Sullivan's sting

by Lawrence Sanders

  He nodded.

  "I don't have to give you an answer right now, do I, David?"

  "No, of course not. Maybe my deals will go sour. And then I'll have to change my plans. Or postpone them. But you'll think about it?"

  "Yes," she said, "I will."

  "Good. Now let's go home."

  "Are we going to the Palace tonight?"

  "I'd rather not," he said. "Let's spend it together. Just the two of us."

  "I'd like that," she said.

  31

  Anthony Harker's office was jammed. He had brought in folding chairs so his crew had a place to sit, but it was shoulder-to-shoulder and everyone was smoking up a storm. The air conditioning wasn't coping. But Harker wasn't having an allergic reaction.

  "Okay," he said, "here's what we've got. Roger, we'll start with you. That stuff in Frank Little's baseball tested out as high-grade cocaine."

  "Thought it might," Fortescue said.

  "You figure he's importing and selling?"

  "I'd guess not. I think he's just a trafficker. His customers make their own buys. The stuff comes to Little's warehouse in baseballs from Haiti, and the dealers pick it up there. It's like a distribution center. He charges a fee for providing a service. But he's not pushing the stuff himself."

  "That reads," Harker said, nodding. "I've persuaded Mr. Crockett to hold off raiding the warehouse until we learn more about Little's operation. If we get called for stalling the raid, we can always say we were trying to track the source and the guys making the pickups-which is the truth."

  "That would take an army of narcs," Fortescue said.

  "Maybe not," Tony said. "We're trying to get more bodies assigned to us. They'll tail those vans and trucks you spotted to their eventual destinations. It looks to be a big, well-organized distribution system, and we'll hold off busting the warehouse until we know the identity of Little's customers."

  "That coke I found in Mike Mulligan's toilet," Henry Ullman said, "you figure it came from Frank Little's baseballs?"

  "The lab says no," Harker said. "It was high-grade cocaine all right but had a different chemical signature-whatever that is-from the stuff Fortescue found. Henry, you think Mike Mulligan is snorting?"

  "I don't think so. I've become close pals with the guy and he shows no signs of it. He loves the sauce, but I think he just uses the coke to get women. Some of them are young and attractive, too. He pays off with the dust, and it's party time every Saturday night."

  "Where's he getting it? Does he buy it?"

  "I doubt it. Not in that quantity. If he was paying for it, he'd have been dead broke a long time ago. According to your snitch, David Rathbone said that James Bartlett claimed Mulligan was on the pad. How's this for a scenario: Bartlett is laundering drug money through the Crescent Bank, and Mike Mulligan is his contact. Mulligan is a bank officer; he could fiddle the deal. And Bartlett pays him off with coke."

  "That's possible," Tony said. "Likely, in fact. You know, we started out tracking a gang of con men and swindlers, and now it's beginning to look like they're up to their ass in dope. Suarez, Clark, have you heard anything about Coe or Sparco pushing any kind of drugs?"

  "Not me," Manny Suarez said. "Coe smokes a joint now and then, but all he's pushing right now is that crazy commodity fund."

  "The same with Sparco," Simon Clark said. "He's selling shares in the Fund like there's no tomorrow. I checked all my contacts in Chicago, and no one in the commodity pits ever heard of the Fort Knox Fund and there's no record of any trades under that name."

  Harker sighed. "All right," he said, "just keep on doing what you're doing, but try to dig a little deeper. That Fund may be an out-and-out fraud or it may be a front for something bigger. I think it is, but can't pin it down. That's all for now."

  They rose and began folding chairs so they could get out of the office.

  "Wait a minute," Tony said. "I want the four of you to take a look at something and tell me if it means anything to you."

  He opened his desk drawer, took out copies of the lists Rita Sullivan had fished from David Rathbone's wastebasket. He handed them to Ullman.

  Henry read them, shook his head. "They don't make any sense to me," he said, and handed them to Suarez.

  Manny read them over twice. "Nada, "he said. "Just words." He passed them along to Clark.

  Simon scanned them quickly, shook his head, gave them to Fortescue.

  Roger read them, shrugged, returned them to Harker. "Means nothing," he said. "Just-" He stopped suddenly. "Wait a minute. Let me have another look." He took the lists back from Tony and studied them again. "Uh-huh," he said, grinning. "Five words beginning with C, five with H, five with M. C, H, M. Put them all together and they don't spell Mother. But they could be code words for cocaine, heroin, and marijuana."

  Harker stared at him, then took a deep breath. "Thank you very much," he said.

  After they left, Tony called Lester Crockett's secretary. "Five minutes," he said. "That's all I need." "Hang on a moment," she said. "I'll check with him."

  He waited, took his inhaler out of his shirt pocket, tossed it into the bottom desk drawer.

  She came back on. "All right, Mr. Harker," she said. "Five minutes. Right now."

  "On my way," he said.

  He stood in front of Crockett's desk and told him about the lists of words from Rathbone's wastebasket. He handed over the copies.

  "I couldn't make any sense out of them, sir," he said.

  Crockett read the lists slowly. Then again. "Nor can I," he said.

  "I showed them to my men. Roger Fortescue caught it. The lists start with C, H, and M. Standing for cocaine, heroin, marijuana."

  Crockett looked at him and nodded. "Possible," he said.

  "Probable, sir," Tony said. "And if so, Rathbone, his pals, and that Fund are involved in drug dealing. Those lists are potential code words. The nouns with checkmarks are the ones Rathbone selected. I guess they need code words for messages, documents, and telephone conversations concerning their deals."

  Crockett nodded again.

  "It's all supposition," Harker said. "Smoke and mirrors. But I think there's a good chance the Fort Knox Fund is trading commodities all right: coke, shit, and grass. Now can I put central-office taps on Rathbone's phones and bugs in his town house?"

  "All right," Crockett said, "you win. Draw up a detailed plan of how all this is to be accomplished and the evidence justifying it. We'll have to get a court order."

  "Will do," Tony said.

  "And you're still determined not to tell Sullivan about the bugs?"

  "She has no need to know," Harker said stubbornly.

  Crockett didn't say anything. Tony turned to leave, then stopped.

  "I was supposed to be covering white-collar crime," he said. "As I told my men a half-hour ago, it now looks like the sharks we're tracking are into drug dealing. And Rathbone is dabbling in counterfeiting. It's unusual for criminal leopards to change their spots. How do you account for it, sir?"

  The chief clasped his fingers across his vest, stared up at the ceiling almost dreamily. "The something-for-nothing syndrome," he said. "Con men depend on human greed for their livelihood. If it wasn't for greed, swindlers would have no victims. What do they call them-mooches? Most people have get-rich-quick dreams. How else can you explain the popularity of lotteries? The sharks exploit that dream and profit from it. But their defeat is inevitable. Because they themselves are not immune to the dream. Your swindlers and sharpers see the enormous profits being made in the drug trade, and they can't resist trying to get a piece of the action. They are just as unthinkingly greedy and vulnerable as their mooches. In fact, they are mooches, too."

  Tony Harker laughed. "Maybe we all are mooches."

  Lester Crockett brought his gaze down from the ceiling and stared at him. "Maybe we are," he said. "Greedy in irrational ways. Not only for money, but for fame, pleasure, power." He paused. "Perhaps even for love," he said. "Your five minutes are up."


  32

  A few of the yaks in Sid Coe's boiler room worked till midnight, culling their lists for West Coast suckers.

  But Manny Suarez and most of the others quit work around six or seven o'clock. Ten hours in that noisy sweatbox were enough; they had to unwind, have a cold beer, replenish their store of nervous energy for the next day's wheeling and dealing.

  "Suarez," one of the yaks called as Manny was heading for his Ford Escort, "do you have a few minutes?"

  "Yeah, sure. You wanna go have a coupla brews?"

  "Not at the moment," the man said, coming up close and lowering his voice. "I have a private matter I'd like to discuss with you. Let's sit in my new Porsche. I just took delivery."

  It was a midnight-blue 928S4 model, and Manny could believe the talk that the owner was the highest-paid yak at Coe's, averaging a reported two grand a week in commissions. His name was Warren Fowler. He was an older man who dressed like an investment banker and never removed his jacket no matter how steamy it got in the boiler room. Suarez thought he talked "fancy."

  "Nice car," Manny said, stroking the leather upholstery. "I even like the smell."

  "It's advertised as capable of doing one-sixty," Fowler said, "but I haven't let it out yet. Would you like one just like it?"

  "Oh sure," Suarez said, "but I don't rob banks. Not my shtick, man."

  "You won't have to. Tell me something: Do you enjoy working for Coe?"

  "It's hokay. The moaney's good."

  "Good? Compared to what Coe is netting, it can't even qualify as peanuts. Ten-percent commission-that's obscene!"

  "Yeah, sure, but he's taking all the risk. The feds move in, and he's liable for fraud, and he goes to the slam. You and me, we can cop a plea and maybe get off with probation or a slap on the wrist. But Sid would do hard time."

  Fowler shrugged. "I doubt if he'd get more than a year or so. Just the cost of doing business. And when he came out, I'm sure he'd still have all his profits in overseas accounts."

  Suarez turned sideways to stare at him. "What's on your mind? You want us to go on strike for more dough?"

  "Don't be absurd. But about six months ago a gentleman came to me with a proposition that sounded too good to resist. I've tried it, and it's turned out to be just as good as it sounded. This man wanted me to talk to a selected few of the other high-producing yaks to see if they'd be interested in doubling their income. I've spoken to four so far, and they've all joined up. Now I'd like to lay it out for you. I should tell you immediately that I get a bonus for every yak I bring into the scheme. But my bonus is nothing compared to the money you'll be making."

  "So now you've given me the buildup. Let's hear the rest of the script."

  "It's simplicity itself. Here's how it works: This man has established a small office in West Palm Beach. It's really just a mail drop. Now suppose I close a deal for five thousand. My regular commission would be five hundred. But if Coe isn't hanging over my shoulder, I tell the mooch to mail his check to that office in West Palm Beach. When the money arrives, I get seventy-five percent or a sweet $3,750. How do you like that? The man running the mail drop takes twenty-five percent for renting the office, cashing the checks, and the risk."

  "It's a rip-off."

  "Of course it is. But there's poetic justice there. Coe is sweating his peons and paying a ridiculously small commission for our hard work. Now the clipper is getting clipped. Nothing wrong with that, is there? But of course you can't do it with all your deals or Coe's income would fall off drastically, and he'd smell a rat. I usually limit myself to one big sale a week, and I've advised the other four yaks to do the same. The important thing is not to get too greedy. Coe will never notice if you're skimming one deal a week. Just make it a biggie."

  "And you've been pulling this for six months?"

  "That's correct. And our esteemed employer doesn't have a glimmer of suspicion that he's being royally rooked."

  "If he ever finds out, he'll have your kneecaps blown away."

  "How can he possibly find out? The man who devised this scheme is very insistent that we keep our take modest. Even at that, I estimate the five of us are costing Coe close to a hundred grand a month. Serves him right."

  "This guy who's running the chisel," Suarez said, "what's his name?"

  "You have no need to know that," Fowler said. "Just take my word for it that he pays off promptly. He's content with his cut."

  "He should be," Manny said. "With five yaks nicking for him, he's probably clearing twenty-five big ones a month."

  "He's entitled. After all, old boy, it was his idea. Well, what's your decision? Coming in with us? You'd be a fool not to. And if I thought you were a fool I would never have solicited you."

  "Lemme think about it tonight," Suarez said. "Ho-kay? I'll tell you tomorrow."

  "Excellent," Fowler said. "If you decide to join us, you get the address of the West Palm Beach office and can begin doubling your income."

  Manny drove home in a thoughtful mood. Since working at Instant Investments, Inc., he had been turning in his weekly take to Anthony Harker-but not all of it. He had been skimming two or three yards a week and sending money orders home to his wife in Miami. He figured the government would never miss the money, and if the boiler room was raided, Suarez was confident that Coe kept no records of commissions he had paid his yaks.

  But this chiseler in West Palm Beach was an unknown. If he got busted, the feds might find records detailing all his transactions, and then, conceivably, Manuel Suarez would be in the sopa. He decided that as a matter of self-preservation, he'd better play this one straight.

  Later that evening he got out of his hostess' bed and stumbled into the living room. He called Harker's night number and when Tony came on, Suarez told him all about the proposition from Warren Fowler.

  Harker laughed. "Beautiful," he said. "The screwer gets screwed. And I'll bet it's one of his Grand Palace buddies who's doing the screwing. Probably David Rathbone. Swindling friends is his style."

  "What do you want I should do?" Suarez asked.

  "Go for it. And try to find out for sure who's running the scam."

  "Hokay," Manny said.

  33

  Lester Crockett tried to get additional personnel to do the job on Frank Little's warehouse, but Washington reminded him that he was already over budget; he would have to make do with the men he had. So he did the next best thing: He cut a deal with the local office of the Drug Enforcement Administration.

  "I don't like it any more than you do," he told Harker. "But we'll have to live with it."

  The deal took a long afternoon of often rancorous argument to arrange, but eventually an agreement was hammered out that had as many compromises as the Treaty of Ghent.

  The DEA would take over surveillance of FL Sports Equipment, Inc., and responsibility for tracing the Haitian source of the coke-filled baseballs and trailing the vans and trucks that picked them up at the warehouse. In return, the DEA agreed not to bust the operation or collar Frank Little without Crockett's prior notification and approval. Hiram Johnson, one of Crockett's men and Roger Fortescue's buddy, was assigned to liaise with the DEA's investigative team.

  So it happened that on a blustery night in late November, Fortescue conducted Johnson to his hideaway in the deserted fast-food joint adjacent to Little's warehouse. The hurricane season had ended, but the weather had turned mean and brutal. A northwest wind was driving gusts of cold rain, and both men were drenched before they could duck into the restaurant, Roger leading the way with his lantern.

  "Loverly," Johnson said, peering around. "Perfect for weddings and bar mitzvahs."

  Fortescue showed him the office where boards covering the window could be moved apart to provide a clear view of the goings-on at FL Sports Equipment.

  "All the comforts of home," Roger pointed out. "I even dragged in this swell crate so your guys will have a place to sit while they peep."

  "Primitive," Johnson said. "Definitely primitive.
But as they say in real estate circles, the only three things that count are location, location, and location."

  Within a week, the DEA, working through a dummy corporation, had leased the empty building and were ostensibly converting it into a new restaurant. A sign went up-finny fun-and underneath a promise that read "Coming Soon: Fresh Fish."

  The exterior renovation went slowly; the outside of the building showed little change. But inside, in the small office, DEA specialists built a fully equipped command post with telephones, two-way radios, video cameras, bunks for two men, a hot plate, and enough canned provisions to feed a regiment. The toilet was put back into working order, power was restored, and the kitchen faucets flowed.

  The cameras were the first equipment installed, and were put into use immediately with hypersensitive film to record nighttime activities. The arrival and departure of vans and trucks taking delivery of Little's baseballs were radioed to teams of agents parked along Copans Road, and the shadowing began.

  Having played his role, Roger Fortescue ambled into Anthony Harker's office.

  "I guess I'm out of a job," he said. "Not quite," Tony said. "How would you like to go to Lakeland?"

  34

  The rain ended during the early morning hours. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass, salt sea.

  Theodore mopped up puddles on the terrace and turned the cushions. Rita and David had breakfast out there: grapefruit juice, toasted raisin bread with guava shells and cream cheese, coffee laced with cinnamon.

  "I forgot to tell you," Rita said. "I came home early, and the phone in your office was ringing. Why don't you put your office phone on the regular line so someone can take messages when you're out?"

  "I don't want to mix my private life with business," he said, smiling at her. "If it's important, they'll call back. Probably one of my clients."