The vehicles begin to pull away, the rubbernecks disperse. A non-event, Cone figures, and wonders why he bothered to show up. He’s about to leave when Hamish McDonnell spots him, yells, “Hey, Cone!” and beckons. Davenport gives him a wise-ass grin and goes back inside the bar.
“You sonofabitch,” McDonnell says furiously, “why the hell didn’t you tell me the NYPD was after David Dempster for the homicides?”
“Hey,” Cone says, “don’t get your balls in an uproar. First of all, you had no need to know. Those killings are a Department squeal-correct? I work with the locals just the way I work with you. Everyone gets a piece of the pie.”
McDonnell gives him a close look. “I gotta admit you didn’t shaft me. Those names you gave me are panning out. All we had to do with one guy was mention the name David Dempster, and he broke. Started blubbering. You know what worries him most? That we’ll take his vintage Daimler away from him. How d’ya like that?”
“Beautiful,” Cone says. “You got enough on the short-selling and sabotage?”
“We’re getting it,” the ADA says. “All these guys are going to do time. Maybe not a lot, but some.” Suddenly he becomes Mr. Nice. “Listen, Cone,” he says, “I’m sorry if I came on heavy. I apologize.”
“That’s okay. You’re entitled. You didn’t know me from Adam and probably figured I was handing you a crock.”
“Yeah, something like that. Tell me, how did you get onto David Dempster?”
“It was easy,” the Wall Street dick says. “I didn’t have anyone else.”
McDonnell laughs. “And what are you getting out of it?”
“I’ll get my reward in heaven.”
“Loser!” McDonnell jeers. Then: “Look, I owe you one. We’re taking David Dempster tomorrow at four o’clock at his office. Davenport will be there. You want to be in on the kill?”
“I got nothing better to do,” Timothy says.
Neal Davenport is waiting in the overchilled lobby of David Dempster’s steel and glass office building on Friday afternoon when Cone shows up. They waste no time in greetings.
“How you doing with Louie?” Timothy wants to know.
“We’re not ready to dance the fandango yet,” the NYPD man says, “but his lawyer sounds like he wants to make a deal. I think we’ll nail the Ryan brothers on the kills.”
“What about the sabotage?”
“My guess is that David Dempster was directing the whole operation, and paying for it. He gave the orders to Louie, and that shmegegi sent the Westies into action. It was a sweet setup. Louie was Dempster’s cutout; he never met the mugs who were doing his dirty work. So naturally they can’t finger him.”
“Yeah, that’s how I see it. But if Louie doesn’t talk, Dempster walks away from the homicide rap?”
“Maybe. But McDonnell will get him on the sabotage and conspiracy-to-defraud charges.”
“Big deal,” Cone says disgustedly. “He’ll squirm out of that with a slap on the wrist.”
“Don’t worry it,” Davenport advises. “Louie is going to spill, take my word for it. He’s never done time before, and we’ve been telling him how wonderful Attica is and what a prize his fat ass will be up there.”
“You tell him that in front of his lawyer?”
“Of course not. But right now he’s being held without bail, and his cellmate is doing us a favor.”
“Good,” Cone says. “Let the bastard sweat a little.”
Then Hamish McDonnell comes marching into the lobby, carrying a scuffed attache case. He’s flanked by two U.S. marshals, both as big as he.
“You three guys look like a half-ton of beef on the hoof,” Davenport says to the ADA. “Did you get your warrant?”
“Signed and sealed,” McDonnell says, patting his case. “Now we deliver.”
“You going to cuff him?”
“Oh, hell yes. You’d be surprised at the psychological effect handcuffs have on these Ivy League types. Takes all the starch out of their boxer shorts.” He turns to Cone. “You been up to his office?”
“Yeah. It’s a small place; I’m not sure we’ll all fit in. There’s this little reception room. A secretary at a desk. One door that leads to Dempster’s private office.”
“Sounds good. Let’s go.”
They all jam into a high-speed elevator. They exit on the twenty-seventh floor, tramp down the hallway to Dempster’s office in a phalanx. The plump secretary looks up from her magazine in amazement when they come crowding in.
“What-” she starts.
“Don’t bother announcing us,” McDonnell says. “It’s a surprise party.”
He strides to the inner door, jerks it open. The five men go charging in. David Dempster, crisply clad, is seated behind his desk, talking on the phone. He hangs up slowly, rises slowly, looks slowly from face to face. One of the marshals glides to his left, the other to his right, as if they’ve performed this ballet a hundred times.
“David Dempster?” McDonnell asks.
“Yes. And who, may I ask, are you?”
“Hamish McDonnell, Assistant District Attorney, Federal.” The ADA flaps his ID at Dempster. “I believe you’ve met Mr. Cone. This gentleman is Detective Neal K. Davenport of the New York Police Department. These two men are United States marshals. I have a warrant for your arrest.”
“Warrant?” Dempster says, the plummy voice suddenly dry and strained. “Arrest? For what?”
“Mr. Dempster,” McDonnell says, “the charges against you would fill a windowshade. Will you waive the reading of your rights?”
“Now wait a minute …”
“No, Mr. Dempster, you wait a minute. You can waste our time or you can make it easy on us and yourself and just come along quietly. Cooperate-okay?”
David Dempster manages a smarmy grin. “You don’t mind if I fill a pipe first, do you?” he asks and, without waiting for a reply, opens a side desk drawer and reaches in.
Surprisingly, it’s Davenport who reacts first. The portly detective moves so fast that Cone can’t believe it. He launches himself across the desk, grabs Dempster’s wrist in both hands, twists in opposite directions. There’s a howl of pain, and Neal plucks a nickeled pistol from Dempster’s nerveless fingers.
“Nice pipe,” the city cop says. “What’re you smoking these days-thirty-twos?”
“Cuff him,” McDonnell orders, and the marshals bend Dempster’s arms behind his back, not gently, and click the steel links on his wrists. They clamp their big mitts on his upper arms.
“Not smart, Mr. Dempster,” the ADA says. “What were you going to do, kill all five of us? Or just wave your popgun and make a run for it? It’s tough getting a cab on Fridays.”
“I wish to speak to my attorney,” Dempster says stiffly.
“You’ll get your chance,” McDonnell says. “Let’s go.”
Cone stands aside to let the entourage file by. David Dempster pauses a moment, pulling back against the marshals’ grip. He stares at Cone.
“You?” he says. “You did this?”
The Wall Street dick nods.
Dempster takes in the rumpled corduroy suit, grayed T-shirt, yellow work shoes.
“But you’re a bum!” he says in outraged tones.
“Yeah,” Cone says, “I know.”
He lets them all go ahead. He dawdles a moment in the reception room where the hennaed secretary has her back pressed against the wall, a knuckle between her teeth.
“I think you can close up now,” Cone tells her gently.
“He’s not coming back?” she asks.
“Not for a while.”
“Shit!” she says unexpectedly. “Best job I ever had.”
By the time Cone gets down to the street, the others have disappeared. He glances at the clock over the entrance and figures that if he hurries, he can get back to Haldering amp; Co. in time to pick up his paycheck. But hurrying anywhere in that heat is not a boss idea.
“Ahh, screw it,” he says aloud, causing passersby to look at him nervously and detour around him.
Stripped to their skivvies, they’re lazing around the loft on a late Saturday afternoon. The front windows are open, and Cone’s antique electric fan is doing its whirry best, but it’s still bloody hot.