“Very kind of Twiggs,” Haldering says, preening. “It is true that in several cases we have had remarkable success where others have failed.”
“Then you’ll be willing to take on the job? You can write your own ticket.”
“With the understanding that our investigation will deal only with the industrial sabotage and not the assassination of Mr. Dempster.”
“I’ll accept that,” she says crisply. “When will you be able to start?”
“Immediately!” he cries, picking up on her monosyllabicity.
“Excellent! In the hope that we might come to an agreement, I’ve brought along copies of a file that will give you an idea of what we’ve been up against. Along with a list of personnel involved, addresses and phone numbers-all of which may be of help.”
“I admire your foresight,” he says with an unctuous smile.
“Oh,” she says, snapping her fingers, “one more thing: Mr. Twiggs urgently recommends that we request the problem be handled by one of your investigators-Timothy Cone. Is that his name?”
“Timothy Cone,” Hiram Haldering repeats, smile fading. “Yes, we do employ an investigator by that name. But unfortunately, Mr. Cone is busy with several other cases at the moment. However, we have a number of other investigators who are fully qualified to-”
She interrupts him. “No Cone, no deal,” she says.
He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “As you wish,” he says. “Perhaps I should warn you that Timothy Cone is-”
“Mr. Twiggs described him,” she says impatiently. “I know what to expect. If he can do the job, it doesn’t matter.” She rises, holds out her hand. “Nice doing business with you, Mr. Haldering. I’m depending on your shop to make sense out of this whole awful affair. Monstrous!”
He starts to thank her for her trust and confidence, but she is out the door, leaving behind a taped accordion file bulging with documents. H.H. picks up his phone and punches the intraoffice extension of Samantha Whatley.
“Sam?” he says. “Come into my office, please. At once. And if Cone isn’t sleeping or beering it up, drag his scruffy ass in here.”
Cone lumps up Broadway, that humongous accordion file clamped under his right arm. It’s heavy enough so that he lists to starboard, and occasionally has to pause and get a fresh grip.
“Don’t you dare take that file out of the office,” Sam had warned.
“Sure, boss,” he replied. “I’m not about to carry that blivet home with me.”
“What’s a blivet?”
“Eight pounds of shit in a four-pound bag.”
“You’re disgusting!” she yelled at him.
“Yeah,” he said, “I know.”
So now he’s plodding home to his loft, lugging the blivet and wondering what he and Cleo might have for dinner. He decides hot Italian sausage might be nice, fried up with canned potatoes. Maybe a charlotte russe for dessert. That sounds like a well-balanced meal.
He stops at local shops for the makings, not forgetting a cold six-pack and a jug of pepper-flavored vodka-something he’s been wanting to try for a long time. Thus laden, he trudges up the six flights of iron steps to his loft.
The meal turns out to be okay, but that pepper vodka is sparkly enough to make Cone’s scalp sweat. He’s afraid to light a cigarette, figuring a single belch might ignite and, like a flame thrower, incinerate the joint.
He switches to cold beer to soothe his scorched palate and settles at his desk, feet up, to dig through the contents of that Dempster-Torrey file.
The first thing he finds is three pages stapled together that list names, addresses, and phone numbers of people connected with John J. Dempster and his corporation. Included, Cone sees, are the names of his widow, three young sons, his brother, his parents, his deceased bodyguard and chauffeur, and the top rank of Dempster-Torrey execs, the Board of Directors, attorneys, and bankers.
Also on the list, Cone notes with some bemusement, are the names of Dempster’s tailor, masseur, physician, dentist, physical fitness instructor, servants, golf pro, pilot, and proctologist.
“Some people know how to live,” Cone calls to Cleo. But the tom, sleeping off the Italian sausages under the bathtub, pays no heed.
He starts flipping swiftly through the documents on the attacks that have bedeviled Dempster-Torrey, Inc., for the past six months. There are eighteen reports, all signed by Theodore Brodsky, Chief of Security. They include arson, sabotage, vandalism, product tampering, and similar crimes, all apparently designed to erode the profits and tarnish the public image of Dempster-Torrey. Cone can understand why John J. thought there was a plot against him and his conglomerate; the guy wasn’t just being paranoid.
He pops another beer and starts reading the reports again, slower this time, wondering if there’s a pattern or link everyone else had missed. He’s halfway through and hasn’t found a damned thing when his wall phone shrills. He carries his beer into the cramped kitchenette.
“Yeah?” he says.
“You putz!” screams Neal K. Davenport. “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Cone says. “What’s this-”
“The Dempster kill!” the NYPD detective shouts at him. “Why are you sticking your nose into that?”
“Come on,” Cone says, “don’t get your balls in an uproar. Who told you Haldering is involved in it?”
“Eve Bookerman, that’s who. She’s been running the outfit since Dempster got chilled. She told us that she hired Haldering.”
“Then she must have told you that all we’re doing is investigating industrial sabotage in their plants. Look, Neal, we don’t do windows and we don’t do homicides. That job is all yours; Hiram Haldering made it plain to Bookerman. You know about the accidents they’ve been having?”
“Yeah,” the city bull says grudgingly, “they told us.”
“You think there’s a connection with Dempster’s murder?”
“We can’t see it.”
“So where’s the conflict? The Department is after the guys on the motorcycle. We’re after the people who are trashing Dempster-Torrey’s property. Listen, what’s your interest in this? Are you handling the file?”
“Shit, no! I caught the original squeal. I got there right after the blues. But it’s too big to leave to little old me. They think I’m only good for busting pickpockets and flashers.”
“Tough titty,” Cone says. “So who’s in charge?”
“Some wet-brained lieutenant who’s got a rabbi in the Department with a lot of clout. The guy’s a real cowboy. He’s riding off madly in all directions. Well, I can’t really blame him. This is an important one, and he wants to cover his ass. The first case of terrorism in the Wall Street district.”
“The hell it was,” Cone says. “A few years ago Fraunces Tavern was bombed by revolutionaries, and long before that a guy drove a horse-drawn cart down Wall Street and set off a bunch of bombs in the wagon. They called them anarchists in those days. Anyway, the explosion blew the hell out of the horses. You can still see the scars on some of the buildings if you look for them.”
“Jesus,” Davenport says, “you’re a veritable gold mine of useless information. Well, regardless of past history, this is still a big case, and everyone wants a piece of it. Not only the Department, but the Manhattan DA, the Federal DA, the FBI, New York State, and the CIA. It’s as fucked up as a Chinese fire drill.”
“The CIA? What’s their interest?”
“They’re investigating those wackos, the Liberty Tomorrow gang, to see if it’s a terrorist organization with pals overseas, like in Germany, France, or the Middle East.”
“Lots of luck,” Timothy says. “So everyone is walking up everyone else’s heels and fighting for interviews on the TV talk shows. Where do you fit into this mishmash?”