Sullivan's sting

by Lawrence Sanders

  "Which on which?"

  "I want to talk to them first."

  Crockett nodded. "So all we've got at the moment is that paperman, Irving Donald Gevalt. You want to pull him in?"

  "I don't think so, sir. He's small-fry. If we take him now, it might tip our hand and blow the whole investigation. We can pick him up anytime we want."

  "I suppose so," Crockett said. "But Washington is screaming. They want to see some results from all the money they've been spending. Well, they'll just have to be patient. Like me. Anything else?"

  "Yes, sir. I'd like you to authorize a black-bag job on Rathbone's town house."

  "Tap his phone? We could do that at the central exchange if you think it would yield anything." "I doubt if it would. He's too clever for that. What I had in mind was to bug the whole apartment. He had the whole gang over for a poker session. I would have loved to hear what they talked about."

  Crockett shook his head. "Too risky. If he has the place swept electronically, and the bugs are discovered, there goes your ball game."

  "I don't think he has the place swept. I don't think it would occur to him that he could be a target."

  "What would you bug?"

  "Everything, though we may have trouble getting into his office. But certainly the living room and bedrooms."

  "Bedrooms? And would you tell Rita Sullivan about the bugs?"

  "Oh no, sir. Why would we want to do that?"

  "Why indeed," said Lester Crockett, staring at him. "I'll think about it, Tony."

  14

  Manny Suarez was a feisty little man with a black walrus mustache and a habit of snapping his fingers as he walked. In fact, his walk was almost a dance step, and as he bopped along, he smiled at all the passing women. Most of them smiled back because he looked like fun.

  Manny was with the Miami Police Department, where he was called "Bunko" Suarez because that was his specialty: breaking up flimflams and swindles, especially those preying on newly arrived immigrants. He spoke Spanish, of course, but a lot of his success was due to his warm grin and ingratiating manner. The bad guys couldn't believe he was a cop until he snapped the cuffs on them.

  He bade an emotional farewell to his wife and six children in Miami and, following orders, drove up to Fort Lauderdale in his new Ford Escort for what he was told was a "special assignment."

  In Lauderdale, he reported to Tony Harker and got a two-hour briefing. Manny thought Harker was a typical Anglo: cold, starchy, and not the kind of guy you'd want to have over for a pig roast and a gallon of Cuba Libres.

  But he had to admit his new boss was efficient; Harker had already set up his cover: Manny had done eighteen months in a San Diego clink for an aluminum-siding fraud, and had decided to come east to put as much distance as possible between himself and his irate victims.

  His target was a man named Sidney Coe, wlio ran a boiler room on Oakland Park Boulevard. Manny was to apply for a job as a phone salesman, a yak, and since yaks worked only on commission, the chances were good that Coe would take him on for a trial period to see if he could fleece the mooches.

  Suarez knew all about bucket shops and assured Harker that, if he was hired, he'd be handed a script to follow. It really was an acting job, Manny said, and if he could deliver a convincing performance, he'd be in like Senor Flynn.

  "What I want out of this," said Harker, "is an inside report on Coe's operation, what he's pushing right now, how much money you figure he's stealing. Also, Coe has a good friend, a man named David Rathbone. I want to know if Rathbone has a piece of Coe's action, or what his connection with Coe might be. Got all that?"

  "Don't worry," Manny said, grinning. "I can do it. Tell me something-do I get to keep the moaney I make?"

  Tony was startled. "I never thought about that," he admitted. "I'll have to check it out with the chief. Meanwhile you try to land a job at Coe's place. Here's the address."

  "Hokay," Suarez said cheerfully.

  He already had a place to stay: a room in the home of a nice Cuban lady, a friend of his aunt's, who was happy to have a cop in the house and someone to cook for. So he drove directly to Coe's boiler room on Oakland Park Boulevard.

  It looked no different from the legit places on the wide boulevard. The sign over the door read: instant investments, inc. The sign was on a board, hung on a chain from a nail pounded into the stuccoed wall, and Manny wondered how often that sign had been changed.

  "Good morn'," he said to the receptionist, flashing his big white teeth.

  "Good morning, sir," she said, returning his smile. "May I help you?"

  "Could I speak to the boss man, pliz. I am looking for a job."

  "Just a moment, sir. I'll see if he's in."

  She spoke softly in a phone, listened a moment. Then, to Manny: "Please sit down, sir. He'll be with you in a few minutes."

  The investigator sat in an orange plastic chair and picked up a month-old copy of Business Week. He read a short article on inside trading, then tossed the magazine aside. He stared at the receptionist, who was typing away busily. She had short brown ringlets, and Manny thought her ears were exquisito. The lobes were flushed and plump. He could go loco nibbling on one of those lobes.

  Finally a skinny, suntanned guy came out of a back door and beckoned. Suarez followed him into an inner office. It was a square chamber, sparsely furnished. The desk, chair, and file cabinet looked ready to collapse, and the tiled floor was stained and scarred with cigarette burns. The man didn't sit down and didn't ask Manny to sit.

  "Looking for a job?" he asked. Cold voice.

  "Tha's right."

  "How did you hear about this place?"

  Suarez shrugged. "You know how word gets around. Maybe some of your yaks are mouthy guys. That's why they're yaks-am I right?"

  "Uh-huh. Well, I'm Sidney Coe. I own the joint. What's your name?"

  "Manuel Suarez."

  "Cuban?"

  "Mexican," Manny said, figuring this Anglo would never know the difference in the accents.

  "You live in south Florida?" Coe asked.

  "Now I do."

  "Where you from?"

  "San Diego."

  "How come you left?"

  "I had a little trouble."

  "Yeah?" Coe said. "How little?"

  Manny hung his head and shuffled his feet. "Eighteen months," he said in a low voice.

  Coe nodded. "That's a little trouble, all right. What were the eighteen months for?"

  "I was selling aluminum siding."

  Coe laughed. "That scam will never die. You ever sell by telephone?"

  "No, but I know I can do it. I can talk fast and hard."

  "I don't know," Coe said doubtfully. "You sound Spanish. I'm not sure the mooches will go for that."

  "Look, mister," Manny said, "you got Hispanic names on your sucker list-am I right? There are plenty of rich Cubans, Mexicans, Salvadorans, Nicaraguans in the country. Let me talk to the Hispanics in their own language. I ask how is their health, are their families well, how do they like the United Sta'. Hispanics like that: the personal touch. Right away they trust me. Then, when we're friends, companeros, I give them the hard sell."

  Coe stared at him a moment. "Yeah," he said finally, "that might work. Let's try it. Come with me."

  "Wait, wait," Suarez said hastily. "How much you pay?"

  "Strictly commish. Ten percent. The harder you work, the richer you get. Some of my yaks clear a grand a week. How does that sound?"

  "Hokay," Manny said.

  15

  Rathbone rose early and showered, shaved, dressed. He went downstairs where Blanche and Theodore were laughing in the kitchen. David had a small tomato juice and told them he'd be back soon to have breakfast on the terrace.

  There was a heavy morning fog, but he knew that would burn off as the sun strengthened. He drove to a nearby mini-mall that included a drugstore selling out-of-town newspapers. He parked and noticed, on the other side of the mall, a newly installed line of newspaper-
vending machines. One was the distinctive blue box of The New York Times' national edition.

  Rathbone walked over, fishing two quarters from his pocket. He dropped them in the slot, pulled down the front lid. Glancing around to make certain no one was watching, he took two copies of the Times from the box and let the lid slam shut.

  One newspaper he tossed onto the front seat of the Bentley. The other copy he carried into the drugstore.

  "My wife bought this," he said, smiling at the clerk. "It's today's paper. But she didn't know I had already bought a copy. I wonder if I can get a refund."

  "Sure," the young man said. "No problem."

  He took the newspaper and handed David two quarters.

  "Thank you very much," Rathbone said.

  He drove home, noting the fog was already thinning. It promised to be a warm, sunny day, but maybe a little humid. Rita was still sleeping, so he breakfasted alone on the terrace. Theodore served California strawberries, a toasted bagel with a schmear of cream cheese, and black coffee. Rathbone read the Business Day section of his newspaper as he ate-paying particular attention to activities in the Chicago commodity pits- and had a second cup of coffee.

  He was just leaving when Rita came straggling out, wearing his terry robe.

  "I guess I overslept," she said.

  "Not really," he said, kissing her cheek. "It's still early. But I'd better get to my office. Work, work, work.''

  "Rather you than me," she said, and yawned.

  He sat before his computer screen and took a look at balances in his checking accounts. He maintained both personal and corporate accounts. But because the government provided deposit insurance of only $100,000, he used several banks with no account in excess of the cap.

  He was working on a schedule of deposits and withdrawals when his phone rang.

  "David Rathbone Investment Management," he said. "David Rathbone speaking."

  "This is Tommy."

  "How're you doing, Tommy?"

  "Okay. Can we meet?"

  "Sure. When?"

  "Soon as possible."

  "How about a half-hour. Same place we met before." "Suits me," Termite Tommy said. "I'll be there."

  Rathbone locked his office and went back to the terrace. Rita was finishing her breakfast and reading his newspaper.

  "I have to run out for a few minutes," he told her. "Stick around for a while, will you? I may have a job for you later."

  "I'll be here," she promised. "Knock us a kiss."

  He bent to kiss her lips. "Last night was super," he said.

  "They're all super," she said. "I love being pampered."

  "Is that what you call it?" he said, laughing. "Slavery is more like it."

  The Grand Palace hadn't opened yet; the parking lot was empty except for a decrepit pickup truck. Rathbone parked, and Termite Tommy got out of the pickup and came over to join him in the Bentley.

  "Going to be a hot mother," he said.

  "I guess," David said. "Got something for me?"

  Tommy handed over a white envelope. "I hope we got the name spelled right," he said.

  Rathbone examined the forged U.S. Treasury check. It was made out to Gloria Ramirez in the amount of $27,341.46. It looked very official, with seal, numbers, computer coding.

  "A work of art," David said. "It still feels a little oily, but not so much that a busy teller would notice. How much time do we have before it dissolves?"

  "Three days. Maybe four."

  "I'll have the pusher deposit it today, and we'll draw on it tomorrow."

  "You'll let me know?" Tommy asked.

  "Of course." "That crazy German wants a third."

  "Let's wait till we see how this goes. When we have the money, we can talk a split. Except that the pusher wants her cash off the top. I promised her two grand. Okay?"

  "Sure," Termite Tommy said. "If this goes off without a hitch, maybe we can use her again. Have a nice day."

  "You, too," Rathbone said.

  He drove home and found Rita in her bedroom, painting her toenails vermilion. David sat down on the bed next to her and held up the check for her inspection.

  "Don't touch it," he warned. "You might get polish on it."

  She stared long and hard at the check.

  "Queer?" she asked.

  "As a three-dollar bill. But it's beautifully done. It'll pass. As soon as your toenails dry, I want you to endorse it as Gloria Ramirez. Then drive up to Boca and deposit it at the Crescent."

  "And then?"

  "Tomorrow you go back to the bank. Draw this out plus your original deposit. Close out the account."

  "What if they ask why I'm closing an account I just opened a few days ago?"

  "Death in the family, and you've got to go home to San Antonio. Tell them anything. If you have any problems, Mike Mulligan will okay it."

  She bent down to remove the wads of cotton from between her toes. Then she straightened up to stare at him.

  "I don't like it," she said. "It's a federal rap. They'll

  lock me up and throw away the key. What if they lift my prints off the check?"

  "They won't," he assured her. "Trust me."

  She stood, naked, and began to pull on white bikini panties. "Seems to me you're asking for a whole bunch of trust. It's my ass that'll be on the line, not yours."

  "In the first place," he said, "if I thought there was any real risk, I wouldn't ask you to do it. I don't want to lose you; I already told you that. In the second place, I want to find out just how much I can trust you. If you turn me down on this, I'll know."

  "And then it's goodbye Rita?"

  "You better believe it," he said, nodding. "But if you do it, there will be other jobs, bigger jobs. So it's your future you've got to consider."

  She looked again at the check he was still holding. "What's in it for me?" she asked.

  "Now you're talking like a mature adult," he said, giving her his 100-watt smile. "A grand for this job. And much more to come if you play along."

  "All right," she said. "I'm game."

  "That's my girl," he said, pulling her close.

  He watched her endorse the check "For deposit only" and the account number. Then he went back to his office. Rita dressed and drove her Chevy up to Boca Raton, where she deposited the Gloria Ramirez check at the Crescent Bank. Then she called Tony Harker.

  "A counterfeit Treasury check?" he said. "I can't believe it. Most yobs are specialists. A bank robber does nothing but hit banks. A strong-arm guy mugs people. They very rarely go outside their field. Like a gynecologist doesn't do tonsillectomies. Now we've got David Rathbone, a con man, going in for forgery. It doesn't make sense."

  "I'm just telling you what he told me."

  "I know," Harker said. "All right, do exactly what he wants. Go back to Boca tomorrow and close out the account. I'll take it from there. We'll let the Ramirez check clear so we have evidence of counterfeiting and bank fraud."

  "I suppose I'll have to testify."

  "Of course," he said. "That doesn't scare you, does it?"

  "No," she said.

  "Listen," he said in a low voice, "when am I going to see you again?"

  She laughed. "Anxious?" she asked.

  "Not anxious," he said. "Eager."

  "That's nice," Rita said.

  16

  The fourth man assigned to Anthony Harker's staff came from the U.S. Attorney's office in Chicago. He had helped investigate and prosecute a stock-rigging fraud that had sent a half-dozen brokers and financiers to jail. His name was Simon Clark, and Harker disliked him on sight.

  There was nothing wrong with Clark's appearance, although he could have lost twenty pounds, but he had a supercilious air about him and made no effort to hide a patronizing attitude toward Lester Crockett's supra-agency. Obviously, he thought Fort Lauderdale was no Chicago, and nothing that might advance his career could possibly come out of this rinky-dink operation.

  He listened, expressionless, when Harker explained th
at his target was Mortimer Sparco, a discount broker with offices on Commercial Boulevard. Sparco was suspected of possible fraud and criminal conspiracy in the trading and manipulation of penny stocks, thinly traded securities that usually sold for less than $1 a share. In addition, Sparco was a close friend of David Rathbone, who called himself an investment manager but was quite possibly a con man swindling his clients with a variation of the Ponzi scheme.

  "What I want you to do is-" Harker started.

  "I know what you want," Clark interrupted. "You want me to pose as a new client, find out what Sparco is pushing and promising, and if this Rathbone is in on it."

  The fact that he was completely correct didn't make his superior manner any easier to endure. "That's about it," Harker admitted, and couldn't resist adding, "Think you can handle it?"

  The other man gave him a glare that might have chilled defendants in a courtroom, but had absolutely no effect on Tony.

  "You don't need an assistant DA for a job like this," Clark said. "Any gumshoe could do it."

  Harker shrugged. "You want out? Planes leave for Chicago all the time. It'll go in your file, of course."

  That rattled the attorney. "I'll look into it," he said. "Besides, it's getting cold in Chicago." His smile was stretched.

  "Uh-huh," Tony said. "Keep me informed. Calls every day, and a written report every week. I'll try to find you a desk and chair in the bullpen."

  Cursing his luck at being dumped in what he considered a backwater, Clark returned to his hotel on the Gait Ocean Mile and changed from his heavy tweed suit to polyester slacks and a lightweight sports jacket. He stopped at the hotel bar for a quick gin and bitters, then got into his rented Olds Cutlass and drove back to Commercial Boulevard.

  Sparco's place of business was located in a long, low building that also housed a unisex hairdresser, a real estate agency, a women's swimwear shop, and a store that sold and shipped Florida oranges "Anywhere in the World!"

  The brokerage itself looked legit enough. There was a small anteroom with wicker armchairs and a table piled with financial periodicals. There was also a TV set with the stock tape jerking across the screen. Two old geezers wearing Bermuda shorts and sandals stood in front of it, transfixed by the moving price quotations.