Sullivan's sting

by Lawrence Sanders

  "Apparently a legit real estate lady," Rita said, "with a small-time scam going on the side. She owns a house-sitting outfit for rich clients who go north from May to November. She gets paid to inspect their homes or condos weekly and make sure the air conditioning is working and the place hasn't been trashed. What the

  owners don't know is that she's also renting out their homes to tourists. In fact, some of the places are probably hot-pillow joints. But she makes a nice buck."

  "Beautiful. And Frank Little?"

  "Here's his business card. Notice the last line."

  Tony read aloud: " 4We have the balls for it.' It doesn't double me over with laughter. You think he's legit?"

  "And playing around with that crowd? I doubt it."

  "All right," Harker said, "I'll have him checked out. Sparco?"

  "A discount broker on Commercial. I think he deals in penny stocks. He also handles Rathbone's Wall Street investments."

  "Then he'll be registered with the SEC, and I can get a look at his books. Sidney Coe?"

  "He's got a boiler room on Oakland Park Boulevard. Right now his yaks are pushing precious metals."

  "We can't do much on that until someone files a complaint. But mooches are funny; they'll take a big loss and immediately fall for another sucker deal, trying to recoup. They never do. What about James Bart-lett?"

  "A pleasant roly-poly guy. Something to do with banking. He seems to know every bank in south Florida."

  "Laundering drug money?"

  "Could be," Rita said. "He and David had a long, whispered conversation last night before the party broke up. Bartlett was doing most of the talking. And that's all I've got so far. I should be able to fill in some of the blanks as I get to know these people better."

  "What's your take on Rathbone?" Tony said. "The honcho?"

  "Well, I get the feeling that they're all independent operators, but they do look up to him. He sits at the head of the table. 'Our scoutmaster,' Frank Little called him. They seem to respect his opinions, but I don't think he bosses them."

  "Good start, Rita," Harker said. "You've given me enough to requisition some more warm bodies from Crockett and get the wheels turning. Now I suppose you want to go home."

  "Why do you suppose that?" she asked. "Is the beer all gone?"

  "No, I have another six-pack."

  "Break it out, sonny boy, and let's kick off our shoes and Confess All."

  They slumped with feet up on a scarred Formica cocktail table, sipped their beers, stared at each other.

  "Listen, Tony," she said, "I want you to know you were right on target with that dinky little pistol and the fake newspaper clipping. Rathbone did go through my bag, and I think those decoys convinced him I was in the game."

  Harker shrugged. "Con men are easy to con. Their egos are so big they just can't conceive of being diddled. But don't relax. I had a talk with the boss about you. I told him I was afraid that if Rathbone ever discovers you're a plant he might turn physical."

  "What did Crockett say?"

  "He said you can take care of yourself."

  "He's right; I can."

  "Just be careful, will you?"

  "Yes, mommy. And I'll look both ways before I cross the street."

  Harker stirred restlessly. "You never know how a rat is going to act when he's cornered."

  "David's no rat; he's a pussycat. I can handle him."

  Tony took the inhaler from his shirt pocket, turned it in his fingers. Then he put it away without using it. "There's something else."

  "What's that?"

  He sighed. "You might as well know. I don't like the idea of you-or any other woman-putting out just to help me make a case."

  "Well, aren't you sweet," she said, and leaned forward to pat his cheek. "Don't give it a second thought. I worked a drug case in Gainesville last year. My partner was a local cop everyone called King Kong. He was six-six and must have weighed three hundred. He used to be a second-string linebacker for the Dolphins. Anyway, when King Kong questioned a suspect, he'd never touch the fink with his hands, but he'd crowd him, coming in close and pushing his big chest against the guy. The suspect would look up and see this monster towering over him, and he'd start singing. King Kong was using his body to get the job done. I use my body in the same way."

  "Not exactly," Harker said in a low voice.

  "Look, Tony, I don't have the muscle of a male cop, so I use what I do have. If we rack up Rathbone and his pals, it'll go into my jacket and eventually I'll get a raise or promotion. I'm doing it for myself as much as I am for you."

  "I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "It just doesn't seem right."

  "Right? What the hell is right? You're talking like a Boy Scout."

  "I suppose," he said. "Maybe I'm a closet puritan."

  "Married?"

  "No."

  "Ever been?"

  "No."

  "Me neither," she said. "I've been too busy having fun."

  "You call being a cop having fun?"

  "It is to me. I like the challenge."

  He looked at her directly. "And the danger?"

  She thought a moment. "Maybe," she said finally.

  She reached up and untied the bandanna. Shook her head and let her long hair swing free. She toyed with the zipper tab on her jumpsuit.

  "I haven't got a thing on underneath," she said. "Interested? ''

  "Yes," Tony said.

  "I'd be deeply, deeply wounded if you weren't. Does this dump provide clean sheets?"

  "They were supposed to change them today."

  She rose. "Let's go see if they did."

  She sat on the edge of the bed, watched him undress.

  "My God," she said, "you look like an unbaked breadstick."

  "I know," he said. "A golden boy I ain't."

  "That's all right," Rita said, inspecting him. "You've got all the machinery."

  She stood, unzipped the jumpsuit, wriggled out of it. She flopped back on the bed, bouncing up and down a few times.

  "Come on," she said, holding out her arms to him. "Everyone deserves a little joy."

  "I suppose," he said.

  8

  David Rathbone waved the valet away and parked the Bentley himself. "What time have you got?" he asked.

  Rita held her new gold Seiko under the dash light. "About a quarter to eleven."

  "Don't give me about; what time exactly?"

  "Ten forty-three."

  He consulted his own Rolex. "Okay, I've got it. Now you sit out here and don't come into the Lounge until exactly eleven o'clock. You've got to be on the dot. Understand?"

  "Sure. What's this all about?"

  "Tell you later."

  He picked up his gimlet at the bar and sauntered over to the big table. Trudy and Jimmy Bartlett were there, and Cynthia and Sid Coe. They all waved a greeting.

  "Where's Rita?" Trudy asked. "You haven't ditched her already, have you?"

  "Not yet," Rathbone said, smiling. "She had some things to do. Said she'd meet me here at exactly eleven." He glanced at his watch. "In seven minutes. She's very prompt."

  Sid Coe rose to the bait.

  "A prompt woman?" he said. "That's like a fast turtle. Ain't no such animal." "Rita is prompt," David insisted. "If she said she'll be here at eleven, she will be."

  "Ho ho ho," Coe said. "She'll be late; you can count on it."

  "A little wager?" Rathbone said. "I'll bet you twenty Rita will show up here at eleven, within a minute either way."

  "You're on," Coe said. "Easiest twenty I ever made. I know women."

  They sat comfortably, smiling pleasantly at each other, occasionally glancing at their watches. At precisely eleven o'clock Rita came sailing through the side door of the Lounge.

  "Hi, everyone," she said.

  Rathbone held out his hand to Coe. "Twenty," he said. "Clean bills, please."

  "Tell me something, dimwit," Cynthia said to her husband, "have you ever won a bet with David?"

&n
bsp; "And no one else has either," Trudy Bartlett said. "Our David has the luck of the devil."

  "You make your own luck in this world," Rathbone said.

  "Ernie's waving at you, David," Rita said.

  He turned to look. Ernie gestured toward the end of the bar where Termite Tommy was standing.

  "Please excuse me," Rathbone said, rising. "Keep the party going. I'll be back in a few minutes."

  He took Tommy out to the parking lot. They sat in the back of the Bentley and lighted cigarettes.

  "You're right," David said. "It's got possibilities- but it needs managing."

  "That's why I came to you." -

  "How much does that German printer want for the paper?"

  "He wants a piece of the action. But I figure we can always cook the books. Besides, he's usually half in the bag."

  "Uh-huh. That check you gave me dissolved in about four days. Is that the usual time?"

  "Three days to a week. It's not exact."

  "That's even better," Rathbone said. "I've been talking to Jimmy Bartlett. You know him?"

  "No."

  "He's in the game. He knows everything about banks. He should; he owned one up in Wisconsin until the examiners moved in. He did a year and nine, and he was lucky. Anyway, he knows how banks move checks. I asked a lot of questions-without mentioning the self-destruct paper, of course-and Jimmy gave me some good skinny on how to hang paper with minimum risk."

  "How do we do that?" Termite Tommy asked.

  Rathbone turned to look at him in the gloom. "I figure the best is to print up government checks."

  "Holy Christ!" Tommy cried. "That's a federal rap."

  "So is mail and wire fraud. No matter how you slice it-queer civilian checks or government checks-the bottom line is Leavenworth. But I think it can be fiddled. The risk-benefit ratio looks good to me. The big plus in using fake checks from Uncle Sam is that, according to what Jimmy told me, you can draw against them in one day. Sometimes immediately if the bank knows you."

  "I don't get it."

  "Look, if you write a forged check against someone who lives, say, in California, that crazy paper would be sawdust before the check clears. That means the California bank will never debit it to the mooch's account because all they've got is a handful of confetti. But if a local bank will credit a U.S. Treasury check within a day, then you can draw on it and waltz away whistling. By the time the blues catch up with the scam, that fake check is little bitty pieces of nothing, and they've got no evidence. No fraud. No counterfeiting. No forgery. Nothing."

  "Yeah," Tommy said slowly, "I can see that."

  "What I figure is this: We'll make a trial run. Have the Kraut make up a fake U.S. Treasury check, complete with computer code. Make it look like an IRS refund or something. Then we'll get the pusher to set up a checking account in a local bank. After the account is established, the fake government check is deposited. The next day the pusher takes out the money and disappears."

  Tommy lighted another cigarette. "The way you explain it makes sense. Let's try it and see how it works. But don't expect me to do the pushing. I've done all the time I want to do."

  "No," Rathbone said, "not you and not me. I think I've got the right player for the part. As soon as you have the check ready, let me know.''

  "How much you want to make it for?"

  "Some odd number. Like $27,696.37. Not over fifty grand. We'll start small and see how it goes."

  Termite Tommy nodded and got out of the car. Then he leaned back in. "You'll have to give me the name of the pusher. It's got to be printed on the check."

  "I'll let you know," Rathbone said, and took a business card from his Mark Cross wallet. "Here's my front; it's legit. David Rathbone Investment Management, Inc. Call me there when you're set."

  "Will do," Tommy said, and walked away.

  Rathbone went back into the Grand Palace Lounge. All the gang had assembled, and everyone was laughing up a storm. David took his chair at the head of the table and winked at Rita. She rose and came behind him, leaned down and nuzzled his cheek.

  "Where have you been?" she asked.

  "Business," he said.

  "Monkey business?"

  "Something like that. How would you like a job?"

  "I've got a job: keeping you happy."

  "And you succeed wonderfully. This is just a little errand with a super payoff."

  "Lead me to it," she said.

  9

  Knowing the ways of officialdom, Harker asked Crockett for ten more warm bodies. He got four, which was one less than he had hoped for. They were reportedly all experienced investigators from agencies lending personnel to Crockett's operation.

  Tony started with a local from the Broward County Sheriff's Office. He was a tall black named Roger For-tescue.

  "That's an unusual moniker," Harker said. "English, isn't it?"

  "Beats me," Roger said. "Could be. My folks come from tidewater Virginia. I got a grandpappy still alive. When he talks, I catch about every third word he says. What kind of an outfit is this?"

  "Mostly white-collar crime."

  "Nobody in south Florida wears white collars. We got red, green, yellow, all-colored golf shirts. Call it purple-collar crime and you'll be closer to the mark."

  "I guess," Harker said. He passed Frank Little's business card across the desk. "This is your subject."

  Fortescue held the card a moment without reading it. "What's his problem?"

  "Unsavory associates."

  "Sheet," the investigator said, "they could rack me

  up on that charge. I guess you want the inside poop on this guy."

  "You've got it. He may turn out to be clean, but I want him checked out."

  "No strain, no pain. I report to you?"

  "That's right. Here's my night number. If I'm not in, you can leave a message."

  "This Frank Little-is he a heavy?"

  "You tell me."

  Fortescue nodded and rose lazily. "I'll take a look at him. Keep the faith, baby."

  Harker said, "They stopped saying that twenty years ago."

  "Did they? Well, I still say, That's cool,' but I always was old-fashioned."

  Fortescue ambled down to his four-year-old Volvo and took another look at Frank Little's business card. The guy was out on Copans Road. The snowbirds were beginning to flock down, and Federal Highway would be crowded. But the investigator figured he had all the time in the world. That Harker seemed laid-back; not the type to crack a whip.

  He found FL Sports Equipment, Inc., sandwiched between a shed that sold concrete garden statuary and a boarded-up fast-food joint that still had a weather-beaten sign: our grits are hits. Fortescue parked and eyeballed Little's place.

  Not much to it. A cinderblock and stucco building, painted a blue that had been drained by the south Florida sun. Behind it was what appeared to be a warehouse surrounded by a chain-link fence with a locked gate. A wide blacktop driveway led from the road past the office to the warehouse. And that was it-except for an American flag on a steel flagpole in front of the blockhouse.

  Roger locked the Volvo and shambled up to the office. The door was unlocked. The inside was as bare and grungy as the exterior. There was a cramped reception room with one desk, one chair, one file cabinet, one coat tree. No inhabitant. An open door led to an inner office.

  "Hello?" Fortescue called. "Anyone home?"

  A man came out of the inner office. He had hair as fine and golden as corn silk. He was wearing a sharp suit that Roger recognized as an Armani. His embroidered shirt was open to the waist, and he wore a heavy chain supporting a big gold ankh. It lay on his hairless chest.

  "Yes, sir," he said briskly. "Help you?"

  "Hope so," Fortescue said. "I'd like to buy a dozen baseballs."

  The man's smile was cool and pitying. The investigator didn't like that smile.

  "Oh, we don't sell retail," he said. "We're importers and distributors."

  "I was hoping maybe you could sell me
a dozen baseballs wholesale. Give me a break on the price."

  "We don't even sell wholesale. As I said, we're distributors. We sell to wholesalers."

  "Sheet," Fortescue said. "Well, can you tell me any local place that carries your stuff?"

  "Sorry, we have no wholesale or retail outlets in south Florida. All our sports equipment goes north."

  "You sure?"

  The flaxen-haired man gave him that irritating smile again. "I'm Frank Little. I own the business, so I should be sure. I think your best bet would be Sears or any sporting goods store on the Strip in Lauderdale."

  "I guess so," Fortescue said. "Thanks for your trouble. Sorry to bother you."

  "No bother," Little said. "I wish I could help you out, but I can't. Tell me something: Why do you want a dozen baseballs?"

  "I coach an inner-city Little League," the investigator said. "We haven't got all that many bucks. That's why I was trying to shave the price."

  Unexpectedly Little took out a fat wallet and handed Fortescue a crisp fifty. "Here," he said. "For your kids."

  "That's mighty kind of you," Roger said, "and I do appreciate it."

  Back in the Volvo he slipped the fifty into his pocket and decided he liked the way this case was shaping up.

  He drove to Federal Highway and stopped at a discount liquor store. He shot the fifty plus on a liter of Absolut, a bottle of Korbel brut and another of Cour-voisier cognac. His twin sons were still awake when he arrived home, and he roughhoused with them awhile until Estelle packed them off to bed. She returned to the kitchen to find her husband had mixed a pitcher of martinis with the Absolut. The other bottles were on the countertop.

  "What's the occasion?" she asked.

  "A nice man gave me a tip," he said. "A nice, freaky man."

  They each had two martinis and drank the champagne with a fine dinner of broiled grouper, corn on the cob, and creamed spinach. Then they took cognacs and black coffee into the living room to watch TV.

  "I wonder what the poor folks are doing," Fortescue remarked.

  "I don't want to know," his wife said.