Lawrence Sanders - Sullivan's sting

"I surely will, mommy dearest," he said, grinning.

He drove back to Copans Road, past the FL Sports Equipment layout. He parked on the shoulder across the street and sauntered back. He stood in the shadow of a big bottle palm, watching the activity.

Floodlights were on, the gate of the chain-link fence was open, and a big white semi was parked alongside the warehouse. At least four men were carrying cardboard cartons from the warehouse and loading them into the trailer. Frank Little and another guy, a mastodon, stood to one side watching the loading. Little had a clipboard and was apparently keeping a tally.

Slumped against his tree, Fortescue observed the action for almost an hour. He counted at least fifty cartons. Then the truck doors were slammed and locked. Three men got into the cab, and the semi began to back slowly onto Copans Road. That's when Fortescue got a good look at the legend painted on the side: siena

moving amp; storage. new york-new jersey.

The investigator strolled back to his Volvo and drove home. Estelle was still awake, watching an old movie on TV. She looked up when he came in.

"You again?" she said. "Have a good time?"

"A million laughs," he assured her.

He went into the kitchen and called the night number. It was after two in the morning, but the phone was picked up almost immediately.

"Harker. Who's this?"

"Fortescue. Look, you're from New York, aren't you?"

"That's right."

"Ever hear of Siena Moving and Storage? They operate in the New York-New Jersey area."

There was a brief silence. Then: "I've heard of them. The outfit is owned by one of the Mafia families in Manhattan."

"My, my," Roger Fortescue said. "Those bentnoses must play a lot of baseball."

It was starting out to be a great season: balmy days and one-blanket nights. The tourists lolled on the sand, groaning with content, and later showed up at Holy Cross Emergency with second-degree burns. That noonday sun was a tropical scorcher, but the snowbirds bared their pallid pelts and wanted more.

Rathbone took the sun in small, disciplined doses, before eleven a.m. and after three p.m. And he spread his body with sunblock. Rita Sullivan was out on the terrace every chance she got, slick with baby oil, getting darker and darker.

"The back of the bus for you," David said, laughing. But he loved it, loved the contrast between her cordovan and his bronzy gold.

Then, one day at breakfast, he said to her, "Ready for that little job I told you about?"

"I'll never be readier."

"We'll leave at ten-thirty."

She showed up in the same pink linen jumpsuit she had worn to Tony Harker's motel.

"Nice cut," Rathbone said, inspecting her. "But I told you I don't like those sorbet colors on you."

"Want me to change?"

"No. Where did you buy it?"

"At Hunneker's." "How much?"

"About two hundred with tax," she said.

"You still have the sales check?"

"I guess so. Why? Are you going to return it?"

"Not exactly. How did they wrap it when you bought it?"

"What's this-Twenty Questions?"

"Come on," he said, "how was it wrapped?"

"In tissue paper and then put in a Hunneker's bag. A plastic bag."

"Still got the bag?"

"Yes."

"Get it and the sales check. I'll meet you downstairs and we'll get this show on the road. We'll take your car."

They drove over to Pompano Fashion Square and found a slot in the crowded parking lot.

"Stay in the car," Rathbone ordered, "but keep the doors locked. I shouldn't be more than twenty minutes or so. What floor did you buy the jumpsuit on?"

"The second. Sportswear."

He headed directly for Hunneker's, the plastic bag and sales check folded flat in his jacket pocket. The store had big plate-glass windows with gilt lettering: j.b. hunneker's. satisfaction guaranteed or your money cheerfully refunded.

He took the escalator to the second floor and wandered about until he located the Sportswear department. It didn't take long to find a rack of jumpsuits exactly like the one Rita was wearing. He looked about casually. Then, finding himself unobserved, he took a pink jumpsuit off the rack, folded it into the plastic Hunneker's bag, and approached the service desk.

"I'm sorry," he said to the woman behind the

counter, "but I bought this for a birthday gift, and my wife doesn't like the color."

"What a shame," she said. "Would you like to exchange it for another color?"

"No, I think I better let her come in and pick out what she wants. Could I get a refund, please. Here's my sales check."

He was back in the car in fifteen minutes. He told Rita what he had done, and she laughed.

"You don't miss a trick, do you?"

"Not if I can help it. I'm certainly not going to shell out two hundred for something I don't like."

"Do I get the money?"

"I think not," he said. "You keep your jumpsuit and I'll keep my money. It's a win-win game-the kind I like. Now move over and let me drive."

He maneuvered the Chevy out of the parking lot and turned northward on Federal Highway.

"We're going to a bookstore on Sample Road near 1-95," he told her.

"Oh? Going to shoplift a couple of books?"

"No," he said, "I'm not into boosting. This is an interesting place. It's owned by a man named Irving Donald Gevalt. He deals only in rare books and antique manuscripts."

"And he makes a living from this?"

"He owns two motels, a fast-food franchise, and three condos on the beach. But he didn't get all that from pushing rare books; he's got a very profitable sideline. He's in the game, and all the sharks call him ID Gevalt. He's the best paperman in south Florida. Social Security cards, driver's licenses, military discharges, voter registrations, passports, visas-you name it and ID can supply it. That's why we're going to visit him, to fix you up with an identification package for that little job you're going to do for me."

She turned to look at him. "Hey, wait a minute. You didn't say anything about forged papers. I don't like that.''

"They're not forged," Rathbone said. "Everything ID Gevalt handles is strictly legit. That's why he gets top dollar."

"So where does he get the documents-from stiffs?"

"Sort of. He's got freelancers working for him in a dozen cities. They go through old newspapers in their hometowns and clip out items about infants and little kids who died twenty, thirty, forty years ago. They send the name, address, and date of birth to Gevalt. He writes to the Department of Birth Records in those cities, requesting a copy of the dead kid's birth certificate. Costs him from two to ten bucks, and they never ask what he wants it for. So now he's got a legitimate birth certificate of someone who's been dead for years. The certificate is the key. With that Gevalt can get a Social Security card, voter's registration, even a driver's license, by hiring someone to take the test under the name on the Certificate."

"A slick operation.";

"Like silk. How old are you, Rita-about thirty-five?"

"That's close enough."

"So we'll buy you a package of identification for a white female about thirty-five years old."

"And what do I do with that?"

"Tell you later. Here we are."

The Gevalt Rare Book Center was located over a shop that installed domed plastic ceilings for condo kitchens and bathrooms. There was a steep outside staircase leading to the second floor. The center was a dusty jumble of books, magazines, newspapers. It was comfortably air-conditioned, but smelled mildewy.

"David!" the old man said, coming forward with an outstretched hand. "Good to see you again!"

"ID," Rathbone said, shaking the proffered paw gently. "You're looking well."

"Liar," the geezer said. "But I'm surviving. And who is this lovely lady?"