"If Rathbone is looting the assets, how was he able to return the divorcee's funds?"
"Easy. The old Ponzi scam. He used other investors' money to pay off. He came out of it smelling like roses, and it made me look like a shmuck. Why are you staring at me like that?"
"How long have you been in south Florida?" Sullivan asked.
"Almost eight months now."
"How come you're so pale? Don't you ever hit the beach?"
"I'd like to but can't. I get sun poisoning."
"Allergy, nervous stomach, and sun poisoning," she said. "You're in great shape."
"I'm surviving," Harker said. "You look like you toast your buns every day.''
"Not me," she said. "This is my natural hide. I can get a deeper tan just b r walking a block or two in the sunshine."
"Count your blessings," he said. "Now let's get back to business. Rathbone hangs out with a crowd of wise-guys who are just as slimy as he is. I've only been able to make one of them: an ex-con named Sidney Coe, who did time for a boiler room operation in Kansas City. I don't know what the others are into, but you can bet it's illegal, illicit, and immoral. They all meet in the bar of a restaurant on Commercial Boulevard in Lauderdale. It's called the Grand Palace."
"Great," she said. "Now let me guess. You want me to start hanging out at the Grand Palace and try to cozy up to this gang of villains."
"That's about it," he agreed. "Especially David Rathbone. I'm the guy who racked him up on that insider trading charge in New York. But he waltzed away from that with a slap on the wrist. That's one thing to remember about this man: He's been charged three times, to my knowledge, and never spent a day in chokey. You know why?"
"He cut a deal?" Rita suggested.
"Right. By ratting on his pals. This is not a standup guy. The other thing to remember about him is that he's a womanizer. It helps him hook those female mooches, but he also plays around when there's no profit involved."
She stared at him a long moment. Finally: "I'm beginning to get the picture. You expect me to ball this
guy."
Harker slammed a palm down on the desktop. "I expect you to do your job," he said angrily. "How you do it is up to you. I want to know how he's rolling his victims and I want to know what his buddies at the Grand Palace are up to. You want out?"
She considered for two beats. "Not yet. Let me make a few moves and see what happens. Do I call you here?"
"No," he said. "And don't come back to this building again. These people we're dealing with are bums but they're not stupes. You could be tailed. Here's a number you can call, day or night. Leave a message if I'm not in. One other thing: What are you carrying?"
"Thirty-eight Smith and Wesson. Short barrel."
"A cop's gun," he said, holding out his palm. "Let me have it."
She hesitated, then took the handgun from her shoulder bag and handed it over. Harker put it in his desk drawer and gave her a nickel-plated Colt.25 pistol. She examined it.
"What am I supposed to do with this peashooter?" she asked.
"Carry it," he said. "It's more in character. And leave your ID and shield with Mr. Crockett's secretary on your way out. Here's something else."
He withdrew a worn, folded newspaper clipping from his wallet and passed it to her. It was a two-paragraph story about Rita Angela Sullivan being arrested in a Tallahassee specialty shop for shoplifting. According to the clipping, charges were dropped for lack of evidence.
She read the story twice, then looked up at him. "How much did it cost to have this thing printed up?" she asked.
"Plenty," he said. "It looks like the real thing, doesn't it? Don't lose it. It might come in handy."
"How do you figure that?"
"If Rathbone goes through your purse, he'll find your dinky little gun and this clipping. It'll help you con the con man."
"Uh-huh," she said. "Pretty sure of me, weren't you?"
"I was hoping," Harker said.
She tucked pistol and clipping into her shoulder bag and stood up.
"Thanks for the lunch," she said.
"My pleasure."
She paused at the door. "You can call me Rita if you like," she said.
"I'll think about it," he said.
3
The Grand Palace was located on the north side of Commercial Boulevard between A1A and Federal Highway in an area known to local law enforcement agencies as Maggot Mile. The restaurant advertised Continental Cuisine, which in south Florida might include broiled alligator and smoked shark.
The main dining room, decorated in Miami Hotel Moderne, attracted a regular clientele of well-heeled retirees and tourists during the season, October to May. The shadowy back room, called the Palace Lounge, had its own side entrance opening directly onto the parking lot. The Lounge was decorated with fishnets, floats, lobster traps, and a large preserved sailfish over the bleached pine bar.
David Rathbone left his black Bentley in the care of the parking valet in front of the Grand Palace, then walked around to the Lounge entrance. He was wearing a suit of raw white silk with a knitted mauve polo shirt, open at the throat. His white bucks were properly scuffed. His only jewelry was an identification bracelet of heavy gold links, a miniature anchor chain.
The Lounge was empty except for Ernie polishing glasses behind the bar. Ernie was an ex-detective of the NYPD, cashiered for allegedly shaking down crack dealers. In addition to his barkeeping duties, he booked bets and served as a steerer for pot and coke dealers. He could also provide the phone number of a young call girl who happened to be his daughter.
"Good evening, Mr. Rathbone," he said. "How you doing?"
"Surviving," Rathbone said, and removed a five-dollar bill from his money clip. "Will you do me a favor, Ernie?"
"You name it."
"Put this fin in your cash register. Later in the evening I'll ask you for a five. Be sure to bring me this one. Got it?"
Ernie examined the bill, running his thumb across the surface. "Queer?"
"No," Rathbone said, "it's the real thing."
The bartender stared at him. "Is this a scam?"
"Nah, just a little joke."
"Uh-huh. What's in it for me?"
"The five."
"Okay," Ernie said, "I'll play. You want the usual, I suppose."
"You suppose correctly. With a wedge of lime, please."
The Lounge had tables of fake hatch covers poly-urethaned to a high gloss. Most of them seated two or four patrons comfortably. But in the most shadowed corner was a giant table set about with nine mate's chairs. This table bore a small card, reserved, and it was there Rathbone carried his vodka gimlet. He lighted his first Winston of the day and settled down.
He didn't wait long. Ten minutes later Mortimer and Nancy Sparco came in, stopped at the bar, then brought their Scotch mists over to the big table. Rathbone stood up.
"Nancy," he said, "you look ravishing, and if Mort wasn't here, I would."
"Be my guest," Sparco said and flopped into the chair next to Rathbone's.
"Mort's in a snit," Nancy said. "He didn't win the lottery-again."
"You still playing that?" Rathbone asked. "It's a sucker's game; you know it. Look at the odds."
"Look at the payoff," Mortimer said. "Millions! It's worth a hundred bucks a week."