short so heavily before the dates you gave me.”
Cone takes a deep breath. “Jerry,” he says, “why did you do that? I thought you turned the whole deal over to the Federal DA. You contacted Hamish McDonnell-remember?”
“Well … yeah,” Bigelow says, “but why should they get all the credit? It was the SEC that uncovered it- right?”
Cone doesn’t comment on that. “You’ll get your share of the credit,” he tells the investigator, and then repeats what he said to Neal Davenport: “There’ll be enough glory to go around. Take my advice, Jerry, and give McDonnell a call before you go ahead with your subpoenas. Otherwise you’re going to find there are two identical investigations going on, with everyone walking up everyone else’s heels, and bad blood between you and the Feds.”
“You really think so?” Bigelow says worriedly.
“I really think so. Be smart and play it cool. Call McDonnell and tell him the SEC has launched a formal investigation and can issue subpoenas, but you don’t want to do it if it’ll interfere with what he’s doing. Be nice and you’ll score brownie points. And meanwhile, call your favorite reporters and leak just enough to get their juices flowing. Tell them it’s going to be the biggest Wall Street scandal since Boesky. They’ll jump at it.”
“Yeah,” Bigelow says happily, “I could do that.”
“Just make sure they spell your name right,” Cone says.
He hangs up, shaking his head in bemusement. He can’t understand all these headline-hungry guys. Cone couldn’t care less about personal aggrandizement, and he doesn’t give a tinker’s dam about the reputation of Haldering amp; Co. In a hundred years, who’ll remember all this shit?
But meanwhile it’s fun. By three o’clock he’s tooled his Ford Escort up to 45th Street. He finds a parking space around the block and walks back to join the small crowd of rubbernecks that’s appeared out of nowhere to watch the police raid on Paddy’s Pig.
There’s not much to see. No excitement. No wild-and-woolly shoot-outs. The tavern is blocked off by a jam of official and unmarked cop cars. There’s also an NYPD truck pulled up in front, flanked by a mobile TV van. Cone edges into the mob and watches.
There’s a parade of sweating cops going into Paddy’s Pig empty-handed and coming out lugging cartons, crates, unpacked television sets and VCRs. Then two come out wheeling a black motorcycle, and that’s hoisted into the truck.
Louie is brought out, cuffed, held firmly between two uniformed mastodons. He’s thrust into a squad car. A younger guy, similarly cuffed, is treated the same way. He’s grinning like a maniac. One of the Ryan brothers, Cone assumes. Finally Detective Davenport and ADA Hamish McDonnell exit from Paddy’s Pig and stand on the sidewalk, talking rapidly and gesturing.
The vehicles begin to pull away, the rubbernecks disperse. A non-event, Cone figures, and wonders why he bothered to show up. He’s about to leave when Hamish McDonnell spots him, yells, “Hey, Cone!” and beckons. Davenport gives him a wise-ass grin and goes back inside the bar.
“You sonofabitch,” McDonnell says furiously, “why the hell didn’t you tell me the NYPD was after David Dempster for the homicides?”
“Hey,” Cone says, “don’t get your balls in an uproar. First of all, you had no need to know. Those killings are a Department squeal-correct? I work with the locals just the way I work with you. Everyone gets a piece of the pie.”
McDonnell gives him a close look. “I gotta admit you didn’t shaft me. Those names you gave me are panning out. All we had to do with one guy was mention the name David Dempster, and he broke. Started blubbering. You know what worries him most? That we’ll take his vintage Daimler away from him. How d’ya like that?”
“Beautiful,” Cone says. “You got enough on the short-selling and sabotage?”
“We’re getting it,” the ADA says. “All these guys are going to do time. Maybe not a lot, but some.” Suddenly he becomes Mr. Nice. “Listen, Cone,” he says, “I’m sorry if I came on heavy. I apologize.”
“That’s okay. You’re entitled. You didn’t know me from Adam and probably figured I was handing you a crock.”
“Yeah, something like that. Tell me, how did you get onto David Dempster?”
“It was easy,” the Wall Street dick says. “I didn’t have anyone else.”
McDonnell laughs. “And what are you getting out of it?”
“I’ll get my reward in heaven.”
“Loser!” McDonnell jeers. Then: “Look, I owe you one. We’re taking David Dempster tomorrow at four o’clock at his office. Davenport will be there. You want to be in on the kill?”
“I got nothing better to do,” Timothy says.
Neal Davenport is waiting in the overchilled lobby of David Dempster’s steel and glass office building on Friday afternoon when Cone shows up. They waste no time in greetings.
“How you doing with Louie?” Timothy wants to know.
“We’re not ready to dance the fandango yet,” the NYPD man says, “but his lawyer sounds like he wants to make a deal. I think we’ll nail the Ryan brothers on the kills.”
“What about the sabotage?”
“My guess is that David Dempster was directing the whole operation, and paying for it. He gave the orders to Louie, and that shmegegi sent the Westies into action. It was a sweet setup. Louie was Dempster’s cutout; he never met the mugs who were doing his dirty work. So naturally they can’t finger him.”
“Yeah, that’s how I see it. But if Louie doesn’t talk, Dempster walks away from the homicide rap?”
“Maybe. But McDonnell will get him on the sabotage and conspiracy-to-defraud charges.”
“Big deal,” Cone says disgustedly. “He’ll squirm out of that with a slap on the wrist.”
“Don’t worry it,” Davenport advises. “Louie is going to spill, take my word for it. He’s never done time before, and we’ve been telling him how wonderful Attica is and what a prize his fat ass will be up there.”
“You tell him that in front of his lawyer?”
“Of course not. But right now he’s being held without bail, and his cellmate is doing us a favor.”
“Good,” Cone says. “Let the bastard sweat a little.”
Then Hamish McDonnell comes marching into the lobby, carrying a scuffed attache case. He’s flanked by two U.S. marshals, both as big as he.
“You three guys look like a half-ton of beef on the hoof,” Davenport says to the ADA. “Did you get your warrant?”
“Signed and sealed,” McDonnell says, patting his case. “Now we deliver.”
“You going to cuff him?”
“Oh, hell yes. You’d be surprised at the psychological effect handcuffs have on these Ivy League types. Takes all the starch out of their boxer shorts.” He turns to Cone. “You been up to his office?”
“Yeah. It’s a small place; I’m not sure we’ll all fit in. There’s this little reception room. A secretary at a desk. One door that leads to Dempster’s private office.”
“Sounds good. Let’s go.”
They all jam into a high-speed elevator. They exit on the twenty-seventh floor, tramp down the hallway to Dempster’s office in a phalanx. The plump secretary looks up from her magazine in amazement when they come crowding in.
“What-” she starts.
“Don’t bother announcing us,” McDonnell says. “It’s a surprise party.”
He strides to the inner door, jerks it open. The five men go charging in. David Dempster, crisply clad, is seated behind his desk, talking on the phone. He hangs up slowly, rises slowly, looks slowly from face to face. One of the marshals glides to his left, the other to his right, as if they’ve performed this ballet a hundred times.
“David Dempster?” McDonnell asks.
“Yes. And who, may I ask, are you?”
“Hamish McDonnell, Assistant District Attorney, Federal.” The ADA flaps his ID at Dempster. “I believe you’ve met Mr. Cone. This gentleman is Detective Neal K. Davenport of the New York Police Department. These two men are United States marshals. I have a warrant for your arrest.”
“Warrant?” Dempster says, the plummy voice suddenly dry and strained. “Arrest? For what?”
“Mr. Dempster,” McDonnell says, “the charges against you would fill a windowshade. Will you waive the
