told me that John Dempster loved his wife, and I accept that. As a matter of fact, Teresa told me they had a happy marriage. But I also heard that he was playing around.”
“What does that have to do with industrial sabotage?”
“Probably nothing,” Cone admits. “But I just like to know as much as I can about the people involved. Was John Dempster a tomcat, Mr. Trale?” And then, knowing when to lie, Timothy adds, “Several people have told me he was.”
“What people told you that?”
Cone sighs. “You’re stalling, Mr. Trale. If you don’t want to answer, tell me and I’ll accept it. And go on believing what I’ve heard.”
The CFO hesitates a long moment. “It can do no harm now,” he says finally. “And besides, too many people know to try to keep it a secret. It’s true, Mr. Cone: Dempster was a womanizer. It was almost a carryover from his business methods. When he saw something he wanted, he went after it, regardless of the cost, the risk, or how long it might take. He was that way in his pursuit of women as well. But he always went back to Teresa. I know that for a fact.”
“Uh-huh,” Cone says, figuring the Security Chief, Theodore Brodsky, was probably right on the button when he implied Dempster and Eve Bookerman were having an affair. “Thanks for the talk; it’s been a help. I’ll wait for your call on takeover rumors.”
They rise, shake hands, start out. But Timothy pauses at the door. “One final question, Mr. Trale: Do you know David Dempster?”
“I’ve met him,” the other man says.
“Do you happen to know if he’s married?”
“Divorced. About five years ago, as I recall.”
“Has he remarried?”
“I don’t know. Why are you interested in David Dempster?”
“I’m trying to figure out the guy,” Cone says, leaving the Chief Financial Officer to wonder what that meant.
He slouches into Samantha Whatley’s office, and she looks up.
“I’m busy,” she says.
“So am I,” he says. “Puddling around in this heat, doing God’s work. I need a couple of things.”
She tosses her pen onto the desk and sighs. “Make it short and sweet.”
“That’s not what you said the other night.”
She looks around nervously. “Keep your voice down.” She still believes their co-workers are unaware of their relationship, but he thinks a few of the other dicks guess what’s going on.
“I need a rental car,” he says. “This Dempster-Torrey thing is spreading out, and I’ve got to get around. Tell H.H. the client will okay the expense.”
“How do you know-did you ask them?”
“No, I didn’t ask them. Come on, don’t bust my balls, just get me some wheels.”
“I’ll try. That’s it?”
“No, that isn’t it. I want you to pull a telephone scam for me. I’d do it myself, but it needs a woman’s voice.”
“I don’t know,” she says doubtfully. “Is it important?”
“It’s not my main lead, it’s sort of a fallback position. You know what that is, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” she says in a low voice. “I fall back and you jump my bones. All right, what’s the scoop?”
He explains: She is to call the office of David Dempster Associates, Inc., and speak only to the secretary. If Dempster answers, hang up. She is to tell the secretary that she’s an old friend of Mrs. Dempster but hasn’t seen her for years. Now she’s in town for a few days and would love to chat with her old school chum. But she understands Mrs. Dempster has been divorced, and she doesn’t have her new address and phone number or even the last name she’s using now. Could the secretary help her out?”
“What’s Mrs. Dempster’s first name?” Sam asks.
“Don’t know.”
“Shithead!” she says wrathfully. “How can I claim to be the woman’s old school chum if I don’t know her first name?”
“You can finagle it. At least it’s worth a try.”
He gives her the number and she dials.
“Hello, there!” she carols. “Is this the office of David Dempster? Well, my name is Irma Plotnick, and I’m an old friend of Mrs. Dempster-school pals, you know. I’m in town for a few days-South Bend, Indiana, is my home-and I was hoping to get together with Mrs. Dempster. Well, a mutual friend tells me she’s divorced now. I tried her at the number I have for her, but she’s no longer there. So I guess she didn’t get the apartment as part of the settlement-right, dear? Well, goodness, I don’t even know what name she’s using now, let alone where she’s living. Anyway, dear, I was hoping you’d be able to give me the name she’s using, her address-and the phone number if you have it. I so want to get together with her and talk about old times. … You do? Oh, that’s great! Now just wait half-a-mo until I get a pen. All right, I’m all set now. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I’ve got it. Thank you so much, dear. You’ve been a love and I’ll certainly tell her when I see her. ’Bye now!”
Whatley hangs up and skids the scratch paper she’s been scribbling on across the desk. “Name, address, and phone number,” she says triumphantly. “How did you like that performance?”
“Not bad,” Cone says grudgingly. “But long-winded. When you’re pulling a telephone con, keep it as brief as you can. The best lies are short ones.”
“I should have known better than to expect thanks from you,” Sam says. “Now take off and let me get some work done.”
“One final question that’s been bothering me,” he says. “If a guy who plays around a lot is called a womanizer, what do you call a woman who does the same thing-a manizer?”
Sam points at the door. “Out!” she says.
Four
It rains hard that night, breaking the back of the heat wave. When Cone slogs down Broadway to work-only a half-hour late this time-the air is breathable and the sky is clear.
The new receptionist at Haldering amp; Co. hands him a telephone message on a pink slip:
“Good morning, Mr. Cone.”
“’Morning. I hope you have good news.”
“Good news for us, but I’m afraid you will be disappointed. I spoke to a half-dozen of my most knowledgeable contacts. None has heard a word about anyone planning a raid on Dempster-Torrey. To be quite frank, they thought the idea implausible. The way we’re structured would make any pirate think twice before he made a run at us.”
“All right,” Cone says, “I’ll accept that. Thanks for your help, Mr. Trale. I’ll be in touch if I get another brainstorm.”
He hangs up, lights his third cigarette of the day, finishes his breakfast. So now he’s back to square one. That’s okay; he’s been there before.
But the big question remains: Who would benefit from the death of John J. Dempster? Could his wife have learned of his infidelities and hired a couple of punks to ace him? Unlikely. If she knew about his dedicated search for the perfect bang, she probably didn’t give a damn; she had her bonsai-and all the money in the world.
Ditto the underlings at Dempster-Torrey. They might think their boss was a double-dyed bastard, but they had high-paying jobs and weren’t about to scratch the fount from whom all blessings flowed. The one exception might be Eve Bookerman: an energetic and brainy lady who was sleeping with J.J. Maybe he threatened to dump her for a younger twist, or maybe she coveted his job. Either one would be motive enough for her to take out a
