Anthony Harker was living on the second floor of a motel on A1A in Pompano Beach. It was on the west side of the highway, but his suite was in the rear so most of the traffic noise was muted.
Rita Sullivan showed up a little after nine p.m. She was wearing a pink linen jumpsuit, her long hair tied back with a dime-store bandanna. There was a chunky silver bracelet on her right wrist.
4'I hope you didn't drive his Bentley," Harker said. "Someone might spot it parked outside."
"No," she said. "He bought me a Chevy Corsica. White."
"Oh?" Tony said, looking at her. "Generous scut, isn't he?"
"Yes," she said, "he is. I hope his flight to London got off okay. If not, and he calls home and I'm not there, I'm in deep shit."
"He took off," Harker said, "but he's not flying to England. I had a CIA tracker standing by at the airport. But Rathbone went to Nassau in the Bahamas. And from there he's going to the Cayman Islands, then on to Limon in Costa Rica, and returning home from there. We checked his ticket after he left, but it was too late to set up a tail."
Rita sighed and looked around. "Got anything to drink in this dump?" she asked.
"Some cold Bud."
"That'll do me fine. How're the allergy and nervous stomach?"
"I'm surviving. Mind drinking out of the can?"
"That's fine," she said. "Pop it for me, will you? The government can't afford better digs for you than this shithouse?"
"It suits me," he said. "I'm only on loan for a year. Then back to New York. I can stand it for a year."
"If you say so. Got a tape recorder?"
"Sure."
"Let me put my report on tape. Then we can talk."
Twenty minutes later she finished dictating the names and descriptions of Rathbone's friends, plus what little she had learned of their activities.
Harker switched off the recorder. "Nice job," he said. "Let's take them one by one. First, have you any glimmer of what Rathbone is up to?"
"Nope. He keeps his office double-locked. He claimed he had to go stroke clients in England, France, Germany, and Spain."
"Uh-huh. But he's heading for places where it's easy to hide money if you pay off the right people. Well, I'll start a search in Nassau, the Caymans, and Costa Rica, but he's probably using a fake name and phony IDs. What about this Ellen St. Martin?"
"Apparently a legit real estate lady," Rita said, "with a small-time scam going on the side. She owns a house-sitting outfit for rich clients who go north from May to November. She gets paid to inspect their homes or condos weekly and make sure the air conditioning is working and the place hasn't been trashed. What the
owners don't know is that she's also renting out their homes to tourists. In fact, some of the places are probably hot-pillow joints. But she makes a nice buck."
"Beautiful. And Frank Little?"
"Here's his business card. Notice the last line."
Tony read aloud: " 4We have the balls for it.' It doesn't double me over with laughter. You think he's legit?"
"And playing around with that crowd? I doubt it."
"All right," Harker said, "I'll have him checked out. Sparco?"
"A discount broker on Commercial. I think he deals in penny stocks. He also handles Rathbone's Wall Street investments."
"Then he'll be registered with the SEC, and I can get a look at his books. Sidney Coe?"
"He's got a boiler room on Oakland Park Boulevard. Right now his yaks are pushing precious metals."
"We can't do much on that until someone files a complaint. But mooches are funny; they'll take a big loss and immediately fall for another sucker deal, trying to recoup. They never do. What about James Bart-lett?"
"A pleasant roly-poly guy. Something to do with banking. He seems to know every bank in south Florida."
"Laundering drug money?"
"Could be," Rita said. "He and David had a long, whispered conversation last night before the party broke up. Bartlett was doing most of the talking. And that's all I've got so far. I should be able to fill in some of the blanks as I get to know these people better."
"What's your take on Rathbone?" Tony said. "The honcho?"
"Well, I get the feeling that they're all independent operators, but they do look up to him. He sits at the head of the table. 'Our scoutmaster,' Frank Little called him. They seem to respect his opinions, but I don't think he bosses them."
"Good start, Rita," Harker said. "You've given me enough to requisition some more warm bodies from Crockett and get the wheels turning. Now I suppose you want to go home."
"Why do you suppose that?" she asked. "Is the beer all gone?"
"No, I have another six-pack."
"Break it out, sonny boy, and let's kick off our shoes and Confess All."
They slumped with feet up on a scarred Formica cocktail table, sipped their beers, stared at each other.
"Listen, Tony," she said, "I want you to know you were right on target with that dinky little pistol and the fake newspaper clipping. Rathbone did go through my bag, and I think those decoys convinced him I was in the game."
Harker shrugged. "Con men are easy to con. Their egos are so big they just can't conceive of being diddled. But don't relax. I had a talk with the boss about you. I told him I was afraid that if Rathbone ever discovers you're a plant he might turn physical."
"What did Crockett say?"
"He said you can take care of yourself."
"He's right; I can."
"Just be careful, will you?"
"Yes, mommy. And I'll look both ways before I cross the street."
Harker stirred restlessly. "You never know how a rat is going to act when he's cornered."
"David's no rat; he's a pussycat. I can handle him."
Tony took the inhaler from his shirt pocket, turned it in his fingers. Then he put it away without using it. "There's something else."
"What's that?"
He sighed. "You might as well know. I don't like the idea of you-or any other woman-putting out just to help me make a case."
"Well, aren't you sweet," she said, and leaned forward to pat his cheek. "Don't give it a second thought. I worked a drug case in Gainesville last year. My partner was a local cop everyone called King Kong. He was six-six and must have weighed three hundred. He used to be a second-string linebacker for the Dolphins. Anyway, when King Kong questioned a suspect, he'd never touch the fink with his hands, but he'd crowd him, coming in close and pushing his big chest against the guy. The suspect would look up and see this monster towering over him, and he'd start singing. King Kong was using his body to get the job done. I use my body in the same way."
"Not exactly," Harker said in a low voice.
"Look, Tony, I don't have the muscle of a male cop, so I use what I do have. If we rack up Rathbone and his pals, it'll go into my jacket and eventually I'll get a raise or promotion. I'm doing it for myself as much as I am for you."
"I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "It just doesn't seem right."
"Right? What the hell is right? You're talking like a Boy Scout."
"I suppose," he said. "Maybe I'm a closet puritan."
"Married?"
"No."
"Ever been?"
"No."
"Me neither," she said. "I've been too busy having fun."
"You call being a cop having fun?"
"It is to me. I like the challenge."
He looked at her directly. "And the danger?"
She thought a moment. "Maybe," she said finally.
She reached up and untied the bandanna. Shook her head and let her long hair swing free. She toyed with the zipper tab on her jumpsuit.
"I haven't got a thing on underneath," she said. "Interested? ''
"Yes," Tony said.
"I'd be deeply, deeply wounded if you weren't. Does this dump provide clean sheets?"
"They were supposed to change them today."
She rose. "Let's go see if they did."
She sat on the edge of the bed, watched him undress.
"My God," she said, "you look like an unbaked breadstick."
"I know," he said. "A golden boy I ain't."
"That's all right," Rita said, inspecting him. "You've got all the machinery."
She stood, unzipped the jumpsuit, wriggled out of it. She flopped back on the bed, bouncing up and down a few times.
"Come on," she said, holding out her arms to him. "Everyone deserves a little joy."
"I suppose," he said.