analyze his love-hate feelings about it.
On Wednesday morning, he calls Samantha Whatley at the office.
“I won’t be in for a couple of days,” he tells her. “I’m sick.”
“Oh?” she says. “Don’t tell me it’s the fantods and megrims again. You pulled that one on me once before.”
“No,” he says, “this time I think I got coryza and phthisis. With maybe a touch of biliary calculus.”
“I’ll tell you what you’ve got, son,” she says. “More crap than a Christmas goose. Hiram was asking about you. He hasn’t seen you around lately and wanted to know if you still worked here.”
“Tell fatso to stuff it,” Cone says angrily. “I’m working the Dempster-Torrey file and he knows it.”
“How you coming on that?”
“Okay.”
She sighs. “I should have known better than to ask. Will you be in tomorrow?”
“Probably not.”
“Friday?”
“Maybe.”
“It’s payday, you know.”
“Well, if I don’t make it, will you pick up my check?”
“No,” she says. “If you want it, do us the honor of stopping by.”
“Now you’re acting like a shithead.”
“Asshole!” she says and hangs up.
He goes out to buy cigarettes, food, cat litter, newspapers, and to replenish his liquid assets. The low- pressure area is still hanging over the city, and the denizens are beginning to snarl at each other. That’s all right with Cone; at least it’s better than everyone giving him a toothy “Have a nice day.”
If it wasn’t for the Dempster-Torrey case, he would have enjoyed that solitary day in the loft. The phone never rings-not even a wrong number-and Cleo snoozes away the hours under the bathtub. Cone rations his drinks carefully, just keeping a nice, gentle buzz as he reads his newspapers, takes a couple of short naps, showers with his stiff brushing and cornstarch treatment, and changes his underwear and socks.
Several times he’s tempted to call Davenport and McDonnell, but resists. He just hopes to God they’re doing their jobs. If not, it’ll take him weeks, maybe months, to bring down David Dempster and put that gonzo behind bars.
Late that night, stripped to his briefs, he’s ready to sack out. He’s got a little high-intensity lamp he uses for horizontal activities. He’s also got his copy of
He reads another half-page and has just enough strength left to put the book aside and turn off his lamp.
Thursday starts in the same lethargic pattern. But then, close to noon, Detective Neal K. Davenport calls, and things start jumping.
“Hiya, sherlock,” Neal says breezily. “I called your office but they said you were home sick. I figured that was horseshit, and you’re just fucking off.”
“You got it,” Cone says. “What’s doing?”
“Everything’s coming up roses. Today is D-Day and H-hour is three o’clock. That’s when we’re going to raid Paddy’s Pig. Sam Shipkin’s done a great job. He found the motorcycle, and guess where they’ve been keeping it.”
“In the john?”
“Close but no cigar. There’s another building behind the tavern. Like a big shed. Sam says it looks like a department store-everything from condoms to cassettes. All hot. The cycle is the same make, model, and color used in the Dempster kill.”
“But you don’t know if it’s the actual bike?”
“Of course not. But it’ll do as corroborative evidence. The icing on the cake is that it’s owned by the Ryan brothers, a couple of no-goodniks who got their start as smash-and-grabbers when they were in their teens. They’ve both done time for strongarm stuff and have sheets that don’t end. They fit the witnesses’ description of the guys on the motorcycle when Dempster was put down. And to top that, Shipkin says that when he met them, they were both wearing steel-toed boots. How does that grab you?”
“Sounds okay,” Cone says cautiously, “but I wouldn’t call it an airtight case. Any two-bit shyster could get them off in five minutes if all you’ve got is a similar motorcycle, descriptions by eyewitnesses, and the boots.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Davenport says indignantly. “That’s why Sam Shipkin made a big drug buy from Louie about an hour ago with marked bills. So we got him cold, and we can lean on him. I figure he’ll make a deal and sing. Anyway, we’re going to give it the old college try. Listen, the raid on Paddy’s Pig is going to be what you’d call a media event. We’ve tipped the newspapers and TV stations, so it should be a circus. I figured you might want to be there.”
“Yeah,” Cone says. “Sure. Neal, there’s a guy named Hamish McDonnell in the Federal DA’s office. I think you should call him and invite him to the bust.”
“No way!” the NYPD man says. “This is our party, and we’re not sharing the headlines with the Feds or anyone else.”
“Now look,” Timothy says, “right now you got peanuts. If this Louie is afraid of the Westies and decides to clam up and take his lumps, then where the hell are you? The Ryan brothers waltz away and you guys are left looking like idiots. Is that the kind of headlines you want?”
Silence. Then: “Well, yeah, that could happen. But what’s this Hamish McDonnell got to do with the price of tea in China?”
“He’s coming at David Dempster from a different angle. Dempster was the brain behind all the industrial sabotage I was assigned to investigate. If McDonnell pins him on that-and I think he will-you’ll have insurance in case Louie decides to keep his mouth shut. David Dempster will take a fall either way-or both.”
“Goddamn it!” Davenport yells. “Why the fuck couldn’t you have told me all this from the start?”
“Because it’s outside your jurisdiction,” Cone explains patiently. “Granted that the dusting of those three guys on Wall Street is local. And the Department deserves the credit for breaking it. But there’s more to it than just those homicides; there’s arson, sabotage, bribery, and maybe conspiracy to commit murder. I think David Dempster is up to his ass in all that shit, but they’re
“Well … maybe,” the city bull says reluctantly. “I’ll have to get an okay from the brass. What kind of a guy is this McDonnell?”
“He thinks he’s hard-boiled,” Cone says, “but I think he’s half-baked. But that’s neither here nor there. Come on, Neal, once you guys get this thing wrapped up and tied with a ribbon, there’ll be enough glory to go around. The Department will get their headlines, and the Feds will get theirs, and everyone will live happily ever after. Will you call McDonnell?”
“I don’t like it,” Davenport says grumpily. “This is our baby, and I don’t want people thinking we can’t clean up the garbage in our own gutters. But like you say, it could be insurance for getting an indictment. Okay, I’ll see what the higher-ups think about it. If they say go ahead, I’ll give the Feds a call. And next time, for Christ’s sake, will you try to be a little more open so I know what’s going on?”
“I certainly will,” Cone says warmly. “See you at three.”
But Davenport has already hung up. Cone replaces the wall phone slowly, and his hand is still on it when it rings again. He picks up, wondering if the city dick has already changed his mind.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Tim? This is Jeremy Bigelow. You really sick?”
“Slightly indisposed. What’s with you?”
“I got some good news. I went to my boss with the story of the short traders, and he got the Commission to issue a formal order of investigation. That means we can get subpoenas and question the guys who were selling
