“I was hoping you might give me your impressions.”
“Why the hell should I?” Cone asks. Then, when Gibby looks startled, he adds: “Professor, I’m in the information business. If the outfit I work for can’t use it, I trade it for something I want to know. What have you got to trade?”
Gibby draws a deep breath. “All right, Mr. Cone, how’s this: The Nu-Hope Fertility Clinic is engaged in original biotechnological research that could—and I emphasize could—have a vital effect on the security of our country. I can tell you no more than that, except to say that what we’re concerned with may sound like science fiction, but it is actually in the realm of the possible. Others, individuals, are interested in that research for personal gain. Other countries are interested because they wish to remain on the cutting edge of modern science. And that, I’m afraid, is all I have to trade. Is it enough?”
Cone ponders a moment. “Okay,” he says finally. “If you want my take on January and Trumball, here it is: I think he’s a charm boy. A strong puff of wind would blow him away. Not only is he ambitious, he’s greedy. He wants all the goodies: money, power, and maybe a Nobel Prize. Doctor Trumball is the brains of that outfit. She knows exactly where she’s going. Research is her shtick, and she couldn’t care less about the perks.”
Gibby is silent for a moment. “Thank you, Mr. Cone. What you’ve said reinforces my own feelings. My fears, I should say. I think I may have a problem there.”
“Welcome to the club,” Timothy says. “Can I go now?”
The government man gives him one of his sweet, slow smiles. “Of course. Do watch your back, Mr. Cone. The others are not nice people.”
“So I’ve learned.” Cone starts to climb out of the car, then turns back. “By the way, Professor, here’s a freebie for you: January and Trumball are rubbing the bacon.”
“Yes,” Gibby says, expressionless, “I am aware of that.”
They stare at each other silently, hearing all the noises of the streets: the carousel city whirling to a tinkly tune.
Cone returns to his office and slumps in his swivel chair, still wearing his raincoat and knitted cap. He’s brooding on the little that Gibby told him when Sid Apicella stops by.
“You coming or going?” he says.
“I don’t know,” Cone says, “and that’s the truth.”
“You asked me to find out about Martin Gardow.”
“And?”
“Gardow’s title is chief of special projects for Rauthaus Industries, but he’s really the hatchet man for International Gronier, which owns Rauthaus. Gardow is a shark and takes orders only from Mr. D. That’s Leopold Devers, who runs the whole shebang. Gardow has a nasty reputation. He broke a strike at one of Gronier’s factories. Three workmen were killed and one was crippled for life. Gardow is also reputed to be head of industrial espionage for Mr. D.”
“Sounds like a real charmer.”
“Oh, he is. Apparently he handles Gronier’s political payoffs and bribes, and is supposed to have a hefty slush fund. All Mr. D. is interested in are results. Tim, this guy is strictly bad news. What’s his connection with the Nu-Hope Clinic deal?”
“Maybe he wants to make a contribution to their sperm bank,” Cone says, and that’s all he’ll tell Apicella.
3
CONE GETS BACK TO the loft that night with a small barbecued chicken and two chilled bottles of Lowenbrau dark. He and Cleo share the chicken and he’s about to get back to his reading on artificial conception when there’s a sharp knock on his door. It’s not Samantha’s signal, and Cone approaches the door warily, standing to one side.
“Yeah?” he calls.
“Davenport. Let us in, for Christ’s sake. We’re not going to bust you.”
Cone unlocks, unbolts, unchains the door. Neal and Nick Galanis are standing there.
“How did you get in downstairs?” Cone wants to know.
“Your outside door has been jimmied.”
“Again?” Cone says, sighing. “Second time this month. Come on in.”
“How do you like this joint?” Davenport asks Nick Galanis. “Luxurious—no? That monster under the bathtub is supposed to be a cat.” He turns to Cone. “Aren’t you going to offer us a drink?”
“What will you have? I got beer, vodka, red wine, a little brandy.”
“Vodka for me. You, Nick?”
“I’ll have wine,” Galanis says. “I gotta get home. My daughter’s birthday party. If I miss that or turn up bombed, I’m in deep shit.”
They sit around the desk, the NYPD men still wearing their windbreakers and looking grim.
“Okay,” Cone says, “what’s the beef? You look like you’re ready to roust me.”
Davenport stares at him thoughtfully, unwrapping a stick of Juicy Fruit. “You’re holding out on us again. Harry pulled some prints in Jessie Scotto’s apartment. They belonged to Bernie Snodgrass, the punk who got killed a few doors down the block from where we’re sitting. Now how did you know the prints would match?”
“I didn’t know,” Cone says. “It was just a guess.”
“Listen,” Galanis says. “Is there any connection to Harold Besant’s death? Was Snodgrass in on that, too?”
“Look,” Cone says, “you’re asking me questions I can’t answer. If you want me to guess, I’ll try. There probably is a connection. If Besant was scragged, Snodgrass was in on it. Him and his buddy.”
“His buddy?” Davenport says. “The guy witnesses saw running away from the crashed Pontiac?”
Cone nods.
“What happened?” the city dick says. “You get bushwhacked?”
“Yeah,” Cone says reluctantly. “I was suckered into coming down to the street. They jumped me and did a job.”
“You get a make on the other guy?” Galanis demands.
“Snodgrass called him Sol. About five-ten, maybe one-eighty. Heavy through the chest and shoulders. Wearing a dark suit. A real thug. I’ve got the marks to prove it.”
“Could you pick him out of a lineup?” Davenport asks.
“Sure,” Cone says with more conviction than he feels. “Why don’t you start with Snodgrass’s pals. Maybe he and that Sol did time together. You’ll find him.”
The two cops stare at him, expressionless, then lean forward and top their jars.
“And that’s all you’re going to give us?” Davenport says. “A guy named Sol?”
Cone is silent a moment, sipping his brandy and doing some fast thinking. He knows he’s going to need help from these guys, and if he keeps stiffing them, they won’t even return his calls.
“The way I figure it is this,” he says finally. “Bernie Snodgrass and Sol were two hired hands. The kind of guys who’ll take credit cards for a kill or a beating. But there’s got to be a moneyman behind them—right? I have absolutely no hard evidence, but I’ll give you a name: Martin Gardow. He’s with an outfit called Rauthaus Industries. From what I hear, the guy’s a villain, but a real handle-with-care case. I mean he’s got a lot of money and political clout behind him.”
Davenport pulls out a notebook and ballpoint pen. “Martin what?”
“Gardow. G-a-r-d-o-w.”
“And what’s his company?”
“Rauthaus Industries. They’re on Wall Street.”
“What’s his connection with Besant and Scotto?” Galanis asks.
“Beats the hell out of me,” Cone says, “and that’s the truth. But Gardow has a heavy interest in this Nu-Hope Fertility Clinic I’m investigating. Exactly what, I don’t know. But Besant and Scotto both worked there, and my guess is that Gardow arranged both their deaths.”
“Why?” Galanis says.
“Maybe Besant was going to spill the beans,” Cone says, rubbing his forehead. “Maybe he had some reports or papers or something. Maybe it was just because of what he knew. After they kill him they’re afraid he may have told his girlfriend, so Jessie Scotto gets whacked, too. I know I’m blowing smoke, but it does make a crazy kind of sense. So
mething’s going on in a locked research lab at Nu-Hope, and a lot of people are interested. Interested enough to kill to keep it a secret.”
“And you have no idea what it is?” Davenport asks.
“No, not yet. But I’ll find out.”
“Sure you will,” Davenport says, finishing his drink and standing up. “And when you do, we’ll be the first to know—right?”
“Absolutely,” Cone says.
“When shrimp fly,” Davenport says good-humoredly. “Okay, Sherlock, we’ll see what we can dig up on Sol and Martin Gardow. Thanks for the booze.”
“Yeah,” Galanis says. “Thanks.” He stands and, unexpectedly, reaches to shake Cone’s hand. “I knew that Besant suicide was a fake. It’s been eating at me. Now we’ve got something to work on. Not much, but something. Keep in touch.”
When they’re gone, Timothy goes back to his books and reads about motile sperm fighting their brave way upstream to find a welcoming egg. Thinking of that, he’s tempted to call Samantha Whatley, but resists. He has no desire for progeny. Still …
They’re having an office party. Apicella’s secretary is getting married, and the festivities have overflowed into the corridor. Sid has sprung for a few bottles of hard booze, mixers, colas, and platters of glutinous noshes hustled up from the local deli. The bride-to-be opens her presents with giggles and blushes.
Cone, who bought her a gross of Sheiks, stands in the hallway, nursing a plastic cup of warm vodka and listening to the sounds of joy. Samantha Whatley comes up to him, glowering.
“That was a nice, romantic gift you gave her,” she says.
“What the hell,” he says, “it’s practical. If she doesn’t want to use them, she can always fill them with water and drop them out the window. Bomb the pedestrians.”
“You’re nuts, you know that? Totally nuts.”
“So what else is new?”
“I’ll tell you what’s new,” she says. “Or old. The Nu-Hope Clinic case. Time’s running out. H. H. gave us a week—remember?”
“Tell me about it,” he says bitterly. “I’m moving on it. I really am. Things are beginning to come together.”
She looks at him. “You’re shitting me,” she says.
“Yeah,” he admits, “I am.”
“Tim, why can’t you tell me what you’re up to? After all, I am your boss; I ought to know what the hell is going on.”
“Sam, I’m spinning. It wouldn’t do any good to explain what’s going on. It’s a fucking merry-go-round.”
“If you’d tell me, maybe I could help. I do have a brain, you know.”
“I know you do, but—”
Then other people crowd up to them and for almost ten minutes they’re part of a laughing, chattering group. Finally the others drift away and Whatley and Cone are standing alone again.
“Another thing …” she says in a low voice. “You know how long it’s been since we’ve been together?”
“Too long,” he says, groaning. “Every time I sneeze, dust comes out my ears.”
“Just how long do you expect me to wait?” she demands.
He gets pissed off. He can’t stand to be leaned on.
“You’re free, white, and twenty-one,” he tells her.
She stares at him. “You really are an asshole. Who the hell but me would put up with your nasty moods?”
“Cleo,” he says.
She can’t help smiling, but moves away from him. He pours himself more warm vodka from Sid’s bottle and carries it back to his office. That exchange with Samantha has shaken him more than she knows. She’s right: What other woman would put up with his lousy disposition and cruddy habits?
But he can’t waste any more time brooding about his personal happiness, or lack thereof. He’s got a job to do.
He remembers a lecture on small-unit infantry tactics delivered by an old, grizzled colonel who had so much fruit salad on his chest that he listed to port. The problem posed was how to take a bald hill held by an enemy ensconced on the heights. No ravines, no natural cover, no artillery or air cover. What do you do?
“Go home,” someone suggested.
“No,” the colonel said, “you go up the hill and take it.”
“We’d get our ass shot off,” someone else said.
“Probably,” the colonel said, smiling bleakly. “But what the fuck do you think they’re paying you for?”
So, knowing what he is paid for, Timothy wonders how he can take that goddamn hill and keep his ass intact. He remembers what Gibby said about January and Trumball: “I think I may have a problem there.”
With both doctors? Or with one? Maybe there’s trouble in paradise.
He puts in a call to Victor January, but the doctor is in surgery and will get back to him as soon as possible. Cone waits patiently, sipping his drink and chain-smoking, wondering idly which will wear out first: heart, lungs, or liver.
“Hello there, Mr. Cone!” Dr. Victor January says, finally calling back. “What can we do for you today?”
“I was hoping we could have a talk.”
“Of course. You want to come up here?”
“No,” Cone says. “A private talk. Just you and me. I would prefer Doctor Trumball not be there.”
Silence. Then, slowly: “I see. Well, I suppose that could be arranged. Any suggestions?”
“You know the Hotel Bedlington? Not too far from your place. Can you meet me there? Around three o’clock?”
“What’s this about, Mr. Cone?”
“Just a meeting for our mutual benefit.”
“All right,” January says. “The Bedlington bar at three. I’ll be there.”
“If I were you,” Cone says, “I wouldn’t mention this to your partner or anyone else.”
Again a long pause. “Very well,” January says, “I won’t.”
After he hangs up, Cone sits back, satisfied. So far, so good. He’s confident that January is going to take the bait. He returns to Sid’s office, but the party is over; no more free food or vodka. So he pulls on his newly cleaned parka and goes downstairs to have a cheeseburger and fries at a fast-food joint where he stands at a chest-high counter.
Then he cabs up to the Hotel Bedlington, and is pleased to find the cocktail lounge almost deserted. Just the bartender and one guy mumbling into his martini. Cone orders a draft Heineken and takes it to a corner table where he has a good view of the glass door leading to the lobby.
January shows up a few minutes after three. He looks around, spots Cone, and comes striding toward him with one of his sugarcane smiles. “Fink,” Cone says—but not aloud.
“Hi!” January says brightly. “This was a splendid idea. I’m ready for a break.”
“You’ll have to order from the bar,” Cone tells him. “There’s no waiter working.”
The doctor comes back with a tall drink. “Amaretto and soda,” he declares. “Delicious and refreshing.”
“Uh-huh,” the Wall Street dick says, realizing that with very little effort he could learn to loathe this man.
“Cheers,” January says, then sips his drink and flaps his lips appreciatively. “Good, good, good! You sounded very mysterious on the phone, Mr. Cone.”
“Did I?” Timothy says. “Not much mystery about it. I believe in putting my cards on the table. That’s okay with you?”
“Of course. Everything up-front.”
“Sure. Well, here’s the way I figure it: If Haldering gives the green light, Pingle Enterprises will work the deal. They’ll structure it as a public or private limited partnership, or maybe as a franchise setup, or a public stock offering. However they do it, there’s going to be a lot of bucks involved, and you’ll come out of it a rich man.”
“Not me,” January says, smiling, “the clinic.”
“But you are the Nu-Hope Fertility Clinic, aren’t you? I mean you own the whole kit and caboodle. Right now, here’s how things stand: Our legal and accounting departments have given go-aheads. The final report has to come from me. I
can turn thumbs up or down.”
“Well, I certainly hope you’ll give us your approval,” the doctor says warmly. “We’ve done everything we can to cooperate with your investigation.”
“Maybe not everything,” Cone says, staring at the other man. “Like that locked research laboratory you won’t let me see. I wouldn’t like to insist that we bring in an independent team of scientists to see exactly what you’re doing in there.”
January drains his drink, rises abruptly, goes to the bar, and returns with a refill.
“Thirsty,” he says. “A difficult morning in surgery. Now then, why should an independent scientific investigation be necessary?”
“It may not be,” the Wall Street dick says. “Not if I file a favorable report.”
They look at each other, eyeballs locked.
“How much?” January says hoarsely.
Now it’s Cone’s turn to make a trip to the bar for a refill. He takes his time, chats a moment with the bartender, letting the doctor sweat. Then he goes back to the table.
“How much?” January repeats.
“I figure if the deal goes through, you’re going to end up a multimillionaire. It only seems right and decent that I should get a little piece of the pie. To guarantee my goodwill, you understand.”
“How much?” the doctor says for the third time.
“Oh,” Cone says, waving a hand, “I figure fifty thousand is a reasonable fee.”
January tries to hide his shock but doesn’t succeed. The hand that hoists his Amaretto and soda is trembling and some of the drink spills down his chin. He wipes it away with a cocktail napkin.
“That’s ridiculous,” he says, not looking at Cone.
“Is it? Doesn’t seem so to me. I reckon I’m in the catbird seat. If I say go, it’s go. So fifty grand doesn’t seem like such a big chunk of cash.”
When he planned this scenario, Cone figured this was the turning point. If January told him to go screw himself or stalked out in a snit, then Cone’s house of cards would collapse with a crash that would splinter his femurs. In addition, if the doctor went to Haldering, screaming extortion, Cone would find himself out on the street. And then who would change Cleo’s litter box?
But January doesn’t react with anger, outrage, or even surprise. Instead, he lifts his glass a bit and replaces it on the table, several times, making a chain of interlocking damp rings.
Timothy Files Page 20
