Lawrence Sanders - Timothy's game

Finding a parking space in that area is like the search for the Holy Grail. Finally Cone gives up, double-parks on East 68th Street, and locks up. If the Escort is towed, so be it; the client will pay the ransom to get it out of hock.

Claire meets him at the door of the apartment. She looks yummy in a white linen jumpsuit with an alligator belt. But her face is drawn, and when she clasps Cone’s hand in both of hers, her skin feels moist and clammy.

She draws him into the apartment, closes and bolts the door, then turns to face him. He wonders if she’s been weeping; her eyes are lost in puffy bags. She leans close, and he catches a whiff of 80-proof something.

“My husband is ill,” she says in a low voice. “Maybe not ill, but very upset. Troubled.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Cone says. “What’s he troubled about?”

“You better hear it from him.”

She leads the way through a maze of hallways, corridors, empty rooms, up two steps, down two steps, until they finally reach what is apparently the master bedroom.

It is a huge, high-ceilinged chamber dominated by an enormous oak four-poster that could sleep the Celtics, spoon-fashion. And there are armoires, dressers, escritoires, cabinets, chests, cupboards, etageres-all in dark, distressed woods, looking as if an entire Scottish castle had been denuded to furnish this one melancholy room.

In the center of the immense bed is Mr. Chin Tung Lee, shrunken under a sheet and light blanket drawn up to his scrawny neck. His complexion is tallowy and his eyes are dimmed. Even his little beard seems limp. He withdraws a hand from beneath the covers and offers it to Timothy. The skin is parchment, the bones as thin and frail as a chicken’s wing.

“Thank you so much for coming,” he says in a wispy voice. “Please, pull up a chair.”

Cone wrestles one as heavy as a throne to the bedside and sits, leaning forward.

“Sorry you’re feeling under the weather, Mr. Lee. Is there anything I can do?”

Claire Lee is standing on the other side of the bed, opposite Cone. Her husband turns his head slowly in her direction.

“The first letter, dear,” he says, and there’s no vigor in his voice. “Please show it to Mr. Cone.”

She plucks a single sheet of paper from a bedside table and brings it around to him. It’s heavy stationery, thrice folded. The letterhead is embossed. Cone scans it, then looks up at Chin Tung Lee.

“Yangtze International, Limited,” he says. “On Pine Street. Never heard of them. Have you?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of them. My countrymen.” Then, bitterly: “I understand criminal elements are involved.”

“Uh-huh,” Cone says, and reads the letter. It’s in polite legalese, but the meaning is clear. Yangtze International has accumulated 16 percent of all White Lotus stock, with the pledge of proxies by “many other shareholders” and requests a personal meeting with Mr. Chin Tung Lee with a view toward “proper representation” on the Board of Directors.

Cone reads it twice, then folds it and taps the letter on his knee.

“I checked with the SEC early this week,” he says. “No one has filed a 13-D notifying an investment in White Lotus of five percent or more and declaring intent. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything; there’s a ten-day delay allowed.”

“But what does it mean, Mr. Cone?” Lee asks.

“You know what it means,” Cone says harshly. “They’re making a run on your company. Now we know why the stock has been going up, up, up.”

“I’ll never sell out,” the old man wails. “Never!”

“You won’t have to,” Cone says, “if you play your cards right. You’ve got options. You can pay them greenmail-more than the market value of the stock-and buy them out. You can start a poison pill defense to make it so expensive to take over White Lotus that they’ll just go away. You can look for a friendly buyer. You can consider a leveraged buyout: You buy everyone’s shares and go private. You’ll have to take on debt to do that. But then, in a couple of years or so, depending on what the Dow is doing, you can go public again. It could make you a zillionaire. But I’m not the one to be giving you advice on this. Have you got an investment banker?”

“No. I’ve never had the need for one.”

“Well, you’ve got the need for one now. Mr. Lee, you’re in a war, and you better have the best strategist money can buy. Ask around, then pick one. If you want a tip from me, try Pistol and Burns on Wall Street. It’s an old outfit. Very conservative. Talk to G. Fergus Twiggs. He’s a full partner and a smart apple.”

Lee looks imploringly at his wife. “Claire, will you remember that?”

“Yes, daddy,” she says. “Pistol and Burns. G. Fergus Twiggs.”

“Thank you, dear. Now show Mr. Cone the second letter.”

She goes back to the bedside table, returns with a sheet of white foolscap. She hands it to Cone with fingers that are trembling even more than they did at Carpacchio’s bar.

Timothy unfolds the paper and reads. No letterhead on this one. Just two typed lines: We have Edward. Do not go to the police if you wish to see your son alive again.

He looks up in astonishment. “What the hell is this?” he demands. “Has someone grabbed him?”

“I checked,” Claire says, gnawing at a knuckle. “He didn’t sleep in his bed last night. No one’s seen him or heard from him since yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Cone says. “No wonder you’re in bed, Mr. Lee.”

The oldster sighs. “As the Good Book says, ‘Man that is born of a woman is of few days and full of trouble.’”

“I’ll buy that,” Cone says. “This is the only letter you’ve received?”

“The only one,” Claire says. “It came this morning.”

“Phone calls?”

“About Edward? No, none.”

“Well, if he’s been snatched, you’ll be hearing from the people holding him. They’ll either phone or send you another letter. I think you should bring the cops in on this, Mr. Lee.”

“No,” the gaffer says in an unexpectedly firm voice. “Absolutely not. I’ll pay anything to get him back, but I won’t endanger his life.”

“You’ve got no guarantee,” Cone argues. “You could pay off and they still might croak-they still might do away with him because he can identify them. But listen, this is a rough decision and you have to make it yourself. Don’t listen to me.”

“I want to do the right thing,” the septuagenarian says, his voice faint again.

“Sure you do.”

“You won’t tell the police, will you?”

“If you don’t want me to, I won’t.”

“But is there anything you can do to help?”

“Very iffy,” Cone says. “Right now they’re just letting you sweat a little. You’ll be hearing from them again. Then we’ll know where you stand.”

He looks at Claire to see if she picks up on that: practically the identical language he used at Carpacchio’s. But she won’t look at him.

“Tell me something,” Cone says. “How did this letter arrive? In your regular mail delivery?”

“No,” Claire says, “it wasn’t mailed. A messenger left it with our concierge this morning. The other letter-the one from Yangtze International-that was hand-delivered, too.”

“Uh-huh,” Cone says. “Both letters came at the same time by the same messenger?”

“No,” she says. “I asked. They both came this morning but at different times. About an hour apart. The letter from Yangtze came first, delivered by a commercial service. Then, an hour later, the letter about Edward was brought by a young Chinese boy. The concierge says he dropped the letter on his desk and ran out.”

“I get the picture,” Cone says. “Look, I’m going to leave you folks now. I’ve got some calls to make to people who may be able to help.” Then, when Chin Tung Lee glares at him, he adds hastily, “Not the cops. Just some guys who might have heard some talk. It’s worth a try. Listen, do you mind if I take this letter about Edward along with me? I got a pal in the typewriter business. He’ll be able to identify the machine used. That might help; you never know.”