Timothy's game

contract on the Chairman and CEO.

A discharged or disgruntled employee? Another possibility. But as Brodsky said, that would narrow the list of suspects to ten thousand. Where do you start digging into something like that?

And then there’s David Dempster, that prig. But what reason could he have for putting his brother down? Unless he was hurting for cash and needed an inheritance.

At that moment, as if reading his mind, Sid Apicella comes into his office. He’s gripping a sheet of scratch paper.

“You and your lousy ‘one phone call,’” he says grumpily. “It took me four calls and almost half a day to get any info on David Dempster. How the hell do you get other people to do your job for you?”

“Boyish charm,” Cone says.

“You’ve got about as much charm as my wife’s old poodle-and that monster farts, has fleas, and a breath that would knock your socks off. Anyway, David Dempster Associates, Inc., is a legit outfit that’s been in business about twelve years. They do corporate publicity and public relations, and seem to be doing just great. Good cash flow and some heavy clients.”

“Bullshit!” the Wall Street dick says angrily. “I was up at their place, and it’s practically a hole-in-the-wall. Dempster’s private office is not much bigger than this latrine.”

“So? What do you need in the publicity business? A telephone and a lot of good contacts-right?”

“Maybe. But with all the high-powered PR outfits on the Street, I can’t see Dempster attracting any blue-chip clients. How much money they got?”

“The corporation? They keep a minimum hundred-thousand balance. When it gets over that, Dempster pays himself a bonus.”

“A sweet setup. And what’s he worth?”

“Personally?” the CPA says, consulting his notes. “About four mil, give or take. How does that grab you?”

“It doesn’t,” Cone says. “You just blew another of my half-assed ideas out of the water. The second time that’s happened in the last hour. What a great morning this is. But thanks anyway, Sid; that’s one I owe you.”

“One?” Apicella shouts, rubbing his rosy schnoz furiously. “You owe me so much I’ll never get even.”

He stomps out after tossing his scrawled notes onto the desk. Cone leans forward to read them, then sits back and lights another Camel. So David Dempster has a personal net worth of four million. That doesn’t sound like a man who’d have his brother chilled just to inherit a few more bucks-unless the guy is suffering from terminal greed.

But something smells. Cone well knows that public relations outfits deal with images and perceptions. It’s a way of life that carries over into the way the flacks do business: impressive offices, flashy secretaries, a hyperactive staff, and autographed photos on the walls of the boss posing with important people. Dempster has a telephone booth office, one pleasant but plain secretary, and a picture on the wall of his dead hound.

And from this mom-and-pop bodega the cash flow has enabled him to amass a fortune? That just doesn’t add up.

He chews it over for a while. Then, groaning, he gets to his feet and wanders down the corridor to the office of Fred Burgess, another Haldering amp; Co. investigator. Fred is on the phone, but when he sees Cone standing there, he motions him in, points to the armchair alongside his littered desk.

“Marcia,” he’s saying, “I’ve already apologized twice, but if you want, I’ll do it again. You’re the one who picked the Japanese restaurant. I’m not blaming you, but it was the combination of the sashimi and sake that did it. How the hell can you know how much you’re drinking when they serve it in thimbles? It didn’t hit me until we got up to your place. All that raw fish and rice wine. … Marcia, I’ve already explained I couldn’t make it to the bathroom. So your aquarium seemed the best bet. I know it killed all your guppies, but I’ll buy you more guppies. Marcia? Marcia?”

He replaces the phone. “She hung up,” he says gloomily.

“Have a pleasant evening?” Cone asks.

“Go to hell,” Burgess says. “It took me weeks to get this date. She’s gorgeous, got a great job on the Street, and beautiful digs up around Gramercy Park. I thought sure last night was going to be the night. Then I have to vomit into her goddamned fish tank and kill all her goddamned guppies. I guess I’m on her shit list now.”

“Good detecting,” Cone says. “Look, I didn’t come in here to discuss your love life. You still got that collection of business cards?”

Burgess, a youngish, fattish, liverish guy, stares at him suspiciously. “Yeah, I still got it. And I’m going to keep it.”

“One card,” Timothy says. “Just one. On loan.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll tell you how to bring Marcia around.”

“Deal. How do I do it?”

“Buy her the most expensive tropical fish you can afford. Something really exotic with big fins. Like a Veiltail Angelfish. Have it delivered to her apartment with a simple, heartfelt note like, ‘I’m sorry I puked in your aquarium.’”

“Yeah,” Fred says, “that might work. What do you need?”

“The business card of a writer.”

“Writers don’t have business cards. But I got one from a magazine editor. Will that do?”

“It’ll have to.”

Burgess pulls out a long file of business cards he’s collected over the years at cocktail parties, conventions, and press conferences. He thumbs through them, pulls one out, hands it over.

“Waldo Sperling,” Cone reads. “Feature Editor, Zebu Magazine. What the hell does Zebu mean?”

“If you did crossword puzzles, you’d know. It’s an Asian ox. But don’t worry about it; the magazine is out of business and it can mean anything you want it to.”

“Okay,” Cone says, rising, “I’ll give it a try. Do I look like a Waldo to you?”

“To me,” says Burgess, “you look like a schmuck.”

Cone goes back to his office and digs out the name, address, and phone number of David Dempster’s ex-wife. He dials and waits for nine rings before a woman’s voice comes on.

“H’lo?” she says sleepily.

“Am I speaking to Miss Dorothy Blenke, the former Mrs. David Dempster?”

“Yeah,” she says, “that’s right. What time is it?”

“Almost eleven-thirty, Miss Blenke.”

“Jesus! I got a lunch date at noon. Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Waldo Sperling, and I’m the Feature Editor of Zebu Magazine. We’re planning an article on the life of the late John J. Dempster, Chairman of the Board of Dempster-Torrey, and I’m trying to talk to as many people as possible who knew him.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You knew John Dempster, Miss Blenke?”

“Of course I knew him. Better than most.”

“All I ask is a few moments of your time. To get your personal reactions to the man. His good points and his bad points.”

“He didn’t have any,” she says.

“Didn’t have any what?”

“Good points.”

“Just a few moments at your convenience,” Cone urges. “If you don’t wish your name to appear in print, we’ll respect that. But we would prefer to use your name in the article and perhaps publish your photograph since you obviously represent a key source for our story.”

“Listen,” she says, “you got my address?”