Lawrence Sanders - Sullivan's sting

"Of course. Visa stamps and so forth. You have a photo?"

"We'll bring you one."

"Not necessary."

The young blonde went into the back room and came out carrying an old Nikon with an attached flashgun.

"The camera is ancient," Gevalt said with his gap-toothed grin, "but it does good work. Like me. David, could I speak to you a moment in private?''

His wife began to take close-ups of Rita while the two men moved away to a corner of the littered shop.

"Yesterday a man came in," Gevalt started. "He is wearing Florida clothes, but he talks like the Midwest. Hard and fast. A big-city man. He asks if I have a first edition McGuffey. I ask him what edition does he want? Is he looking for a reader, speller, or primer? He begins to hem and haw, and it is obvious to me he knows nothing about rare books. Finally he says he has heard I can provide identification papers. He needs a birth certificate and Social Security card and is willing to pay any price."

"You ever see this guy before?" Rathbone asked.

"No. Never."

"It's possible one of your clients talked, and this man overheard and really did need paper."

Gevalt shook his head. "If any of my clients talk, they wouldn't be my clients. I am very choosy, David; you know that. No, this man was law; I am convinced of it. Something about him: a clumsy arrogance."

"What did you say to him?"

"I became very angry. Told him I was a legitimate businessman making a living selling rare books, and I would never do anything illegal, and he should leave my shop immediately. He left, but it still bothers me. It is the first time anything like that has happened. David, do you feel I am in danger?"

"Of course not," Rathbone said. "Even if the guy was a cop-and you're not sure he was-it was just a fishing expedition. You handled it exactly right. If the law had anything on you, you'd be out of business already. You have nothing to worry about, believe me."

The old man looked at him, and his rheumy eyes filled. "Worry?" he said. "That's all I do-worry.

About that stupid man with his first edition McGuffey. About one of my motels which is losing money because the manager is dishonest. Dishonest, David! And also I fear my wife has a lover. Oh yes, I have seen him lurking around. A muscular young man and he has- oh God, David, I hate to mention it but he has a tattoo on his right bicep. And you tell me not to worry!"

Rathbone put a hand lightly on Gevalt's shoulder. "It will all work out," he said soothingly. "The important thing is to think positively. I always do. Who can remember last year's problems? Everything will turn out all right, you'll see."

The old man took out a disgraceful handkerchief and blew his nose. "You're right, David," he said, snuffling. "I must think positively."

On the drive back home, Rita asked, "What were you and Gevalt talking about while I was having my picture taken?"

Rathbone laughed. "The poor old man thinks his wife has a boyfriend. A hulk with a tattoo."

"Can't say I blame her. What would you do if you found out I had a boyfriend?"

"Couldn't happen," David said. "If I can't trust you, who can I trust?"

The previous day's tapes were delivered to Anthony Harker's motel every morning at about seven a.m. He listened to the first run-through while he was shaving. He found he was listening to but not hearing the personal portions, much as one might look at something without seeing it. He closed his mind to the intimate murmurs and cries; they had, he kept assuring himself, nothing to do with him. He was interested only in names, dates, hard facts.

On Saturday morning, January 27, he heard Rita and David discussing a visit to Gevalt. Then Rathbone joked about not informing his clients before he decamped, and Birdie Winslow was mentioned. That rang a bell with Harker; Rita had given him that name weeks ago, but he had never followed up on it.

He made himself a cup of instant coffee and chewed on a stale bagel. Then he went to the office, planning to put in a full day. Work was the only relief he could find from brooding on what was tearing him apart: those murmurs and cries that had nothing to do with him.

He found a note on his desk from the night duty officer. It was a message from Henry Ullman in Boca: Please call him ASAP. Harker popped an antihistamine capsule, and phoned.

"It's on," Ullman reported. "Bartlett called Mulligan last night. He's going to make a deposit at the bank on Friday, February second, at noon. Got that?"

"Got it," Tony said. "Next Friday morning at noon. Hank, you handle the collar. I'll get some warm bods to you early on Friday to help out. Two men be enough?"

"Plenty," Ullman said. "I don't expect Bartlett to turn mean. What about the other bank officers involved?"

"We'll scoop them up later. I'm hoping Bartlett will make a deal with us. Then we'll have corroborative evidence for Mulligan's confession. How's the little man acting?"

"Believe it or not, I think he's excited. It's probably the most dramatic thing that's ever happened to him."

"Except for those Saturday night parties."

"Yeah," Ullman said, laughing. "The Great Toilet Tank Capers. He'll never forget those."

Harker now had a date and a time, D day and H hour, and could begin firming up the destruction of the Palace gang. But before he got to work on schedules and personnel deployment, there was something he wanted to do first: He looked up Birdie Winslow in various telephone directories and finally found her in Pompano Beach. He was startled to discover she lived less than a half-mile from him.

Before he called, he pondered on his best approach. If he told Winslow the truth about her "financial planner," she'd probably scream bloody murder, demand all her funds back from Rathbone, and tip off the shark that the law was closing in. Harker decided to play it cool.

"Birdie Winslow?" he asked.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"My name is Anthony Harker. I hate to bother you, but I've been considering employing a money manager, and David Rathbone is one of the possibilities on my list. Mr. Rathbone has provided me with a list of his clients so I can check his track record. I was hoping you'd be kind enough to spare me a few moments. I'm in your neighborhood, and I promise not to keep you long."

"Well," she said, "I planned to go shopping today, but I guess I can spare a little time. How soon can you be here?"

"Twenty minutes," Harker said. "Thank you very much-uh-is it Miss or Mrs. Winslow?"

"Mrs.," Birdie said. "And your name is Harder?"

"Harker. Anthony Harker. I'm on my way, Mrs. Winslow, and thank you."

She turned out to be a buxom matron, a bit blowsy in Harker's opinion. She was wearing a black gabardine suit, and both jacket and skirt were too snug. Like many overweight women, she had legs which were exceptionally shapely, the ankles slender. But the scarlet patent leather pumps didn't help.

She was pleasant enough, got him seated in an armchair, and offered him a drink which he declined. She sat on the couch, but even at that distance he could smell her perfume, a musky scent he thought much too heavy for this woman and this climate.

Her apartment was as overstuffed as she, with too much of everything in lurid colors and clashing styles. Near the door, he noted, was a stack of matched luggage, so new that the manufacturer's tags were still tied to the handles.

"Mrs. Winslow," he started, "I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice, and I'll try to make this as brief as possible. As I told you on the phone, I'm planning to hire someone to handle my investments, and naturally I want to learn as much as I can about the person I select. If I ask questions you'd rather not answer, please tell me and I'll understand. Believe me, I have no wish to pry into your financial affairs. I'd just like to know whether or not you can recommend David Rathbone as an asset manager."