“Simple and neat,” Cone says. “It’ll go like silk.”
“Let us pray,” MacEver says, glancing at his watch. “Okay, it’s time. You guys,” he tells the plainclothesmen, “don’t stand in front of the window and gawk, but station yourselves where you can watch what’s going on inside without being spotted.”
“I gotta take a leak,” one of them says.
“Tough,” the sergeant says. “Clench your teeth.”
MacEver and Cone cross Madison and walk south to the art gallery. They enter. MacEver removes his derby. Ingrid Laboris, the cream puff, comes swaying forward.
“Good morning, sirs,” she says with the Laboris hiss. “How may I be of service?”
“J. Ransom Bailey to see Miss Erica Laboris,” the sergeant says.
“Of course,” Ingrid says. “I shall tell her you have arrived. And how are you today, Mr. Cone?”
“Surviving,” he says. “Happy New Year.”
“Likewise,” she says. “Just a moment, sirs. Erica will be with you shortly.”
They wait stolidly. Cone turns casually, as if to inspect a crusty old pot on display, and glances out the front window. He can’t spot the two plainclothesmen. He doesn’t know if that’s good or bad.
It’s almost three minutes before Erica Laboris comes stalking out of a back room. She’s really a put-together woman, Cone thinks admiringly, with her hair elaborately coiffed and lacquered. She’s wearing a black silk dress that hints. Her fingernails are painted a jade green.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she says with her mirthless smile. “So nice to see you again.”
She’s carrying a long box of rough wood with a hinged lid. Cone notes that her clamping hands are white at the knuckles, and her long talons dig into the wood.
“Over here, please,” she says, leading the way to the receptionist’s desk. “I think you will be enchanted with this, Mr. Bailey. Authentic, very old, very unusual.”
Opens the long box. Lifts out a bundle of tissue paper. Unwraps it carefully. Withdraws an ancient sword. Holds it out to them.
To Cone, it looks like a piece of rusted iron that’s been reclaimed from a junkyard. But Terry MacEver, bending low to inspect it, is impressed.
“Beautiful,” he breathes. “A real museum piece.”
“It is indeed,” Erica Laboris says with her chilly smile. “You wish to add it to your collection?”
She puts the blade down on the tissue paper. The sergeant replaces his bowler atop his head. He reaches slowly inside his coat and withdraws his ID wallet. He flips it open and displays it to Erica.
“Sergeant Terry MacEver of the New York Police Department,” he says. “You are under arrest for receiving and possessing stolen property. I shall now read you your rights.”
She stares at him. Then turns her head to stare at the two Neanderthals piling through the front door of the gallery. Then she stares at Timothy Cone.
“You prick,” she says.
“Yeah,” Cone says, “I know.”
It takes him almost twenty minutes to stop an empty cab, and by the time he gets over to the Laboris warehouse on Eleventh Avenue, there’s not much to see. There are several empty cop cars parked outside, and a couple of blues wandering about, but otherwise things are quiet.
Cone marches up to the uniformed officer stationed at the warehouse door.
“Detective Neal Davenport around?” he asks. “I’m Timothy Cone. I’m supposed to meet him.”
“Yeah?” the cop says. “I’ll see. You wait here.”
He goes inside, and the Wall Street dick waits, lighting a Camel and pacing up and down the driveway. A couple of plainclothesmen come out, their IDs clipped to their lapels. They take camera equipment from one of the cars and go back into the warehouse.
Cone has almost finished his second cigarette before Davenport appears. He looks a little bedraggled, but happy.
“Hey-hey,” he says, “sherlock himself. How did things go at the art gallery?”
“MacEver cuffed Erica Laboris,” Cone reports. “She was peddling a sword stolen from a Beirut museum. After she’s booked, the sergeant is going back to the gallery to toss it. He figures he’ll find more goodies. How are things going here?”
“Bingo,” the city bull says. “So far we’ve found eight kilos of horse, a sweet arsenal of handguns and some small amounts of coke and pot.”
“Much cash?” Cone asks.
“A few bucks. What’s your interest in cash?”
“Something has come up I think you should know about.”
“Oh, Jesus!” Davenport says despairingly. “Have you been holding out on me again?”
“I swear I haven’t,” Cone vows, holding up a palm. “I only got a line on it last night, by accident. It’s about Laboris Investments and where Ingmar fits into this whole schmear.”
“Yeah?” the NYPD man says. “Let’s hear it.”
Cone talks rapidly for almost five minutes, as the two men walk up and down. Davenport listens intently, not interrupting. When the Wall Street dick finishes, the NYPD man looks at him narrowly and then slowly peels the wrapper from a fresh stick of Juicy Fruit.
“Could be,” he says, frowning.
“Got to be,” Cone says. “The entire Laboris clan are natural-born villains, and this puts Ingmar right in the middle of the picture.”
“But you’ve got no evidence?”
“No. Nothing.”
“So? What do you want from me?”
“Move in on Ingmar this afternoon. Take him for questioning.”
“Whoa!” Davenport protests. “On what grounds? This is one for the DA. Or the SEC.”
“Can’t you bring the DA in on it?”
“Hey, come on! It’s New Year’s Eve. Everyone will be partying. And tomorrow is New Year’s Day. Maybe the next day.”
“Too late,” Cone says desperately. “Ingmar will hear about the art gallery and warehouse by tonight. If we wait until the day after tomorrow, he’ll be long gone. Listen, are you leaning on any of the cousins in the warehouse?”
“Yeah,” the Department man says, “the shipping manager, a nerd named Edvard Laboris. We read him his rights and he started crying. I think he’s ready to crack.”
“Why don’t you brace him and see if he’ll talk about what I just told you. If he does, then you’ll have enough to get the DA’s okay to take Ingmar.”
Davenport stares at him a long time. “Well, you gave us this package, so I can’t complain. All right, I’ll see if Edvard will break. You wait here.”
He goes back into the warehouse. Cone tramps up and down, smoking furiously. A few minutes later, Petey Alvarez comes bounding out of the warehouse, rushes over to Cone, embraces him.
“You crazy sonnenbitch!” he yells. “I love you, baby. Now we’re up to ten kilos. What a score! Listen, you want to hear something nutty? This Laboris outfit brings in its own brand of perfume, cologne, and after-shave lotion.”
“I know,” Cone says. “Nuit de Fou.”
“Right. Well, half those cologne bottles are filled with high-grade shit. How do you like that? Isn’t that beautiful? Look, I gotta go. We’re still searching. Going for the world’s record. Thanks, bubbalah. I owe you one.”
He runs back into the warehouse. Cone lights another cigarette and resumes his pacing. It’s a raw, biting day, but he can feel the sweat dripping from his armpits. He wants Ingmar. It’s important to him, but for reasons he doesn’t completely understand.
It’s almost twenty minutes before Davenport comes out again, accompanied by two uniformed officers. The detective is pulling on a pair of gloves.
“Okay,” he says, “I got enough out of Edvard to make me think you guessed right. I also got a good lead on the Leonidas homicide. I’ve called the DA’s office. There’s an assistant prosecutor I’ve done a few favors for. I spelled it out for him. He grumbled about leaving his office party, but agreed to meet us at Laboris Investments in an hour. That’ll give us time to pic
k up some burgers. I’m starved.”
The man from the DA’s office is a tall, skinny gink wearing black horn-rimmed glasses. Davenport doesn’t bother with introductions, and Cone figures the city detective doesn’t want the assistant prosecutor to know that he’s working with a lousy civilian.
The outer office of Laboris Investments is empty except for a blond receptionist filing her nails. The five men descend on her, the two uniformed officers moving close to the desk. She isn’t interested.
“Could we see Mr. Ingmar Laboris, please,” Davenport asks.
“Who shall I say is calling?”
The NYPD man looks at the two uniformed cops, then back at the blond. “The Salvation Army,” he says. “On second thought, don’t bother announcing us. Go back to your nails, honey; we’ll surprise him.”
Cone leads the way to the inner office and opens the door. Ingmar Laboris is leaning back in his swivel chair, Gucci loafers parked atop his huge mahogany desk. He’s sucking on a Louisville Slugger cigar and leafing through Penthouse. He looks up when the five men come crowding in, but doesn’t change his expression. A ballsy guy, Cone decides.
“Ah, gentlemen,” he says, “what can I do for you?”
“Ingmar Laboris?” Davenport asks.
“That is correct.”
The detective and the man from the DA’s office proffer their IDs. Laboris glances at them.
“So?” he says.
“We’d like you to come down to the office and answer a few questions,” the prosecutor says.
“Now why should I do that?”
“Because it’s more comfortable than the precinct house,” Davenport says.
Ingmar takes a long drag from his cigar. Then he sets it carefully aside in the smoky quartz ashtray. He sits back again, and regards the detective gravely.
“I must tell you,” Laboris says in his sonorous voice, “I would find it very inconvenient to accompany you gentlemen. At the moment, I am waiting for a very important overseas call.”
“I’m afraid it’ll have to wait,” the DA’s man says. “Let’s not play games, Mr. Laboris. Do yourself a favor and don’t make trouble for us.”
Ingmar reflects a moment. “May I call my attorney?” he asks.
“If you feel it’s necessary,” the prosecutor says.
Laboris reaches for his phone, punches out a number. “Ingmar Laboris calling,” he says. “May I speak to Mr. Bjorn Laboris, please.” He looks up at the men standing in front of his desk. “My cousin,” he explains.
“What else?” Cone says.
Ingmar speaks rapidly into the phone in a low voice, concealing his lips with a palm. Then he hangs up.
“Very well,” he says briskly. “Bjorn will meet us at the district attorney’s office. I presume this concerns Laboris Investments?”
“That,” Davenport says, “and other things. Can we go now?”
Ingmar rises, takes a cashmere overcoat and gray homburg from a small closet. He carries the coat over his arm, but dons the homburg, adjusting it to a rakish tilt.
“You stay here,” Davenport says to one of the uniformed officers. “No one in. Not a scrap of paper removed. Got that? I’ll make sure you get a relief in a couple of hours.”
“Oh, sure,” the cop says bitterly. “On New Year’s Eve?”
On the way out the door, Ingmar Laboris pauses before Cone. “I never did get that investment from your client,” he says with a wan smile.
“The check is in the mail,” Cone says.
Samantha Whatley comes directly to the loft from the office. She swears she’s not swacked, but Cone can tell she’s got a nice mellow buzz on. That’s okay; he’s feeling no pain himself. After he returned from Wall Street, he had a couple of stalwart vodkas while preparing the evening’s festivities.
“The yams are thawed and baking,” he tells her. “The chicken is warming up on the stove. The salad is made. We’ll eat in about an hour. All right?”
“Fine with me.”
“Meanwhile, why don’t we crack a cold bottle of bubbles, just to get in the mood.”
“Splendid idea,” Sam says. “You missed a great office party, though I could have done without the Diet Pepsi in the punch. By the way, H. H. told me that Mrs. Hepplewaite paid her bill in full, your expenses included. And her daughter’s fiancé got all his money back.”
“That’s nice,” Cone says.
“How the hell did you manage that?” she asks, sipping her champagne.
“I didn’t; you did.”
“Me? What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s a long story.”
“We’ve got all night,” she says. “Come on, buster—give.”
“Well, it started when you discovered Izzy came apart.”
“I didn’t discover it; it was an accident.”
“Whatever. Anyway, that’s what broke the whole thing.”
He tells her about his purchase of the Kali statuettes, the traces of heroin found inside, and how Petey Alvarez, the narcotics cop, took over from there.
“They raided the Laboris Importers’ warehouse this morning,” he says, “and found kilos of the stuff. Petey should get a commendation at least. And all because you knocked Izzy off your bedside table.”
“Crazy,” Sam says, shaking her head. “Can we eat now? I’m famished.”
While they’re tearing the chicken apart—tossing scraps to a delighted Cleo—Cone tells her about Sergeant Terry MacEver and the sting operation.
“Another Laboris cousin,” he says. “She was hawking stolen art smuggled in by the importing company. It probably traveled halfway around the world before it got to Manhattan. Anyway, Erica’s in the clink.”
“You have been a busy little boy,” Sam says. “You want that last piece of yam?”
“No, you take it. Empty bottle? I’ll open the other.”
“I’ll get smashed,” Sam warns.
“That’s okay; you’re amongst friends.”
“So keep talking,” she says. “What’s all this got to do with Mrs. Hepplewaite and Laboris Investments?”
Cone has already decided to tell her nothing about his run-in with Sidney Leonidas and the junkie’s subsequent murder. Nor of the shoot-out on the night he and Petey Alvarez took the drug dealers. If he did, she’d just scream at him. Investigators for Haldering & Co. weren’t supposed to get involved in such vulgar activities.
“Laboris Investments,” Cone repeats. “I couldn’t see the connection with drug dealing and art smuggling. I felt in my gonads that Ingmar was an A-Number-One wiseguy, but I couldn’t figure his angle. He was paying a hefty return on investments, but that guy’s no foreign-exchange dealer. He doesn’t know a rand from a rupee. So it had to be something else—right?”
By this time the roasted chicken is destroyed, and Cleo is working on the carcass. The yams are gone, and so is most of the salad. They’re deep into the second bottle of bubbly, and decide to save the apple pie and cheddar for a late-night snack. Or morning.
They’re still at the desk, feet up on the littered newspaper tablecloth. They sip their champagne very, very slowly, eyes a mite glazed, movements slow and precise to prove their sobriety.
“What was I yakking about?” Cone asks.
“Laboris Investments. What Ingmar was up to.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, here’s where you come in again. You broke it.”
“Now how the hell did I do that?” Samantha says.
“Last night you said you wanted me to put fresh sheets on the mattress and to be sure to pick up my laundry.”
She stares at him a long moment before she gets it. “Laundry!” she yells. “Laboris Investments was laundering the cash from the dope dealing and art smuggling. Feeding it into their investment funds.”
“Right,” Cone says approvingly. “That’s exactly what Ingmar was doing.”
“But he was paying thirty percent. I can’t see any villain cutting his profits like that.”
“Eve
r hear of the Ponzi swindle?” he asks her.
“Vaguely,” Samantha says. “It works like those pyramid clubs, doesn’t it? You get a list of ten people, send five bucks to the name on top, add yours to the bottom, and send the chain letter to ten friends. When your name hits the top of the list, you’re supposed to get a million dollars. Right?”
“Right. If you get in on the start, you might make a little. If you’re down on the list, you’re just out five bucks. The Ponzi scam, which was dreamed up by Charles Ponzi in the 1920s, works something like that. You promise investors a big return on their money. Ingmar Laboris started out paying thirty percent. But he was using the money coming in from new investors. He wasn’t doing any foreign-exchange trading. He wasn’t putting the money to work in anything. He was just paying off that thirty percent from funds coming in from fresh suckers. And pocketing the rest. The swindle will work if the pool of new investors is limitless. But of course it never is. As soon as the new money stops coming in, the whole con collapses. That’s what was happening to Laboris Investments. Lucinda Hepplewaite’s boyfriend got his shekels out just in time.”
Samantha frowns. “You mean this Ponzi scheme was a cover?”
“Sure it was,” Cone says. “For the laundering operation. All of Ingmar’s cousins were putting in dirty money and then taking out clean cash. Ingmar knew it couldn’t last, but the Laboris clan did okay while it was running. I reckon they planned to close up shop in the next month or so. Then Ingmar would retire to the French Riviera and spend his remaining years indulging in Havana cigars and nymphets.”
“Where is he now?”
“In durance vile, I hope. The DA picked him up this afternoon.”
“On your anonymous tip, no doubt,” Sam says.
Timothy Files Page 35
