They all looked up expectantly when Rathbone entered. He lifted a hand, thumb and forefinger making a circle in the A-OK sign.
"Got her," he said, and they applauded.
He moved amongst them, taking out a gold money clip in the shape of a dollar sign. He gave each of them a fifty, not forgetting Theodore and Blanche, washing glasses in the kitchen.
"Now let's adjourn to the Palace," Rathbone said. "The booze is on me, but you guys will have to buy your own macadamia nuts."
Laughing, they all moved outside to their cars. Frank Little grabbed Rathbone's arm.
"Where did you find that mooch?" he asked. "My God, she's as fat and ugly as a manatee."
"Really?" Rathbone said with a smile. "I think she's divined'
2
His name was Lester T. Crockett, and he was an austere man: vested, bow-tied, thin hair parted in the middle. He raised his eyes from the open file on his desk, looked at the woman sitting across from him.
"Rita Angela Sullivan," he said. "Unusual name. Spanish and Irish, isn't it?"
"You've got it," she said. "Puerto Rico and County Cork."
He nodded. "That was a fine operation in Tampa," he said.
"I didn't get much credit for it."
"Not in the newspapers," he agreed with a frosty smile. "You can blame me for that. I didn't want your name or picture used. I wanted you down here for an undercover job."
"But it was me who roped the banker," she argued. "Without him, they'd have no case at all."
"I agree completely," he said patiently, "but I assure you that your work did not go unnoticed. That's why you're here."
"And where the hell is here?" she demanded. "All I know is that my boss in Tallahassee put me on a plane for Fort Lauderdale and told me to report to you. What kind of an outfit is this?"
He sat back, twined fingers over his vest, stared at her. "Let me give you some background. About a year ago it became obvious that the war against so-called 'white-collar crime' in Florida was being mishandled. I'm speaking now not of the drug trade but money laundering, boiler room scams, stock swindles, and tax frauds. There are a lot of elderly people in Florida, rich elderly people, and along with the retirees came the sharks."
"So what else is new," she said flippantly, but he ignored it.
"The Department of Justice sent me down to study the problem and make recommendations. I found that it wasn't so much a lack of money or a lack of manpower that was hurting law enforcement in this area, it was the number of agencies involved, overlapping jurisdictions, and a competitiveness that frequently led to inefficiencies and rancorous dispute."
"Everyone hunting headlines?" she suggested. "Big egos?"
"Those were certainly factors," he acknowledged. "The FBI, SEC, State Attorney's Office, IRS, and local police, to name just a few, were all involved. Investigators from those agencies were walking up each other's heels, withholding evidence from each other, and planning sting and undercover operations with absolutely no coordination whatsoever."
"I believe it," she said. "I heard of a case in Jacksonville where a local undercover narc set up a big coke buy. Only the seller turned out to be an undercover FBI narc."
"Happens more often than you think," Crockett said, not smiling. "My recommendation was to set up an independent supra-agency that would draw personnel from all the others, as needed, and work with absolutely no publicity or even acknowledgment that such an agency existed. My recommendation was approved with the proviso that such an organization would be allowed to function for only two years. At the end of that time, an evaluation would be made of the results, if any, and it would then be determined whether or not to allow the supra-agency to continue to exist. I was appointed to direct the agency's activities in south Florida."
"Lucky you," Rita Sullivan said. "What's the name of this agency?"
"It has no name. The theory is that if it's nameless it is less likely to attract attention."
"Maybe," she said doubtfully. "And where do I fit in?"
"You'll be working with a man named Anthony Har-ker. He's on loan from the Securities and Exchange Commission."
"A New Yorker?" she asked.
"Yes."
"That's one strike against him," she said. "He's my boss?"
Crockett gave her his wintry smile. "I prefer the word 'associate.' He's waiting in his office, down the hall. He'll brief you."
"If I don't like the setup, can I go back to Tallahassee?"
"Of course."
"But it'll go in my jacket that I bugged out. Right?"
"Right," Lester T. Crockett said, rising to shake her hand.
Instead of names painted on the doors, there were business cards taped to the frosted glass. She found one that read Anthony C. Harker and went in. The man
seated behind the steel desk had an inhaler plugged up one nostril. He looked at her, blinked once, pocketed the inhaler.
"For an allergy," he said. "You might have knocked."
"Sorry."
"You're Rita Angela Sullivan?"
"That's right. Anthony C. Harker?"
"Yes." Then, stiffly, "You can call me Tony if you like."
"I'll think about it," she said and, unbidden, slid into the armchair alongside his desk.
"When did you get in?" he asked.
"Last night."
"Where you staying?"
"The Howard Johnson in Pompano Beach."
"Using your real name?"
"Yes."
"Good. What address did you give when you registered?"
"My mother's home in Tallahassee."
"That's okay. When you check out, pay cash. No credit cards."
"When am I going to check out?"
"We'll get to that. Have you got wheels?"
"No."
"Rent something small and cheap. By the way, I heard about the bust in Tampa. Nice work."
"Thanks."
"They were flying the stuff in from the Bahamas?"
"That's right. Using an old abandoned landing strip out in the boondocks."
"How did you get the banker to sing?"
She lifted her chin. "I persuaded him," she said.
Harker nodded. "This thing we're on isn't drugs. At least not the smuggling or dealing."
"Money laundering?"
"That may be part of it. The key suspect is a guy named David Rathbone. No relation to Basil."
"Who's Basil?"
"Forget it," he said. "You're too young. This David Rathbone is a wrongo. No hard stuff, but he's a con man, swindler, shark, and world-class nogoodnik. You hungry?"
"What?" she said, startled. "Yeah, I could eat something."
"Here's the subject's file. Read it. Meanwhile I'll go get us some lunch. Pizza and a beer?"
"Sounds good. Pepperoni and a Bud for me, please."
He was gone for almost a half-hour. When he returned, they spread their lunch on his desktop.
"No pepperoni for you?" she asked.
"No, just cheese. I've got a nervous stomach."
"I read the file on Rathbone," Sullivan said. "A sweet lad. Where did you get that photo? He's beautiful."
* "From his ex-wife. If she had her druthers, she'd have given us his balls, too."
"What's he into right now?"
"He's set himself up as an investment adviser or financial planner-whatever you want to call it. I estimate-and it's just a guess-that's he's got at least fifteen mooches on his list, and he's handling maybe twenty million dollars."
"Oh-oh. Who are all these lucky victims?"
"Widows and divorcees plus a choice selection of
doctors and airline pilots-the biggest suckers in the world when it comes to investments."
"What's his con?"
"He gets them to sign a full power of attorney plus a management contract. Then he's home free. His fee, he tells them, is three percent annually. If he's handling twenty mil like I figure, it would give him a yearly take of six hundred thousand. But I don't think he's satisfied with that. A greedy little bugger, our Mr. Rathbone. And with his record, he's got to be dipping in the till. But he sends out monthly statements, and no one has filed a complaint yet. About two months ago I convinced one of his clients, a divorcee, to demand all her money back from Rathbone, including the profits he claimed he had made for her. She got a teller's check for the entire amount the next day. She was so ashamed of doubting Rathbone that she returned the check and told him to keep managing her money.''