown suit, his belly, plump hands. “You really think so?” he asks.

“Definitely. Why don’t you get an undercover guy who can act a scuzz. Bring him around and I’ll prep him. He can spend time at Paddy’s Pig until he’s accepted as just another barfly. Then he can move in on Louie and see if he can get a line on the cycle. I’m betting they didn’t drop it in the Hudson or send it to a chop shop. It’s too valuable.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. If it works out, it’ll put David Dempster in the crapper. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I know it.”

“Well, what the hell was his motive? Jealousy? Sibling rivalry?”

“Sibling rivalry? That’s fancy talk for a gumshoe.”

“I read books,” Davenport protests. “Come on—what’s the motive?”

“I’m working on that.”

“Jesus,” the detective says disgustedly, “you always hold back, don’t you?”

“You handle Paddy’s Pig,” Cone says, “and let me go after David Dempster. A guy shouldn’t chill his own brother. That’s not right.”

“You got a brother?”

“No.”

“Then what the hell are you talking about?”

“I got my standards,” Timothy says.

He carries the two remaining beers up to his office in a brown paper bag. There’s a scrawny guy in a seersucker suit waiting in the reception room. He’s wearing wire-rimmed cheaters, and there’s a straw boater balanced on his knee. He’s got the face of a pale hawk, with a droopy nose and a mouth so tight it looks like a lipless slit.

“Man to see you,” the antique receptionist snaps at Cone.

The visitor stands and tries a smile that doesn’t work.

“Mr. Timothy Cone?”

“Yeah. Who you?”

The guy whips out a business card and proffers it. “Bernard Staley from International Insurance—”

“Whoa,” Cone interrupts, holding up a hand. “I’m not buying.”

“And I’m not selling. It’s International Insurance Investigators. The Triple-I. Have you ever heard of us?”

“Nope.”

“Good,” the guy says, and this time the smile works. “We like it that way. This concerns Dempster-Torrey. Can we talk?”

“Sure,” Timothy says, taking the business card. “This way.”

Staley follows him down the corridor and into Cone’s littered cubbyhole office.

“This looks like my place,” the insurance man says, “but it’s bigger.”

“Bigger? My God, you must work out of a coffin. Listen, I’ve got a couple of beers here. They’re not too cold, but they’re wet. You want one?”

He has the guy figured for a stiff, but Staley surprises him. “Sure,” he says. “That’d be good.”

They open the cans, take a gulp, stare at each other with cautious interest.

“This Triple-I you work for—” Cone says. “What is it?”

“Claims investigations. Most insurance companies have their own claims department. But some of the smaller ones can’t handle anything that’s complicated or suspicious. And sometimes the big boys get backed up with a lot of claims at once and need temporary outside help. That’s where we come in.”

“I follow,” Cone says. “But what’s your interest in Dempster-Torrey?”

Staley drums his fingertips on the top of his sailor. “The way I get it,” he says, “you were hired to investigate their industrial sabotage. Correct?”

“That’s right.”

“So you call Dempster-Torrey. They call their insurance broker. The broker calls the Central Insurance Association. And they call us.”

“There’s a helluva lot of phoning going on today,” Cone says. “Maybe I should buy some Nynex stock. But how does your company come in on this?”

“About three years ago the computers at the CIA—that’s a great name, isn’t it—picked up a big increase in property and casualty claims by large corporations. It was a jump that couldn’t be explained by normal growth, so the Triple-I was hired to take a look-see.”

“So you’ve been looking into property and casualty losses for the past three years.”

“Just for a year. The eye who had the file before me retired, and I inherited it. He got nowhere with it, and that’s exactly where I’ve got.”

“Did you investigate this stuff personally?”

“You better believe it,” Bernard Staley says. “Traveled all over the country. Spent a lot of the CIA’s money—and delivered zilch. And I usually got there a day or two after it happened. Sometimes within hours. Not only torching factories, but sabotage, and vandalism, product tampering, bribery of union leaders, consumer lawsuits, and hiring away or corrupting key personnel—in other words, a complete program to ruin the reputation and profits of the targeted company.”

“Any homicides?” Cone asks.

Staley gives him a strange look. “Funny you should ask,” he says. “The chief researcher for a biomedical outfit got wiped out in a car crash. Clear night. He wasn’t drunk or stoned. The official verdict was that he lost control of his car and drove into a concrete abutment. But the guy was some kind of a genius, and there was talk he was working on a cure for baldness. After he died, the stock of the company went way down, and the new product never did hit the market.”

“You think the guy’s accident wasn’t kosher?”

Staley shrugs. “Just a feeling,” he says. “No hard evidence at all. But I keep remembering it. He left a pretty wife and three young kids.”

“Yeah,” Cone says, “that’s hard to forget. And you’ve gotten nothing from all your digging?”

The other man blinks behind his specs. “Nothing you can take to the bank. Just a crazy notion that all these jobs—different companies, different places—were pulled by the same guy, or the same mob. A lot of similarities. In several of the arson cases, the MO was practically identical. But don’t ask me who’s behind it or what the motive might be—I haven’t a clue. Anyway, I won’t bore you with my tale of woe any longer. You wanted a list of the ten companies that had the biggest property and casualty losses. Here it is, with their total claims.”