Sullivan's sting

by Lawrence Sanders

  "I guess."

  "Sure it will. And you can't blame me for wanting a bigger cut, can you? Now about the signed contracts. . You know the cartels are strictly COD. But where am I going to get the cash to make a fifteen-kilo buy? I've lined up a broker who'll make me a loan with very low vigorish, but first he wants to see some proof that I'm good for the money. And what better evidence could he want than a signed contract stating you're willing to pay X number of dollars for those fifteen kilos in three months. Lou, you're a big man. Your name means more to the broker than mine. That's the reason for the signed contract. We'll use a code word for the coke, of course."

  "You said X number of dollars for the fifteen kilos. What's X? How much you asking per kilo for delivery in three months?"

  "That's why I asked David to come over and give us the lowdown on where the market is heading. I don't want to cheat you, and I don't want to cheat myself. I just heard a car pull up outside. That must be him. Excuse me a minute."

  And next door, the DEA agent operating the TV camera reported to his partner: "A black Bentley just pulled up. One guy getting out. Caucasian male, five-ten or — eleven, one-eighty, blond, good-looking, wearing a vested black suit, white shirt, maroon tie. Take a look at the Bentley through your binocs and let's phone in the license number, along with the plates on the silver Lincoln. Headquarters can get started on the IDs."

  "Lou, this is David," Frank Little was saying. "David, meet Lou. Mix yourself a drink and sit down."

  "I'll have one,". Rathbone said, "but only one. I've got to make this short. A heavy exporter is flying in from Mexico City, and I promised to meet his plane. What do you want to know?"

  "Your overall view of the market," Little said. "Coke especially. Where's it going-up or down? What'll the kilo price be three months from now? Six months? A year?"

  "Right now there's a product surplus," David said. "That will disappear within three months. Demand will remain steady or increase; supply will contract. In the U.S., the price per kilo will go up, up, up."

  "How do you figure that?" Siena said.

  Then, demonstrating almost total recall, Rathbone repeated the words of the renegade narc. But while Paul had merely reported, David used his words in a hard sell, leaning forward, staring steadily at Lou Siena, an easy enough trick if you concentrated your gaze on the space between a man's eyes.

  He was a dynamite yak, very earnest, very sincere, very convincing. He spoke authoritatively of the global economy, the internationalization of trade, the significance of 1992, the decision of the drug cartels to concentrate their main marketing efforts in the European Community. He explained how they planned to reduce the kilo price to lure consumers in Western Europe, which would, inevitably, lead to higher prices in the U.S.

  Lou Siena listened closely, fascinated. This was the first time he had heard such detailed financial information about his industry from a man who was obviously knowledgeable about the big picture and yet had enough street smarts to recognize how the relaxation of border regulations between European countries would facilitate drug trafficking.

  "There's no doubt about it," David concluded firmly. "You'll see the wholesale price of high-quality cocaine hit 30K per kilo within three to six months, and I wouldn't be a bit surprised to see it go to 50K within a year. Any questions?"

  "Yeah," Siena said. "How do I know you're giving me the straight poop?"

  David stiffened, narrowed his eyes, looked coldly at the New Yorker. "What possible reason would I have to scam you? I'm meeting you today for the first time. I don't know what kind of deal you and Frank are cooking up, and I don't want to know. You asked for my opinion, and I gave it to you as honestly as I know how. And I resent the implication that I'm involved in some kind of a con game."

  "Okay, okay," the other man said hastily. "I guess you're leveling."

  Rathbone nodded, finishing his drink, and stood up. "I don't care how you use what I told you, but just don't quote me as the source. I wouldn't care to have it get back to my close friends in Bogota that I'm leaking inside information."

  "Don't worry about it, David," Frank Little said. "You can depend on Lou and me. Thanks for your help."

  "Now we're even," Rathbone said. "I wish you luck. See you around." Then he was gone.

  "What did you think of him?" Little asked Siena.

  "I guess he's straight. Like he said, what possible angle could he have?"

  "Right. So let's figure coke will be up to 30K within three to six months. How about taking those fifteen kilos at 25 per?"

  Then they started haggling.

  An hour later Rathbone phoned Little from the office of the Fort Knox Fund. Rita was perched on his desk, filing her nails, bare legs crossed. As he talked, David stroked her knee.

  "How did you make out?" he asked.

  "Nineteen-five," Frank said.

  "Not bad."

  "I did my best, but he wouldn't come up. It's about five Gs more per kilo than he's been paying." "So he bought my spiel?"

  "Definitely. Very impressed. Said he'd like to meet with you again."

  "Fat chance. Did he do the contract?"

  "Signed, sealed, and delivered. Fifteen thousand chairs at nineteen-five per thousand. And the guy won't welsh, David. He's very hot on personal honor."

  "Honor?" Rathbone said, laughing and leaning forward to kiss Rita's knee. "What's that? You did a good job, Frank. See you at the Palace tonight to celebrate?"

  "I'll be there."

  Rathbone hung up and grinned at Rita.

  "Good news?" she asked.

  "The best. We're going to be rich."

  "I thought we were."

  "You know what they say: You can never be too thin or too rich."

  "I'll take care of thin," she said. "Rich is your department."

  "I'm getting there," he said. "Now let's pick up a bottle of something cold and dry, and then go home and get some sun."

  "Beautiful," she said. "I like this life."

  41

  Mr. Crockett had become increasingly tetchy of late, and Tony Harker could only conclude the man was under increasing pressure from Washington to show some results. And because the chief was feeling the heat, his lieutenants were, too, and in turn were leaning on their subordinates.

  Harker sat on one of those uncomfortable folding chairs in front of Crockett's desk and flipped through a sheaf of messages, telexes, and photographs.

  "Here's what we've got so far, sir," he reported. "David Rathbone, using the name Dennis Reynolds-same initials you'll note; so he doesn't have to throw away his monogrammed shirts, I guess-has purchased a home about twenty miles west of Limon in Costa Rica. Our man down there says it's a big ranch-type place with about ten acres of orchards and a vegetable garden. Plus a swimming pool. Right now there's an old couple living there, taking care of things."

  "Mortgage?" Crockett asked.

  No, sir, he paid cash. Reportedly about a hundred thousand American. And under the name of Reynolds, he has a balance of about twenty thousand in a San Jose bank. We're still looking for Dennis Reynolds bank accounts in the Bahamas and Caymans."

  "He's getting ready to run?"

  "Not quite yet, sir. I questioned Sullivan, and she says Rathbone has mentioned nothing about leaving the country. I figure he's waiting to make a big kill with his counterfeiting scam and the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund before he skedaddles."

  "Tony, what is that Fund?"

  "Drug trading," Harker said promptly. "Got to be. What a ballsy idea-to organize a commodity fund that trades only in controlled substances. And then to sell shares to the public to finance the business! If that's not chutzpah, I don't know what is. Anyway, the DEA traced those two cars parked outside Frank Little's office. The Bentley belonged to David Rathbone, as I figured, and he fits the agents' description of the driver. The other car, a Lincoln, is registered in New York to a nephew of Lou Siena. He owns Siena Moving and Storage and is currently under investigation by the Manhattan DA f
or allegedly running one of the biggest cocaine operations in the city.''

  "Interesting," Crockett said, drumming his fingers on his desktop. "You believe that links Rathbone and Little with the drug trade?"

  "Definitely. The DEA is getting a court order to tap Little's office and home phones."

  The chief frowned. "They're certainly moving swiftly on this, aren't they? I trust they'll remember their agreement to consult with us before making any arrests."

  "I think we better keep up with them," Harker said. "Rathbone was seen meeting with a suspected drug dealer. That's additional evidence to justify tapping his home phones, wouldn't you say?"

  Crockett nodded.

  "And the office of the Fort Knox Fund?"

  "All right," Crockett said. "Let's go for broke."

  "And can we tape conversations in Rathbone's home?"

  The other man stared at.him. "You never give up, do you? How do you propose to do it?"

  "At first I thought it would have to be a black-bag job. Our man would break in when no one's home and place mikes and transmitters. But that's too risky. Rathbone lives in a development where there are a lot of people around. If our agent was spotted, the whole operation would go down the drain. I talked to some phone people, and here's what they came up with: It'll be easy to tap incoming and outgoing calls at the central office. But to pick up other conversation inside the apartment, Rathbone's phones will have to be fitted with a special bug. It's a small, sensitive mike that picks up talk within about twenty feet and transmits it over the phone lines. It doesn't interfere with the normal functioning of the phone. In other words, Rathbone's line will be continually open to carry conversation taking place inside the apartment as well as incoming and outgoing calls."

  "And how do you suggest we place these bugs?"

  Harker grinned. "I'm going to scam the scammer. The phone people can feed interference into Rathbone's lines. All his calls will be jammed with static and crackling. He'll call the phone company to complain, and they'll send a man-our man-out to inspect his phones. That's when they'll be equipped with the bugs. Rathbone's static will clear up, and he'll be none the wiser."

  Crockett made an expression of disgust. "I don't like all this," he said. "Whatever happened to privacy in this country? I find the whole concept of bugging and taping repugnant."

  "Yes, sir," Tony said, "I agree. But can we go ahead with it?"

  Crockett sighed. "Yes, go ahead. I'll have our attorney file for a court order with a friendly judge. And you're not going to tell Sullivan what we're doing?"

  "No, sir, I'm not."

  "Tony," his boss said in an almost avuncular tone, "I hope you know what you're doing."

  "I hope so, too," Harker said, gathered up his papers, and left.

  Simon Clark and Manny Suarez were waiting in his office. Tony dropped into his swivel chair and began drumming his fingers on the desktop, just as Crockett had done.

  "Fortescue is back in Lakeland," he told the two men, "keeping tabs on the printer. And Ullman is up in Boca playing games with Mike Mulligan. But I didn't want to wait for your weekly reports. Things are beginning to move, and I'm trying to stay on top of them. Clark, what's happening at Sparco's brokerage?"

  "The guy's into penny stock fraud up to his eyeballs," the agent said. "At the very least, I've got enough for the SEC to bring civil charges. And with a little more digging, I think we can rack him up on criminal charges, too. This shark and his Denver pals are breaking every securities law on the books and getting rich doing it."

  "Yeah?" Suarez said, interested. "How they do that?"

  "They've got a dozen gimmicks, but basically what they do is organize a shell company or find some rinky-dink outfit that doesn't have a prayer of success. One of the broker-dealers underwrites a stock offering at maybe a couple of bucks a share. They each buy a block of stock for themselves. Then they get busy high-pressuring suckers, usually by phone, touting the stock at inflated prices. Since it's not listed anywhere, they charge whatever the traffic will bear. When the price is inflated high enough, the promoters sell out to their customers. But if the suckers try to sell, there are no buyers. The most Sparco and his merry band of thieves will do is roll over the suckers' money into another fraudulent investment. And the suckers, hoping to recoup, send in more money. The whole dirty deal is a cash cow."

  "We'll hold the penny stock swindle as an ace in the hole," Harker said. "What I really want to do is tie Sparco to the Fort Knox Fund. That outfit was organized to deal drugs. Sparco's brokerage is selling Fort Knox stock, so we've got him on umpteen conspiracy charges."

  "Plus mail fraud and wire fraud," Clark added.

  "Right. What I think will happen when we collar all these crooks is that one of them will cut a deal. Take my word for it, these are not standup guys."

  "Which one do you think will rat?"

  Harker thought a moment. "My guess would be James Bartlett. He's already done time for bank fraud, and an ex-con will sell his mother to keep from going back into stir. Manny, what's going on at Sid Coe's boiler room?"

  Suarez shrugged. "We're still pushing shares in the Fort Knox Fund, but now Coe has added postage stamps. We tell the mooches they can make a killing on commemoratives."

  Clark laughed. "No way," he said. "Most commemoratives of the last thirty years are selling for less than face value. The only way to break even is to stick them on letters."

  "All I know," Suarez said, "is that I pitch stamps, and the moaney keeps rolling in."

  "One thing I've been thinking about," Harker said, "is that when we eventually get these villains in court, we'll score a lot of points with the jury if we can enter as evidence a thick file of complaints from mooches who have been taken by Coe and Sparco. Manny, can you get me a copy of Coe's sucker list? Then I'll contact all of them with a form letter asking for details of their dealings. That should touch off a flood of weeping and wailing."

  "No chance," Suarez said. "Coe treats the sucker lists like moaney in the bank. He says he pays a guy in Chicago big bucks for those names. He gives you the list when you get to work. When you leave, you turn it in. And he's right there to make sure you do. I guess he don' wanna yak to swipe a list and start freelancing."

  "Could you call me from work and give me names and addresses on the phone?"

  Manny shook his head. "Coe walks that boiler room like a tiger. Always leaning over our shoulder, listening to our spiel. If he ever heard me giving out his sucker list over the phone, he'd try to kill me. I mean it. The man is mean."

  Harker pondered a moment. Then: "Do you ever go out to lunch?"

  "Sometimes. Or to grab a beer."

  "How about this. . You go out for lunch or a beer and take the sucker list with you. I'm parked nearby with a photographer. We photograph every page on the list. It shouldn't take too long. Then you go back to work and turn in the list as usual when you leave."

  "I guess," Suarez said slowly. "Maybe it'll work if he don' notice the list is gone while I'm out. Hokay, I'll take the chance."

  "Good," Harker said. "I'll line up a photographer and let you know when this little con is scheduled. Are you still clipping Coe for Mort Sparco?"

  "Oh sure," Manny said. "At least a coupla big sales a week."

  Simon Clark straightened up in his chair. "What's that all about?" he asked. "Sparco is clipping Sid

  Coe?"

  Harker laughed and told him the details of how the discount broker had turned several of Coe's yaks and was taking the boiler room operator for a hundred grand a month.

  "That's what friends are for," Tony said.

  Clark's smile was chilly. "An interesting story," he said.

  42

  Rita Angela Sullivan switched on the answering machine and left the office early, bored out of her skull with that stupid job. David insisted on opening the mail himself, and the few times the phone rang it was usually a wrong number or someone trying to sell a time-share in a Port St. Lucie condo.

&nb
sp; So she locked up, headed for home, and her spirits rose. Christmas was only a week away, but you'd never know it from the weather: a dulcet afternoon with burning sun and frisky breeze. The holiday decorations along Atlantic Boulevard seemed out of place, and the white foam sprayed in the corners of shop windows looked more like yogurt than snow.

  She had already mailed her cards and sent her mother a nice blouse from Burdines. She had bought a bottle of Courvoisier for Tony Harker. It came in a plush-lined gift box with two crystal brandy snifters. For David, she had shopped long and hard, and had finally settled on a slim black ostrich wallet with gold corners. It cost almost $500, but she didn't begrudge that. After all, it was his money, and she was certain it was a gift he'd love: elegant, expensive, and showy.

  She went directly to the kitchen when she arrived home. Blanche and Theodore were there, preparing an enormous bouillabaisse that Rita would reheat for dinner. They were also working on a chilled jug of California Chablis, and Rita had a small glass. It tasted so tangy that she filled a thermos to take up to the terrace.

  "Still having trouble with the phones?" she asked.

  "Is worse," Blanche said. "So much noise!"

  "I told Mr. Rathbone," Theodore said. "He called the phone company, and they're sending a man out to check the lines."

  Rita carried her thermos upstairs and undressed slowly. Then she collected beach towel, sunglasses, oil, radio, and went out onto the terrace. The westering sun was unseasonably florid, and heat bounced off the tiles. If it hadn't been for that lovely breeze, she would have been lying in a sauna.

  She oiled herself, wishing David were there to do her back, and then rolled naked onto the towel-covered chaise. She lay prone, lifting her long, thick hair away from the nape of her neck.