Lawrence Sanders - Sullivan's sting

"Oh, ask anything you like," she said blithely.

"Could you tell me how you happened to meet him and become his client?"

She thought a moment. "Why, I believe it was Ellen St. Martin who introduced us. Ellen is the real estate agent who found this apartment for me, and she suggested David was the perfect man to take care of my finances. After my husband died, I just couldn't handle all the investments he had made. And then I had the insurance money, of course. Ralph left me very well fixed, I'll say that for him. Then I met David and was quite impressed with him."

"You investigated his record?"

"Oh yes. I spoke to several of his clients, and they all were very enthusiastic about what he had done for them. Why, he had increased their investment income forty or fifty percent a year."

"And has he done as well for you?"

"He certainly has! I think my net worth has increased at least that much since I've been with him, and that's been less than six months."

"Remarkable," Harker said. "Do you receive monthly statements from Mr. Rathbone?"

"I surely do."

"And monthly statements from the brokers he deals with? Confirmation slips on your trades?"

"Oh no," she said gaily, "none of that. David said it's just unnecessary paper. After all, everything's included on his monthly statements."

"Uh-huh," Tony said. "When you started with Mr. Rathbone, I suppose he had you sign some documents. A full power of attorney perhaps, or a management contract."

"I know I signed some papers, but David said they weren't important, and I could get my money back from him whenever I liked."

"You didn't ask if Mr. Rathbone is registered with the Securities and Exchange Commission or the Florida Department of Securities?"

"No, but I'm sure that if he's supposed to be registered, then he is. You could ask him."

"Of course, I'll do that. Did he ever mention if there was an insurance policy in effect to protect your account from fraud or theft?"

"No, the subject never came up. But as long as David will return my money whenever I ask, there's no need for an insurance policy, is there?"

"No," Harker said, realizing this woman was hopelessly naive, "no need. Mrs. Winslow, would it be too much if I asked to see your most recent statement from Mr. Rathbone? I'd like to get some idea of the type of investments he prefers."

"I don't see why not," Birdie said, rising. "You'll see that David is making me lots of money."

The statement she brought him was, he noted, a computer printout. But that didn't mean a thing. It was a perfect example of GIGO: Garbage In, Garbage Out. The statement listed several Certificates of Deposit at Texas and California banks Harker had never heard of. All were allegedly paying over thirty percent. But the bulk of Mrs. Winslow's wealth appearedto be invested in the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund.

"This Fort Knox Fund," Tony said. "What is that?"

"Oh, that's something David heard about through close friends on Wall Street. He got me in on the ground floor, and it's just made oodles of money."

"But what exactly is it?"

"I'm not sure, but I think they buy and sell things. You know, like wheat and corn."

Harker nodded and stood up. "Thank you very much, Mrs. Winslow. You've been a big help, and I appreciate it."

"I hope I've convinced you that David is really the best in the business. Everyone says so."

"Well, he's certainly high on my list," Harker said. "I expect to be having a long talk with him very soon." He started to leave, then paused at the stack of new luggage. "Planning a trip, Mrs. Winslow?" he asked, smiling.

Unexpectedly she giggled like a schoolgirl. "Well, if you promise not to tell anyone, I'm taking a long vacation in about six months-with David!"

Harker kept the smile frozen on his face. "That sounds like fun," he said. "Seems to me that you and Mr. Rathbone have more than a business relationship."

"He's a divine man," she said breathlessly. "Just divine V'

Tony nodded and got out of there, not knowing whether to laugh, curse, or weep.

The moment the door closed behind him, Birdie Winslow picked up the phone and called David Rathbone.

On Monday, January 29, Suarez and Fortescue had lunch at the Tex-Mex place Manny had discovered. They ate cheese enchiladas, rice, refried beans, tortillas, guacamole salad, tacos, nachos, plenty of hot sauce, and two beers each. As they devoured this stupendous feast, they had their notebooks open on the table and exchanged skinny on Ernie the bartender.

"Full name Ernest K. Hohlman," Suarez reported. "Claims to be forty-four. Divorced. Got a young daughter. They live in a condo up at Lighthouse Point. Ernie was on the force in Manhattan. He came down here about five years ago and went to work at the Palace Lounge. When I called the NYPD, they said he resigned, but I finally got hold of a landsman who was willing to hablilla for a while. He says Ernie was allowed to resign quote for personal reasons unquote after he was caught shaking down crack dealers."

"Pension?" Fortescue asked.

"Nada. But he owns his condo, drives a white Toyota Cressida, and has almost fifty Gs of CDs in the bank. Neat for an ex-cop and bartender."

"You have a gift for understatement," Roger said. "Well, I talked to all my snitches and my snitches' snitches, and I've got a pretty good idea where Ernie's gelt is coming from. The guy is a world-class hustler.

I mean he's into everything: books bets and peddles pot, coke, stolen credit cards, and merchandise that 'fell off the truck.' Also, he pimps for a young call girl, a real looker. His daughter."

"That's not nice," Manny said.

"No, it's not," Fortescue agreed. "I think that maybe after we finish this heartburn banquet we should go visit Ernie and point out the evil of his ways."

"How we gonna handle it? You wanna try the good cop-bad cop routine?"

"Nah," Roger said. "He was a cop once himself; he'd recognize the plot. Let's both just be nasty."

"Hokay," Suarez said. "I can do nasty."

They drove over to the Grand Palace in Manny's Ford Escort. It was then almost three o'clock, and there was only one parking valet on duty. He was a young black who looked like he could slam-dunk without jumping.

"Let me talk to him alone for a few minutes," Fortescue said, and Suarez nodded.

They waited until the Escort was parked, and the valet came trotting back. Roger drew him aside.

"A moment of your time, bro," the agent said, and showed his ID.

The youth raised his palms outward. "I'm guilty," he said. "Whatever it was, I did it."

Fortescue smiled, took a morgue Polaroid of Termite Tommy out of his jacket pocket, held it up.

"You do this?" he asked.

"Jesus!" the valet said. "He looks dead."

"If he isn't," Roger said, "he must be cold as hell in that icebox. Ever see him before?"

The boy studied the grisly photo with fearful fascination. "What happened to him?" he asked.

"He died," the officer said patiently and repeated, "Ever see him before?"

"Yeah, he was around a few times. Drove an old beat-up truck. We called him El Cheapo because he always parked his heap himself."

"That's the guy. Did you work on New Year's Day?"

"Nope. There was only one valet on duty that day. A1 Seymour. I was home and I can prove it."

"That's good," Fortescue said. "Now I won't have to goose you with a cattle prod."

The youth was horrified. "You don't really do that, do you?"

"All the time," Roger said, motioning to Suarez. "This job has a lot of fringe benefits."

They entered the Palace Lounge through the side door. There were three men drinking beer at one table, and a middle-aged couple working on whiskey sours at another. The only other person in the room was the man behind the bar. He was reading a supermarket tabloid. He put it aside when Roger and Manny swung onto barstools.