are organizing a new business, the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. They've rented a small office on Federal Highway. Sullivan goes to work there tomorrow as a secretary, the Fund paying her salary.
'Suarez says Coe is pushing shares of the Fund in his boiler room, and Clark says Sparco is doing the same thing in his brokerage. Clark also confirms that Bartlett is in on it. The only one whose connection remains iffy is Frank Little, but I'm betting he's a partner, too.
'And that's about all I've got so far, sir. It's possible, of course, that the Fund is an out-and-out swindle, it really doesn't exist, and they're selling shares in soap bubbles.'
'But you don't believe that?' Crockett asked.
'No, sir. If the whole thing is just one big goldbrick, why go to the bother of renting an office and hiring a secretary?'
'Just as a front?'
'Maybe,' Harker said, 'but I think there's more to it than that. They're having letterheads and business cards printed up, like this is a company that's going to be in business for a while.'
'Registered?'
'Not with the SEC, the Chicago Board of Trade, the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, or the State of Florida. They may have offshore registration, but I've been unable to find any evidence of it. I'm hoping Sullivan will be able to tell us more about the nature of the Fund after she's been working in their office awhile.'
Crockett thrust his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders, stared down at the chart. 'Of course,' he said, 'we could pick up the entire mob right now, on charges of security fraud, mail fraud, and conspiracy. And maybe throw the RICO book at them for good measure.'
Harker stared at him. 'You don't really want to do that, do you, sir?'
'No,' Crockett said, 'because the moment we put the cuffs on Rathbone, he'll clam up about the source of that self-destructing check. Have you learned anything more about it?'
'According to Sullivan, Rathbone said that seam's on hold.'
'Do you believe that?'
'No-but no more of those queer checks have been reported.'
'Ullman is still working on the bank officer?'
'Yes, sir. He's become very buddy-buddy with Mike Mulligan. So I'm expecting a break there.'
'Soon, I hope,' Crockett said. 'The Washington brass keep pushing me. All I can do is keep pushing you. And all you can do is keep pushing Ullman.'
'I intend to,' Tony said.
'Good. Anything else?'
'Yes, sir. Have you come to any decision about bugging Rathbone's town house?'
'No,' Crockett said, 'not yet. I'll let you know.' And he tramped out of Harker's office.
Tony sat down behind his desk, bent over the chart. He felt aswirl in swindles, and not all of them by the crooks: The good guys, in the course of their investigations, were pulling their share of cons, too. Harker was troubled by it, couldn't convince himself of the need to 'fight fire with fire.' His distress went deeper than that.
He presumed that if you were forced to live in a slum, eventually the ugliness of your surroundings would seep into your nature. Maybe without even being aware of it, you'd begin to think ugly thoughts, say ugly things, act in ugly ways.
Similarly, he now found himself in an environment where everyone lied, schemed, cheated. He had done it himself in the Navigator Bar in Boca. He wondered if, over time, this atmosphere of connivance might corrupt him to such an extent that deceit became normal and he would palter as naturally as he breathed.
He stared down at his chart, at the name of Rita Sullivan. She was a good cop, his most valuable operative, and he appreciated the job she was doing. But he wondered if he had become so tainted by this world of deception that he was now capable of conning himself.
26
Henry Ullman took it easy with Mike Mulligan, playing him slowly and not asking too many personal questions. The bank officer seemed to enjoy meeting Ullman for drinks every evening after work. Once he invited the investigator to his home for dinner. His condo looked as if it had been decorated by a department store, and was so spotlessly clean that it was difficult to believe anyone lived there.
Ullman told him the same cover story he had given James Bartlett: His name was Samuel Henry, and he was a mortgage loan officer at First Farmers' Savings amp; Loan in Madison, Wisconsin. He had come to south Florida to see if he and his wife could relocate. Mulligan accepted this fiction without question, especially since the two men spent.a lot of time talking shop, and Ullman was obviously knowledgeable about banking procedures.
They were in the back booth of the Navigator on Friday evening when Mulligan said, 'Sam, how about dinner at my place tomorrow night?'
'You've already fed me once,' Ullman protested. 'Now it's my turn.'
'No, no,' Mulligan said, smiling. 'Maybe some other time, but tomorrow is going to be a special occasion. I'll send out for Italian food, and after dinner a couple of guests are going to drop by.'
'Oh? Friends of yours?'
'Sort of,' Mulligan said. 'I think you'll like them.'
On Saturday night, Ullman arrived at Mulligan's apartment bearing two cold bottles of Chianti, having learned that practically everyone in south Florida preferred their red wine well chilled. The food had already been delivered and was being kept warm in the oven. Mulligan had ordered antipasto, veal piccata, spaghetti all'olio, and arugula salad.
They each had two martinis before sitting down to eat. They finished a bottle and a half of Ullman's Chianti during dinner. Then Mulligan served big snifters of brandy. By that time the little man was feeling no pain, blinking rapidly behind his horn-rimmed glasses and occasionally giggling. He tried to tell a joke about an Englishman, a Frenchman, and an American, but forgot the punch line. Ullman wondered if his host would still be on his feet when his guests arrived.
They showed up around ten-thirty: two tall, thin women who appeared to be in their late thirties. They were introduced to Ullman as Pearl and Opal Long-necker, sisters, who worked at a Crescent Bank branch in Deerfield Beach.
Both women were rather gaunt, with lank hair and horsey features. They were drably dressed except for their shoes: patent leather pumps; kelly green for Opal, fire-engine red for Pearl. They sat primly on the couch and politely refused the offer of a drink. They spoke little, but answered questions in a heavy southern accent.
Ullman made them for a couple of rednecks and hoped, for the sake of Crescent Bank's public relations, their jobs-maybe data entry work-were in a back room where their speech patterns and appearance were unimportant. He couldn't understand what staid, respectable Mike Mulligan had in common with these unattractive and uncommunicative women.
After about ten minutes of desultory conversation, Opal rose and announced, 'I gotta use the little girls' room.'
'I'll come with you,' Pearl said, standing.
Ullman noted they went directly to the bathroom without asking directions.
'What do you think of them, Sam?' Mulligan asked.
Ullman took a sip of his brandy. 'They seem very nice,' he said. 'But quiet.'
The host had a fit of giggling. 'You'll see,' he said, spluttering, 'you'll see. You're the guest, so you take the bedroom. I'll make do on the couch.'
'What?' the investigator said, bewildered. 'What are you talking about, Mike?'
'You'll see,' the little man repeated, and sloshed more brandy into his glass.
The Longnecker sisters came out of the bathroom about fifteen minutes later. They were laughing, holding hands, practically skipping.
'Whee!' Opal cried.
'It's party time!' Pearl shouted, eyes glistening. 'Time for all good men to come to the aid of the party. Let's
