“What do you mean by this?” he demanded. “This is the second time in two days you‟ve intruded on
me without —“
“I didn‟t intrude on you yesterday,” I said, without waiting for him to finish. “I came to tell you your
secretary had a death in the family.”
“What are you doing here now?”
“I thought we could have a little talk, Mr. Seaborn, just you and me.”
“About what?”
“About Franco Tagliani, who called himself Frank Turner. About Lou Cohen‟s banking habits. About
Harry Raines, who got himself killed right over there.” I nodded toward the window. He followed my
gaze, but looked up instead of out, toward the top floor of Warehouse Three. Heavy storm clouds
were brewing again and it was dark enough for lights but there weren‟t any. Nobody was home. The
boss was dead.
Seaborn‟s nervous fingers rippled up and down the desk as if it were a concert piano.
“I hardly knew Mr. Turner,” he said. “And I don‟t know anything about poor Harry‟s death.” He
paused for a minute and then said, “Perhaps I should summon my lawyer.”
“You could do that. Or you and I could have a private little chat. Just the two of us. That‟s if you want
to cooperate. Otherwise, you don‟t have to call your lawyer, I‟ll leave. Somebody else will come
back; that‟s when you‟ll need your lawyer. That‟s when they read you your rights and all that stuff
you see in the movies.”
He turned ash gray.
“What is it, then?” he said, in a faltering voice that was rapidly losing what little character it had. He
looked back over at the warehouse.
“There‟s nobody over there,” I said. “The place is closed. Another death in the family. So what‟s it
going to be? Talk? Or lawyers?”
“Ahem. We can. . certainly., start... uh.
“Look here, Mr. Seaborn, there are some things I know, and some things I think I know, and some
things I‟m strictly guessing at. I think maybe you can eliminate some of my guesswork.”
He didn‟t say anything. He sat there like a man with his head in the guillotine, waiting for the blade to
drop.
“I repeat,” Seaborn said, putting a little strength back in his voice. “I knew the man as Turner. He was
just another businessman. We were actively soliciting new business and capital into the community,
that‟s no secret And he made us a very attractive offer.”
“No strings attached, right?”
He paused for a minute and said, “Right.”
“Who proposed the banking arrangements?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“This is what I know, Mr. Seaborn. I know that Tagliani did his banking with you. I know that Lu
Cohen was the bagman for the operation and made all the cash deposits directly to you. I also know
that a lot of that cash came from pimping, gambling, and narcotics, and that classifies it as ill-gotten
gains, which is dirty money, and that means we can confiscate it, and any other money made through
the use of it, by anybody connected to them.”
“I don‟t know where his money came from,” Seaborn said.
“Cohen made enormous cash deposits to you almost every day. You didn‟t find that odd?”
“It‟s not my business to question my customers,” he said.
“It‟s your business to report all deposits over ten thousand dollars to the IRS, isn‟t it?”
That stumped him. He looked out the window again. I followed his gaze. I could see Stick down on
the pier, talking to Whippet.
“I assure you,” he said, after a long pause, “that there was nothing illegal in his banking transactions.
It would be a violation of confidence to discuss it any further.”
“At least three of the accounts are Panamanian mirror accounts,” I said.
“Still none of my business and perfectly legal,” he said, too quickly.
He was feeling stronger and putting up a pretty good fight. I had only two cards left to play.
“What about the Rio Company?” I said.
“What about it?” he said. “It‟s one of their corporations. They have dozens. I really don‟t know for
what purpose. I was not Cohen‟s confidant, I was simply his banker.”
He seemed sincere enough. So I played my last ace.
“How about the pyramid accounts?” I asked.
This time he jumped as if a flea had bitten his ass.
“I told you, I don‟t know anything about their business,” he said, almost in a whisper.
I reached into my pocket and took out the tape recorder, punched the play button, and sat it on the
edge of the desk. The heart monitor was beeping a monotonous background to Harry Raines‟ strained
breathing. He was muttering, then a pause, then he cried out, “Doe!”
Seaborn‟s eyes bulged. His Adam‟s apple was doing a little dance.
I turned the player off.
“He said a lot before he died,” I lied.
Seaborn‟s tough shell began to peel away. He stared at the recorder as if it were a black widow spider
crawling across the desk toward him.
“We were talking about what I know,” I said. “I know you called Sam Donleavy at Babs „Thomas‟
party a little after seven. I know you were in the bank because your lights were seen by two witnesses.
I know that when Harry Raines was shot, he was either walking from his office in the warehouse
toward here, or from here toward his office. It‟s illogical to think he was meeting somebody in the
park, it was too foggy. Whoever shot him was either waiting for him or caught up with him.”
His fingers started playing on the desk again.
I said, “He came here and braced you about Tagliani. You broke down, and before it was over, you‟d
told him the whole story. He threatened to expose you, and when he left, you went out the back door
of the bank, followed him, and shot him.”
His face turned purple. “You‟re insane!” he screamed. “I don‟t even own a gun. And I didn‟t have
time to run after him. I was still sitting right here when—”
He stopped babbling and fell back in his chair.
“When you heard the shot,” I said.
He sat dead still for a full minute; then his face went to pieces and he nodded.
“1 swear to Cod I don‟t know who shot Harry,” he said, almost whimpering. “I‟ve done nothing
illegal. There was nothing illegal in the way Cohen‟s money was handled.”
“It‟s a subterfuge,” I said.
“You‟re guessing,” he said. “Besides, that‟s not what Harry was so angry about.”
“He was angry because you‟d gotten into bed with the wrong people, right?” I said.
“That‟s as good a way of putting it as any,” he said.
“What did you tell Sam Donleavy on the phone?”
“I told him... I told him Harry knew everything. 1 couldn‟t help it. Harry came here and he was insane
with anger. Abusive. He could always intimidate me with that cold stare of his, anyway. I don‟t know
why he suddenly got so upset. He went crazy. 1 told him everything. I tried to make him understand
how it happened, that we didn‟t know who Turner really was until it was too late. He was screaming
about trust and loyalty.”
“What did Donleavy say?” 1 asked.
“He talked to Harry.”
“Raines was here when you called the Thomas woman‟s apartment?” 1 said with surprise.
“Yes.”
“And... ?“
“Sam had to go out to his place and wait for a phone call. He said he‟d call us when he got there.
About forty minutes later he called back.”
“Did you talk to him?”
Seaborn nodded. “Yes. He told me he had to talk to Dutch Morehead at eight o‟clock and that he
would ask Harry to come out to his place and they‟d have it out. He said he felt Harry would be