Mike Mulligan would have confessed to being Jack the Ripper if they had asked him. They read him his rights, but he said he didn't want an attorney present during his questioning. Lester Crockett gently suggested it might be a wise thing to do, but Mulligan insisted: No lawyer.
So they had him sign a statement that he understood his rights but didn't wish any legal assistance. Just to make sure, they videotaped the reading of the rights and the banker's disclaimer.
Then he started talking.
Crockett did the questioning, with Anthony Harker and Henry Ullman as witnesses. The entire session was videotaped, and later Mulligan read the typed transcript and signed it. All this took place over the Christmas weekend.
Mulligan confessed that as an officer of the Crescent Bank of Boca Raton, he had accepted deposits of cash in excess of $10,000 from James Bartlett for the account of Mitchell Korne Enterprises, Inc., of Miami. In return, he had been supplied with cocaine by Mr. Bartlett. Mulligan had never used the drug himself-he was insistent on that-but had given it away to "friends."
He described how the deposited funds were eventually moved out of the Mitchell Korne account to a bank in Panama. He named the other officers of the Crescent Bank who were aware of these deals. But he bravely accepted complete responsibility for the money-laundering scheme and stated his intention to take his punishment "like a man."
"I think, Mr. Mulligan," Crockett said gravely, "that your punishment may prove to be milder than you anticipate. It all depends on your cooperation."
"You mean I won't have to go to jail?"
"Possibly not. What we want you to do is return to your job at the bank and carry on as before. Do not- I repeat, do not- inform your co-conspirators at the bank of your arrest. What we require is that you inform us promptly when James Bartlett calls to arrange for another deposit. Is that clear?"
"Yes."
"You will agree to accept that deposit, and then tell us the date and time. Meanwhile, Mr. Ullman will move into your apartment temporarily. He will also accompany you to and from work. In other words, Mr. Mulligan, you will be under constant surveillance. Understood?"
The banker nodded.
"Good," Crockett said with a bleak smile. "We appreciate your assistance."
Ullman and Mulligan left the office, with the agent's arm about the banker's thin shoulders.
Crockett waited until the door was closed, then shook his head softly. "No fool like an old fool," he said. "But at least he seems determined to make amends."
"Yes, sir," Harker said, "but we may have a king-size problem. When we nail Bartlett making the deposit, we'll have to scoop up all the other perps at the same time. Otherwise they'll hear of Bartlett's arrest, and the roaches will disappear into the woodwork. I think we better start working on the logistics of the crackdown right away. We'll have to make sure every suspect is covered, plus have enough men to confiscate the records of Rathbone, Coe, and Sparco. We'll also want to arrange for a coordinated DEA raid on Frank Little's warehouse, and pick up Herman Weisrotte and Irving Donald Gevalt. Then there's the problem of Mitchell Korne in Miami."
"I'll inform the Miami DEA office about that gentleman," Crockett said. "I presume they'll want to initiate their own investigation. Yes, I think you'd be wise to begin planning the roundup immediately. Then when we get the word on the Bartlett deposit, we'll be able to move quickly." He paused, stared at the other man, then asked curiously, "What role do you have in mind for Rita Sullivan?"
"I don't know," Tony said. "I'll have to think about it."
Simon Clark came into Harker's office and dumped a thick file on his desk.
"That's it," he said. "Everything I've been able to dig up on Mortimer Sparco's penny stock swindles. I can't do more without subpoenas."
"Got enough for an indictment?"
"More than enough. But it's all raw stuff. It really needs a staff to organize it and follow the leads."
Harker thought a moment. "I've got plenty on my plate without this," he said. "Besides, as I told you, this penny stock scam is a sideshow. I want to nail Sparco for dealing drugs. He'll do heavy time on that."
"Good," Clark said. "He's a slimy character."
"What I think I'll do," Harker went on, "is ship this file up to my old buddies in the SEC. They've got the manpower and contacts to handle it."
"That makes sense," Clark said. "Can I go back to Chicago now?"
Tony looked at him in surprise. "In the middle of winter?" he said. "That doesn't make sense. Don't you like Florida?"
The agent shrugged. "It has its points, I guess, but I prefer the big city."
"Well, I have another job for you before you cut loose. There's an old guy named Irving Donald Gevalt involved in all this. He claims to be a rare book dealer, but he's really a paperman. He's supplied David Rathbone with phony ID, and I suspect the others in the gang use him, too. See what you can find out about his past history and present activities."
"You want me to try making a buy?"
"It wouldn't do any harm. And if Gevalt gets spooked and tells Rathbone, it might make him sweat a little. I'd like that."
"All right," Clark said, "I'll see what I can do. When are you going to bust everyone?"
"Soon," Harker said. "I'm working on the details right now. I'll probably want you to lead the team that takes Sparco."
Clark did a good job of covering his shock. "Whatever you want," he said casually. "Meanwhile I'll get to work on Gevalt."
"He's supposed to have a wife one-third his age," Harker said, smiling. "I hear she wears the world's smallest bikini."
"I couldn't care less," Simon Clark said. "I'm a happily married man."
They sat around a littered table in the Burger King and worked on double cheeseburgers, french fries, coleslaw, and big containers of cola, using up a stack of paper napkins.
"Jack Liddite is handling the file," Roger Fortescue said, "and he's not happy about our nosing around."
"You're a smoke and I'm a spic," Manny Suarez said. "Why should he be happy?"
Harker grinned at both of them. "Screw Jack Liddite," he said. "Whoever he is."
"A homicide dick," Fortescue said. "And he wanted to know what our interest was in Termite Tommy. I mumbled something about his being involved in pushing queer, but I don't think he believed me."
"Homicide?" Tony said. "So it was murder?"
"Well, Tommy had enough alcohol in him to put the Foreign Legion to sleep, and when he went into the canal, he smacked his head a good one on the dash. But what actually killed him was that someone stuck a sharpened ice pick into his right ear. It took the medical examiner awhile to find it, but that's what did the job."
Suarez started on his second cheeseburger. "It would be nice," he said, "if he was out cold from the booze before he got stuck."
"Yeah," Roger said, "that would be nice. So where do we go from here?"
Harker slopped ketchup on his french fries. "You said Tommy left Lakeland on New Year's Day?"
"That was the last his motel owner saw him."
"Could he have been murdered that night?"
"Possible," Fortescue said. "It falls within the ME's four- or five-day time frame. He couldn't be more exact than that. After all, the guy had been marinating in canal water awhile."
"Let's figure he drove down here from Lakeland and got it that night," Tony said slowly. "The last time he came down he went to the Palace Lounge on Commercial."
"Right," Fortescue said. "Met David Rathbone."
"Well, on the evening of New Year's Day, Rathbone got smashed in the Palace Lounge. So drunk that the bartender had to call Rathbone's woman to come collect him."
The agents didn't ask how he knew that. They munched their burgers in silence.
"It's theen stuff," Manny said finally.
"Sure, it's thin," Harker agreed. "But what else have we got?"
"Okay," Fortescue said, "so let's figure that before Termite Tommy ends up in the canal, he goes to the Palace Lounge and meets with David Rathbone. Then he leaves, and Rathbone stays and gets plastered. If that holds, then someone at the Palace might remember Tommy being there on New Year's Day. Maybe the parking valet. Maybe the bartender."
"The bartender's name is Ernie," Harker said.
"Ernesto," Manny Suarez said. "I like it. Roger, let's you and me go talk to Ernesto."
"Let's run a trace on him first," Fortescue said. "I like to know who we're dealing with."
"This is fun," Suarez said. "Better than selling pork bellies."
Tony said, "Just be sure to ask Ernie if David Rathbone met with Termite Tommy on New Year's Day."
Roger stared at him. "Regardless of how Ernie answers that, he's going to call Rathbone and warn him the moment we leave."
"I know," Harker said happily,
55.
It had chilled off to 59°F overnight, but the morning of Friday, January 26, was sharp and clear, and the radio weatherman predicted the afternoon would be sunny and in the low 70s.
They decided it would be too nippy on the terrace, so they came down to the dining room in their robes. Theodore served a down-home breakfast of fried eggs, plump pork sausages, grits, and hush puppies.
"No office for you today," David said. "I think we'll pay a visit to Irving Donald Gevalt and get you fixed up with a passport."
"In my own name?" Rita asked.
He thought a moment. Then: "No, I don't think so. We'll use the ID of Gloria Ramirez you used at the Boca bank. You'll have to provide a photo, but that's no problem."
She glanced around to make certain Theodore was out of the room. "David, will Blanche and Theodore be going with us?"
He shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. Too many complications. Right now they've got fake green cards Gevalt provided. If I can work a deal, they may be able to join us later."
"What are you going to tell your clients when we leave?"
He grinned at her. "Nothing. They'll find out eventually. But by then we'll be long gone."
"Poor Birdie Winslow," Rita said. "She'll be devastated."
Rathbone laughed. "Did I tell you she wanted me to move in with her? Scout's honor. She had visions of the two of us sharing a big condo on the beach."
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her I already had a roomie."
They went upstairs to dress and, a little before noon, drove out to the Gevalt Rare Book Center. The old man seemed delighted to see them. He called into the back room, and a few moments later his wife, still wearing her fringed black bikini, came out with two wine spritzers for Rita and David.
"None for you?" Rathbone asked.
The gaffer shook his head sadly. "Even such a mild drink my stomach cannot stand. A glass of warm milk before I go to bed: That's my speed. This is a social visit, David?"
"Not entirely. You provided a package of paper for Rita in the name of Gloria Ramirez."
"I remember. Any problems?"
"None whatsoever. But now we need a passport in the same name. Something that looks used."
"Of course. Visa stamps and so forth. You have a photo?"
"We'll bring you one."
"Not necessary."
The young blonde went into the back room and came out carrying an old Nikon with an attached flashgun.
"The camera is ancient," Gevalt said with his gap-toothed grin, "but it does good work. Like me. David, could I speak to you a moment in private?''
His wife began to take close-ups of Rita while the two men moved away to a corner of the littered shop.
"Yesterday a man came in," Gevalt started. "He is wearing Florida clothes, but he talks like the Midwest. Hard and fast. A big-city man. He asks if I have a first edition McGuffey. I ask him what edition does he want? Is he looking for a reader, speller, or primer? He begins to hem and haw, and it is obvious to me he knows nothing about rare books. Finally he says he has heard I can provide identification papers. He needs a birth certificate and Social Security card and is willing to pay any price."
"You ever see this guy before?" Rathbone asked.
"No. Never."
"It's possible one of your clients talked, and this man overheard and really did need paper."
Gevalt shook his head. "If any of my clients talk, they wouldn't be my clients. I am very choosy, David; you know that. No, this man was law; I am convinced of it. Something about him: a clumsy arrogance."
"What did you say to him?"
"I became very angry. Told him I was a legitimate businessman making a living selling rare books, and I would never do anything illegal, and he should leave my shop immediately. He left, but it still bothers me. It is the first time anything like that has happened. David, do you feel I am in danger?"
"Of course not," Rathbone said. "Even if the guy was a cop-and you're not sure he was-it was just a fishing expedition. You handled it exactly right. If the law had anything on you, you'd be out of business already. You have nothing to worry about, believe me."
The old man looked at him, and his rheumy eyes filled. "Worry?" he said. "That's all I do-worry.
About that stupid man with his first edition McGuffey. About one of my motels which is losing money because the manager is dishonest. Dishonest, David! And also I fear my wife has a lover. Oh yes, I have seen him lurking around. A muscular young man and he has- oh God, David, I hate to mention it but he has a tattoo on his right bicep. And you tell me not to worry!"
Rathbone put a hand lightly on Gevalt's shoulder. "It will all work out," he said soothingly. "The important thing is to think positively. I always do. Who can remember last year's problems? Everything will turn out all right, you'll see."
The old man took out a disgraceful handkerchief and blew his nose. "You're right, David," he said, snuffling. "I must think positively."
On the drive back home, Rita asked, "What were you and Gevalt talking about while I was having my picture taken?"
Rathbone laughed. "The poor old man thinks his wife has a boyfriend. A hulk with a tattoo."
"Can't say I blame her. What would you do if you found out I had a boyfriend?"
"Couldn't happen," David said. "If I can't trust you, who can I trust?"