Lawrence Sanders - Sullivan's sting

"Jimmy, have you given any more thought to what I suggested on poker night?"

"The commodity trading fund? Yes, I've talked to several clients about it. You know, David, these guys are shrewd. They've got all the street smarts in the world, but they don't understand options and futures. Finally, I stopped trying to explain, and just told them it would mean money in their pockets. That, they could understand. Four of them definitely will sign contracts for delivery in three, six, nine, and twelve months at preset prices."

"They'll trust you?"

"On the first delivery. If I welsh, I'm dead; you know that."

"So actually we have three problems. One is to analyze the market for the coming year and determine prices that'll yield a profit. The second is to make sure funds are available to take delivery. And finally, we've got to line up markets and sign contracts with buyers."

"You've got it."

"Jimmy, I think now is the time to bring Sparco, Coe, and Little in on this. It's too big for the two of us to swing alone."

"I agree."

"Then let's talk to them. I think they'll go for it."

"They'd be idiots not to."

"Who were the four clients who agreed to play?"

"Three Colombians and one American. These are not men you'd want to introduce to your wife, David- if you had a wife."

"Hard cases?"

Bartlett rolled his eyes. "Last year one of the Colombians murdered his younger brother because the kid lost a shipment to the Coast Guard. You know how he killed him?"

"No, and I don't want to know. Let's get back to the table."

"Rita is looking especially sexy tonight, David. She's not beautiful, but she's striking."

"I know."

"You serious about her?"

"I don't know how I feel about her. All I know is that she's got me seeing pinwheels."

"That sounds serious. Does she know what you do?"

"I'm letting her in on it, little by little. It doesn't turn her off. I think she likes it. Maybe it's the risk, the danger."

"Uh-huh," Jimmy said, staring at him. "And maybe it's fear. With some women fear can be an aphrodisiac."

Rathbone laughed. "And what's an aphrodisiac to men?"

"Guilt," Bartlett said.

"Mr. Harker," the secretary said on the phone, "will you come to Mr. Crockett's office, please."

Tony pulled on his jacket, straightened his tie, walked down the hall. There was a somber man seated alongside the chief's desk. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles with lenses so thick they made him look pop-eyed.

"Tony," Crockett said, "this is Fred Rabin from the Federal Reserve. Mr. Rabin, this is Anthony Harker, who spoke to your office."

Rabin didn't stand up or offer to shake hands, but at least he nodded. Tony nodded back. No one asked him to sit down, so he remained standing, looking down at the two men.

"Mr. Rabin," Crockett said, "will you please repeat what you told me."

The Federal Reserve man stared at Tony through those thick glasses. "You asked us to put a trace on a U.S. Treasury check in the amount of $27,341.46, issued to a Gloria Ramirez and deposited at the Crescent Bank in Boca Raton. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Why did you ask for a trace?"

"Because I had good reason to believe the check was counterfeit. Allowing it to clear the Crescent Bank and then recovering it would give me hard evidence of bank fraud. Did you find the check?"

"Oh, we found it," Rabin said. "Would you like to see it?"

He took a long glassine envelope from an attache case and held it up for Harker to inspect. It appeared to be filled with greenish-blue confetti.

"What the hell is that?" Tony said, bewildered.

"That's the check you wanted."

"What happened? Did it get chopped up in a canceling machine?"

Rabin sighed. "The intact check was retrieved in Atlanta, on its way to Treasury. It was put aside to be mailed to you the next morning. But in the morning, this was all that was left of it. It just shredded away, disintegrated. We have our lab working on it now."

Harker turned to Crockett. "There goes our case," he said.

"Your case may be important," Rabin said, "but not as important as finding the source of this paper that self-destructs. Do you realize what this could do to the banking system? Chaos! We are now in the process of preparing a letter of warning to every bank and savings and loan in the country."

"Mr. Rabin wants the Secret Service to take over the whole investigation," Crockett said, lacing his fingers across his vest. "He feels they have more manpower and resources than we have."

"We already have a Secret Service man working on it," Harker said. "Henry Ullman, a good investigator."

Rabin shook his head. "One man is hardly sufficient to assign to a problem of this magnitude. I must ask that you turn over to us all the information you have in your possession, such as how you knew the check was forged, who deposited it, and any other evidence you may possess bearing on the case."

Silence in the room. Finally, Crockett shook his head.

"No, Mr. Rabin," the chief said, "I don't think so. I am sure you'll go over my head and your request with my superiors. If they order me to turn the case over to you, then I have no choice. But at the moment I do have a choice, and I choose to have this organization retain control of the investigation."

Rabin looked at them, eyes blinking furiously. "I shall certainly inform Washington of your refusal to cooperate. You are making a very, very serious error of judgment."

He stood, gathered up hat and attache case, stalked out. He didn't exactly slam the door behind him, but he didn't close it gently either.

"Thank you, sir," Tony said.

Crockett shrugged. "Calculated risk. I have some chits in Washington I'll have to call in on this, but I think we're safe for a time. I'll ask for six months. Can you do it?"

Harker drew a deep breath. "Sure," he said. He left the office and went directly to the bullpen. He found Henry Ullman at his desk, writing on a yellow legal pad.

"I know," Ullman said, looking up. "You want my report. You'll have it this afternoon."

"No, Hank," Tony said, "it's something else. Will you come to my office, please."

There he told the investigator about the disintegrating check.

"Son of a bitch," Ullman said. "That's a new one. Going to pick up Rathbone?"

"What for? The evidence is destroyed. And I want to give our plant a chance to track the source of the paper. Rathbone isn't the forger; he's the pusher, once removed. And I still want to know what part Mike Mulligan is playing. He was Rathbone's contact at the Crescent Bank. What have you got on him?"

"Apparently a fine, upstanding citizen. No rap sheet. He's clean with the IRS. Been with the bank almost thirty years. Divorced. No children. Lives in a one-bedroom condo in a plush development. Drives a two-year-old Buick. Goes to church. Nothing in his lifestyle to indicate he's on the take."

"What kind of a guy is he?"

"You'd think, wouldn't you, that with a moniker like Mike Mulligan he'd be a big, brawny, red-faced Irishman. Actually, he's a scrawny little guy, a real Caspar Milquetoast. Elderly. White-haired. Wears hornrimmed cheaters and carries an umbrella on cloudy days. He's got a schedule during the week that never varies. People say they can set their watches by him. For instance, every working day he leaves the bank at precisely five o'clock, walks three blocks to a bar called the Navigator, Mulligan sits in a back booth by himself and has two extra-dry gin martinis straight up, no more, no less. Then he goes home by cab. I got most of this personal stuff from the barmaid, a mouthy broad. She says she's never seen him drunk or with a woman."

"Have you been able to make contact?"

"Not yet. I've been hanging out at the Navigator, so now I'm considered a regular. But the guy sits by himself way in the back and doesn't talk to anyone. I'm afraid a direct approach might spook him. I've got a way to get to him, but I'll need a partner. You have anyone I can borrow for an afternoon?"